Masque - CSI -NC-17
Nov. 1st, 2008 09:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
phantismaFandom: CSI
Pairing: Lady Heather/Grissom
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2823
Summary: Following the events of the season 9 opener (so obviously spoilers for that ep), Gil Grissom finds himself lost, bound up by grief and unable to connect. When he turns to Lady Heather, she does what she does to help find release and reconnect.
A/Ns & Warnings: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sgfansean who won the honor by winning me during the last Sweet Charity. Warnings include: BDSM, spanking, hurt/comfort.
His hands tremble as he removes the blood soaked shirt. He s cold, colder than he s ever felt. It goes deeper than skin or bone. He s cold in his heart, in his soul. He can t shake it, can t evade the numbing loss.
His hands move through the motions without hesitation or question. They know their job, they do the job while he stares blankly at them, watching, waiting for something to eat through the numbness and the cold.
He feels the blood on his hands hours later, slick heat of life ebbing away no matter how hard he worked to hold it in. Water won t wash him clean.
He recognizes this, understands it on a purely intellectual level. This is grief.
He has never felt quite this cold before. So accustomed to the sight of the dead and the dying, to the blood and the bodies broken, he’s never held a friend as he lay gasping out his final breath. It is visceral, uncomprehendingly visceral and Gil Grissom can not begin to comprehend the death of Warrick Brown.
Even as they unravel the mystery, as they find what manner of justice can be found for Warrick, he finds himself at odds. His hands tremble when they should be still. His thoughts fade, fixate. He disconnects, mind and body become separate, independent.
He drives home, or intends to. Once again his body takes the lead, overriding his malfunctioning brain. He stares at the door. He s come here before, when he s felt the need for what she offers.
Companionship without compromise, caring without binding. Honesty.
He closes his eyes, settles his head against the headrest, a silent war waging in his chest. Eventually he turns off the engine of the car, opens the door. His steps falter as he reaches the porch stairs, falter because he s never needed her this much and a part of him warns that he might lose the rest of himself if he goes on, admits to the need.
The door opens while he contemplates. Her smile is slow, soft, unpretentious. She leans against the door frame and watches him, uncharacteristically soft in a night gown of off white that reaches to her ankles.
It’s silk, only the best for her. It takes time for him to admit anything, to raise his eyes off the top step, and just finding her eyes with his own is a chore. He nearly comes undone in them, in the compassion and control she offers him.
She says nothing, only steps aside, making room for him, beckoning him. He drops his gaze, the first sign that this is why he’s here, for the things she can do for him, to him. It s a submission of sorts, one he’s toyed with before, but never followed through with.
His feet are heavy on the stair, thudding against worn wood and scuffing over a welcome mat. Her hand is just as soft as her smile moments before, gliding gently down his back as he moves in, past her, into the normal looking living room where they have shared tea and talked philosophically about the nature of need and desire and the release of control.
There are no words now, but she doesn’t seem to need them, understanding his silence, the heavy drag of his shoulders, the expression on his face. She gathers him to her, like a mother drawing in a hurt child, pulling him against her softness. She pillows his head on her shoulder, one hand stroking over his hair.
It is comforting. And uncomfortable.
It isn’t what he needs. She smiles, her lips against his cheek. Her hands glide over his shoulders, down his arms and without words, she takes his hand, leading him out of the familiar living room, down a long hall into a bedroom with dark walls and a king sized bed draped in black lace.
Her hand leaves his, plays across the strap of her lingerie, her smile tentative as her eyes seek him out. She will make him speak the words, ask for what he needs& but not yet. She knows he isn’t ready, knows him well enough to understand the things he doesn’t begin to.
“Heather—“ She stops him, one finger on his lips until he falls silent, caressing lightly over them. Her finger leaves his mouth, glides over his chin and onto his chest, over his heart.
It thumps up at her and she listens, her eyes closed, her mouth slightly open. She is beautiful, her lips moist, her breath light as it caress over his face. When her eyes open she stares into him and he can feel her prying loose the fingers holding him, keeping him from falling apart.
He draws in a shuddering breath, not ready, not sure, but she leans in, barely a movement...more of an impression. “Let go.” It’s a command, breathed softly over his lips.
Hot and salty, grief slides from inside of him, burning his cheeks before he realizes he’s crying. She’s still only touching him with that hand over his heart and he’s cracking open under her touch.
“That’s it.” She murmurs the words, hardly breathing them and the sound sinks into him, over his tongue. He can almost taste the wine shed sipped before he showed up, spicy and dark.
She steps back, drawing him with her, hand never leaving him. Her eyes sparkle, hold him. She takes a deep breath, and finally that hand moves. The other rises to join the first, moving over the buttons of his shirt. She goes slowly, focused, careful.
When she reaches the bottom she pauses, her hands sliding inside, over skin. It is more intimate than he expects, her skin on his. She looks up at him, really looks at him and her lips move to his face, to the tears drying on his cheeks. Her kisses cover his lips, his eyes, his forehead, and then she’s moving, her hands caressing over him as she circles around behind him.
Her hands rise up his back, over the fabric of his shirt to his shoulders, up to his neck. Her fingers in his hair, tightening. She tugs a little, gets him to focus. “Masque”. She says it deliberately, carefully so he knows it’s important. “Say it.“
He clears his throat, licks his lips. “Masque.” His voice sounds strange in his ears, afraid, trembling.
She rewards him with a loosening of her hand in his hair, the caress of air from her mouth across the back of his neck. “The next time you say it, I stop.”
He nods his understanding. This is safety, the control he only relinquishes by not speaking the word. Her hand leaves his head, glides over his shoulders and his shirt slides from him, into her hands.
He has never been this exposed with her. Or maybe this is only physical exposure. He somehow feels the rest of him has been open to her all along. Her fingers play with his belt, move between the exposed skin at his waist and the worn leather. They're at his hip. Her breath ghosts over his shoulder as she returns to face him..
Her hand returns to his heart, covering him, holding the beat of his life. He starts when her hands return to his belt, swiftly unbuckling him, her hand sliding inside, over his boxers to cup him. It isn't unexpected, just suddenly sudden, despite where they are, what they are doing. It jars his mind, jolts through his body and he doesn't understand the arousal coursing through him, it winds around his grief, side by side inside him until he gasps to try to find some measure of relief.
“This is natural.” Her words are silk against him, caressing, lulling. Her fingers touch him softly, play along the length of him, and he hardens. She pulls her hand away, the belt coming with it.
She leaves him open, his pants hanging from his hips, stepping back to look at him. “Grief takes us out of our bodies, arousal brings us back to them.” Her hands hold the belt up. “One binds us.”
She takes one of his hands, holds it between them, then the other, holding them together and looping the belt around them. It isn't tight, more symbolic than any true form of bondage, but her eyes seek his out, wait, measure his response.
She is pleased when he inhales slightly, adjusts how he is standing, drops his eyes. He can tell by the way her thumb caresses lightly over the back of his hand. She lifts his now bound hands, up, over his head. “One releases us.”
Her hands guide his pants down now, leaving only his boxers. She slides down his legs, eases off his shoes and a touch on his knee tells him to lift his foot. When she stands again, he is left in only his boxers and his socks. “But only if we allow ourselves the release.”
Release. He closes his eyes, can't really imagine what it feels like. He knows only control, science, caution. He feels only cold, numb, wet slick of blood on hands. He sees only death and brutal endings.
“Look at me.” Her voice is still calm, soft, yet it commands him and he blinks a little as he does open his eyes, focusing on her face.
“Is that why you're here?”
He draws in a breath that stutters and shudders into him, trying to place her meaning. Release. She's asking him what he wants, why he has come to her, now, like this. “I...I'm not sure.”
One eyebrow lifts, but she doesn't smile, just fixes him with that stare. He clears his throat, sorts through the few words that make it past his brain, discarding them and waiting for her to take mercy.
“You came to me. You obviously need something.” She lets her eyes rake over him, down his naked stomach to the tent of his boxers and he blushes, deep from within. She takes a single step toward him. “Sometimes when we hurt here...” Her hand settles over his heart again and he has to turn his face away. “...we need it to hurt...” Her eyes flick to his. “...somewhere else too.”
In his mind he can hear the sound, leather against flesh. He remembers the way it affected him, the way it intrigued him. Her hand closes around his cock, stroking him through the cotton of his boxers.
“Is that what you need?”
“Please...” It whispers into the room, a word in his own voice that he can't take back, can't admit to. Her fingers tighten around him, nearly to the point of pain. He gasps and has to put a hand on her shoulder to steady himself. “Please.”
He bends forward, seeking relief and yet she holds him, her hand strong as she steps to the side of him. When her other hand slaps down hard on his ass, he starts forward, moving instinctively away from the sting.
“Can you ask for it?”
He opens his mouth, but no words come. He squeezes his eyes shut as her hand rubs warm and gentle over his cotton clad ass. It's humiliating and more arousing than he can comprehend. “It's okay, we'll get there.”
Her hand leaves his cock and he can feel the tug on his shorts as she slides them from his waist. They fall to the floor, but she doesn't signal him to move, leaves them there, puddled on the floor around his ankles.
Both hands glide up the back of his legs, over the skin of his ass. “You are safe here.” The words penetrate him, cut through the ringing numbness, trigger the tears again. He tries to hold them back, confused. Her hand connects with his flesh, slapping sharply.
He gasps, trying to straighten. Her free hand returns to his cock, stroking it lightly before tightening around it again, forcing him to bend forward once more. She spanks him two, three, four times without words. Each swat of her hand was followed by a pull on his cock, a pull and a squeeze, and her words in his ear.
“You are safe here.”
The flesh of his ass stings, burns. Her hand slides up onto his back, the skin of it hot. It moves over him, through sweat he hadn't felt accumulate, over his spine, into his hair. “Tell me.”
“It hurts.” The words startle him, harsh and filled with pain, nearly a grunt of admission, guilt.
“Let it.” Her touch is gentle, caressing over him, her lips on his neck, his chin, his collar bone as she helps him stand up right. “You are safe here.” Her tongue curls, tasting his tears. “Let go.”
Her kisses travel, down to where her hand holds his heart again. She kisses around her hand, then under it. “Tell me.” She breathes the words into him, into his skin, into his heart. “Tell me.” A command.
His breath stutters through him, quakes him and he wants to run, deny. Masque. The word rumbles around in his head, his control. He opens his mouth to speak it, to end this, to retreat to safety.
“You are safe here, Gil.”
“It hurts.” His voice cracks, the sob rocks through him and his knees tremble. “God, it hurts.” His knees buckle and she sinks with him, her face still pressing to his chest as he rocks in misery, his tears wetting her hair.
“Let it go.”
When she lifts her face it too is wet, her eyes sparkling. “Let me make it better.”
She guides him forward, his face pillowed by his hands, his ass in the air, his cock held between his thighs. The first kiss of leather doesn't register until the second is well on it's way, stinging across him. It's almost delicate, until the pain blooms three or four blows in and he can't suppress the tears or the yelling.
He almost misses the feeling when it stops. He's trembling, his body wracked with sobs and need and guilt and grief. “Warrick.” The name is a groan, a long sound of pure misery.
She kneels beside him kissing it away. Her hands contain him, one on his cock which is leaking now, dribbling and so close to coming, the other on the hot, hot skin of his ass, one offering pleasure, the other more pain...and he doesn't even know which he wants more, which he needs.
“Please...” He's cracked open, the mask he's always held to so tightly gone and he surrenders to it, to her. “Please.”
Her hands move in concert, making him hurt, making him keen and finally, he finds it...the release. She holds him, her arms around him, as he comes and cries, folding forward slowly until his head is in her lap.
He's not sure how long he's slept when he wakes. Her hand is stroking his hair and he turns slowly to look up at her. Her smile is soft, genuine. “Better?”
He thinks about it, listens to his heart. He nods slowly. “Better.”
Her kiss is gentle, full on the lips, her tongue wetting his lips. “Tea?”
He sits up to find that she's draped him in a blanket. He breathes in. “I think I'd like that.”
“Get dressed, I'll be in the living room.”
He accepts the instruction with a gracious nod, smiling. The numbness has retreated, and while the pain is still there, he seems to understand it now. He lives inside his body now, isn't trapped there uncomprehending. He dresses slowly, conscious of the welts on the tender skin of his backside. It will be a few days before he can sit without remembering this, remembering how she knew what he needed and gave it to him.
Once he's dressed, he goes to find her pouring tea. It's nearly 1am, but they sit on her sofa and sip tea and talk of small things for a time before he feels it all shift into place. It should be awkward, but it isn't.
“You will always be safe here, Gil,” she says as if she can read his mind. “No matter what brings you.” She stands and he follows, but she stops him from going to the door. “I have something for you.”
She crosses to the wall, beside the bookshelf. She lifts a wooden mask. It's old, antique. Beautiful. She holds it out to him. “A reminder.”
He holds it in his hands, his thumb glazing over it's surface. Her hand rises to cup his cheek. He turns his face, pressing a kiss to her palm. “Thank you.”
She walks him to the door, folds her arms around herself as she leans on the door and watches him walk to the car. He's lost a friend, but thanks to her, he hasn't lost himself.
Pairing: Lady Heather/Grissom
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2823
Summary: Following the events of the season 9 opener (so obviously spoilers for that ep), Gil Grissom finds himself lost, bound up by grief and unable to connect. When he turns to Lady Heather, she does what she does to help find release and reconnect.
A/Ns & Warnings: Written for
sgfansean who won the honor by winning me during the last Sweet Charity. Warnings include: BDSM, spanking, hurt/comfort. His hands tremble as he removes the blood soaked shirt. He s cold, colder than he s ever felt. It goes deeper than skin or bone. He s cold in his heart, in his soul. He can t shake it, can t evade the numbing loss.
His hands move through the motions without hesitation or question. They know their job, they do the job while he stares blankly at them, watching, waiting for something to eat through the numbness and the cold.
He feels the blood on his hands hours later, slick heat of life ebbing away no matter how hard he worked to hold it in. Water won t wash him clean.
He recognizes this, understands it on a purely intellectual level. This is grief.
He has never felt quite this cold before. So accustomed to the sight of the dead and the dying, to the blood and the bodies broken, he’s never held a friend as he lay gasping out his final breath. It is visceral, uncomprehendingly visceral and Gil Grissom can not begin to comprehend the death of Warrick Brown.
Even as they unravel the mystery, as they find what manner of justice can be found for Warrick, he finds himself at odds. His hands tremble when they should be still. His thoughts fade, fixate. He disconnects, mind and body become separate, independent.
He drives home, or intends to. Once again his body takes the lead, overriding his malfunctioning brain. He stares at the door. He s come here before, when he s felt the need for what she offers.
Companionship without compromise, caring without binding. Honesty.
He closes his eyes, settles his head against the headrest, a silent war waging in his chest. Eventually he turns off the engine of the car, opens the door. His steps falter as he reaches the porch stairs, falter because he s never needed her this much and a part of him warns that he might lose the rest of himself if he goes on, admits to the need.
The door opens while he contemplates. Her smile is slow, soft, unpretentious. She leans against the door frame and watches him, uncharacteristically soft in a night gown of off white that reaches to her ankles.
It’s silk, only the best for her. It takes time for him to admit anything, to raise his eyes off the top step, and just finding her eyes with his own is a chore. He nearly comes undone in them, in the compassion and control she offers him.
She says nothing, only steps aside, making room for him, beckoning him. He drops his gaze, the first sign that this is why he’s here, for the things she can do for him, to him. It s a submission of sorts, one he’s toyed with before, but never followed through with.
His feet are heavy on the stair, thudding against worn wood and scuffing over a welcome mat. Her hand is just as soft as her smile moments before, gliding gently down his back as he moves in, past her, into the normal looking living room where they have shared tea and talked philosophically about the nature of need and desire and the release of control.
There are no words now, but she doesn’t seem to need them, understanding his silence, the heavy drag of his shoulders, the expression on his face. She gathers him to her, like a mother drawing in a hurt child, pulling him against her softness. She pillows his head on her shoulder, one hand stroking over his hair.
It is comforting. And uncomfortable.
It isn’t what he needs. She smiles, her lips against his cheek. Her hands glide over his shoulders, down his arms and without words, she takes his hand, leading him out of the familiar living room, down a long hall into a bedroom with dark walls and a king sized bed draped in black lace.
Her hand leaves his, plays across the strap of her lingerie, her smile tentative as her eyes seek him out. She will make him speak the words, ask for what he needs& but not yet. She knows he isn’t ready, knows him well enough to understand the things he doesn’t begin to.
“Heather—“ She stops him, one finger on his lips until he falls silent, caressing lightly over them. Her finger leaves his mouth, glides over his chin and onto his chest, over his heart.
It thumps up at her and she listens, her eyes closed, her mouth slightly open. She is beautiful, her lips moist, her breath light as it caress over his face. When her eyes open she stares into him and he can feel her prying loose the fingers holding him, keeping him from falling apart.
He draws in a shuddering breath, not ready, not sure, but she leans in, barely a movement...more of an impression. “Let go.” It’s a command, breathed softly over his lips.
Hot and salty, grief slides from inside of him, burning his cheeks before he realizes he’s crying. She’s still only touching him with that hand over his heart and he’s cracking open under her touch.
“That’s it.” She murmurs the words, hardly breathing them and the sound sinks into him, over his tongue. He can almost taste the wine shed sipped before he showed up, spicy and dark.
She steps back, drawing him with her, hand never leaving him. Her eyes sparkle, hold him. She takes a deep breath, and finally that hand moves. The other rises to join the first, moving over the buttons of his shirt. She goes slowly, focused, careful.
When she reaches the bottom she pauses, her hands sliding inside, over skin. It is more intimate than he expects, her skin on his. She looks up at him, really looks at him and her lips move to his face, to the tears drying on his cheeks. Her kisses cover his lips, his eyes, his forehead, and then she’s moving, her hands caressing over him as she circles around behind him.
Her hands rise up his back, over the fabric of his shirt to his shoulders, up to his neck. Her fingers in his hair, tightening. She tugs a little, gets him to focus. “Masque”. She says it deliberately, carefully so he knows it’s important. “Say it.“
He clears his throat, licks his lips. “Masque.” His voice sounds strange in his ears, afraid, trembling.
She rewards him with a loosening of her hand in his hair, the caress of air from her mouth across the back of his neck. “The next time you say it, I stop.”
He nods his understanding. This is safety, the control he only relinquishes by not speaking the word. Her hand leaves his head, glides over his shoulders and his shirt slides from him, into her hands.
He has never been this exposed with her. Or maybe this is only physical exposure. He somehow feels the rest of him has been open to her all along. Her fingers play with his belt, move between the exposed skin at his waist and the worn leather. They're at his hip. Her breath ghosts over his shoulder as she returns to face him..
Her hand returns to his heart, covering him, holding the beat of his life. He starts when her hands return to his belt, swiftly unbuckling him, her hand sliding inside, over his boxers to cup him. It isn't unexpected, just suddenly sudden, despite where they are, what they are doing. It jars his mind, jolts through his body and he doesn't understand the arousal coursing through him, it winds around his grief, side by side inside him until he gasps to try to find some measure of relief.
“This is natural.” Her words are silk against him, caressing, lulling. Her fingers touch him softly, play along the length of him, and he hardens. She pulls her hand away, the belt coming with it.
She leaves him open, his pants hanging from his hips, stepping back to look at him. “Grief takes us out of our bodies, arousal brings us back to them.” Her hands hold the belt up. “One binds us.”
She takes one of his hands, holds it between them, then the other, holding them together and looping the belt around them. It isn't tight, more symbolic than any true form of bondage, but her eyes seek his out, wait, measure his response.
She is pleased when he inhales slightly, adjusts how he is standing, drops his eyes. He can tell by the way her thumb caresses lightly over the back of his hand. She lifts his now bound hands, up, over his head. “One releases us.”
Her hands guide his pants down now, leaving only his boxers. She slides down his legs, eases off his shoes and a touch on his knee tells him to lift his foot. When she stands again, he is left in only his boxers and his socks. “But only if we allow ourselves the release.”
Release. He closes his eyes, can't really imagine what it feels like. He knows only control, science, caution. He feels only cold, numb, wet slick of blood on hands. He sees only death and brutal endings.
“Look at me.” Her voice is still calm, soft, yet it commands him and he blinks a little as he does open his eyes, focusing on her face.
“Is that why you're here?”
He draws in a breath that stutters and shudders into him, trying to place her meaning. Release. She's asking him what he wants, why he has come to her, now, like this. “I...I'm not sure.”
One eyebrow lifts, but she doesn't smile, just fixes him with that stare. He clears his throat, sorts through the few words that make it past his brain, discarding them and waiting for her to take mercy.
“You came to me. You obviously need something.” She lets her eyes rake over him, down his naked stomach to the tent of his boxers and he blushes, deep from within. She takes a single step toward him. “Sometimes when we hurt here...” Her hand settles over his heart again and he has to turn his face away. “...we need it to hurt...” Her eyes flick to his. “...somewhere else too.”
In his mind he can hear the sound, leather against flesh. He remembers the way it affected him, the way it intrigued him. Her hand closes around his cock, stroking him through the cotton of his boxers.
“Is that what you need?”
“Please...” It whispers into the room, a word in his own voice that he can't take back, can't admit to. Her fingers tighten around him, nearly to the point of pain. He gasps and has to put a hand on her shoulder to steady himself. “Please.”
He bends forward, seeking relief and yet she holds him, her hand strong as she steps to the side of him. When her other hand slaps down hard on his ass, he starts forward, moving instinctively away from the sting.
“Can you ask for it?”
He opens his mouth, but no words come. He squeezes his eyes shut as her hand rubs warm and gentle over his cotton clad ass. It's humiliating and more arousing than he can comprehend. “It's okay, we'll get there.”
Her hand leaves his cock and he can feel the tug on his shorts as she slides them from his waist. They fall to the floor, but she doesn't signal him to move, leaves them there, puddled on the floor around his ankles.
Both hands glide up the back of his legs, over the skin of his ass. “You are safe here.” The words penetrate him, cut through the ringing numbness, trigger the tears again. He tries to hold them back, confused. Her hand connects with his flesh, slapping sharply.
He gasps, trying to straighten. Her free hand returns to his cock, stroking it lightly before tightening around it again, forcing him to bend forward once more. She spanks him two, three, four times without words. Each swat of her hand was followed by a pull on his cock, a pull and a squeeze, and her words in his ear.
“You are safe here.”
The flesh of his ass stings, burns. Her hand slides up onto his back, the skin of it hot. It moves over him, through sweat he hadn't felt accumulate, over his spine, into his hair. “Tell me.”
“It hurts.” The words startle him, harsh and filled with pain, nearly a grunt of admission, guilt.
“Let it.” Her touch is gentle, caressing over him, her lips on his neck, his chin, his collar bone as she helps him stand up right. “You are safe here.” Her tongue curls, tasting his tears. “Let go.”
Her kisses travel, down to where her hand holds his heart again. She kisses around her hand, then under it. “Tell me.” She breathes the words into him, into his skin, into his heart. “Tell me.” A command.
His breath stutters through him, quakes him and he wants to run, deny. Masque. The word rumbles around in his head, his control. He opens his mouth to speak it, to end this, to retreat to safety.
“You are safe here, Gil.”
“It hurts.” His voice cracks, the sob rocks through him and his knees tremble. “God, it hurts.” His knees buckle and she sinks with him, her face still pressing to his chest as he rocks in misery, his tears wetting her hair.
“Let it go.”
When she lifts her face it too is wet, her eyes sparkling. “Let me make it better.”
She guides him forward, his face pillowed by his hands, his ass in the air, his cock held between his thighs. The first kiss of leather doesn't register until the second is well on it's way, stinging across him. It's almost delicate, until the pain blooms three or four blows in and he can't suppress the tears or the yelling.
He almost misses the feeling when it stops. He's trembling, his body wracked with sobs and need and guilt and grief. “Warrick.” The name is a groan, a long sound of pure misery.
She kneels beside him kissing it away. Her hands contain him, one on his cock which is leaking now, dribbling and so close to coming, the other on the hot, hot skin of his ass, one offering pleasure, the other more pain...and he doesn't even know which he wants more, which he needs.
“Please...” He's cracked open, the mask he's always held to so tightly gone and he surrenders to it, to her. “Please.”
Her hands move in concert, making him hurt, making him keen and finally, he finds it...the release. She holds him, her arms around him, as he comes and cries, folding forward slowly until his head is in her lap.
He's not sure how long he's slept when he wakes. Her hand is stroking his hair and he turns slowly to look up at her. Her smile is soft, genuine. “Better?”
He thinks about it, listens to his heart. He nods slowly. “Better.”
Her kiss is gentle, full on the lips, her tongue wetting his lips. “Tea?”
He sits up to find that she's draped him in a blanket. He breathes in. “I think I'd like that.”
“Get dressed, I'll be in the living room.”
He accepts the instruction with a gracious nod, smiling. The numbness has retreated, and while the pain is still there, he seems to understand it now. He lives inside his body now, isn't trapped there uncomprehending. He dresses slowly, conscious of the welts on the tender skin of his backside. It will be a few days before he can sit without remembering this, remembering how she knew what he needed and gave it to him.
Once he's dressed, he goes to find her pouring tea. It's nearly 1am, but they sit on her sofa and sip tea and talk of small things for a time before he feels it all shift into place. It should be awkward, but it isn't.
“You will always be safe here, Gil,” she says as if she can read his mind. “No matter what brings you.” She stands and he follows, but she stops him from going to the door. “I have something for you.”
She crosses to the wall, beside the bookshelf. She lifts a wooden mask. It's old, antique. Beautiful. She holds it out to him. “A reminder.”
He holds it in his hands, his thumb glazing over it's surface. Her hand rises to cup his cheek. He turns his face, pressing a kiss to her palm. “Thank you.”
She walks him to the door, folds her arms around herself as she leans on the door and watches him walk to the car. He's lost a friend, but thanks to her, he hasn't lost himself.
