Carrison One-Shots

Hanging Conversations

Rating: T

Summary: Carrie and Harrison say goodbye. Set in 1976.

Disclaimer: this is a real person fan fiction, so it all definitely came from my imagination and I'm not trying to offend anyone (you know the drill). 

A/N: The poem in this is Carrie's, just to disclaim. Also, this is unbeta'd so all mistakes are mineeee. This one goes out to my girls Nor and Taylor for being hella cool and hella supportive.

Without further ado, I hope y'all enjoy and don't forget to tell me what you thought of it afterwards, I live off of your opinions.    

**

"Hotshot?" her voice is muffled by the pillow that sleeps beneath her head. She rolls to her side and props her face on her hand. Her elbow digs a hole in the white feathers stained by last night's mascara. Her hair falls on the side of her face, travelling along the crook of her neck, stopping just below her shoulder.

"Yeah," his limbs crease the sheets as he turns around fully, towards her, their legs only mere inches apart. She smiles softly. Not softly as in blissful, a different kind of smile. An all too self-aware smile, a cautious smile. With that man, you could never be less than cautious.

"Have you ever told a story that didn't happen?" his brow furrows and his head falls back onto the pillow. "I mean, something you thought was true but that was just..." she added, seeing the quizzical expression of his face. "I don't know, a false memory." She finishes, her head, too, falling on her pillow. She watches the ceiling and gets lost in the shadows of the curtains blowing with the lenient breeze that blows.

"Hum, I don't think so." She closes her eyelids and curses herself. Now he surely must think she's odd.

"Well, I have." She blatantly states, half murmuring. His body resumes the usual position against hers, his mouth all too close to her ear.

"Tell me about it." He breathes. Its effect is mesmerizing – her lips curl upward as a reflex and one lengthy shiver shakes her small frame. Just like he predicted.

"I was seventeen and I was walking home alone." He nodded, kissing her neck. "And that night –" her voice wavers when he reaches her jawline. She swiftly rotates her head and catches his lips with hers. The kiss intensifies as he traps her bottom lip in his, breaking her heart and mending it back in a matter of seconds. As the kiss ceases, the room rejoices in its tepid peace, home to a breathless teen and her mature lover. He lays with his hand beneath his head, broadening his chest, racing her heart.

"And then?" he inquires, all the while not making eye contact.

"I saw a man in an alley with a knife to his chest, blood dripping from the open wound."

"Hum." He says. "And is that true?"

"I remember it, but I don't think it is because there was no record of it anywhere and when I looked the next day there was no blood in the alley." She shrugs and sits up on the bed, against the wooden bedframe. "I remember it vividly, but it didn't happen."

He sits up too, looking at her unswervingly. "Wasn't it a nightmare?"

"No." it's direct and it's assertive. "Be careful," she warns, a small hint of irony dancing its way through her words. "Dark things can always get darker."

He nods as if he's realized something, like everything suddenly makes sense.

"That's what you're pretending to be right now." She creases her brow and listens. "You're not dark, not really and you think that makes me like you more, like you're somehow less childish that way," he continues, his voice in a more rapid pace. "but you're wrong. I haven't seen the real you, but I would bet some good money that that darkness you talk so much about," he gestures with his hands "is nothing short of another lie."