Author: Fallon Ash
Challenge: the Coffee one for meganandcal
Disclaimer: No, they're not mine.
Rating: G? PG-13? not much.
Spoilers: Nope, not if you know that Megan leaves.
Word Count: MSWord: 500
Summary: Megan is leaving (yet again). Megan POV.
Author's Notes: This is angst... lots and lots and lots of angst... nothing but angst... too much angst... very overly and too dramatic angst... yeah...
Inky black liquid, a white cup cradled by strong fingers, small hands. Those hands. A ring on a finger hollowly thudding against the porcelain. Steam rising from the cup. You’re watching the cup because you can’t stand to watch her. You told her this morning that you had to leave. And as she smiled brightly and said ‘I understand’ her eyes grew cold and distant, her voice monotonous. Somehow, you knew it wouldn’t matter that the thought of leaving her breaks your heart, that you’ve been crying yourself raw and would have left weeks ago if it weren’t for her grounding you in Miami. So you kept quiet, got up, made coffee. She’s drinking it black this morning. You’ve never seen her do that before; black and scalding hot. She winces at every sip and you have to fight the urge to ask her to stop, knowing you gave up that right just half an hour ago.
The silence is heavy. You try to drink your coffee; with a liberal amount of milk but your throat is tight and you feel nauseous. Unexpectedly your eyes meet her pale green ones, and it feels like a punch to the chest. Selfishly, you wish she were crying, yelling, accusing, even physical violence would be preferred over this nothingness. Here eyes are bright and cold, an empty void sucking the air out of you, burning you, but icy cold, and pale, paler than you’ve ever seen. It makes you wish you were strong enough to give your life for her, because that’s what staying in Miami would be for you. You want to tell her that, but you can’t. Every time you try to formulate it, it sounds so lame. And you’re weak. So afraid of her scorn, her accusations, afraid she’d persuade you to stay, afraid that it would kill her as well. Your hands tremble as you clutch the cup, willing the heat to spread through your flesh, and your skin is screaming from the heat, but the bones remain chilled.
She drains her cup, stands up, carries it to the sink and rinses it, and your vision blurs at the familiar look of her, here in your kitchen. She belongs here, with you. Warmth against your cheek as her finger catches a tear. Her face remaining carefully blank as she raises her finger to her lips, tasting the salty drop, and your tears come quicker. Her other hand slides along your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, roughly pulling your head back. Her lips cover yours, and she kisses you, hard, and it’s raw and sharp and you had no idea a kiss could be so full of grief. It tears through you and you almost convulse on the subs. She’s out the door and long gone before you’ve even regained enough control to unclench your hands, the nails painfully embedded in the palm. The door falls shut softly behind her, and you know you’ve seen her for the last time.