[ Words Fail Me ]

AUTHOR: Isabelle Kennedy

FEEDBACK: [email protected]

WEBPAGE: http://www.geocities.com/retroeighties

CATEGORY: Patrick/Holly AU

SPOILERS: General

RATING: R (Language, Sex)

DISCLAIMER: All characters are the property of the BBC, Kelsey, Huggett & related companies. No copyright infringement intended. Archive anywhere; just drop me a line first.

SUMMARY: She's beaten and bloodied, about to fall off the edge of the world, but she knows that it's not her fault.

It is barely light outside as she gathers up her clothes. The hazy glow of the streetlight filters through his curtains and casts shadows over the floor, illuminating her as she stumbles around the room. He sleeps on, snoring lightly, although the noise seems oppressive in the stillness of the morning. This is one of the many things that she forgets, each time she falls into bed with him. She wonders if she remembered, whether it would stop her, but it has happened for so long now that she doesn't think she knows how. It is a routine, one that she never feels entirely comfortable in, but isn't sure how to halt. She gazes down at him. He looks younger in his sleep, but not fragile. Never that.

She thinks about years ago, when they were both less complicated. She would fall into bed with him then, but at least she had reasons; in her drunken state, there was always a reason, an explanation. Now she fucks him because she doesn't know what else to do.

With most of her clothes on - they are not gentle and her shirt is beyond repair - she leaves him a note. A lifetime of medical training has made her handwriting illegible, but he understands. She thinks that perhaps it's the only thing about her he does. The note is brief and she imagines that he has a collection of these, somewhere. Setting down the pen, she wonders if he hopes that one day she'll wake up beside him.

Maybe, when she was younger, she might have done, but not now. Not anymore.

Later, she avoids him, which is not easy, but she has become adept at hiding from the truth. The staffroom becomes a temporary haven, when she should be working. But for the first time in her life, she doesn't care. There are too many memories here, too many echoes of events that she can only block out in the dark, in his bed, beneath him. Even that security is false, fleeting and she cannot, will not, rely on him for her sanity. The door opens.

He is angry, but resigned. "Where did you go this morning?"

"Home."

"Why?"

A thousand answers flood her mind, but she can't explain any. "I had to, Patrick."

"When I woke up, I knew you wouldn't be there. You never are."

"I..."

His voice is harsh and she winces. "You just fuck me then you leave, Holly."

He's right, but he lets her and she knows he will.

"I needed to feel alive."

"What?"

She faces him and can see that he's hurt, confused.

"The guilt is killing me, Patrick. You don't see the way they look at me. They blame me for Andrew, for everything. I blame me."

"You can’t."

"Why not?"

"It's not your fault."

She lowers her eyes. "That's not the point."

And it truly isn't. She's beaten and bloodied, about to fall off the edge of the world, but she knows that it's not her fault. Maybe it would be easier if it were.

"You've got to try and get over this."

"I can't. Every time I close my eyes... I've ruined their lives and I can't ever..."

His answer is simple and not enough. Never enough. "You can't hide from this."

No, she can't, but she can run.

She is more complex than him; he is safe in black and white, while she lives her life in shades of grey. And they've always been like this. He's never understood her and she knows, in her heart, that he never will.

She walks out of the hospital, knowing that she won't ever return. The memories threaten to overwhelm her and now all she can do is try to outrun them.

After many hours, many lifetimes, she finds herself outside his house. He allows her in because he doesn't know what else to do. This time she doesn't try to explain how she feels, what she has decided. This time she fucks him because she knows exactly what she is going to do.

She is silent when he kisses her, doesn't say a word as his fingers dig into her hips. But when he slides inside her, she finds that she can't. The only time she speaks is to scream his name into the darkness.

And this time she falls asleep beside him.

It is barely light outside as she gathers her clothes. But it is stronger than before and she realises that the light seeping through is the first glimmer of dawn, not the artificial streetlight. He is asleep and she brushes the hair from his face, her hand resting on his forehead for a moment before she turns away.

She thinks about years ago, when they were both less complicated. She had reasons for falling into bed with him then, but she knows now that she doesn't need one.

With all of her clothes on - this time they were gentle - she starts to leave him a note. In the end, and she knows it is, she can't do it. This thing between them, of many years standing, is too big to simply write away. Maybe sometime in the future she'll tell him.

But now, words fail her.

End.