Sooo as said in the summary this was mostly posted for my own amusement, but it might garner some FP fame, you never know. Also mentioned was that it's based on the song of the same name, and I included the lyrics, which I am fairly sure are correct. If you love this song, I hope you don't think I mauled its meaning. Rated for cursing and sex, oh, and drinking if you're a pure little soul.

SOMETIME AROUND MIDNIGHT—THE AIRBORNE TOXIC EVENT

AND IT STARTS
SOMETIME AROUND MIDNIGHT
OR AT LEAST THAT’S WHEN YOU LOSE YOURSELF
FOR A MINUTE OR TWO

AS YOU STAND
UNDER THE BARLIGHTS
AND THE BAND PLAYS SOME SONG
ABOUT FORGETTING YOURSELF FOR A WHILE
AND THE PIANO’S THIS MELANCHOLY SOUNDCHECK TO HER SMILE
AND THAT WHITE DRESS SHE’S WEARING
YOU HAVEN’T SEEN HER
FOR A WHILE

BUT YOU KNOW
THAT SHE’S WATCHING
SHE’S LAUGHING, SHE’S TURNING
SHE’S HOLDING HER TONIC LIKE A CRUX
THE ROOM SUDDENLY SPINNING
SHE WALKS UP AND ASKS HOW YOU ARE
SO YOU CAN SMELL HER PERFUME
YOU CAN SEE HER LYING NAKED IN YOUR ARMS

AND SO THERE’S A CHANGE
IN YOUR EMOTIONS
AND ALL OF THESE MEMORIES COME RUSHING
LIKE FERAL WAVES TO YOUR MIND
OF THE CURL OF YOUR BODIES
LIKE TWO PERFECT CIRCLES ENTWINED
AND YOU FEEL HOPELESS AND HOMELESS
AND LOST IN THE HAZE
OF THE WINE

THEN SHE LEAVES
WITH SOMEONE YOU DON’T KNOW
BUT SHE MAKES SURE YOU SAW HER
SHE LOOKS RIGHT AT YOU AND BOLTS
AS SHE WALKS OUT THE DOOR
YOUR BLOOD BOILING
YOUR STOMACH IN ROPES
OH AND YOUR FRIENDS SAY “WHAT IS IT,
YOU LOOK LIKE YOU’VE SEEN A GHOST”

AND YOU WALK
UNDER THE STREETLIGHTS
AND YOU’RE TOO DRUNK TO NOTICE
THAT EVERYONE’S STARING AT YOU
AND YOU SO CARE WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE
THE WORLD IS FALLING
AROUND YOU

YOU JUST HAVE TO SEE HER
YOU JUST HAVE TO SEE HER
YOU JUST HAVE TO SEE HER
YOU JUST HAVE TO SEE HER
YOU JUST HAVE TO SEE HER
AND YOU KNOW THAT SHE’LL BREAK YOU IN TWO

-----------------------

He was no longer sure of what time it was, but thought it was sometime around midnight, give or take a half hour either way. He was standing by the bar with the club’s eerie blue lighting washing over him from behind, brooding into his empty shot glass and considering ordering another one in the continued and infuriatingly futile effort to dull the ache that rested around his heart.

The piano player and his sappy songs weren’t helping, he noted with a flick of sullen eyes towards the musician in question. But then again, it had been his decision—his idiotic, half-baked, asinine decision—to go to the blues club he’d once frequented with her.

Even as the ache squeezed tight around his heart like a fist, he saw her—saw her slip down the stairs into the club, her mouth curving as she shook droplets of rain from her long curls. His heart skipped several beats; his hands wanted to shake. To cover it up, to ignore the ache that had suddenly spread like a cancer throughout his entire body, he turned to the bartender and asked for another drink—smooth wine this time, rather than the burn of vodka. It was too late for a clear head, but it wasn’t necessary to seem a complete lush.

The dress she was wearing—that dress. How could she? He’d told her, just when they’d begun seeing each other, that this club was the one place away from his homeland he considered his own, the place where he could be himself and no one else. He’d taken her there once he realized he felt more for her than he ever had for any other woman, to show her the place that held so much meaning for him, just as she had come to mean the world to him.

And now she was wearing that dress, the dress she’d worn on the night they’d made love for the first time, to attract other men.

He wished, with all his broken and angry heart, that he could hate her for it. Could hate her for looking so good in it, for looking just as stunning as she had the first time she’d worn it. But she’d been wearing it for him then; now she wore it for someone else.

She’d made friends in the times they’d come here together. People were greeting her with smiles and waves and jokes, so that she spun to face them, laughing and retorting with quick comments that sent the people she spoke to into gales of laughter, while she wended her way to the bar.

He didn’t know if he was thankful that she was at the opposite end of the bar from where he stood glaring at the glass of red wine in his hand. He only knew that he was aware of her every movement, could see her all too clearly as she moved through the crowd.

And then before he could decide how he felt, she was disengaging herself from her latest conversation partner and weaving through the throng towards him.

His heart lurched, but this time he kept his hands steady on the glass he was now staring at—he wasn’t sure he could look at her, could bear to see the pity or disgust he was sure would be in her eyes—even when the room seemed to spin around him. So he’d had one too many drinks, he told himself. He’d been trying to drown his sorrows, hadn’t he?

And now the source of all those sorrows was standing in front of him in that white dress, the one he’d nearly ripped in his hurry to get her out of it that first night, her crisp, spiced perfume washing over him and rocking him to the core with a hard wave of desire.

He barely heard her speak, too swamped in the rush of memories that flooded him: the first time they’d met, when he’d been having dinner with another woman in a local restaurant and she’d been at dinner with her family—and her young nephew had thrown food in his direction. Though the boy’s mother had appeared unconcerned, she’d insisted on paying the dry cleaning bill for the pair of pants and made an impression of kindness that, despite all that had transpired, hadn’t faded or even been tainted.

He’d called it quits with the other woman within a week, and couldn’t have cared less about the names she’d called him. He’d been bewitched, entranced by this woman who treated him as though he was no one but himself.

And the first time he’d called her, this lovely, enticing creature with the big, friendly eyes and a mouth meant to drive a man mad. She’d pretended not to know who he was, neatly deflating his ego—before her bright, musical laughter had revealed it all to be a farce and charmed him instantly.

Their first date: back at the same restaurant where they’d met, where she’d laughed in amusement when he requested the same table he’d had that first time—so that he could show her the last signs of the spaghetti sauce stain her nephew had left in the restaurant’s plush carpet.

The first time they’d made love, the frenzied rush to get back to her apartment, the urgency that had seized them both until, exhausted, they took each other instead with a tenderness that had robbed him of breath and left him with a terrifying, bone-deep knowledge that there could never be anyone else for him.

Lying beside her while she slept, the pair of them curled into each other as though they’d been made for each other, listening to her slow, even breathing and accusing her of snoring the next morning just for the pleasure of seeing her grow increasingly agitated in her denial, until he could admit to the lie and coax her back into bed—or simply yank her in by the hand.

And then that last, miserable night, the night he still couldn’t understand. They’d spent the weekend in San Francisco with the band, playing a small benefit concert with a number of other artists; he’d planned, maybe, to ask her to marry him not long thereafter, in the restaurant where they’d met. He’d escorted her home, fully intending to stay with her, and instead found himself sitting on her lovely little couch, being told in a quiet, inscrutable voice that she no longer thought the relationship was enjoyable for her, and thought they should break things off now, before things got too complicated. He’d sat there fingering the little box in his pocket and feeling like a fool.

Finally registering her question, he glanced up, kept his eyes cool—but couldn’t hide what raw emotion had done to him. In the short time that had passed, he’d lost weight, the hollows of his eye sockets growing deeper and his already lanky frame now leaning more towards gaunt. His dark hair was messy and in need of a trim, falling over a high forehead towards those dark, shadowed eyes.

He opened his mouth—and found he couldn’t speak, not to her. Not yet, maybe not ever. In a gesture as eloquent as anything he might have forced from his mouth, he turned his back on her and drained his glass, even though he suddenly felt as though he would sink to his knees at any moment. Whether it would have been to lose consciousness or to beg for her, he couldn’t know.

He heard the small sound she made, but couldn’t identify it—was it frustration, dejection? Could she possibly be as miserable as he was?

No, he told himself sourly. After all, it was she who had put an end to their relationship, she who had said gently that she hoped, maybe, that they could “remain friends”.

The memory, combined with the rest, made him order another drink through gritted teeth.

Hating himself more than he could ever hate her, he turned with the fresh glass in his hand—it was remarkably steady, considering the amount of alcohol he’d ingested over the past few hours—and scanned the club with his eyes, looking for her.

When he found her, he almost wished he hadn’t.

She was dancing, dancing in the way she’d once danced with him: rubbing seductively close, then edging away, with a knowing smile curving her lips and her eyes gleaming in anticipation of what was to come. He thought maybe her smile seemed a bit forced, her eyes a little sad, but then scolded himself for drunken, wishful thinking.

Still, his eyes never left her, following her as she danced with the same man for song after song in that dim and smoky little club where the bluesy songs were just the excuse for a man and a woman to cling to each other.

When she caught the man’s hand in hers and slipped it intimately around her waist, leaned up to whisper something in his ear, his stomach gave a sickening lurch. Then they were walking to the door together, pressing close in the crowd, the man she was with wearing a disgustingly smug look on his face.

In spite of himself, he found himself lecturing her in his mind, berating her for her poor taste in men. No, no, no. He’s just going to brag to his friends about the girl he fucked after ditching them at the club Saturday night. He won’t even remember your name, and he’ll never know how wonderful you are.

He would have sworn his heart stopped when she paused at the door, turned her head, and stared at him for a long moment with her eyes huge and dark, even from across the club.

Even as the realization of what that look said hit him, she was turning on her heel and leaving, her hand still tightly clenched in a stranger’s.

She was gone again, the white dress rippling behind her, and he’d just realized she was as miserable as he was.

His blood heated, stomach rolling and tying itself into knots, until he was so filled with helpless fury that he wanted to heave the crystal wineglass over the bar and watch it shatter into pieces, just as she’d done to him.

Beside him a friend laid a hand on his shoulder and spoke with the congeniality of the cheerful drunk. “Hey, man, whatsamatter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”

I have, he wanted to say. The ghost of any future I might have had. Instead he mutely shook his head, shrugged off the friendly hand, and with a mutter of “I’m for home,” left the club behind, knowing as he had known when they had first gone there together that he would never be able to go there again without thinking of her.

He’d had more to drink than he’d thought, he realized as he began to walk down the street under the dull glow of orange streetlights. He shoved his hands into his pockets, looked down, and silently tromped through the streets, completely oblivious of the glances from passersby, or the open stares of some. It wasn’t every day, after all, that you saw a famous rock star and demi-god wandering drunk down the streets of New York.

The rain began to fall in a thin mist. When it turned into thick sheets that made it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead of him, he accepted it as a mirror of his mood and continued to trudge forwards, weaving a little but not enough to be overly noticeable to passing police officers.

He hoped.

He could imagine her, cozy in some sophisticated and well-furnished apartment with another man’s arms around her, another man running his lips down her throat, another man tasting the curve of her breast or feeling the satiny texture at the tops of her thighs. Could imagine, all too well, the cries she would emit as she came—would she call this other man’s name, as she had once called his? Fist her hands in the stranger’s hair, as she used to fist them in his? Use her teeth on the bastard in her need to hurry, as she had done to him?

Why, he wondered as he kicked bad-temperedly at a crushed soda can in his path and missed by half a foot, did he continue to put himself through hell for her, when he knew it took only the briefest of looks to break him into pieces?

----------------

He slept only because he was roaring drunk, but even then, he slept poorly. Dreams of her haunted him until daybreak, when he woke to find his hand reaching as though of its own volition across the wide bed, where she would normally sleep while waiting for him to come back from a late recording session. Where she would curl up and nap when she missed him while he was on tour.

Gritting his teeth against the throbbing in his skull and his heart, he gingerly rolled out of bed and minced his way to the bathroom. He swallowed the aspirin on his way into the shower, made himself a pot of strong, black coffee on the way back to the bedroom, and had just pulled on a pair of jeans he thought might be relatively clean when the doorbell rang and threatened to crack his skull open. Snatching up a mug of coffee on the fly, he ignored the topmost button on the jeans and walked to the door of his apartment. It had to be someone he knew, he reasoned, or the doorman wouldn’t have let them—

He stopped dead in the open doorway, staring at the woman filling the space before him.

“Jesus H. Christ,” he muttered with a venomous glance towards the heavens. “You’re shitting me.”

And with this, he left the door open and stalked back into the spacious apartment with the idea of lacing his coffee with something a bit stronger in mind.

Hesitantly, she followed him, closing the door behind her as quietly as she could. It had shaken her to see him like that—misbuttoned jeans and no shirt, water from his shower still gleaming on that expanse of toned, deeply tanned skin and dripping from the dark and unruly hair she’d once clutched at while he sent her flying into depths she hadn’t known existed, while she called his name and moaned for more.

The memory made her flush, but more, it made her body heat with remembered passion. And God, she wished she could hate him for it.

“Ah....” She walked into the kitchen in time to see him pouring a generous amount of whiskey into his coffee and broke off, nervously licking her lips. She’d never seen him look like this—like something not quite tamed, something that just stepped over the line into feral, with those eyes lancing into her, seeing through her and his movements just short of violent.

He turned with studied casualness, leaned on the counter and made an expansive go-ahead gesture with his free hand, the bottle of whiskey sitting open on the counter beside him.

“Don’t look so shocked, Cass, it’s not the first time you’ve seen me after a night of drinking.”

She blinked, looked stupidly from the bottle to him. Anything she’d meant to say flew from her mind. “You were drinking last night?”

“I was, yes. Rather a lot, in fact. But that’s hardly anything for you to trouble yourself over, now, is it?”

She flushed again. She had forgotten, since he had never been angry with her before, that even though his voice carried the music of Ireland, it could still slash her into ribbons.

“I...” She stopped, swallowed, tried again. “Why were you drinking last night?”

“You’re a bright lass, darling, I’m sure you’ll cotton on in short order.”

His voice was cool and bitingly curt, his eyes almost bored. He could handle this, he told himself. She wouldn’t tear him apart this time.

She bit her lip, wishing she didn’t feel as though she was about to cry. Resolutely she lifted her chin, drew a deep breath and spoke in a clearer voice than before. “You were drinking because of me. Because I broke it off between us.”

He set down the coffee mug to clap, slowly and mockingly. “Well done. You’ve won the grand prize—a one-way ticket back to the elevator and away from here.”

The blatant rudeness was just what she needed to firm her spine. “No.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Then what is it you’re wanting from me?”

“I want... to apologize.”

It was the last thing he’d expected to hear; she could tell from the brief flicker of stunned hope in his eyes before he masked it. “For what?” he returned coolly. “You’ve every right to put an end to a relationship you no longer find satisfying.”

“That’s the thing,” she began. “I... don’t think it would be possible to ever find a relationship with you dissatisfying.”

She paused to glance up at him and attempt to gauge his mood. His brows had drawn together, making him look fiercer than ever. Without saying a word, he waved his hand in an impatient go-on gesture.

Oh, God. Now what was she supposed to say? She cast around in her mind for something, anything, and blurted the truth before she could think twice about it. “I was scared,” she said in a rush, wringing her hands together in her anxiety. “God, Shawn, you took me to that concert with you and there were people waiting on you, hand and foot, and women fawning over you and asking for your autograph, and I felt like this insignificant little speck who couldn’t possibly matter in your world. I’d never fit in, and I knew it. I couldn’t stand the thought that maybe I’d get to the hotel room and find you missing, or in there with some other woman. I hated the idea of being told that you’d met some—some—bimbo at one of your concerts, and me being left behind, looking the idiot. There’s nothing wrong with me!” she suddenly shouted. “Not a damn thing, but you could have dumped me for one of those little hookers, or worse, some super hot singer or Playboy bunny, any time, just because they have looks and fortunes and I have work, stupid boring work that I need to do to bring in money so I can have a home.”

She was pacing now, alive with the anxiety that had been bubbling and stewing inside her for days. “And it’s not like none of them were interested or anything. I’m not an idiot, and I saw the looks they gave you. I don’t share,” she said fiercely. “We agreed on exclusivity. All you would’ve had to do is snap your fingers and legions of women would’ve jumped forward. Just because you’ve got the face of a fallen angel and the body of a god—not to mention being amazing in bed, but then, I don’t have much to compare it to, although I’m still pretty sure you’ve ruined me for anyone else—women hop to and it’s not fair!”

She finally stopped pacing, stood in the middle of the room to glare at him, her chest heaving and her breath coming in ragged pants.

“Is that the whole of it, then?” he asked calmly when she’d apparently run out of steam.

“I think so,” she said miserably.

He nodded pleasantly, then stepped towards her, set his coffee down on the counter behind her and braced his hands on either side of her, neatly trapping her in place.

Her eyes widened. “Shawn, I...”

“Hold your whist,” he said so mildly that she was shocked into silence. Apparently pleased that she’d obeyed, he nodded again, then suddenly gripped her arms and gave her a light shake that had her staring at him.

“You’ve some problems lurking in that pretty head of yours, Cassandra,” he snapped. “When have I ever once strayed from you since we’ve been seeing each other?”

Oh no, oh no. Her mother had warned her not to take on an Irishman in a battle of words. She was doomed.

“Well, never, but—”

“So you thought it was only a matter of time, did you?” he retorted. “The fickle Irish rock star, it’ll only be a wee bit longer until he finds someone he prefers to me?” His lips twisted into a cruel little smirk. “I’ll have you know one of Ireland’s most famous rock bands consists of four members, most of which are happily married with a brood of children. We are capable of it, oddly enough.”

“I didn’t say that!” she protested hotly. “Damn it, Shawn, it was them I didn’t trust! I saw the looks you gave me, I felt the way you touched me. I’m not quite stupid enough to think you’ll run off and have a quick roll in the sheets with some little whore—” She broke off, sighed and pushed at her hair. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”

“Really? I’m actually finding it quite productive.”

“Ha, ha.” She drew a deep breath, then wished her dignity a happy trip to wherever it was going and said everything that was in her heart. “I was scared,” she said quietly, “because I was jealous. I was jealous of the women that fawned over you, asking for your autograph and promising that if there was anything they could do, you just had to call them.” She didn’t roll her eyes at her own imitation of those women, caught in his eyes and unwilling to look away.

“I was scared,” she continued, “because I know it’s like that for you all over the world, and I’m so pathetic I made a co-worker come to that club to see if I could even have a shot at making you jealous. He’s gay, by the way,” she added, knowing she was babbling, stalling, but unable to stop herself. “I’m not—with someone else.”

“Well, I won’t kill him, then,” Shawn muttered, but she ignored him.

“That’s not all. I was... well, I was wondering if...”

“If what?” he asked. Like her own, his voice had gone very quiet.

She swallowed around the lump his gentle question had brought on and said in an even lower voice, “I was wondering if I was brave enough to stand with you through that, to love you the way I thought you were beginning to love me. I know you said we were really lucky to avoid being in the tabloids, but that was when we were dating, and before it was serious. If it ever—”

“Hold your whist,” he said again, and this time she obeyed without protest, miserably sure that he was about to push her out the door and remove her irrevocably from his life. He unbent himself from the crouch he’d been in to meet her eyes squarely, gave her arms a gentle squeeze before releasing her. “I’ll be right back,” he told her, and disappeared down the hall.

He came back carrying nothing that she could see, hands loosely clenched at his sides. “Here,” he said mildly and tossed something to her. She caught it only by reflex—and then stared in disbelief at the little box in her hand.

“Shawn,” she began in a trembling voice, “that’s not—”

He was leaning against the counter again, apparently relaxed, picking up his laced coffee to take another sip. “Why not see for yourself?” he said in that same mild tone, but his eyes were sharp on hers.

Holding her breath, she pried open the little box and barely avoided dropping it.

The ring was beautiful, a multi-faceted diamond winking up at her from its velvet nest with the coloured stones—emeralds, rubies, sapphires, amethysts and citrine, at least that she recognized in her dizzy state—flanking it in smaller settings.

Her breath came out on a shaky rush. “Shawn,” she said again, “when did you buy this?”

Her eyes came up, met his. “The morning after we’d made love for the first time,” he said softly, and set down his coffee once more to step towards her and this time lay his hands on either side of her face. “I knew then there wouldn’t be anyone else for me, Cass. Not after you.”

“Oh, God.” She sniffled, waved a hand in the air. “You’re going to make me cry. I need to sit down,” she managed. “I need to pull myself together.”

“No, I want you weak in the knees when I tell you this.” Gently he plucked the ring from its bed, then knelt at her feet.

“Oh, God,” she said again and put a hand to her mouth to keep back a sob. “Shawn.”

“What do you think, Cass my love? Can you bring yourself to live with me and get used to the jealousy of the women ‘fawning over me’, as you put it, if I promise to keep my hands and even eyes off them?”

She let out an unsteady laugh and nodded at the ring he held. “That’s a hell of a promise.”

“There’s nothing I’ll do halfway when it’s you. Please, Cass,” he murmured before she could say anything in return. “I’ve been miserable these last weeks without you. I’ve written no songs that could ever be called decent, I’ve spent a fair amount of time pissed or getting pissed, and through it all I’ve been missing you like a man misses a limb.” He gave the hand he held a slight squeeze and seemed to squeeze her heart at the same time. “Don’t leave me alone again, because I don’t think I can stand it, Cass. There’s no one else for me, no one but you. That’s a promise.”

She pulled her hand away on a choked little sound and threw herself down into his arms, knocking him onto his arse and herself into his lap. “Yes, yes, yes, a hundred times yes.” She nuzzled into his throat, breathing in deeply to fill her lungs with the scent of him—soap and whiskey and man, the one she wanted. “I’ve missed you,” she said urgently as she lifted her hands and ran them through his hair, scattering kisses over his face. “So much. God, Shawn, we’ll be such a mess of a married couple.”

“We’ll get through,” he told her. “That’s another promise. Now hold still, woman, so I can put the ring on you.”

“Okay.” She sprang straight to attention while sitting on his lap and let him slip the lovely golden band with its beautifully winking stones onto her finger, then let out a squeal of delight that amused him and made him love her more.

She twisted in his lap, eagerly lifted her mouth to his. And in moments all the loneliness of the past weeks swarmed into him, had his entire body tightening with desire for her.

“Bed,” he said hoarsely when he pulled himself back. “Now.”

“It’s the middle of the morning,” she pointed out.

“So?”

“I’ll be late for work,” she added, trying to be reasonable.

“And does that honestly matter?” he returned.

“No,” she giggled, and gave another little yelp of amusement when he rose with her in his arms and carted her towards the bedroom.

He set her down beside the rumpled bed, leaned in to frame her face with his hands and torture them both with a long, slow kiss that heated their blood and clouded their minds.

He slipped the buttons of her smart navy blazer free, then let the jacket fall to the floor so that his fingers could stroke the soft, warm material covering all that creamy skin. When his fingers slipped under the turtleneck, her breath hitched and wavered, just as it had on their first night together. She made a feeble noise in her throat and reached for the ring to slip it off, afraid to lose it, but he stopped her with a low murmur and a shake of his head.

“Leave it on,” he said quietly. “I want to see what you look like, lying on my bed wearing nothing but my ring on your finger.”

The words, so softly and gently spoken, so uncharacteristic of him, only moved her all the more. Her stomach muscles quivered as he slowly brought the fabric of her shirt up, up, drawing it over her head and letting it fall to the floor beside the blazer.

“You too,” she murmured as she pressed her lips to his throat, lifted hands that seemed strangely heavy in contrast to her light head and tugged at the snap of the jeans, slowly lowering the zipper. He gave a quiet groan as her knuckles brushed his skin, and when she looked up she saw he had his head tilted back, his eyes closed as though he was absorbing the feel of her hands on him.

When the jeans were crumpled on the floor, he stepped out of them, then trailed kisses from her jawbone to her shoulder, all the way down to the inside of her wrist. His finger flicked lightly over the ring on her finger just before he turned her hand over and pressed his kiss to the palm.

“You like it, then?”

“Of course I do,” she said breathlessly. “It’s beautiful, I love it. But Shawn, I really need to lie down.”

He chuckled quietly, then straightened and took her mouth again, waiting until she gave a low, helpless moan before undoing the hook of her slacks and watching them puddle around her ankles.

“Step out now, céadsearc,” he said gently, and felt her brace her hands on his shoulders to do so—then heard her quick, startled intake of breath when he trailed his fingers over the inside of her thigh.

“Oh,” was all she could manage as her fingers clutched at his shoulders. “Oh, God, Shawn.” She shuddered. “I thought I’d imagined what you do to me.”

He laughed roughly, then nuzzled at her throat and gently steered her towards the bed. “That’s flattering—in a manner of speaking, I suppose.”

“Shut up,” she mumbled thickly as he laid her on the messy sheets. “You know damn well what you do to me.”

“So I do,” he murmured as he let his mouth wander over her so that he could know her again. “Just as you know that you’re capable of tearing me apart.”

Her heavy eyelids came up at that. “I am?”

Surprised, he glanced up at her, the flushed cheeks and blurred eyes that spoke of passion. “Darling, were you not listening just now? You broke me into two when you tried to end it.”

“Oh. Wow.” Her breath fluttered out on a long, shaky sigh. “Shawn, what are we getting ourselves into?”

“I haven’t a clue,” he replied fervently and honestly, and cut off her laughter with his mouth. “Be quiet now, alanna, because I can’t think of anything but you, and how much I’ve missed you.”

She smiled up at him, reached out with his ring glinting on her finger to bring him closer. “Show me,” she murmured.

“I’ve a better idea,” he responded, and a quick and wicked smile flashed over his features.

“Shawn, what are you—oh!” she said suddenly as Shawn rolled, then settled her so that she was straddling him. Their eyes shifted, met, and held while Cass lifted herself and then slowly sank over him, taking him deep inside her while they clutched each other’s hands and felt the ring he’d chosen for her press into both their hands.

Their groans rose into the air together as they came together again; then she was moving, slowly at first, then beginning to move more frantically as the need built.

And Shawn rolled over her again, so that she moaned in frustration.

“Shawn,” she panted, “why—”

“Shh,” he said on a breathless little half-laugh. “God, Cass, you’re a questioning creature.”

Then he was moving, sweet and slow, keeping the pace excruciatingly slow even when she moaned and twisted her head back and forth on the pillow. He bent his head, kissed her long and slow and deep so that they were fused to each other in every way possible when they went together over the peak.

---------------

They didn’t leave the apartment that day, only nestled in and blocked out the world outside the windows: unplugged the phone, drew the curtains, left the television off, and simply enjoyed each other. Cass perched on a stool at the kitchen island, one of Shawn’s flannel shirts—what is it with Irishmen and flannel? she thought fondly as she fingered the soft, worn material—and listened to the tales of Ireland he wove for her while he cooked, of hills so green they hurt the eyes, and a sky so blue it pulled at your heart.

“It sounds lovely,” she said honestly when he’d finished and slid a plate of French toast in front of her. “Beautiful and heartbreaking at the same time.”

“It’s all of that and more,” he agreed as he sat on the stool beside her and began to eat his own meal. “You’ll see it soon enough.”

The fork stopped halfway to her mouth, entirely forgotten. “Me? See Ireland?”

“No, the other woman I’m going to marry,” he responded dryly and made her frown. “Come here, Cass my love,” he chuckled.

“No,” she pouted as she resumed eating. “That was a mean joke.”

“Well, then I’ll have to go to you. It’s a demanding woman I’ve found myself,” he added almost to himself and leaned towards her, so that they shared a long, tender kiss with the taste of maple syrup clinging to their lips.

She still hadn’t spoken when he drew back. Watching her in amusement, Shawn forked up more of the French toast, chewed, swallowed, and then said mildly, “Cass?”

She glanced over. “Yes?” she said guardedly.

He reached over, cupped her face in one hand, and said simply, “I really do love you, you know.”

And now she smiled, warm and beautiful and all he needed. “I know,” she answered with her heart in her eyes for him. “I love you too.”

-----------------------

OK, I really have NO clue what this is... the song had been playing repeatedly in my head for a while and wouldn’t go away until I wrote about it. I did, cause if I didn’t get back to the other stories I knew a couple people were gonna kill me. This has been saved on my computer gathering pixel-dust for a couple weeks now, so I thought, what the hell, let’s post it. Originally considered posting only part, to keep in line with the song’s mood, but again, the thought that prevailed turned out to be “what the hell”, so the whole thing’s here in all its messy glory.

I might even turn this into a fully-fledged story someday, if I a) get the motivation required and b) get enough positive feedback on this little snippet to make me think it’s worthwhile.

Now, review, eat a Klondike bar, and go watch Jeff Dunham’s comedy. Redneck humour at times, but still funny. Also, you’ll understand the humour of me suggesting you eat a Klondike bar. :)

— Murphy