stunt_muppet

Yeah, I'll bet you knew this was coming.

I think it's sort of funny - it's Friday night right now (technically, Saturday morning). This is supposed to be the big party-and-stay-out-late night. And yet who is up later than anyone else? Little ol' me. Sitting in her room. Writin' fanfic.

I wonder what normal people do with their lives.

On to the fic. I do have to ask a small favor: even if you're not familiar with the fandom, would you mind terribly giving this a look-see and telling me what you think? It's pretty rudimentary fluff; you don't really have to know the series to know what's happening.

Basic recap for those who need to know: Marisol had leukemia, so she was going to be dead in a matter of months anyway. But then she got shot, so she died a lot sooner.

Title: Sleeping On the Couch
Summary: Two connected ficlets, both with the theme of “sleeping on the couch”. One’s angsty/fluffy (pre-Rampage), the other’s just angsty (post-Rampage). Both are from Horatio’s POV (third-person).
Pairing: Horatio/Marisol (like I ever write anything else for this series)



Horatio hated sleeping on the couch. There was no way to lie down comfortably, his living room was too cold, and when he woke up his shoulders and neck popped like firecrackers. He made a point of sleeping on a mattress whenever possible.

Something was telling him that tonight would have to be different. The TV was still on, playing the news or some such thing; the volume was muted. The air conditioner drowned out most other noise, but the humming of traffic and the screeching of palmetto bugs crept in occasionally.

Marisol was sound asleep, draped across his shoulder. Her eyes were closed; her mouth was open slightly; one arm clung to his. The blanket she’d curled up under had slipped off her shoulders and now lay in an untidy tangle around her lap.

He knew he should wake her up and drive her home. It was almost midnight – already much later than she’d planned on staying. Eric would be worried about her if she didn’t come home; besides, he had work to do in the morning.

She was close enough to him that he could hear her breathing, deeply, peacefully. She looked so calm when she was sleeping, free from the worry and from the artificial smile she wore day in and day out.

She’d told him how sick she was of that smile. She’d told him how hard she’d been trying to stay optimistic, to stay cheerful, to pretend that nothing was wrong. And she’d told him how it didn’t help.

“They keep telling me that I’ll accept it eventually,” she’d said, and her voice had been small and sad. “I can’t. I’ve tried and I can’t. I’m scared.”

I’m scared too, he’d thought. But he hadn’t known what to say.

He pulled the blanket back over her, and as he did she drew closer.

In the morning he’d tell her; he’d make up for his silence. He’d say everything he should have said then. It wouldn’t chase away the fear – hers or his – but it would be something.

“Stay with me,” she had asked him.

“I promise,” had been his reply.

He kissed her once on the forehead; she stirred in her sleep and smiled.

The smile was real this time.

Horatio took Marisol’s hand in his and closed his eyes. He wouldn’t mind sleeping on the couch tonight.

*_*_*_*

Horatio hated sleeping on the couch, but tonight would have to be different.

He’d tried, he really had. That was what everyone told you to do – get some rest, take some time to yourself. Don’t try to fight your way through it. Sleep. Forget.

But when he’d lain in that bed – in their bed – all he could think of was how empty and cold it felt now, and how there was a space there where Marisol should have been and wasn’t. How her head should be resting on that pillow, how the glow of Miami’s midnight should be falling on her face. Should be.

He couldn’t sleep beside that void.

They had buried her a week ago; the grass on the grave hadn’t even grown in yet. He’d gone back to see it today, but it hadn’t felt real. There was only a stone with her name on it and a patch of upturned earth – what did that prove? It meant nothing. It could have very well been a mistake. For all he knew, that casket was empty. It was open during the funeral; he hadn’t looked inside.

He would toss and turn late at night and wonder why there was suddenly so much space.

Even when he did manage to fall asleep, he dreamed of her. And the dreams were so vivid he thought he had awakened, and that the past week had been the long, sick nightmare.

The dreams were worse than the emptiness.

They keep telling me that I’ll accept it eventually, she’d said to him, three, four weeks ago – had it been that recently? It felt like longer. I’ll accept it eventually. He had assumed he would too, eventually. At some point. When, he wasn’t sure. But eventually.

Such a convenient word, eventually. It let them push off reality and borrow time they didn’t have. They could enjoy one another today and tomorrow, because eventually they’d learn to let go.

Eventually.

But not now.

And so he was sleeping on the couch tonight. He didn’t know if it would help, but it had to be better than lying next to a memory.



So...? Yeah, second part could use a rewrite or three, but I wanted to see some initial thougts. Yes? No? Maybe so?