One For the Road
Title: One For the Road
Rating: R. It's not pretty, not fluffy in the least. Just warning.
Disclaimer: Don't own them; just borrowing.
Summary: It's an argument of the fiercest kind, give and take, push and pull, both of you needing to overpower the other.
Spoilers: Up to Through the Looking Glass. I'm unspoiled for season 4, so nothing to worry about there.
Notes: For lostfichallenge #63: uc pairings, and un_love_you #20: I hate you, you bitch. This is highly experimental for me in nearly all ways. We'll see how it goes.
category: Best Slash Fic
You can also read this fic with the DVD commentary turned on.
It turns out they really do listen to Patsy Cline everywhere. Even in Miami.
You choose Miami for the beaches. And the irony of that decision is not lost on you, but the truth is that now, it's difficult to sleep without the sound of waves crashing outside your window. You can sink in Miami, like you could sink with your mother, before she chose him. Like you could sink there, the place that still holds you, even though you're gone.
You also choose Miami for its distance from Los Angeles and a drunken Jack who won't stop calling, and for its distance from Iowa and a charred piece of land you used to call home. You choose it for the relative possibility of anonymity here (though you remember a ticket to Tallahassee and who was behind you in line, and that distance isn't far at all).
You're drawn to this particular Miami bar when the door swings open and you hear Patsy Cline's voice filter out into the street. And now you're perched on a barstool, remembering another time, another life, playing a record in a jungle hatch, defending yourself against a man you're trying not to love, kissing another. Running away. Some things don't change.
The bartender slides your drink across the bar and you hear a voice that makes you stiffen immediately.
“Put hers on my tab.”
You turn, and she's standing there as if she's the exact person you should have been expecting to see here tonight. There's the same perfect blond hair, the same steel blue eyes, the same eternally calm demeanor, that half smile curling her lip just slightly.
“Don't bother,” you snarl to the bartender, and he widens his eyes a little, opens his palms as if to say, you two fight this one out.
Well. That can be arranged. You grip the glass and down your drink so fast you almost cough, but manage to stand up and toss a twenty on the bar in one fluid motion. You jerk your head towards the door and push your way through the other bar patrons, not bothering to look back to see if she's following.
She is. Of course.
Outside, you turn to face her again. She doesn't look surprised at all at your reaction to her presence, and you take a long breath in through your nose, willing your body to relax, to match her poise.
“Hello, Kate.” And she smiles.
“Juliet.” You return her smile with one that reeks of insincerity. “It's been a while.” And when she nods, calmly, you forget about relaxing, you forget about poise, and instead you grab her arm and pull her with you into the alley behind the bar.
“He thinks you're still there.”
She has the audacity to raise an eyebrow in a questioning manner. “Jack?”
Of course Jack. But you neither confirm nor deny, not in so many words. “He wants to go back. For you.” You spit the last word as if it's offensive. “He thinks you're still there. Everyone does.”
And she smiles, shaking her head as if reacting to an unfortunately slow child. “I've been here, Kate.”
For an instant, you remember the way she'd screamed with a dislocated shoulder, and you grab that arm again. Your eyes burn in warning, and now she actually has the grace to flinch slightly as you push her back against the brick wall, face inches from hers. You think of how you'd twisted that arm, think of how it'd cracked back into place, but you stop short of doing so again, instead keeping her pinned, both wrists in your hands.
“Do you remember when you told me I'd broken his heart?” But you're not actually thinking of that at all; instead, your mind is on the slurred, rambling voice of the once-composed doctor, who calls you in the middle of the night, begging, pleading, insisting you have to go back.
Your words and their implication actually seem to have some sort of effect on the blond woman, and she stops struggling against you for a moment. You're both breathing heavily, tense emotion between you, hot breath on each other's faces.
And then her lips are on yours, bruising and demanding, and before you can recover from the surprise you're pushing your tongue into her mouth, demanding right back.
It starts with anger and you're not sure if it ever moves from there. It's an argument of the fiercest kind, give and take, push and pull, both of you needing to overpower the other. Tomorrow you'll have a bruise from where she bites down on your shoulder. She'll have finger-shaped marks on her upper arms. She pushes your shirt up while you hook a leg around her waist, and when you push your hand beneath her waistband and press your fingers against her warm wetness, she lets out a groan that only causes you to press harder.
She's a paradox, all hard angles and soft curves, and you've never had anyone like her. You take her bottom lip in your teeth, but you have to drop it when your mouth opens, involuntarily, as you feel her fingers pressing into you. You raise on your toes and you open your eyes in time to see a triumphant look on her face.
The bitch.
You set your jaw and slip one finger into her, then another. You hear her involuntary intake of breath and twist your fingers, curling them inside of her. She follows suit, and it's a battle now, again, insistent and painful. You search out her center, squeezing and twisting until you feel her muscles tense, contracting and releasing around your fingers. And you come just after, hard and fast, trembling with spent passion and anger.
You pull away from where your face is buried in her neck, pull your hands away from her and right your clothing. She's doing the same and you hold her gaze just long enough for her to turn away. You watch as she walks out of the alley then follow, though you turn the opposite direction when you reach the street. The bus station is a short walk from here.
You chose Miami, but you won't be staying.
Some things never change.
fin
Rating: R. It's not pretty, not fluffy in the least. Just warning.
Disclaimer: Don't own them; just borrowing.
Summary: It's an argument of the fiercest kind, give and take, push and pull, both of you needing to overpower the other.
Spoilers: Up to Through the Looking Glass. I'm unspoiled for season 4, so nothing to worry about there.
Notes: For lostfichallenge #63: uc pairings, and un_love_you #20: I hate you, you bitch. This is highly experimental for me in nearly all ways. We'll see how it goes.
category: Best Slash Fic
You can also read this fic with the DVD commentary turned on.
It turns out they really do listen to Patsy Cline everywhere. Even in Miami.
You choose Miami for the beaches. And the irony of that decision is not lost on you, but the truth is that now, it's difficult to sleep without the sound of waves crashing outside your window. You can sink in Miami, like you could sink with your mother, before she chose him. Like you could sink there, the place that still holds you, even though you're gone.
You also choose Miami for its distance from Los Angeles and a drunken Jack who won't stop calling, and for its distance from Iowa and a charred piece of land you used to call home. You choose it for the relative possibility of anonymity here (though you remember a ticket to Tallahassee and who was behind you in line, and that distance isn't far at all).
You're drawn to this particular Miami bar when the door swings open and you hear Patsy Cline's voice filter out into the street. And now you're perched on a barstool, remembering another time, another life, playing a record in a jungle hatch, defending yourself against a man you're trying not to love, kissing another. Running away. Some things don't change.
The bartender slides your drink across the bar and you hear a voice that makes you stiffen immediately.
“Put hers on my tab.”
You turn, and she's standing there as if she's the exact person you should have been expecting to see here tonight. There's the same perfect blond hair, the same steel blue eyes, the same eternally calm demeanor, that half smile curling her lip just slightly.
“Don't bother,” you snarl to the bartender, and he widens his eyes a little, opens his palms as if to say, you two fight this one out.
Well. That can be arranged. You grip the glass and down your drink so fast you almost cough, but manage to stand up and toss a twenty on the bar in one fluid motion. You jerk your head towards the door and push your way through the other bar patrons, not bothering to look back to see if she's following.
She is. Of course.
Outside, you turn to face her again. She doesn't look surprised at all at your reaction to her presence, and you take a long breath in through your nose, willing your body to relax, to match her poise.
“Hello, Kate.” And she smiles.
“Juliet.” You return her smile with one that reeks of insincerity. “It's been a while.” And when she nods, calmly, you forget about relaxing, you forget about poise, and instead you grab her arm and pull her with you into the alley behind the bar.
“He thinks you're still there.”
She has the audacity to raise an eyebrow in a questioning manner. “Jack?”
Of course Jack. But you neither confirm nor deny, not in so many words. “He wants to go back. For you.” You spit the last word as if it's offensive. “He thinks you're still there. Everyone does.”
And she smiles, shaking her head as if reacting to an unfortunately slow child. “I've been here, Kate.”
For an instant, you remember the way she'd screamed with a dislocated shoulder, and you grab that arm again. Your eyes burn in warning, and now she actually has the grace to flinch slightly as you push her back against the brick wall, face inches from hers. You think of how you'd twisted that arm, think of how it'd cracked back into place, but you stop short of doing so again, instead keeping her pinned, both wrists in your hands.
“Do you remember when you told me I'd broken his heart?” But you're not actually thinking of that at all; instead, your mind is on the slurred, rambling voice of the once-composed doctor, who calls you in the middle of the night, begging, pleading, insisting you have to go back.
Your words and their implication actually seem to have some sort of effect on the blond woman, and she stops struggling against you for a moment. You're both breathing heavily, tense emotion between you, hot breath on each other's faces.
And then her lips are on yours, bruising and demanding, and before you can recover from the surprise you're pushing your tongue into her mouth, demanding right back.
It starts with anger and you're not sure if it ever moves from there. It's an argument of the fiercest kind, give and take, push and pull, both of you needing to overpower the other. Tomorrow you'll have a bruise from where she bites down on your shoulder. She'll have finger-shaped marks on her upper arms. She pushes your shirt up while you hook a leg around her waist, and when you push your hand beneath her waistband and press your fingers against her warm wetness, she lets out a groan that only causes you to press harder.
She's a paradox, all hard angles and soft curves, and you've never had anyone like her. You take her bottom lip in your teeth, but you have to drop it when your mouth opens, involuntarily, as you feel her fingers pressing into you. You raise on your toes and you open your eyes in time to see a triumphant look on her face.
The bitch.
You set your jaw and slip one finger into her, then another. You hear her involuntary intake of breath and twist your fingers, curling them inside of her. She follows suit, and it's a battle now, again, insistent and painful. You search out her center, squeezing and twisting until you feel her muscles tense, contracting and releasing around your fingers. And you come just after, hard and fast, trembling with spent passion and anger.
You pull away from where your face is buried in her neck, pull your hands away from her and right your clothing. She's doing the same and you hold her gaze just long enough for her to turn away. You watch as she walks out of the alley then follow, though you turn the opposite direction when you reach the street. The bus station is a short walk from here.
You chose Miami, but you won't be staying.
Some things never change.
fin