DISCLAIMER: Popular and all characters are the property of Ryan Murphy and Touchstone Pictures and Television.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
Fast As You Can
Sam's been whining about it for the last few days, but Brooke thinks it's kind of funny that their vacation is being interrupted by a hurricane. Well, okay. Not funny exactly. But definitely in keeping with the theme of the last two years or so of her life. Which, if you ask her, is pretty damn funny.
It's not Sam's fault if she doesn't get the dark sense of humor Brooke develops after a few drinks. It is, however, Sam's fault that Brooke's had quite a bit more than a few drinks today. Even if she does insist on blaming Hurricane Nicole (and God, the irony in that name will never get old) for their being reduced to spending their Thanksgiving vacation sitting on their asses and mainlining the Weather Channel. What Sam seems to be forgetting is that it was her idea to pass the time with a couple friendly games of cards. And that it was also her brilliant idea to break open the minibar and up the anty a bit once the novelty of betting with m&ms wore off.
Brooke is drunk enough right now that she's not sure just exactly who to blame for her current state of not-quite-clothedness. She suspects it has to do with the always fun combination of a pretty girl, alcohol and strip Go Fish, but she could be wrong.
Either way, she's not drunk enough yet not to be a bit worried by it. Which is why she's currently tucked into the far corner of their tiny ass balcony, doing her best to avoid the sharply cold rain while she tries to breathe in some semblance of sanity, or at the very least, sobriety.
This is bad. Not that she knows exactly what it is that's bad, or for that matter, why it's bad. She just knows that this, whatever the hell it is they're on the edge of doing, is a bad idea. One that's been building for a while now, since long before they set foot in Jamaica. One that's getting a heck of a lot harder to resist with every downed shot of Cuervo and lost piece of clothing.
So she needs to put a stop to it, before it even starts.
She can hear Sam making her way through the room, so she turns toward the door and opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Sam must have thrown on the nearest piece of unoccupied clothing on her way to get their room service order. Which is why she just came out onto the balcony in Brooke's favorite hoodie. The one she's had since freshman year, that's worn and stretched in all the right places. The one that apparently looks good on Sam. Good enough to make Brooke consider changing her no sharing rule in regards to Sam and her wardrobe.
Sam smiles and hands her an open bottle of Sol, which Brooke takes and drinks from without a word. She knows she needs to say something and put a stop to whatever it is that's probably coming next. But first she's gonna take in the very nice view Sam's presenting, cause there's no harm in looking, right?
"Mac's still asleep." Sam leans against the opposing wall and nods toward the open door and the couch where their baby sister's been camped out since the parentals dropped her off for some "quality sister time" a couple hours back. Brooke nods and takes another pull from her bottle. She's glad that the newest wave of quietly rumbling thunder hasn't woken her up yet.
Sam's still watching her, a soft little smile curving her lips, and Brooke has to fight the urge to look away. She's gotten out of practice when it comes to being under this kind of attention lately, and her knee jerk reaction is to cover herself. Except that it's kinda nice, in a strangely nerve racking way that raises goosebumps on her skin. Sam certainly seems to be enjoying herself, if the way her smile keeps growing is anything to judge by.
"You're cold." Sam frowns and says, and Brooke is, but only because she forgot to grab a shirt before she escaped to the balcony in only a sports bra and boxers. She nods and shrugs at the same time, not really wanting to make a big deal of it and not quite ready to head back inside to warmer air and dry clothes.
Sam's frown deepens and then curves up into a small smile. Brooke is too caught up watching the shift of her lips to realize what she's doing until Sam has crossed the small space between them. Caught off guard, Brooke doesn't protest as Sam's arms slide around her bare waist, pulling their bodies together.
The fabric of the hoodie is warm between their bodies. Brooke shivers again, and Sam moves in even closer. Brooke feels warmer, safer, than she has in forever. Sam is so close and smiling, and Brooke can't look away.
It's a connection of tiny things that all pull into one moment, and suddenly she's gone from thinking about kissing Sam to kissing Sam. Then Sam is kissing her back, and she's excited and afraid in a way that mixes all together and slides down her spine in a slow whirlwind, leaving giddy surprise in its wake.
This feels nothing like she thought it would. In fact, it's not all that different from kissing a boy. There's that same frantic pull for contact she always felt with Josh, and that edge of gentleness that always scared her with Harrison. Except that Sam isn't Josh or Harrison, so it's not the same. There's a softness to her shape, to the give of her muscles under her hands that no boy Brooke's ever kissed has had. For once Brooke's leaning down into the contact. She likes the feel of it, the shadow of control.
She knows they should probably pull back, take a break and grab a breath, but the thought of pausing turns Brooke's stomach. If they stop now they'll never start again, and that's not something she wants. Instead, she pushes in deeper. Sam tastes of chocolate and cheap beer and nervous laughter. It's nice. Even nicer cause she can feel Sam pushing back with teeth and tongue and fingers that are warm against her back.
Another gail of wind blows hard against Brooke's back, fat rain drops biting into her skin, and it's enough of a distraction to make her growl against Sam's mouth as she shivers. She can feel Sam's smile against her lips. She pushes against Sam's hips, using more force than is strictly necessary, and growls again. "Inside."
Sam doesn't release her grip on Brooke's arms as she complies and starts walking backwards. Their trip back into the hotel room is awkward and slow. Brooke almost laughs when Sam's back connects with the door frame, but Sam recovers fast and shifts them around, leading Brooke into their shared bedroom.
When Brooke ordered them inside she was thinking more the couch than the bed, except that wouldn't really work, what with the quietly sleeping baby who really doesn't need to be scarred for life by waking up to her sisters making out. Brooke can just imagine what kind of trauma that would cause the poor kid, even if she is only a couple months old.
Sam pushes her further into the room, using her weight to lower both their bodies onto the mattress, and Brooke thinks that maybe the bed isn't such a bad idea after all. Even if it does bring with it a whole dizzying set of implications she doesn't even want to think about. Luckily for Brooke, over the last few months she has become well practiced in the art of ignoring things that scare her. She takes a shaky breath and focuses in on the moment, on the feel of skin and heat and fingers against her body.
Sam pushes her leg between Brooke's and it feels good, all solid contact and hot skin. Except it also hurts, cause Brooke's leg is at an odd angle and sore muscles are stretching more than they have in a while. She can feel her hip getting ready to pop under the pressure. She shifts fast, anchoring her heel into the mattress and pushing up against Sam. Sam moans at the change in position and Brooke can't help but smile, the pain fading to the back of her mind.
Brooke hasn't done this in a while, and it's not exactly like riding a bike. But it's also familiar somehow, and she slips into an easy rhythm against Sam's body. It's messy and smooth and wet and just this side of frantic. It feels nice and Brooke can't quite remember just why she was so worried before.
The air in their room is cold when she untangles from Sam, but too muggy to do anything but raise goosebumps under the sheen of sweat that's covering her skin. It's not the most comfortable feeling, and for a second Brooke wonders whether she should drag Sam into the bathroom and get them both cleaned off, or just give in and crawl under the sheets to sleep, sweat and all. But then Sam shifts on the bed, angling her body toward the edge and staring at the ceiling. Brooke's muscles stiffen in response. She can feel the world working its way back in on them, closing the moment and stealing her breath.
Brooke watches the slight rise and fall of Sam's chest, the tensing of her fingers against the rumpled sheets. She should reach out, lay a hand on Sam's arm and force her to turn around and face this. Should say something, anything, just to talk through the silence. Stop them both from running away.
Brooke twists and sets her feet onto the carpet. It takes a second and a deep breath before she pushes off the bed. It's not hard to walk to the bathroom without looking at Sam, just hold her head up high and look straight ahead. Why do the right thing when you can do the easy thing?
The shower spray is too hot against her skin, and she lets herself lean into it. There's something dramatic to be said about this, a poem in the washing away of the last few minutes of her life. But Brooke's never been all that good with words, and if any tears mingle with the falling water, there's nothing poetic about it.
When she comes out a while later their clothes are folded in a neat pile on the bed, her favorite hoodie on top like some kind of peace offering. Sam is in the other room, entertaining a giggling Mac. Everything is normal again, like nothing happened. Brooke pulls the sweater over her head and joins them on the couch. She grabs an open Sol off the coffee table, takes a swig, turns up the volume on the Weather Channel and let's herself get lost in the swirling colors of the hurricane on the radar.
The hoodie still smells like Sam. Brooke can't help but laugh at that, low and bitter and screw what Sam thinks about it. It's the funniest thing she's heard all night.
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