Blue eyes, rimmed in gold.

Gray eyes, rimmed in ebony.

The blue eyes
are dry now, but they scream, they howl, they rage like
a violent ocean,
dark and dilated with adrenaline.  In them, one can
see the narrow escape
mirrored, see the blood of the woman that nearly
stained his hands and
still stains his heart.  Traces of salt water bead
on the lashes,
glistening like brutal gemstones in the light filtering
in from the street
lamp. 

The beads grow, swell.	The gold lashes come down as the fine
brows tighten,
lines crumpling into the edges of the eyes.  A gasp. 
Breath shuddering
in and out in desperate tremors, trying for a last
heartbeat not to do
it.  Not to give in.  Not to cry. 

Men don't cry.

The heart behind the blue eyes rebels.	Wrenching its way up his throat,
the pain and the guilt escape in a deep sob, a gutteral, wounded sound.
Another  sob.  A cry, soft and keening.  The beads have grown to rivers,
cutting silver trails down angular cheeks that haven't been shaven in
too
long. 

Blonde head bows forward.  Resting the forehead against the cool,
slightly
tacky leather of the steering wheel as thin shoulders shudder
beyond
control.  The cries grow further, and now even the pretense of
control
has been abandoned.  Humiliation of tears is lost in their cause,
lost
in the ineluctable guilt that has blurred every thought and emotion
into
a single haze of what if and why couldn't I.  The sobs trip over each
other, clutching and hurting in the chest, caught into choking sounds
that
are almost coughs as breath is fought for. 

Gray eyes reflect the pain,
not knowing the true depth of it, but hurting
all the more for being
locked outside, for being unable to offer balm
onto the bleeding wounds. 
Dark lashes fan like Spanish lace over creamy
cheeks, the gray hidden. 
Nothing to do, nothing to say, nothing to think
to ease the waves of guilt
pouring from the blue-eyed man. 

One thick arm reaches out, draping
across narrow shoulders.  Weathered
fingers pat gently, trying to offer
some rhythmic solace where he knows
he can give none.  The gesture seems
pitiful, meaningless, even insulting.
What more can he give?	

Not
taught.  

Not prepared.  

Not for this.  

For when it can't be held in
anymore.  For when the hurt is bleeding
all over you and you can't stop it
and you can't help it and you can't
see it and you can't touch it but it
is and its there and you'd give
anything absolutely anything to make it go
away. 

Oh God.  Blonde head falls against broad chest clad in flannel. 
Oh God.

Now what?

Without thinking, arms fold across shuddering back. 
Clutching each other.
Moisture gathers behind the ebony lashes.  Can't be
this close to the
pain.  Can't push it away. 

Coalescing together, two
pains melting into one, burning brighter.  Burning
hotter.  Immolating
souls.	Charring hearts.  Cremating spirits beyond
hope and into wordless
despair. 

Blonde head and tawny flesh tilts up.  Dark curls and milky
flesh tilts
down.  Moist tongue runs over reddened, bitten lips.  Mouths
meet.  Taste
the tears.  Blue eyed tears.  Gray eyed tears.	Golden tears.
 Dark tears.
Mingled beyond recognition. 

No one thinking of the meaning
of it.	Is it wrong?  Is it right?  Feels
wrong and right and good and bad
but what does it matter, because its
contact.  It's contact, someone else
to wrap the hurt around. 

Lips crush together tighter.  Hands explore
faces.	One set of hands
like bird's claws, thin and delicate and
desperate, chewed nails leaving
reddened trails over clean-shaven cheeks. 
One set like plowman's hands,
thick knuckles and callused palms, gentle as
an artist, caressing fine
boned face and golden stubble like delicate
orchid's petal. 

Tentative, tongue tests out.  Encounters lips which
part, invite.  Dancing.
Perfect rhythm, perfect unity.	Don't even need to
ask, don't even need
to question the rightness, because the rightness is
there, unspoken.
Harder now, faster.  Taste and feel and breathe and
caress and kiss away
the pain.  

Make it go away make it go away make it
go away make it go away makeitgoaway.

Lips part.  Breathing hard. 
Ribcages heaving.  Gray eyes open.  Blue
eyes open.  Fingers trace
moisture down cheeks.  

Oh God.  Oh God.  What have we done?

Come back.

THE END

Voyagerbabe...Wan2BCanuk on IRC
Keeper of the dead animal hat
that goes with the blue
serge, Fraser's 'broken face' when he gets home in
COTW, Meg's left-handed
Sam Browne, Meg's hands around Fraser's waist as
they ride double in ATQH,
the grope from Pizza and Promises, and Fraser
and Thatcher's unrequited
sexuality. 

Voyagerbabe's Drop In The Fanfic
Bucket: 	      
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Starship/6102/home.html