Fandom: Harper's Island
Word Count: 1290
Ship(s)/Character(s): Trish Wellington/Christopher "Sully" Sullivan
Summary: It happens in the summer. It happens in the heat.
Notes: Mentions of sex.
It happens in the summer. It happens in the heat. It happens while she and Henry are separated; it happens after Hunter; it happens after she has finally realized that he isn’t the good guy she thought he was; it happens after she realizes that even though Hunter is ‘her people’ and she has known him for most of her life that there could never been true love between them; it happens after she realizes that she might never find a good man again.
He hits on her constantly; he hits on her mercilessly. He has taken to ignoring when she says no; he has taken to pretending it means maybe later. He never gives up; he never accepts defeat; he never lets her upturned mouth make him think that maybe it could be about time he gives up. He is persistent; he is relentless.
She grows fond of him; she grew accustomed to him. She comes to love his smile and his laugh. She comes to enjoy his flirtation; comes to enjoy the way he just starts walking next to her in silence sometimes and waits for her to be the first one to speak.
She hangs out with him that summer; she sits beneath the tree in the park in the shade and watches him watching everyone else; she laughs at his jokes and smiles and touches him casually; sometimes she touches him too long for him to consider it casual.
She likes to hang out at his house while his parents are away; she likes to watch TV with him and drink beer with him and talk about Henry with him. They wonder what's going on with him; they wonder where he is and what he happens to be doing; they wonder why he's suddenly distanced himself from them. He thinks Henry is worried about Abby; she thinks maybe being on the island has caused a lot of tension inside of him, has made him wonder why it happened and wonder what could have happened to him and his friends there. He worries; she worries. They worries together. They worries apart.
“I think he’ll be fine,” he tells her one night, nodding his head, fingers clenched around the beer bottle’s neck.
“Probably,” she tells him in response. She holds her own bottle in her hand; she taps a finger against the bottle; she watches the television without seeing what’s really on the screen.
“You should have fun though while he’s gone,” he says. “No one expects you to wait for him.”
“I have fun,” she insists. “I have fun with you.”
She stays too late sometimes; she falls asleep on the couch. He lets her sleep, covers her with a blanket, makes sure that she’s comfortable.
She wakes up in the middle of the night, forgets where she is, looks around and remembers that she’s with him and doesn’t know where he’s gone.
She makes her way upstairs; she knocks on his door. He answers without moving, calls out that she can come in.
She sits on his bed; she looks at the posters on his wall, remnants of his teenage years. She wonders how man times Henry hung out on this bed with him, how many times they talked about girls and school and played video games instead of doing this homework.
“I don’t know if Henry and I will ever be the same again,” she tells him. “I don’t know if we can ever get back to who we were.” She hopes she’s wrong; she hopes that life will bring them back to each other but she’s not sure. She doesn’t know where Henry’s head is right now, doesn’t know what she can do to make him seem alright again. She doesn’t even know if there’s something wrong with him or if he’s just tired of her; tired of his old life and the people in it. She doesn’t know anything for sure.
“Henry really cares about you, you know,” he tells her. “I’m sure you’ll be alright.”
“You like me,” she tells him. He doesn’t even pretend that she’s wrong. “But you like a lot of girls, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” he admits. “I do.” He doesn’t deny that he likes a lot of girls; doesn’t try to pretend that he’s like Henry; doesn’t try to pretend that he’s open and honest and focused on one person, on one relationship. She doesn’t expect him to.
“And I’m one of them.”
“Would you do anything for me?”
“Not anything,” he admits. “But I’d do a lot,” he tells her. “I’d do a whole lot.”
She comes over late one night, rings the bell, wakes him up.
He answers the door half asleep; he answers the door shirtless, hair a mess. He answers the door and steps aside to let her in without a word.
“What would you do for me?” she asks.
“A whole lot,” he tells her again.
“Okay.” She doesn’t ask him to elaborate, just goes upstairs.
He closes the door. He follows her.
She touches him first, slender fingers reaching up and touching his chest with the tips of her fingers; scratches her nails across his skin. He shivers, she smiles.
“Can you just be there for me tonight?” she asks him.
“That I can do,” he tells her. “That I can definitely do.”
He knows she’s lonely; she knows he’s never lonely. He knows she doesn’t want anything permanent; she knows he doesn’t care.
His mouth presses against hers; she nibbles down on his bottom lip, presses her mouth more firmly against his, pulls him down with her as she lays down on his bed in his childhood home, fingers gripping his shoulders tightly.
His hands go under her skirt, hook his fingers under the waistband of her panties, tugs them down and tosses them away; she pushes his pants down over his hips, pushes down his underwear with them.
It doesn’t take long for him to be pressed against her, hard and ready and wanting. She hooks her legs around him; he pushes her skirt up around her hips.
Their actions are quick; their actions are practiced; their actions are designed merely to reach a goal from the moment he enters her to the moment she climaxes screaming out into the night (she always screams when she comes, every single time).
He presses his forehead against hers; he closes his eyes. She closes hers, her chest heaves.
“Just breathe,” he whispers to her. “Just stay with me; just breathe.”
She opens her eyes; she breathes.
They don’t talk about that night for the rest of the summer, don’t really see each other much. They talk to Henry separately; they don’t talk to Henry about each other.
She goes to Sully just before they’re all going to head back to school; goes to his house and rings the bell; waits outside for him to answer it.
“Henry and I are getting back together,” she tells him.
“He told me,” he says. “We talked last night.”
“He can’t know what happened between us.” He doesn’t argue; she didn’t expect him to. Neither of them want to hurt Henry; neither of them want to make him upset.
“If he asks-”
“He won’t,” she tells him. “He’ll want me to offer the information up freely; will want to know who I spent time with this summer.” She pauses, he waits. “I won’t tell him anything,” she says. “He won’t know about us. But if it ever comes up we just tell him you flirted with me; we just tell him it never went any further than that. We just hung out.”
“Alright.” He tells her.
She knew he’d agree.