Lean on Me (Kevin/Juliet) R-ish
TItle: Lean on Me
Pairing: Kevin/Juliet, past Kevin/Kate
Summary: Kevin gets called to the scene of a bus accident.
Rating: PG-13/Rish
Note: Why Kevin/Juliet? They both lived in Miami, right? And unusual Kevin pairings have been on my mind. For all the Kevin lovers, esp. toestastegood, janie_tangerine, and gottalovev.
Spoilers "Not In Portland", "I Do"
Word count: 1500
The squad room is dead, not a damn thing happening. All Kevin has to think about is that today's the day he's finally going to quit, just chuck the whole thing, take off for parts unknown. He's sick to death of this cloud of suspicion hanging over him, ever since his wife drugged him, confessed to being a wanted criminal, and left him. He's not sure which part of that series of events people hold against him the most; he's not even sure which detail of that story he considers the most embarrassing.
Everywhere he goes there's a snigger or a "What the fuck were you thinking?" shake of the head. Or just that look in the other cops' eyes that says, Just don't think I can trust you anymore. He's been pulled off active duty, for the most part, which means nothing but cops all day long, everyone who knows his story and either feels sorry for him or thinks he's a complete idiot. Or both. Some of the female cops are real sympathetic and have made it clear -- though not in so many words -- that if he needs a sympathy fuck, all he has to do is say the word.
Maybe he's just gun-shy, after being burned so badly and so damn publicly, but screwing another cop isn't what he has in mind just now. He can't get Monica out of his head. The name was a lie, but where die the lie stop with her -- or did it ever?
He's read her whole file, this Kate woman, and it's hard to reconcile with his Monica. Can't picture the woman he married being just as comfortable with a gun as he is, that she's actually shot people, where the most he's ever done is draw his weapon. Call him old-fashioned, but he likes the idea that a man is there to protect a woman, not the other way around. And the woman he swore to love and honor was someone he actually needed to be protected from. He's asked himself a million times how he could have known, why he should have known. Most days, he decides it wasn't all a lie, that she meant to stay, that she did love him. Maybe she just overestimated how much.
The phone rings, breaking him out of his reverie. They're shorthanded, and he's grateful to be sent on the call, even if it's nothing more than a mop-up job. Some guy got himself run over by a bus. The driver's not at fault, it seems, but there's an accident scene to be contained and Kevin is happy to do it.
He's happy to be the strong arm to lean on for the grieving ex-wife, who saw it all happen. Maybe happy's not the right word, but it feels good, at last, to have someone looking to him for help, for strength. The woman is young --- too young to have been married to the dead guy but of course he's not exactly looking his best after being dragged under a bus.
The EMT tells him her name is Juliet Burke, but she's gone into shock and doesn't answer when Kevin says her name. No love lost between the exes he gathers, but you can't fake the clammy skin, the blankness, the total daze of someone in shock. She has a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and is guided to the back of the ambulance to lie down. By the time he's gotten all the witnesses' statements, she's still pale and slow to react, but she seems to have come out of it.
She's pronounced okay by the paramedics, but he thinks she's not up to driving -- a bus is completely out of the question-- so he takes her out for a coffee she doesn't need. She drinks the coffee anyway, obediently, and it seems to do her good. She actually looks at him, registers his presence, when he offers to drive her home. He's off-duty by now, but he doesn't have anywhere in particular to be.
After he's checked out her house, just to put her at ease, it only seems right to accept her invitation to have some tea with her in the kitchen. It's not one of those fussy kitchens some women have; there's no lace curtains, no canisters that look like mushrooms or pumpkins or whatever. Everything is so neat and clean, he's pretty sure she doesn't ever do any cooking, any more than he does.
She talks about the medical research she does, how she was still working for her ex, how she might take a new job offer that's just come up. She's not really talking to him, but talking things out for herself, trying to decide what to do next. He sits and makes encouraging "mmm hmm" noises when it seems appropriate.
A grandfather clock somewhere strikes 11 and he glances in the direction of the sound. She asks if he needs to go and when he tells her there's no one waiting up for him, she catches that bitter note in his voice he hasn't learned how to hide yet.
She looks at him thoughtfully. She doesn't ask him anything, and he's glad to be spared having to tell the whole damn story. Or having to lie. No, she doesn't say anything except that he might as well stay and share a glass of wine with her. She's not sure she's going to sleep tonight, not after the coffee and everything. She pulls out a bottle of French red wine, one she says with a little laugh that she'd been saving and pours them both a generous glass full.
As she sips her wine, he notices how full her lips are, how he can't decide if her eyes are gray or blue. He's not sure if he should be encouraging her to talk some more. Absentmindedly, he toys with the foil on the bottle and manages to cut his finger. It's bad enough that she insists he run it under the sink, that she slap a band-aid on it.
She looks up from his hand to say something, he has no idea what, because, to his own surprise, he leans down and kisses her. She's startled, but her mouth opens to his and she gives a little sigh that tells him not to stop. She doesn't tell him no or yes, just helps him off with her blouse when he starts to fumble with the buttons.
They fuck on the living room couch. She's making these kind of primal noises that could be pleasure or grief or both but hell if it doesn't turn him on, make him want her even more, make her want to scream it all out. God, he hasn't fucked anyone since Monica and he's not going to last but he doesn't think Juliet will mind if he comes now, right now.
Her eyes are closed tight and maybe there's a tear or two, waiting to fall, but she brushes them away with the back of her hand. He strokes her hair, he always loved curly hair on a woman, and weirdly, that seems more intimate than when he was inside her. Her eyes are still shut and he studies her face. There are more lines there, around her mouth and lining her forehead, than he'd first thought. Maybe it's just the heat of her underneath him, the endorphins still pumping through him, but he's struck just how beautiful she is.
He shifts and they both sit up, drawing apart awkwardly. He pulls up his pants and she wraps a throw from the couch around herself and leaves the room. He hears the flush of a toilet, but even though he waits, she doesn't come back.
He could just go, or he could make himself at home on the couch here. Instead, he gets to his feet and follows the light coming from one of the rooms.
He hesitates at the doorway of her bedroom and watches as shes turns down the bed, first one side, and then the other. The gesture, so familiar and so matter-of-fact, makes his heart catch in his throat. He tries to remember if Monica ever turned the bed down like that. He's pretty sure they usually hit the bed as one, impatiently tearing at each other's clothes, if they ever made it to bed. Or she'd already be asleep when he got home after a late night and he'd slink under the sheets, careful not to wake her up.
He walks toward Juliet's bed slowly, still not entirely sure he should stay. She pats the pillow next to her own, or maybe she's just smoothing it out, but either way, he's decided to stay. The sheets are cold and he naturally moves closer to her warmth. She rolls onto her side and lets him press his body against the length of hers. It feels right, somehow, to tuck his head against her shoulder, to wrap his arms around her.
Maybe it's wrong for him to be here, maybe he's taking advantage of her, but she needs this right now, needs him. She seems so fragile, so soft. She couldn't be more different than Monica, and right now, that's what he needs.
Pairing: Kevin/Juliet, past Kevin/Kate
Summary: Kevin gets called to the scene of a bus accident.
Rating: PG-13/Rish
Note: Why Kevin/Juliet? They both lived in Miami, right? And unusual Kevin pairings have been on my mind. For all the Kevin lovers, esp. toestastegood, janie_tangerine, and gottalovev.
Spoilers "Not In Portland", "I Do"
Word count: 1500
The squad room is dead, not a damn thing happening. All Kevin has to think about is that today's the day he's finally going to quit, just chuck the whole thing, take off for parts unknown. He's sick to death of this cloud of suspicion hanging over him, ever since his wife drugged him, confessed to being a wanted criminal, and left him. He's not sure which part of that series of events people hold against him the most; he's not even sure which detail of that story he considers the most embarrassing.
Everywhere he goes there's a snigger or a "What the fuck were you thinking?" shake of the head. Or just that look in the other cops' eyes that says, Just don't think I can trust you anymore. He's been pulled off active duty, for the most part, which means nothing but cops all day long, everyone who knows his story and either feels sorry for him or thinks he's a complete idiot. Or both. Some of the female cops are real sympathetic and have made it clear -- though not in so many words -- that if he needs a sympathy fuck, all he has to do is say the word.
Maybe he's just gun-shy, after being burned so badly and so damn publicly, but screwing another cop isn't what he has in mind just now. He can't get Monica out of his head. The name was a lie, but where die the lie stop with her -- or did it ever?
He's read her whole file, this Kate woman, and it's hard to reconcile with his Monica. Can't picture the woman he married being just as comfortable with a gun as he is, that she's actually shot people, where the most he's ever done is draw his weapon. Call him old-fashioned, but he likes the idea that a man is there to protect a woman, not the other way around. And the woman he swore to love and honor was someone he actually needed to be protected from. He's asked himself a million times how he could have known, why he should have known. Most days, he decides it wasn't all a lie, that she meant to stay, that she did love him. Maybe she just overestimated how much.
The phone rings, breaking him out of his reverie. They're shorthanded, and he's grateful to be sent on the call, even if it's nothing more than a mop-up job. Some guy got himself run over by a bus. The driver's not at fault, it seems, but there's an accident scene to be contained and Kevin is happy to do it.
He's happy to be the strong arm to lean on for the grieving ex-wife, who saw it all happen. Maybe happy's not the right word, but it feels good, at last, to have someone looking to him for help, for strength. The woman is young --- too young to have been married to the dead guy but of course he's not exactly looking his best after being dragged under a bus.
The EMT tells him her name is Juliet Burke, but she's gone into shock and doesn't answer when Kevin says her name. No love lost between the exes he gathers, but you can't fake the clammy skin, the blankness, the total daze of someone in shock. She has a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and is guided to the back of the ambulance to lie down. By the time he's gotten all the witnesses' statements, she's still pale and slow to react, but she seems to have come out of it.
She's pronounced okay by the paramedics, but he thinks she's not up to driving -- a bus is completely out of the question-- so he takes her out for a coffee she doesn't need. She drinks the coffee anyway, obediently, and it seems to do her good. She actually looks at him, registers his presence, when he offers to drive her home. He's off-duty by now, but he doesn't have anywhere in particular to be.
After he's checked out her house, just to put her at ease, it only seems right to accept her invitation to have some tea with her in the kitchen. It's not one of those fussy kitchens some women have; there's no lace curtains, no canisters that look like mushrooms or pumpkins or whatever. Everything is so neat and clean, he's pretty sure she doesn't ever do any cooking, any more than he does.
She talks about the medical research she does, how she was still working for her ex, how she might take a new job offer that's just come up. She's not really talking to him, but talking things out for herself, trying to decide what to do next. He sits and makes encouraging "mmm hmm" noises when it seems appropriate.
A grandfather clock somewhere strikes 11 and he glances in the direction of the sound. She asks if he needs to go and when he tells her there's no one waiting up for him, she catches that bitter note in his voice he hasn't learned how to hide yet.
She looks at him thoughtfully. She doesn't ask him anything, and he's glad to be spared having to tell the whole damn story. Or having to lie. No, she doesn't say anything except that he might as well stay and share a glass of wine with her. She's not sure she's going to sleep tonight, not after the coffee and everything. She pulls out a bottle of French red wine, one she says with a little laugh that she'd been saving and pours them both a generous glass full.
As she sips her wine, he notices how full her lips are, how he can't decide if her eyes are gray or blue. He's not sure if he should be encouraging her to talk some more. Absentmindedly, he toys with the foil on the bottle and manages to cut his finger. It's bad enough that she insists he run it under the sink, that she slap a band-aid on it.
She looks up from his hand to say something, he has no idea what, because, to his own surprise, he leans down and kisses her. She's startled, but her mouth opens to his and she gives a little sigh that tells him not to stop. She doesn't tell him no or yes, just helps him off with her blouse when he starts to fumble with the buttons.
They fuck on the living room couch. She's making these kind of primal noises that could be pleasure or grief or both but hell if it doesn't turn him on, make him want her even more, make her want to scream it all out. God, he hasn't fucked anyone since Monica and he's not going to last but he doesn't think Juliet will mind if he comes now, right now.
Her eyes are closed tight and maybe there's a tear or two, waiting to fall, but she brushes them away with the back of her hand. He strokes her hair, he always loved curly hair on a woman, and weirdly, that seems more intimate than when he was inside her. Her eyes are still shut and he studies her face. There are more lines there, around her mouth and lining her forehead, than he'd first thought. Maybe it's just the heat of her underneath him, the endorphins still pumping through him, but he's struck just how beautiful she is.
He shifts and they both sit up, drawing apart awkwardly. He pulls up his pants and she wraps a throw from the couch around herself and leaves the room. He hears the flush of a toilet, but even though he waits, she doesn't come back.
He could just go, or he could make himself at home on the couch here. Instead, he gets to his feet and follows the light coming from one of the rooms.
He hesitates at the doorway of her bedroom and watches as shes turns down the bed, first one side, and then the other. The gesture, so familiar and so matter-of-fact, makes his heart catch in his throat. He tries to remember if Monica ever turned the bed down like that. He's pretty sure they usually hit the bed as one, impatiently tearing at each other's clothes, if they ever made it to bed. Or she'd already be asleep when he got home after a late night and he'd slink under the sheets, careful not to wake her up.
He walks toward Juliet's bed slowly, still not entirely sure he should stay. She pats the pillow next to her own, or maybe she's just smoothing it out, but either way, he's decided to stay. The sheets are cold and he naturally moves closer to her warmth. She rolls onto her side and lets him press his body against the length of hers. It feels right, somehow, to tuck his head against her shoulder, to wrap his arms around her.
Maybe it's wrong for him to be here, maybe he's taking advantage of her, but she needs this right now, needs him. She seems so fragile, so soft. She couldn't be more different than Monica, and right now, that's what he needs.