She watches him sleep.

She always wonders how he manages to look so severe while asleep, and yet not lose any of the electricity he had around him. She waits patiently for him to wake, though with great uncertainty. What, exactly has he gone through, to bring him here, bleeding, dirty, fallen?

The hospital staff have cleaned him up, tended to his wounds. His hands, large and powerful but, she knows, capable of such grace, rest on the pristine sheets, still, his face set in solemn repose, his lips parted slightly as he breathes, in, out, timed to the slow rise-and-fall of his chest. She reaches out to brush his fringe, black as soot marring the paleness of his face, away, and finds her wrist caught by his hand.

It tightens slowly, vise-like, and suddenly twists her wrist slightly, pulling her in so that they are face to face, inches apart. She lets out an involuntary, 'O' of pain, as he scowls and narrows his eyes. "You."

She doesn’t reply, only stares resolutely into his eyes, daring, challenging. He returns her stare evenly, then lets go of her hand and sits up, slides off the bed with relative ease. From the opposite side, he regards her, head cocked to one side as if in mock curiosity. “Where am I?”

As he slowly begins to walk along the side of the bed, closer to her, she suddenly feels self conscious. There is something in his movement, his gait, and even as she wonders how he could have recovered so much, so soon, she finds herself gravitating to him. To join with him, in a dance. But she senses it would be a dance for life, so she determinedly stays where she is, and replies, “We rescued you.”

Her voice is so stoic he laughs, a cold, hard laughter, ringing off the walls as if echoed by countless crystals. “Rescued?” He is directly behind her – she imagines she feels the warmth radiating from his body.

Without warning, he pulls her roughly towards him, lowers his head and whispers, “Me?” His voice is husky, sardonic.

She stiffens instinctively, then forces herself to relax in the prison of his embrace. The entire line of his body burns at her back, hot even through the layers of clothes, fire to the ice in his voice. When she doesn’t speak, he bends further down, lips almost at the shell of her ear. “Do you want to know what was done to me?” His voice, though soft, holds anger kept in check, made all the more fearsome by the direction it lent to fierce conviction.

She bites her lip as he nips the tip of her ear, not very gently. There is a heartbeat’s pause, in which she closes her eyes, before she says, almost inaudibly, “Yes.”

He freezes, surprised by her answer. Hands moving to her shoulders, he turns her around, and she finally sees the mix of emotions in his frantic sapphire-blue eyes. Then, unexpectedly, he kisses her roughly, without finesse, bruising lips against teeth as he claimed her mouth. She does not resist, though she expects the kiss to get gentler. When it does not, she struggles, and for a few moments, is restrained by him.

Then he abruptly breaks the kiss, and she staggers a few steps back. His eyes are wide, shocked, as he sees her fear, as she raises an involuntary hand to her swollen lips. “Oh my god.” His voice is horrified; his eyes search wildly for an exit. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, I…” He shakes his head and flees through the door.

Left alone in the room, she looks after him, an ambiguous something in her eyes.

A/N (author's note): This is not my usual daisy chain of serendipity, but I can't really decide what to call it, so for now, let it be DC 6 Comments welcome!

Oh my god that's beautiful jenn!!! Why won't you write your own stories instead of fanfiction... -grumble grumble- C'mon that story is just begging for continuation!

*blushes* Heh thank you...I got highly inspired by someone I saw (who I hadn't seen for a while) and, um, the above was the result...

I do write my own stories what, I just don't write really long ones. Don't have the patience, plus I haven't had good reviews for my chaptered (fan)fics either so I decided I wasn't gonna try more...you know what's funny? I swore not to write short stories a few years ago. I thought they weren't satisfyin' to read, and that I couldn't write short stories for nuts. And that's still true, actually, my pieces aren't stories like those in twentieth century. More like povs. Ah well.

Ok, i'll </rambling>

I -could- continue. For Chois:2R2M, perhaps

Thou shalt continue this story!!! Haha yeah... I really like this one, if you haven't noticed by now.

You know what, sometimes short stories can be more satisfying to read than novels. Look at Roald Dahl! In any case, many novelists start out by writing short stories... Length shouldn't matter.

Ok, but why should your pieces resemble twentieth century literature? We're a new generation after all; someone should create an entirely new style and genre...

But how can I continue...? It loses impact lar. And I don't have a probable plot for it...will think about it.

I do think short stories don't take so long to read But I don't find them satisfying..I prefer thick, good books

Nah as in it doesn't have themes like those short stories..or like other equally boombastic short stories I've read in Best Fantasy or Best SciFi..(some of them really thought provoking) Just can't match the quality or ideas. Sigh.

I do have one particular original short story in the works, though. Not sure when I'll complete it, heh..

Yeah well you're 17 and you haven't seen the world. No one's expecting you to write stories like that right now... No, what's important now is that you create your own style and voice, I think.