RPF: and possibly i like the thrill (Rookie Blue, Ben Bass/Missy Peregrym)
Title: and possibly i like the thrill
Authors: threeguesses and lowriseflare
Fandom/ Pairing: Rookie Blue RPF, Ben Bass/Missy Peregrym
Rating: R
Word Count: 9900+
Summary: The one with the Method acting.
Authors’ Note: Filthy, filthy lies, with our most sincere apologies to the young Mrs. Bass.
So. You know. They’re friends.
Castmates.
Buddies who make out for work.
Whatever.
(Except, okay, and not that Missy would ever say this out loud to anyone: they used to be kind of goofy and flirty and stuff last year. It wasn’t a big deal or anything; it wasn’t like, untoward, but then he came back to shoot this season all married and suddenly she has nowhere to put her feet when they get cold and it's possible she's kind of put out about it, she doesn't even know.
All of it, that is. Not just her cold feet.
Also, every single script they've gotten so far calls for them to be naked and climbing each other.)
And like, the girl is younger than her, which; gross--but especially because everyone made such a big deal about their age difference, all the jokes. Even the script for fuck's sake, Swarek-McNally and their stupid student/teacher thing.
Missy met her at the wrap party last season and she's a perfectly nice girl ("a perfectly nice girl!" she kept telling everyone, until finally Enuka made her switch to water); still, the whole night she just kept thinking: is this weird for you, Perfectly Nice Girl? This is weird for me.
But whatever, they're all professionals here, obviously, except then he's muttering in her ear between takes like, "Tilt your head back a little more, MP," because apparently that angle is better for the aesthetics of biting, and Missy is just saying--well, she doesn't know what she's saying, exactly.
Nothing. She's not saying anything.
(She never had a nickname until now.)
It could be worse, she guesses. That first scene, jesus, where they had to be all up on each other for fifty billion takes-- she can't watch herself being sexy in any context, but especially not that scene, because holy crap her face. (He'd been grinding into her for upwards of an hour, is the thing--like, right up against her, and normally shit like that will be filmed so there's some space, or just-- and in the final cut you can kind of tell she's, um. Feeling it.)
So. At least it's not that particular level of awkward.
She's annoyed at him today, though; they've been arguing all morning (Sam-n-Andy have their first big fight! Outside the cruiser! In the freezing rain!) and she's just, she could use a break from him and his million faces, is all. She feels like a half-drowned rat. She's sitting in her trailer playing Angry Birds and sulking for no particular reason when he knocks on the door, hands her a giant chocolate chip cookie from craft services. "Peace offering," he says.
Missy's surprised--he's usually kind of weirdly Method about that stuff, will take some space if their characters are pissed at one another. Last year after they shot that scene where Sam throws his hotdog in the trash like a chump Missy practically had to stand outside his trailer with a boom box to get him to be her friend again. She raises her eyebrows, skeptical (but she takes the cookie, she's not an idiot, those cookies are frigging delicious). "Are we fighting?"
Ben shrugs, shoots her one of those don't be an idiot, McNally looks of his. "You tell me."
And ugh, whatever, Missy is totally over Sam Swarek's passive aggressive bullshit. She wonders if Ben's actually like that--like, when he fights with his wife. His really young, really pretty, perfectly nice girl wife.
(Only okay, that sort of sounds like Missy's saying something. About that particular situation.
Whatever.)
"I'm not fighting with anyone," she announces, fanning her fingers out. "So." She stuffs the cookie into her mouth; conversation over, carry on with your day.
Ben doesn't carry on (of course not, that would be way too easy). He shoves his hands in his pockets, feet planted like he's really not leaving her trailer anytime soon. "I don't know. Kinda feels like you're pissed at me."
Missy frowns around her cookie. "It's called acting," she informs him, mouth full of chocolate. "You should try it sometime."
"Funny."
"I am funny," she says, and swallows.
Ben doesn't say anything to that--just stands there looking at her, caterpillar eyebrows slightly raised. He makes her do stupid staring contests with him all the time, eye contact until she one hundred percent can't take it one more millisecond, which is obnoxious because he knows she's hopeless at it. She's always the one who breaks first. "Why would I be pissed at you?" she asks finally, just to avoid cracking up or some other inappropriate fucking thing. "Did you do something douchey?"
Ben doesn't say anything to that, either. His hair's still a little damp from being outside, sticking to his forehead a bit. And that's--
"You look like Mister Rochester in your wedding picture," she blurts.
His eyebrows are really working now. "Okay..." he starts, this grin he gets when he's confused, eyes all scrunched up. "Is that, ah. The douchey thing I did?"
(Yes.)
Missy swallows the last bit of cookie down, dry, so she doesn't say it. (Because if she did, Ben would probably pick up that it wasn't exactly just his outfit that has her all--) Only then her throat burns, which makes her eyes water, which generally just makes her feel like a loser. Which--whatever, apparently she's the jealous bitch who hates on wedding attire now, so. (Wedding attire that she knows he didn't pick--and like, seriously; every girl has those Bronte-period dreams, but come on.)
"Well, you know," she says, shrugging a bit. "You did lock Bertha Mason in the attic." She gives him her half-empty packet of gushers so they can be made-up (so he'll leave).
Ben squints at her some more, like he's trying to puzzle something out. He leaves, though, after a minute. (Which is totally what Missy wanted, there’s absolutely no reason to be, like, morose here.
Possibly she’s an idiot.)
*
Only then, because Missy's life is basically a German farce and karma hates her, someone bumps the Sam & Andy kiss-and-make-up scene way the fuck up the shooting schedule (there was supposed to be a car chase and this bit with Enuka girl-talking her by the lockers, but Enuka has a cold and apparently they don't have the proper permits to close down Dufferin, so).
Fantastic.
They haven't rehearsed that scene at all since the table read, so Dave gives them fifteen minutes to run the lines before they block. "You ready?" Ben asks, right before they start, and there's something about the way he says it--like she's ever not ready, god, like she's ever anything but a total grownup about everything in her entire life--it's just irritating, okay? It gets under her skin.
"You ready?" she retorts.
We've been doing this for months and I don't actually know anything about you is the line, at which point he's supposed to, like, push her knees apart and get between them and--whatever. Show her what she needs to know, Missy guesses.
(She flubs it.
Twice.)
Ben doesn't say anything. Normally they'd joke through it, or he'd mock-yell at her, or--something that is not silence, basically. But, you know; Missy's a professional, he's a professional, they're all fucking professionals.
She jogs around the make-up tent before the next run-through.
It's a simple scene, really, so blocking shouldn't take much time as it does--they're in the station's fake rec room, all she has to do is sit on the table while he paces--but crap, it feels like the lighting guys have him up between her legs for forever. His breath is warm against her face. It smells like the turkey sub he had for lunch (and they used to chew gum before kissing scenes; mints, whatever, but like. They just have to do it so often now).
"All right," Dave says, when they're ready (and if her chest feels kind of weird and tight, well, whatever, that was a brisk aerobic workout she just got, if she's going to be half naked on the television all the time she needs to stay in shape). "Want to take it from the kiss?"
Which.
Ben blinks and just like that he's Sam again, stance a little wider and that weird, hybrid half-accent. "McNally," he says, getting closer (and the his-nose-at-her-nose thing, that was all Ben, she didn't even realize he was doing it until her sister pointed it out. "Uh, why are you watching my kissing scenes that closely, weirdo?" Missy retorted snottily, but now she always kind of waits for it to happen).
And, yup. His mouth on her mouth. Here they go.
And see, this is why Missy hates method acting--it's an I'm sorry kiss (of course it is, that's the whole point of the scene) but it's also all this weird Swarek shit, like you're impossible and I love you and I'll show you how much I-- and okay, all that would be fine normally, Missy just rides along, Andy's supposed to be a little emotionally retarded anyways, but like. Now she's having some line-blurring problems.
(Not that she thinks that Ben--that he feels-- Whatever.)
And, like, it's a nice kiss too, his hands all up in her hair, quiet tugging on her lip. Andy's not supposed to cry here, but. Missy's just really tired, is all, and a lot of things are happening, and it's just... easy (it's not always--normally she can't make herself).
Dave likes it though, so, you know. Yay for being unexpectedly good at her job.
One of the sound guys is having trouble (one of their sound guys is actually a chick, which Missy appreciates) so she and Ben hang tight for another minute while they get it sorted out. She wants to make a joke or something, (God, she can't believe she cried, what even, probably the best acting she's done all season so far and it's possible she kind of, like, wasn't), but she can't actually think of anything not Jane Eyre related, and it just seems wise not to go down that particular road again.
And anyway Ben is just standing there, all serious; he's picking at the outside seam on her uniform pants, not even looking at her, and she doesn't know if he's trying to stay in character or what.
His eyelashes are, like. Stupidly long.
"Come on," she says finally, kicking at his ankle a little. "We just made up, remember?"
He lifts his head then (which--they're still basically on top of one another, so, you know: maybe not something Missy should have been aiming for). "Yep."
God, seriously, she just--she hates him sometimes. She's sitting here with her nose all snotty, feeling twenty kinds of stupid, and if he could just work with her for one fucking second-- "Fine, whatever. Let the scene lose its authenticity. Be my guest."
Probably she should just go drown herself in the Don River, is pretty much what Missy's sensing right now.
"Its authenticity, huh?" He's still talking like Sam. "How about you explain it to me then: why's McNally crying?"
"Why's she--what?" Missy hisses, more sharply than she means to. "Because--"
(because.)
She doesn't know what he's asking, is the thing, if he actually wants to know what her motivation is here (which is possible, totally, he loves talking about stuff like that; way back when they first started working together he bought her a beer and asked her, point blank, what she thought Swarek's chances were) or if he wants to know, like.
Why she's crying.
Missy glances over at Dave for help, but he's still totally distracted by one of the boom mics, so. Finally she shrugs. "I don't know," she says vaguely, and god, the look on his face. "She's got a bunch of weird stuff in her brain she doesn't know what to do with. It, like. Freaks her out."
"Freaks her out." Ben's still touching up the seam of her pants. "Huh." Then: "What happened to the whole not scared, you're here, thing?"
Missy blinks. That's--well. Okay. Ok-ay. So, then, character motivation; character motivation is what they're talking about here. (It's just, that beer and way the fuck before they knew each other's lunch orders by heart: she thought he was maybe talking about himself. Just for, like, a second.
But then, you know. He wasn't. So.
So now he's not either. Whatever. Fuck, whatever, Missy is--)
"Probably they don't even remember saying that to each other," she grinds out. Only that's a lie, of course, no way Andy doesn't. (No way she--)
Fuck. Missy hates Method.
Ben thinks it's a lie, too, clearly, eyes going weirdly dark (and jesus, could he take a step back already, they're supposed to be taking a break). "Really?" he says--and yeah, he's definitely, like, pissed at her for even suggesting it. "You don't think?"
"What?" Missy shrugs, defensive. "You think I'm wrong?"
For a second Ben looks at her like he's never even seen her before, like he has no idea what he's supposed to be doing with her at all. "Yeah, MP," he says, so quiet. "I think you're wrong."
Well.
"Okay," she says (and god, god, there's really no reason for her to feel like she's about to burst into tears all over again, it's totally uncalled for, she really needs to get more sleep, start taking a vitamin or something. Maybe invest in a sun lamp). "Fine. Then...I'm wrong."
Ben sees, of course (ugh, he always sees), fingers curling around her thigh and mouth open to say something else, except here's Dave crossing the rec room, all smiles and ready to work. "Okay," he says. "Sorry about that. Go again whenever you're ready."
It is, um.
Not such a nice kiss this time.
And Missy doesn't cry, actually, she's so busy being professional and well-rested and not a basket case that she forgets she's actually supposed to. So of course Dave stops them ("Try," is what he says, "no pressure, it was just a nice touch," but, like. It's possible Missy doesn't have to try) and god, the rest of the shoot is just awful. Well, it's good, actually, it's emotional as fuck, but by the end Missy feels waterlogged and exhausted and makeup is having a hard time keeping her pretty.
There are no more breaks to talk to Ben in either, so.
(And it's just--it's really sucky having him tuck Andy's head into his neck and tell her they're going to be fine. Over and over again.)
*
"Ouch," Enuka says when she catches sight of Missy's face. She's sucking on a Halls, so it comes out all garbled. "They make you cry?"
"Nah, she added that in herself," Ben murmurs, from, seriously, right-the-fuck behind her, and cripes, what is his deal?
Missy turns around to ask him, but he's already walking away, so.
Enuka coughs twice, has this look on her face like what the hell happened with you people? Missy just shrugs. (Enuka has this impression of Ben that she'll only do after two margaritas, and sometimes she's Ben reciting Shakespearean soliloquies and sometimes she's Ben doing Leonardo DiCaprio's "I'm not an idiot, I know how the world works" speech from Titanic, and whatever, maybe you have to be there, but. Enuka hates Method, too, is the point).
Missy barges right into his trailer without knocking; he's taking his uniform off, shoots her this look like do you mind? that also manages to be, like, completely unsurprised. And no, she doesn't mind, as a matter of fact: she's seen him a lot more naked than this a lot closer up, so. "What?" she demands, throwing her hands up. "You're mad at me now?"
"I'm not mad at anyone," he says, tossing her own line back at her, and fuck, seriously, if there's anything Missy hates it's being quoted to herself. (She just--she wants to hit something, actually, really badly.
But then: there's a picture of his wife on the end table. Missy feels sick.)
"Terrific--that's just." Suddenly she doesn't want to fight anymore. She drops down onto the ratty old sofa, pulls her knees up under her chin. "That's just great."
Ben relaxes the set of his shoulders, comes over to sit on the armrest. Looks at her good and hard. "MP. What's going on?" Only it sounds kind of like--it sounds kind of like he maybe already knows.
Which--shit, that's embarrassing, if he knows she's, like--
(oh god, do other people know? Does his wife know? Is it like, a thing they talk about at their stupid condo in LA?
And whatever, fine, Missy doesn't actually know if their condo is stupid, it could be very nice, but--)
"Nothing," she says--whines, really, she whines it, she sounds about seven years old (and there's an age joke there but she is not not not going to make it, not even to herself, so--). "God."
Ben keeps looking. "MP," he says, like he's waiting for something really specific--and he does, he knows, he totally knows. "I can't--you gotta talk to me."
"Can you stop?" she snaps, and she just--she hates him. "What do you want me to say? Seriously, Ben, there is absolutely nothing for me to say in this moment that's not going to make my entire life completely unbearable, so." She gets up, wipes her sweaty palms on her uniform pants. "Forget it. Sorry I cried."
And Ben's just wearing this face--this stupid awful face like he's sorry or something, and Missy can't, okay. She really can't.
(If it's pity, she legitimately might have to kill herself.)
This time when she walks out, he doesn't follow.
*
The next day, Missy's pretty sure she's caught Enuka's cold (staying up half the night playing a really dirty version of Apples to Apples with Greg as a last ditch attempt at distraction probably didn't help), so she spends the morning in sweats, watching some French documentary on Enuka's laptop. (Well, "French documentary" is kind of misleading, actually: there are no words and it's all about babies. Enuka claims no sane human being can watch ninety minutes of babies rolling around and still be in a funk.
Turns out Missy can.)
Halfway through Ben comes in and asks if he can "borrow MP" and Enuka effing leaves her there, the traitor. Missy tugs her hood up because she doesn't have sunglasses, and it's the only other nonverbal 'fuck off' sign she can think of.
Ben does not fuck off. "They want to film the kiss from a different angle."
Missy sighs in relief, because that's an easy one. "Can't. Sick."
Ben rolls his eyes (and he's--no, he's definitely smiling a little. Missy pulls her hood closer). "Like that's any more difficult to navigate than you crying." Then he's cupping her ears and titling her head and what the ever-loving fuck? He kisses her carefully, mindful of her runny nose. Missy can't hear anything through the cotton and the pounding of her own heart.
"See," Ben says. "Easy."
Missy blinks. "What's that?" she asks, trying to keep her voice steady. Her fist opens and closes on the nubbly arm of the couch, a little spastic; she's still got the computer in her lap. "Like, rehearsal?"
"Yup," Ben says, and does it again. He's got his hand inside her hood, now, fingers up in her hair and one thumb stroking at the corner of her jaw. It's a Swarek kiss, sort of demanding, tongue and the faintest graze of teeth.
"O-okay?" It's like, kind of gross actually, how snotty she is, but Ben--yeah. Doesn't seem to care. "I'm gonna get you sick," she says, trying to warn him. He's got one hand braced on the back of the sofa; Missy smells coffee and his soap.
Ben nods, pushes the laptop shut. "Probably," he agrees.
Then he's leaning in again, knees into her knees, and Missy just sort of...drops the thing on the floor (it's an Apple product--it should be fine, right?), and the weirdest part is, Ben doesn't even stop at the thump.
Ben just. doesn't. stop.
Three kisses later, and Missy is pretty sure they're making out. It's not--she's just so sick, is the thing, she can feel the fever at the back of her throat, no way is he not getting this cold. She can't even move her head much, how stuffed up she is, so mostly it's just Ben licking into her mouth, slow and careful.
(It, uh. Doesn't really feel like Swarek anymore.)
"Okay, um." She turns her face into his jaw. She is, good and seriously, just too sick to deal with this. "That's like. Way too much kissing footage."
Ben snorts and smiles at her a little, fist tightening at the back of her head. It's possible she's tilting her chin back up just the slightest bit (but ugh, yuck, she can feel the snot, like. In her throat) when one of the PAs raps on the door of the trailer, neat and efficient. "Dave, uh. Wants to know if you guys are ready?"
Ben jumps back fast enough to dodge a bullet, strides past the kid onto the lot. "McNally needs a cough drop," he calls over his shoulder, which is the last unscripted thing she hears out of him all night.
Two mornings later he comes in sick as a dog, though. So.
And Missy, well--she keeps wondering if it was, like, a pity make out or something (although: is that even a thing? could she ask Charlotte?) but then there was the way he was all unnecessarily touchy in the Penny scene yesterday, hand in her belt loops where the camera couldn't even see, and well.
Well.
*
"What the hell is that?" Ben croaks from the couch. He's got the little portable AC in his trailer cranked, never mind the fact that he's wearing a hoodie (and seriously, a round of colds in the middle of August, they've got to be the most immunodeficient cast ever).
"Soup," Missy says. Which is not strictly true--it's instant NoName chicken noodle, but like. He won't drink tea.
"That's not soup," he says, but he smiles at her a little when he takes it, and once she's settled on the couch beside him he hands it back so she can have a sip. He's got one arm up along the top of the cushions, flipping channels: reruns and news, mostly, an episode of Teen Mom she's too embarrassed to tell him she sort of wants to watch. They're shooting nights this week, which normally Missy finds weirdly fun and exciting, although right now she feels a little like maybe she's going to collapse and die.
"Travis has it now," she reports, sniffling a little. Her nose is so raw it hurts to blow. "You realize we're all just going to keep passing this stupid cold back and forth until the end of time."
"Probably," Ben says, around a yawn. He tucks the mug between his knees and scrubs a hand over his eyes like he's trying without much success to pull it together; then, tugging once on her ponytail: "You feel any better?"
Missy sighs, leans into his touch a little bit without actually meaning to--it's just, her head hurts, is all. Her head hurts, like. A lot. "No."
"No," he repeats slowly, eyes on the TV like there's something really interesting happening there (which there isn't; it's a commercial for one of those mattress warehouses off the highway) and it's just--suddenly Missy thinks there's a possibility they're not talking about the cold anymore. Ben's still holding on to her hair. "Me either."
Which; Missy considers making a joke--like, thank god it's not the flu, imagine the state of the porta-potties--but um. The way this conversation is going, probably flu wouldn't mean flu. So.
"Drink your soup." It seems like the safest thing to say.
Ben smiles at her quietly, more eyes than mouth. "Oh yeah? That supposed to help me?" His fingers are threading through the base of her ponytail now, under the elastic.
Missy closes her eyes. (And god, it's going to mess up her hair, it's going to mess up her hair so bad, but like. It feels-- Possibly she wants to take a nap with him a bit, just like this. They could keep their hoodies on.)
"Well, you know." She shrugs. "Enuka tried to fix me with babies and this awful fusion tea." She peeks at him through her eyelids. "And I got you sick." She doesn't know if she's talking about the cold or not.
"Huh," Ben says "Yeah, no, I can definitely see how you arrived at artificial flavouring as the next obvious solution." He looks at her for a second, fingers still rubbing carefully at the back of her scalp. "You did get me sick." Quiet, like he's maybe remembering the specifics of how that happened, and um.
"That feels nice," she murmurs as the heel of his hand slides down to her neck, pressing gently. Goosebumps spring up all across her arms (it's cold in here, okay? It is cold in here). "Don't stop."
Ben exhales softly--a sigh or otherwise he's just congested, Missy doesn't know. He stopped on Teen Mom anyway, she realizes, like maybe he read her stupid mind. "Not stopping," he says.
So. Not stopping, then.
Okay.
She's honestly not sure which one of them is getting closer or if maybe they both are, sort of, but suddenly his shoulder is like-- right there, and. He's super, super warm through the sweatshirt. "Do you still have a fever?" she asks, and when she reaches a hand up to his face to check and sees how he's looking at her--well.
It's possible she kisses him by mistake.
And, yes, okay, married--jesus christ Missy's an idiot, she's going to hell for sure, that or she’ll be reincarnated as, like, a tailless dolphin or something (seriously, what is up with that movie), and plus, you know; there goes her karma for life--but she doesn't exactly have much time to feel bad about it, is the thing. Because the second and third kisses? All him.
(It, uh. Gets a bit foggy after the fourth.)
Somehow she ends up in his lap, his hands under her sweatshirt and like--part of Missy is completely freaking out, sure, but the other part is arguing that nothing irrevocable can happen when the world is NyQuil-blurry and Ben tastes like chicken soup. Everything is safe and PG and probably they can blame this all on temporary insanity.
Then she slides forward two inches.
Which--okay. Ooookay.
(She's wearing sweatpants, is the thing, these fuzzy gray velour ones her sister got her to wear "to bed and only if you're sleeping alone, Miss, okay? Seriously." Only Missy wears them around set all the time, they're amazing, they are like wearing a goddamn cloud, and it's fine except for when Ben's hipbones are digging into her thighs and it's like she's in her freaking underwear or something and he's--
he's--
he's married, is what he is, Jesus Christ--)
Missy rolls her hips forward, half-involuntary. Ben groans low and quiet into her neck.
And crap, that is definitely--those are not PG noises. Like. At all. Her heart's beating itself out of her chest, 90% sheer terror, and Missy is not not not doing that again. (Only then it's actually worse to keep herself still, jesus, all pressed up against him like that and no real-- God, he must have a fever, how warm everything is. His mouth is like a brand.)
"Ben," she starts, meaning wait, or stop, or I don't think I could handle a life of hardship on the open sea, but it comes out more like a, you know. Moment of passion thing. (And shit, is this actually one of the seven deadly sins? Seriously, Missy needs to find herself a bible or something, clearly she doesn't exactly excel at unguided morality.)
Ben hmms against her neck, which--okay, she knew that wasn't just a Swarek thing, there's only so much you can act--and while it's nice to have that confirmed, it's really not helping her here.
Missy keeps her eyes closed tight. (Fever dream, she thinks vaguely, like maybe if she's not looking it isn't actually happening; also, it's possible she's afraid to see the expression on his face.) Ben's tongue swipes lazily over her collarbone.
And okay, okay, one of them has to--
one of them has to, but--
(But.)
He's just so warm, is the thing, slow like moving underwater and his thumbs stroking softly up her rib cage. Her breath shudders out against his skin. Behind her she can hear that MTV has switched over to a Jersey Shore rerun: Sweetheart and Ron are back together and fighting, the same argument every single night.
Jesus Christ, she is literally a preacher's daughter, could she possibly be more of a--
Ben sucks lightly at her bottom lip, careful. Missy's fingers tighten in his hair. His hands are still inside her sweatshirt, touching up the small of her back until he hits the hooks on her bra and--
(one of them really, really has to stop, here.
He's not.)
Missy keeps her eyes closed when her bra unhooks, and when it gapes at the front, her nipples skating against the cotton, but jesus, plausible deniability really isn't doing it for her anymore as Ben's hands come up and cup--
"Okay, um." She sits up like she's been burned (which--god, not an impossibility here). "Time out. We need to, like--" Crap, and she has to open her eyes, it is completely not fair that she has to open her eyes when his face looks--
Fuck, okay, it is just--it is completely not fair.
"MP," Ben says, like it's a question, but maybe also like he just wanted to say her name. (And shit, his voice could probably convince her to make some really bad life decisions. Not cool, Missy. Remember hell.) "You want me to stop?"
Which--seriously, what the eff. "Don't put this on me!" she snaps, shrill and congested. She coughs once, basically right in his face. "You're the one who's--who's--" and god, she can't even say it. She can't even--
"Yeah," Ben says. He's got his hands back on her rib cage, not even doing anything except holding her steady. She aches all over her body, her elbows and behind her ears, like her skin is being rubbed with sandpaper everywhere except the places he's touching. "I know."
"I hate you," she says, and sort of means it. She feels like the worst person in the world.
Ben sighs. "I know that too, MP." And jesus, his face, she's never seen-- "So I'm asking. Do you want me to stop?"
She should say yes. She needs to say yes (it's a sin, and it's terrible, and there's some perfectly nice girl waiting for him in a condo in LA; this is never ever going to be anything other than a total disaster). Still, out of all the horrible things she's done today lying to Ben feels like the worst, and in the end Missy is just too sick and tired to do it.
"No," she tells him miserably, and closes her eyes again. "I really don't."
Ben exhales, and it sounds like relief. It sounds like he's sorry. "Yeah. Me either." He pulls her face down so she can hide it in his shoulder, hand all wrapped up in her ponytail. He smells like cotton and cherry cough syrup.
Probably this is the dumbest thing Missy's ever done. "We better not screw up the show."
Ben pulls back from her a bit, tilts his head to meet her eyes. He's wearing his Jane Eyre look again, brow all furrowed. "What--how would we do that?"
"Like." She shrugs. Considers wiping her nose on his collar. "I don't know. Fuck up the chemistry or something." (Which--definitely that's the worst thing that could happen here. Good sense of perspective, Missy.)
Ben laughs around a cough, loose and rattling in his chest. "I, uh. Don't think that's gonna be a problem, MP."
And just--
she's, like, sitting on him, so she can still feel--
Fair point.
He runs his hands up and down her sides a bit, spreads his fingers and uses his thumbs to stroke gently along the undersides of her breasts. Missy gasps into the fabric of his sweatshirt. Ben hums at her, soft and gravelly, circles her nipples until she pushes her hips at his (like a reflex, like she said she wasn't going to do again, and um.
Um).
She pushes his hood to the side, gets her mouth on the crazy warm patch of skin where his neck meets his shoulder.
(Now that they're committed to this her brain has gone sort of oddly quiet, just the murmur of the TV and a low constant buzz at the back of her head. Could be the cold medicine, she guesses. It's sort of disconcerting.)
"MP," Ben mutters, breath hot and humid on the skin just below her ear. He slides his hands out from under her sweatshirt, fists them in the fabric and tugs. "Arms up."
And okay, yes, probably this is Missy's last chance to do the right thing here; recover her conscience, go back to her trailer and chug more DayQuil, watch youtube videos of cats until they're ready to do the night shots, but--
But.
She lifts her arms.
(They're committed, is the thing, are throwing themselves over the falls together, pinky swear, one-two-three and jump. Missy is not a welcher.)
The sweatshirt comes off easy, bra all tangled up inside the cotton. There's static around Missy's ears, the snap and pull of her hair, and then boom--she's bare to the waist in Ben's lap, broad daylight in the middle of his trailer.
Fuck, she hopes the door is locked.
"Is the door locked?" she asks.
"What?" Ben looks up, like he's startled--and okay, he was definitely like, staring a little, which, um. They've seen each other pretty close to naked at this point--
("I hate how on TV you can always tell when there's nothing in the coffee cup," she said randomly to Tassie once, way back in the day when they were chatting about what shows they both liked. "Also how after people have this supposedly hot sex the girl always still has her bra on."
Which--that'll teach her to say anything like that ever again; still, their coffee cups are always filled, which Missy appreciates.)
--but definitely not, like. All the way. So.
"Um," he says, and boosts her off his lap so he can check--except she lands kind of sprawled on her back, head against the arm of the couch. She tries to shift around so it's a little less overtly come at me, baby, but--"Yeah." He's looking again, eyes dark and like--hungry. "Locked."
"Okay." God, she feels like she should maybe cross her arms or something, this is just--That scene where Andy's back was bare, all the way down, Missy still had a modesty band, like, basically glued to her front, so. "That's good."
(It slipped once, actually; the way Missy was sweating a bit, pressed up against him, was um. More than the body tape could handle, apparently. Ben tugged it back into place, not looking.
Clearly they are, you know. Making up for that now.)
"Mmm." He's back over by the couch, not even listening to her, one hand trailing slow and steady up her side. His palms are warm. Missy arches slightly, not completely intentionally (but, okay, like, she wants him to--it's possible she sticks her chest out a little). Only then that works a bit too well: Ben tweaks a nipple suddenly, no preamble whatsoever.
Missy squeaks.
He grins. "Yeah. That's what I thought."
"Ugh." Missy flings an arm over her eyes, weirdly embarrassed. "Can you just--" She grabs for his wrist and yanks until he gets the message and comes, stretching out on top of her on the couch. Her legs open up to make space for him, an instinctual thing. She likes feeling his weight. "God."
"Don't get shy," Ben says quietly. He's got himself balanced on one forearm, ducks his dark head and licks a little. Bites. "It's just me."
"I'm not." And she's not usually shy, is the thing, but like--it's Ben. It's Ben, and her hips are doing all kinds of unforgivable things, and. Jesus. She pushes him up by the shoulders and gets her fingers in the hem of his hoodie, tugs it over his head. "That's better." This part is familiar, the hair on his chest and the muscle underneath, how solid he is against her hands.
(She wasn't actually particularly attracted to him, the first time they met each other. She's always liked prettier guys. She doesn't even know when it happened really, Pavlovian response or something, this is your love interest. God, it would be super embarrassing if this whole mess was just the result of Method.)
Ben ducks his head again, starts paying some serious attention to her breasts. Missy isn't doing so hot with the breathing thing anymore. And yeah, part of it's the cold, sure, the way every inhale feels like it’s being dragged through a wet blanket, but--
(Ben leans in closer and sucks, his messy hair stupidly soft under Missy's fist, and jesus christ, he is like, looking up at her, all this fucking awkward eye-contact, Missy just wants to--)
--you know. Part of it is not.
"Okay," she gasps out, tugging at his hair a little to get his attention--it's just, if they're going to do this they need to do it, Missy's pretty sure, or she's going to totally lose control of herself and all her stupid feelings, detonate like some kind of improvised bomb: glass and shrapnel everywhere, no survivors (and she's not, she's not the kind of girl who cries during sex, god, but she just--she's not the kind of girl who messes around with other people's husbands, either, and she doesn't trust herself right now). She gets her hands down in between them, works the button on his jeans, and--
"Jesus, MP." Ben groans when she wraps a fist around him, forehead falling forward against her shoulder (and shit, he is like. He is warm); he bucks a little bit against her palm. She uses her free hand to push at his waistband, impatient. Ben shifts around to help her out.
So, yup. Okay. They are in business.
He only gives her a minute of leeway, tops, head ducked down close to hers while she feels him out, learns a couple things (he's breathing slow and purposeful, like he's trying to--yeah). But then he's catching her wrist, palming her sweatpants down and off, and--
And nothing. Missy is not shy.
"Nice underwear," Ben says in her ear, low and amused.
Ugh, nearly all of her thongs have inappropriate shit written across the front and--whatever, whatever, Missy does not even care. (Over, they just need to get this--like ripping off an band-aid.) "Shut up."
"True, though," Ben continues, skimming them down her legs and spending way too much time doing it, like he likes the view.
(They say hot stuff. In sparkly script. So.)
"Yeah, well." Missy rolls her eyes at the ceiling, scrubs a hand through her hair (and god, it's a rat's nest up there at this point, she has no idea how she's going to explain--). "You know me."
Ben's gaze flicks up to her face for half a second, unreadable. "Yeah," he says. "I guess I do."
Which like--okay, but not what she meant, exactly. Also she didn't mean for him to get her pants off and like, stay down there, stroking up her thighs and higher, thumbing her open like he's going to--
"Ben," she starts. She can't relax: it's freezing in here without her sweats on, goosebumps springing up all across her arms and torso and her nipples so hard they almost sting (which, okay, that last thing is possibly not from the cold, whatever, who the fuck knows anymore). Her fist opens and closes against his shoulder, a little desperate. "Seriously--"
She's not actually sure what she's seriously going to tell him to do, but in the end it doesn't matter because he's sliding a finger inside her, careful, pressing his tongue against--
Missy gasps.
Um.
Loudly.
And god, she doesn't mean to, it's just--it's Ben, is the problem, with his stupid messy hair and one hand on her thigh, hot and a little sweaty. It's way too much, basically, and Missy is in no way equipped to handle this, should go have a good cry in her trailer and examine her life decisions, but none of that is going to help her right now because fuck, she needs--
"Shh," Ben says, turning his head to suck a mark in the crease of her thigh. "MP, you've gotta--" Only then he works his tongue alongside his finger, licks up until he's got her gasping, and just--she tries to be quiet. She does. She damn near hyperventilates anyway.
(She's never normally this skittish, jesus. That hand on her thigh alone has her--well. Not actually, but. Almost.)
"Easy," Ben murmurs; two fingers now, the wet press of his mouth. "Nice and slow."
"Yeah." Missy swallows thickly, tries to calm down. Ben strokes a soothing thumb across her hipbone. He flattens his tongue a bit, pushes his fingers deeper, and this could, um. Could really, really work for her, conceivably--
("Apparently Swarek's real good in the sack," she told him, when she got the script for that one episode last year; they were splitting a pack of peanut M&Ms, Missy picking out all the blue ones.
Ben only smirked. "You surprised?"
Which--no, actually. She wasn't.)
--but still, it's like--weirdly lonely up here, or something? She doesn't know--he's right there, so there's no reason--fuck.
"Okay," she manages, around another truly embarrassing intake of breath. "Okay, okay, can you--can we just--?"
Ben grins right between her legs, she can feel him. "Can we just what, exactly?"
Missy screws up her face, tries to get it together (but--yeah, nope). "Ben." And her throat's a little dry, actually, so it comes out all-- "Up."
He lifts his head to meet her eyes, puzzled (and shit, that's really--looking down at him like that is just--), only Missy must be telegraphing something, like, serious, because another moment and he's crawling up her body, fever-warm slide of skin.
"Better?" he asks when he hits her mouth, quiet. He's still got his fingers between her legs.
Missy swallows. (God, she just--she doesn't even want to know what he read in her expression just then.) "Yeah."
"Good." Brisk, like they're agreeing on something. Then he's rolling them, tight and close on the narrow couch; Missy ends up sprawled on his chest, a leg on either side of his. "Now--" Ben runs his free hand through her hair, works the elastic out. Crooks his fingers, slow thumb rubbing over her clit. Missy whines. (And crap, he's totally watching, he's--) Missy tries hiding her face in his neck, but he nudges at her with his chin. "Come on, MP. Let me see."
So.
She, uh.
Lets him see.
(God, it happens stupidly fast like this, sharp and splintering and bright, one knee pressing into his hip while she works herself down and forward, pressing against his thumb. Ben's free hand palms at the back of her skull, pulls her close--wet tongues and chapped lips, that vague sick taste at the back of her throat. Missy keens a sound into his mouth.)
"Um," she says, after a minute--and ugh, she's shaking a little bit, vibrating against his skin. "So. That worked."
Ben laughs a little bit, quiet; when she glances up at him again he's got that expression on his face he gets when they nail a scene on the first try.
(Only, you know. Not like that at all.)
"Yeah," he says softly. "Looked that way."
And dammit if that doesn't make her blush (god, just--she is a ridiculous human being, apparently). "Yeah well." She boosts herself up slightly, swings a leg over so she's straddling his hips. "We have chemistry." Low and sing-songy, parroting maybe every interviewer ever (which--shit, interviews, how are they going to--?)
"Yeah," Ben says again, still with that odd smile. She can feel him against her thigh, twitching a bit. It's, um. A lot.
"Really committed to the job," Missy continues, trying to make a joke out of it (because seriously, she is not going to cry here, okay? She is not).
Only Ben's shaking his head. "MP." Quiet, like he's trying not to spook her. "That's not why."
Well then why, she wants to ask him (wants to ask him all kinds of things and wants, just as badly, to never ever know the answers). Missy feels her eyebrows knit together. She must have that look again, the one that got him up here in the first place, because Ben pulls until she's stretched out on top of him, her chest pressing down against his. It's weirdly comforting, actually, all that skin on skin.
He gets both his hands on her face and kisses her for a good long time, one leg wrapping around her calf like he wants to keep her exactly where she is.
And where she is, there is definitely, like...contact happening, which, um.
Um.
(Shit, they are going to need a condom.)
"Ben," she gasps, because his hips are shifting and-- "Do you have a--?"
(Only he doesn't, of course he doesn't, she can see it all over his face, which: duh, he’s a frickin' married man, perfectly nice girl off in LA, so why would he--
Why would he?
There are a lot of questions Missy wants to be asking here.)
She closes her eyes, just for a bit, just so she can think better. They're inhaling each other's air, warm and close because neither of them can breathe through the nose. Ben's hips have stopped moving, like pressing pause; he's hot, right up against her, and for a second Missy feels like a high school boy; I'll only put it in for a minute.
But she's not in high school, is the thing. She’s not a kid. She's also not an idiot, though you'd never know it to look at her these past few days, and furthermore if ever there was a sign from the universe that even Andy McNally could understand with little to no room for interpretation--
(god, she doesn't care, she doesn't--)
She opens her eyes and Ben's looking at her, patient. It feels like she's got glass in her throat. She's sweating all over her body and he's still, like, impossibly hard, and the question, then, she guesses, is how committed are they here to complete and total self destruction?
(Committed, apparently.)
Missy tips her hips at him, infinitesimal. Ben hisses out a shaky breath.
"MP..." he starts, not a question or a warning but something in between. He tips his hips back, just slightly; it could be involuntary, what does Missy know. (It's not, though, she knows it's not; his leg's still wrapped around the back of her knee, warm and heavy, like they're stuck in a holding pattern, but now her thighs are splaying open, slow slow slow, as wide as the couch will allow, and jesus, they are definitely--they are actually going to--)
"Ben," she whimpers. She's pressed up against the whole length of him, one long wet slide, and fuck, she can't--she is not going to be the one to line them up. She is not.
"Okay," Ben says, and god, both of them just sound-- "Okay, we need to--"
(Seek psychiatric help, is how that sentence should end. Missy doesn't say it.)
In the end he doesn't finish the thought, words just hanging there like something with physical weight (and god, this is so incredibly stupid, this is so unfathomably dumb). She closes her eyes and this time he lets her. Ben eases a hand down in between. She pushes up a bit to give him room, weight on her elbows and face in the crook of his shoulder, and then--
okay. Okay.
(god, god, he feels, hefeelshefeelshefeels--)
Missy sinks down little by little, arms braced on either side of his head: hot and a bit painful, a slow aching kind of stretch. His hands stroke down her damp back, palm her ass. As he bottoms out she hears a quiet sound she doesn't recognize; it takes Missy a second to realize it's coming from her.
"Shh," Ben tells her, kissing her cheek messily; Missy tips her head so he can get at her mouth. "Easy honey." He tugs on one of her thighs, pulling up until she's spread a bit wider. Probably they can't blame this on the fever anymore.
"Okay," Missy mutters, as much to herself as him. She shifts her weight onto her hands, gives herself a little leverage, and--
Yep. They are doing this. Self-destruction is a go.
Ben groans a bit (and god, his face, he looks heartbroken and hungry, those dark serious eyes), gets his hands on her everyplace; pinches at her nipples until she gasps and shoves down. Her head comes back, hard and sudden; Ben's mouth drags down the line of her throat.
(And the honey--that is. Well. That's new.
It's possible she doesn't hate it.)
Missy rolls her hips, keeps him deep for a second. Ben nips at the curve of her ear. He's been letting her set the pace up to now, easy, but the next time she pulls off he curls his hands around her hips and, um.
Pushes.
Missy bites off a whine, still oddly self-conscious, but the way her spine snaps straight--yeah. Probably indication enough. Ben grins at her, pleased.
Then he does it again.
And shit, Missy--it's working for her way too well, being yanked down like that;it's possible she's not even really moving her hips anymore, is just letting him-- The first time he tries pulling her onto him while pushing up, she bites his shoulder to keep from making noise.
Like. Bites hard.
Ben hisses in her ear. "Jesus, MP." He's cupping her ass now, not exactly gently. "Feel good?"
"Mm-hmm." Missy nods into the crook of his neck, and she is--she is more than a little desperate at this point, is the truth. "Yeah, just, um--jesus, Ben, please--"
And god, he likes that, the please; pulls her onto him again, sudden and fast. This time, Missy can't keep her voice down. Ben kisses her hard to shut her up.
"Come on, honey," he mutters, once he trusts her enough to back off a little, one hand palming at the back of her skull. His fingertips dig into the place where her thigh meets her ass. "Let me feel you."
Which--that, plus the honey, plus the way he yanks her down, one last time--yeah. Missy arches her back helplessly, stomach grinding against his. And she's making way too much noise but, fuck, it feels so good, she one-hundred percent can't help it. Ben pulls her head into his shoulder and just lets her go (and Missy's pretty sure he likes that too; hearing her. She wants to do this again, somewhere she can be loud; wants to try that please--
Shit.
Wants to do this again.
Shit.)
And okay, okay, she can think about that later; for now she's sliding off almost before she's finished, reaching down to wrap a slippery fist around him (and god, between the two of them they've already made such a ginormous mess, she doesn't--). Ben pushes restlessly into her hand. Missy scoots down a bit on the couch, free hand smoothing over the packed muscle in his thigh; she glances up at him for a minute, tries not to think about what perfectly nice girls will or won't do, and gets her mouth on him, warm and sloppy.
Ben--well. Ben sounds well and truly wrecked.
She tries taking him deep a couple times, jaw relaxed and open (although okay, it's probably more about--it's possible she’s showing off) but he's so far gone it's not really the time or place. On her third pass, Missy backs off and just sucks, fist twisting around the base.
"MP." Ben's got a hand in her hair now, gentle. He's not even resting it there really, just has it hovering in the general area. "Gonna--"
"Mm-hmm." Missy hums a bit to let him know she heard him. Her voice sounds like she's been swallowing sand. "That's the idea."
It happens a few seconds later, fist tightening in her hair and a groan so quiet it's almost a sigh, like something inevitable. She can feel him fighting not to push against her mouth.
(And yeah, okay, yes, that is a sound she can imagine wanting to hear again, it's--)
God.
God.
She lies there for a minute catching her breath, face against his warm hard stomach. Missy doesn't want to raise her head.
Then she sneezes.
Ben starts laughing, quiet and horse. The hand in her hair tugs up. Missy moves with it until he's got her back in lap, blushing. "Shut up," she says thickly. "And be thankful it didn't happen, like, two minutes ago."
Ben snags a Kleenex box off the end table, hands it to her. "I'm thankful, I'm thankful." He shifts until they're leaning against the arm rest, pulls Missy into his chest.
(And just-- he's so close, and he keeps touching her, and when Missy fusses with her dirty Kleenex he actually takes it from her, so.
So.)
She was a bit afraid he never look at her again, after. Apparently that's not happening.
(She's a bit afraid anyway.)
Missy stays there for a minute, sweat cooling and the beat of his heart steady underneath his skin. Ben strokes idly through her hair. She can hear people moving around outside the trailer, the rattling sound of Travis's cough.
("Wouldn't have pegged Swarek for a cuddler," she told him, lying in bed while they lit that scene in the apartment, his knuckles warm and rough against her spine. The first three takes she kept laughing when he did it, weirdly ticklish all up and down her back.
Ben shrugged into the pillows, like she was being dense on purpose. "He loves her," was all he said.)
Well.
"MP," he starts now, but Missy interrupts him.
"We gotta go to work," she says. She honestly can't imagine what he's possibly going to tell her; her head swims a bit, fuzzy and strange. "People are going to wonder--"
Ben nods slowly. "Yeah." He looks at her another minute, then blinks. "Yeah, you're probably right."
Missy looks around for her sweatshirt, wonders when this fever's gonna break.
Authors: threeguesses and lowriseflare
Fandom/ Pairing: Rookie Blue RPF, Ben Bass/Missy Peregrym
Rating: R
Word Count: 9900+
Summary: The one with the Method acting.
Authors’ Note: Filthy, filthy lies, with our most sincere apologies to the young Mrs. Bass.
So. You know. They’re friends.
Castmates.
Buddies who make out for work.
Whatever.
(Except, okay, and not that Missy would ever say this out loud to anyone: they used to be kind of goofy and flirty and stuff last year. It wasn’t a big deal or anything; it wasn’t like, untoward, but then he came back to shoot this season all married and suddenly she has nowhere to put her feet when they get cold and it's possible she's kind of put out about it, she doesn't even know.
All of it, that is. Not just her cold feet.
Also, every single script they've gotten so far calls for them to be naked and climbing each other.)
And like, the girl is younger than her, which; gross--but especially because everyone made such a big deal about their age difference, all the jokes. Even the script for fuck's sake, Swarek-McNally and their stupid student/teacher thing.
Missy met her at the wrap party last season and she's a perfectly nice girl ("a perfectly nice girl!" she kept telling everyone, until finally Enuka made her switch to water); still, the whole night she just kept thinking: is this weird for you, Perfectly Nice Girl? This is weird for me.
But whatever, they're all professionals here, obviously, except then he's muttering in her ear between takes like, "Tilt your head back a little more, MP," because apparently that angle is better for the aesthetics of biting, and Missy is just saying--well, she doesn't know what she's saying, exactly.
Nothing. She's not saying anything.
(She never had a nickname until now.)
It could be worse, she guesses. That first scene, jesus, where they had to be all up on each other for fifty billion takes-- she can't watch herself being sexy in any context, but especially not that scene, because holy crap her face. (He'd been grinding into her for upwards of an hour, is the thing--like, right up against her, and normally shit like that will be filmed so there's some space, or just-- and in the final cut you can kind of tell she's, um. Feeling it.)
So. At least it's not that particular level of awkward.
She's annoyed at him today, though; they've been arguing all morning (Sam-n-Andy have their first big fight! Outside the cruiser! In the freezing rain!) and she's just, she could use a break from him and his million faces, is all. She feels like a half-drowned rat. She's sitting in her trailer playing Angry Birds and sulking for no particular reason when he knocks on the door, hands her a giant chocolate chip cookie from craft services. "Peace offering," he says.
Missy's surprised--he's usually kind of weirdly Method about that stuff, will take some space if their characters are pissed at one another. Last year after they shot that scene where Sam throws his hotdog in the trash like a chump Missy practically had to stand outside his trailer with a boom box to get him to be her friend again. She raises her eyebrows, skeptical (but she takes the cookie, she's not an idiot, those cookies are frigging delicious). "Are we fighting?"
Ben shrugs, shoots her one of those don't be an idiot, McNally looks of his. "You tell me."
And ugh, whatever, Missy is totally over Sam Swarek's passive aggressive bullshit. She wonders if Ben's actually like that--like, when he fights with his wife. His really young, really pretty, perfectly nice girl wife.
(Only okay, that sort of sounds like Missy's saying something. About that particular situation.
Whatever.)
"I'm not fighting with anyone," she announces, fanning her fingers out. "So." She stuffs the cookie into her mouth; conversation over, carry on with your day.
Ben doesn't carry on (of course not, that would be way too easy). He shoves his hands in his pockets, feet planted like he's really not leaving her trailer anytime soon. "I don't know. Kinda feels like you're pissed at me."
Missy frowns around her cookie. "It's called acting," she informs him, mouth full of chocolate. "You should try it sometime."
"Funny."
"I am funny," she says, and swallows.
Ben doesn't say anything to that--just stands there looking at her, caterpillar eyebrows slightly raised. He makes her do stupid staring contests with him all the time, eye contact until she one hundred percent can't take it one more millisecond, which is obnoxious because he knows she's hopeless at it. She's always the one who breaks first. "Why would I be pissed at you?" she asks finally, just to avoid cracking up or some other inappropriate fucking thing. "Did you do something douchey?"
Ben doesn't say anything to that, either. His hair's still a little damp from being outside, sticking to his forehead a bit. And that's--
"You look like Mister Rochester in your wedding picture," she blurts.
His eyebrows are really working now. "Okay..." he starts, this grin he gets when he's confused, eyes all scrunched up. "Is that, ah. The douchey thing I did?"
(Yes.)
Missy swallows the last bit of cookie down, dry, so she doesn't say it. (Because if she did, Ben would probably pick up that it wasn't exactly just his outfit that has her all--) Only then her throat burns, which makes her eyes water, which generally just makes her feel like a loser. Which--whatever, apparently she's the jealous bitch who hates on wedding attire now, so. (Wedding attire that she knows he didn't pick--and like, seriously; every girl has those Bronte-period dreams, but come on.)
"Well, you know," she says, shrugging a bit. "You did lock Bertha Mason in the attic." She gives him her half-empty packet of gushers so they can be made-up (so he'll leave).
Ben squints at her some more, like he's trying to puzzle something out. He leaves, though, after a minute. (Which is totally what Missy wanted, there’s absolutely no reason to be, like, morose here.
Possibly she’s an idiot.)
*
Only then, because Missy's life is basically a German farce and karma hates her, someone bumps the Sam & Andy kiss-and-make-up scene way the fuck up the shooting schedule (there was supposed to be a car chase and this bit with Enuka girl-talking her by the lockers, but Enuka has a cold and apparently they don't have the proper permits to close down Dufferin, so).
Fantastic.
They haven't rehearsed that scene at all since the table read, so Dave gives them fifteen minutes to run the lines before they block. "You ready?" Ben asks, right before they start, and there's something about the way he says it--like she's ever not ready, god, like she's ever anything but a total grownup about everything in her entire life--it's just irritating, okay? It gets under her skin.
"You ready?" she retorts.
We've been doing this for months and I don't actually know anything about you is the line, at which point he's supposed to, like, push her knees apart and get between them and--whatever. Show her what she needs to know, Missy guesses.
(She flubs it.
Twice.)
Ben doesn't say anything. Normally they'd joke through it, or he'd mock-yell at her, or--something that is not silence, basically. But, you know; Missy's a professional, he's a professional, they're all fucking professionals.
She jogs around the make-up tent before the next run-through.
It's a simple scene, really, so blocking shouldn't take much time as it does--they're in the station's fake rec room, all she has to do is sit on the table while he paces--but crap, it feels like the lighting guys have him up between her legs for forever. His breath is warm against her face. It smells like the turkey sub he had for lunch (and they used to chew gum before kissing scenes; mints, whatever, but like. They just have to do it so often now).
"All right," Dave says, when they're ready (and if her chest feels kind of weird and tight, well, whatever, that was a brisk aerobic workout she just got, if she's going to be half naked on the television all the time she needs to stay in shape). "Want to take it from the kiss?"
Which.
Ben blinks and just like that he's Sam again, stance a little wider and that weird, hybrid half-accent. "McNally," he says, getting closer (and the his-nose-at-her-nose thing, that was all Ben, she didn't even realize he was doing it until her sister pointed it out. "Uh, why are you watching my kissing scenes that closely, weirdo?" Missy retorted snottily, but now she always kind of waits for it to happen).
And, yup. His mouth on her mouth. Here they go.
And see, this is why Missy hates method acting--it's an I'm sorry kiss (of course it is, that's the whole point of the scene) but it's also all this weird Swarek shit, like you're impossible and I love you and I'll show you how much I-- and okay, all that would be fine normally, Missy just rides along, Andy's supposed to be a little emotionally retarded anyways, but like. Now she's having some line-blurring problems.
(Not that she thinks that Ben--that he feels-- Whatever.)
And, like, it's a nice kiss too, his hands all up in her hair, quiet tugging on her lip. Andy's not supposed to cry here, but. Missy's just really tired, is all, and a lot of things are happening, and it's just... easy (it's not always--normally she can't make herself).
Dave likes it though, so, you know. Yay for being unexpectedly good at her job.
One of the sound guys is having trouble (one of their sound guys is actually a chick, which Missy appreciates) so she and Ben hang tight for another minute while they get it sorted out. She wants to make a joke or something, (God, she can't believe she cried, what even, probably the best acting she's done all season so far and it's possible she kind of, like, wasn't), but she can't actually think of anything not Jane Eyre related, and it just seems wise not to go down that particular road again.
And anyway Ben is just standing there, all serious; he's picking at the outside seam on her uniform pants, not even looking at her, and she doesn't know if he's trying to stay in character or what.
His eyelashes are, like. Stupidly long.
"Come on," she says finally, kicking at his ankle a little. "We just made up, remember?"
He lifts his head then (which--they're still basically on top of one another, so, you know: maybe not something Missy should have been aiming for). "Yep."
God, seriously, she just--she hates him sometimes. She's sitting here with her nose all snotty, feeling twenty kinds of stupid, and if he could just work with her for one fucking second-- "Fine, whatever. Let the scene lose its authenticity. Be my guest."
Probably she should just go drown herself in the Don River, is pretty much what Missy's sensing right now.
"Its authenticity, huh?" He's still talking like Sam. "How about you explain it to me then: why's McNally crying?"
"Why's she--what?" Missy hisses, more sharply than she means to. "Because--"
(because.)
She doesn't know what he's asking, is the thing, if he actually wants to know what her motivation is here (which is possible, totally, he loves talking about stuff like that; way back when they first started working together he bought her a beer and asked her, point blank, what she thought Swarek's chances were) or if he wants to know, like.
Why she's crying.
Missy glances over at Dave for help, but he's still totally distracted by one of the boom mics, so. Finally she shrugs. "I don't know," she says vaguely, and god, the look on his face. "She's got a bunch of weird stuff in her brain she doesn't know what to do with. It, like. Freaks her out."
"Freaks her out." Ben's still touching up the seam of her pants. "Huh." Then: "What happened to the whole not scared, you're here, thing?"
Missy blinks. That's--well. Okay. Ok-ay. So, then, character motivation; character motivation is what they're talking about here. (It's just, that beer and way the fuck before they knew each other's lunch orders by heart: she thought he was maybe talking about himself. Just for, like, a second.
But then, you know. He wasn't. So.
So now he's not either. Whatever. Fuck, whatever, Missy is--)
"Probably they don't even remember saying that to each other," she grinds out. Only that's a lie, of course, no way Andy doesn't. (No way she--)
Fuck. Missy hates Method.
Ben thinks it's a lie, too, clearly, eyes going weirdly dark (and jesus, could he take a step back already, they're supposed to be taking a break). "Really?" he says--and yeah, he's definitely, like, pissed at her for even suggesting it. "You don't think?"
"What?" Missy shrugs, defensive. "You think I'm wrong?"
For a second Ben looks at her like he's never even seen her before, like he has no idea what he's supposed to be doing with her at all. "Yeah, MP," he says, so quiet. "I think you're wrong."
Well.
"Okay," she says (and god, god, there's really no reason for her to feel like she's about to burst into tears all over again, it's totally uncalled for, she really needs to get more sleep, start taking a vitamin or something. Maybe invest in a sun lamp). "Fine. Then...I'm wrong."
Ben sees, of course (ugh, he always sees), fingers curling around her thigh and mouth open to say something else, except here's Dave crossing the rec room, all smiles and ready to work. "Okay," he says. "Sorry about that. Go again whenever you're ready."
It is, um.
Not such a nice kiss this time.
And Missy doesn't cry, actually, she's so busy being professional and well-rested and not a basket case that she forgets she's actually supposed to. So of course Dave stops them ("Try," is what he says, "no pressure, it was just a nice touch," but, like. It's possible Missy doesn't have to try) and god, the rest of the shoot is just awful. Well, it's good, actually, it's emotional as fuck, but by the end Missy feels waterlogged and exhausted and makeup is having a hard time keeping her pretty.
There are no more breaks to talk to Ben in either, so.
(And it's just--it's really sucky having him tuck Andy's head into his neck and tell her they're going to be fine. Over and over again.)
*
"Ouch," Enuka says when she catches sight of Missy's face. She's sucking on a Halls, so it comes out all garbled. "They make you cry?"
"Nah, she added that in herself," Ben murmurs, from, seriously, right-the-fuck behind her, and cripes, what is his deal?
Missy turns around to ask him, but he's already walking away, so.
Enuka coughs twice, has this look on her face like what the hell happened with you people? Missy just shrugs. (Enuka has this impression of Ben that she'll only do after two margaritas, and sometimes she's Ben reciting Shakespearean soliloquies and sometimes she's Ben doing Leonardo DiCaprio's "I'm not an idiot, I know how the world works" speech from Titanic, and whatever, maybe you have to be there, but. Enuka hates Method, too, is the point).
Missy barges right into his trailer without knocking; he's taking his uniform off, shoots her this look like do you mind? that also manages to be, like, completely unsurprised. And no, she doesn't mind, as a matter of fact: she's seen him a lot more naked than this a lot closer up, so. "What?" she demands, throwing her hands up. "You're mad at me now?"
"I'm not mad at anyone," he says, tossing her own line back at her, and fuck, seriously, if there's anything Missy hates it's being quoted to herself. (She just--she wants to hit something, actually, really badly.
But then: there's a picture of his wife on the end table. Missy feels sick.)
"Terrific--that's just." Suddenly she doesn't want to fight anymore. She drops down onto the ratty old sofa, pulls her knees up under her chin. "That's just great."
Ben relaxes the set of his shoulders, comes over to sit on the armrest. Looks at her good and hard. "MP. What's going on?" Only it sounds kind of like--it sounds kind of like he maybe already knows.
Which--shit, that's embarrassing, if he knows she's, like--
(oh god, do other people know? Does his wife know? Is it like, a thing they talk about at their stupid condo in LA?
And whatever, fine, Missy doesn't actually know if their condo is stupid, it could be very nice, but--)
"Nothing," she says--whines, really, she whines it, she sounds about seven years old (and there's an age joke there but she is not not not going to make it, not even to herself, so--). "God."
Ben keeps looking. "MP," he says, like he's waiting for something really specific--and he does, he knows, he totally knows. "I can't--you gotta talk to me."
"Can you stop?" she snaps, and she just--she hates him. "What do you want me to say? Seriously, Ben, there is absolutely nothing for me to say in this moment that's not going to make my entire life completely unbearable, so." She gets up, wipes her sweaty palms on her uniform pants. "Forget it. Sorry I cried."
And Ben's just wearing this face--this stupid awful face like he's sorry or something, and Missy can't, okay. She really can't.
(If it's pity, she legitimately might have to kill herself.)
This time when she walks out, he doesn't follow.
*
The next day, Missy's pretty sure she's caught Enuka's cold (staying up half the night playing a really dirty version of Apples to Apples with Greg as a last ditch attempt at distraction probably didn't help), so she spends the morning in sweats, watching some French documentary on Enuka's laptop. (Well, "French documentary" is kind of misleading, actually: there are no words and it's all about babies. Enuka claims no sane human being can watch ninety minutes of babies rolling around and still be in a funk.
Turns out Missy can.)
Halfway through Ben comes in and asks if he can "borrow MP" and Enuka effing leaves her there, the traitor. Missy tugs her hood up because she doesn't have sunglasses, and it's the only other nonverbal 'fuck off' sign she can think of.
Ben does not fuck off. "They want to film the kiss from a different angle."
Missy sighs in relief, because that's an easy one. "Can't. Sick."
Ben rolls his eyes (and he's--no, he's definitely smiling a little. Missy pulls her hood closer). "Like that's any more difficult to navigate than you crying." Then he's cupping her ears and titling her head and what the ever-loving fuck? He kisses her carefully, mindful of her runny nose. Missy can't hear anything through the cotton and the pounding of her own heart.
"See," Ben says. "Easy."
Missy blinks. "What's that?" she asks, trying to keep her voice steady. Her fist opens and closes on the nubbly arm of the couch, a little spastic; she's still got the computer in her lap. "Like, rehearsal?"
"Yup," Ben says, and does it again. He's got his hand inside her hood, now, fingers up in her hair and one thumb stroking at the corner of her jaw. It's a Swarek kiss, sort of demanding, tongue and the faintest graze of teeth.
"O-okay?" It's like, kind of gross actually, how snotty she is, but Ben--yeah. Doesn't seem to care. "I'm gonna get you sick," she says, trying to warn him. He's got one hand braced on the back of the sofa; Missy smells coffee and his soap.
Ben nods, pushes the laptop shut. "Probably," he agrees.
Then he's leaning in again, knees into her knees, and Missy just sort of...drops the thing on the floor (it's an Apple product--it should be fine, right?), and the weirdest part is, Ben doesn't even stop at the thump.
Ben just. doesn't. stop.
Three kisses later, and Missy is pretty sure they're making out. It's not--she's just so sick, is the thing, she can feel the fever at the back of her throat, no way is he not getting this cold. She can't even move her head much, how stuffed up she is, so mostly it's just Ben licking into her mouth, slow and careful.
(It, uh. Doesn't really feel like Swarek anymore.)
"Okay, um." She turns her face into his jaw. She is, good and seriously, just too sick to deal with this. "That's like. Way too much kissing footage."
Ben snorts and smiles at her a little, fist tightening at the back of her head. It's possible she's tilting her chin back up just the slightest bit (but ugh, yuck, she can feel the snot, like. In her throat) when one of the PAs raps on the door of the trailer, neat and efficient. "Dave, uh. Wants to know if you guys are ready?"
Ben jumps back fast enough to dodge a bullet, strides past the kid onto the lot. "McNally needs a cough drop," he calls over his shoulder, which is the last unscripted thing she hears out of him all night.
Two mornings later he comes in sick as a dog, though. So.
And Missy, well--she keeps wondering if it was, like, a pity make out or something (although: is that even a thing? could she ask Charlotte?) but then there was the way he was all unnecessarily touchy in the Penny scene yesterday, hand in her belt loops where the camera couldn't even see, and well.
Well.
*
"What the hell is that?" Ben croaks from the couch. He's got the little portable AC in his trailer cranked, never mind the fact that he's wearing a hoodie (and seriously, a round of colds in the middle of August, they've got to be the most immunodeficient cast ever).
"Soup," Missy says. Which is not strictly true--it's instant NoName chicken noodle, but like. He won't drink tea.
"That's not soup," he says, but he smiles at her a little when he takes it, and once she's settled on the couch beside him he hands it back so she can have a sip. He's got one arm up along the top of the cushions, flipping channels: reruns and news, mostly, an episode of Teen Mom she's too embarrassed to tell him she sort of wants to watch. They're shooting nights this week, which normally Missy finds weirdly fun and exciting, although right now she feels a little like maybe she's going to collapse and die.
"Travis has it now," she reports, sniffling a little. Her nose is so raw it hurts to blow. "You realize we're all just going to keep passing this stupid cold back and forth until the end of time."
"Probably," Ben says, around a yawn. He tucks the mug between his knees and scrubs a hand over his eyes like he's trying without much success to pull it together; then, tugging once on her ponytail: "You feel any better?"
Missy sighs, leans into his touch a little bit without actually meaning to--it's just, her head hurts, is all. Her head hurts, like. A lot. "No."
"No," he repeats slowly, eyes on the TV like there's something really interesting happening there (which there isn't; it's a commercial for one of those mattress warehouses off the highway) and it's just--suddenly Missy thinks there's a possibility they're not talking about the cold anymore. Ben's still holding on to her hair. "Me either."
Which; Missy considers making a joke--like, thank god it's not the flu, imagine the state of the porta-potties--but um. The way this conversation is going, probably flu wouldn't mean flu. So.
"Drink your soup." It seems like the safest thing to say.
Ben smiles at her quietly, more eyes than mouth. "Oh yeah? That supposed to help me?" His fingers are threading through the base of her ponytail now, under the elastic.
Missy closes her eyes. (And god, it's going to mess up her hair, it's going to mess up her hair so bad, but like. It feels-- Possibly she wants to take a nap with him a bit, just like this. They could keep their hoodies on.)
"Well, you know." She shrugs. "Enuka tried to fix me with babies and this awful fusion tea." She peeks at him through her eyelids. "And I got you sick." She doesn't know if she's talking about the cold or not.
"Huh," Ben says "Yeah, no, I can definitely see how you arrived at artificial flavouring as the next obvious solution." He looks at her for a second, fingers still rubbing carefully at the back of her scalp. "You did get me sick." Quiet, like he's maybe remembering the specifics of how that happened, and um.
"That feels nice," she murmurs as the heel of his hand slides down to her neck, pressing gently. Goosebumps spring up all across her arms (it's cold in here, okay? It is cold in here). "Don't stop."
Ben exhales softly--a sigh or otherwise he's just congested, Missy doesn't know. He stopped on Teen Mom anyway, she realizes, like maybe he read her stupid mind. "Not stopping," he says.
So. Not stopping, then.
Okay.
She's honestly not sure which one of them is getting closer or if maybe they both are, sort of, but suddenly his shoulder is like-- right there, and. He's super, super warm through the sweatshirt. "Do you still have a fever?" she asks, and when she reaches a hand up to his face to check and sees how he's looking at her--well.
It's possible she kisses him by mistake.
And, yes, okay, married--jesus christ Missy's an idiot, she's going to hell for sure, that or she’ll be reincarnated as, like, a tailless dolphin or something (seriously, what is up with that movie), and plus, you know; there goes her karma for life--but she doesn't exactly have much time to feel bad about it, is the thing. Because the second and third kisses? All him.
(It, uh. Gets a bit foggy after the fourth.)
Somehow she ends up in his lap, his hands under her sweatshirt and like--part of Missy is completely freaking out, sure, but the other part is arguing that nothing irrevocable can happen when the world is NyQuil-blurry and Ben tastes like chicken soup. Everything is safe and PG and probably they can blame this all on temporary insanity.
Then she slides forward two inches.
Which--okay. Ooookay.
(She's wearing sweatpants, is the thing, these fuzzy gray velour ones her sister got her to wear "to bed and only if you're sleeping alone, Miss, okay? Seriously." Only Missy wears them around set all the time, they're amazing, they are like wearing a goddamn cloud, and it's fine except for when Ben's hipbones are digging into her thighs and it's like she's in her freaking underwear or something and he's--
he's--
he's married, is what he is, Jesus Christ--)
Missy rolls her hips forward, half-involuntary. Ben groans low and quiet into her neck.
And crap, that is definitely--those are not PG noises. Like. At all. Her heart's beating itself out of her chest, 90% sheer terror, and Missy is not not not doing that again. (Only then it's actually worse to keep herself still, jesus, all pressed up against him like that and no real-- God, he must have a fever, how warm everything is. His mouth is like a brand.)
"Ben," she starts, meaning wait, or stop, or I don't think I could handle a life of hardship on the open sea, but it comes out more like a, you know. Moment of passion thing. (And shit, is this actually one of the seven deadly sins? Seriously, Missy needs to find herself a bible or something, clearly she doesn't exactly excel at unguided morality.)
Ben hmms against her neck, which--okay, she knew that wasn't just a Swarek thing, there's only so much you can act--and while it's nice to have that confirmed, it's really not helping her here.
Missy keeps her eyes closed tight. (Fever dream, she thinks vaguely, like maybe if she's not looking it isn't actually happening; also, it's possible she's afraid to see the expression on his face.) Ben's tongue swipes lazily over her collarbone.
And okay, okay, one of them has to--
one of them has to, but--
(But.)
He's just so warm, is the thing, slow like moving underwater and his thumbs stroking softly up her rib cage. Her breath shudders out against his skin. Behind her she can hear that MTV has switched over to a Jersey Shore rerun: Sweetheart and Ron are back together and fighting, the same argument every single night.
Jesus Christ, she is literally a preacher's daughter, could she possibly be more of a--
Ben sucks lightly at her bottom lip, careful. Missy's fingers tighten in his hair. His hands are still inside her sweatshirt, touching up the small of her back until he hits the hooks on her bra and--
(one of them really, really has to stop, here.
He's not.)
Missy keeps her eyes closed when her bra unhooks, and when it gapes at the front, her nipples skating against the cotton, but jesus, plausible deniability really isn't doing it for her anymore as Ben's hands come up and cup--
"Okay, um." She sits up like she's been burned (which--god, not an impossibility here). "Time out. We need to, like--" Crap, and she has to open her eyes, it is completely not fair that she has to open her eyes when his face looks--
Fuck, okay, it is just--it is completely not fair.
"MP," Ben says, like it's a question, but maybe also like he just wanted to say her name. (And shit, his voice could probably convince her to make some really bad life decisions. Not cool, Missy. Remember hell.) "You want me to stop?"
Which--seriously, what the eff. "Don't put this on me!" she snaps, shrill and congested. She coughs once, basically right in his face. "You're the one who's--who's--" and god, she can't even say it. She can't even--
"Yeah," Ben says. He's got his hands back on her rib cage, not even doing anything except holding her steady. She aches all over her body, her elbows and behind her ears, like her skin is being rubbed with sandpaper everywhere except the places he's touching. "I know."
"I hate you," she says, and sort of means it. She feels like the worst person in the world.
Ben sighs. "I know that too, MP." And jesus, his face, she's never seen-- "So I'm asking. Do you want me to stop?"
She should say yes. She needs to say yes (it's a sin, and it's terrible, and there's some perfectly nice girl waiting for him in a condo in LA; this is never ever going to be anything other than a total disaster). Still, out of all the horrible things she's done today lying to Ben feels like the worst, and in the end Missy is just too sick and tired to do it.
"No," she tells him miserably, and closes her eyes again. "I really don't."
Ben exhales, and it sounds like relief. It sounds like he's sorry. "Yeah. Me either." He pulls her face down so she can hide it in his shoulder, hand all wrapped up in her ponytail. He smells like cotton and cherry cough syrup.
Probably this is the dumbest thing Missy's ever done. "We better not screw up the show."
Ben pulls back from her a bit, tilts his head to meet her eyes. He's wearing his Jane Eyre look again, brow all furrowed. "What--how would we do that?"
"Like." She shrugs. Considers wiping her nose on his collar. "I don't know. Fuck up the chemistry or something." (Which--definitely that's the worst thing that could happen here. Good sense of perspective, Missy.)
Ben laughs around a cough, loose and rattling in his chest. "I, uh. Don't think that's gonna be a problem, MP."
And just--
she's, like, sitting on him, so she can still feel--
Fair point.
He runs his hands up and down her sides a bit, spreads his fingers and uses his thumbs to stroke gently along the undersides of her breasts. Missy gasps into the fabric of his sweatshirt. Ben hums at her, soft and gravelly, circles her nipples until she pushes her hips at his (like a reflex, like she said she wasn't going to do again, and um.
Um).
She pushes his hood to the side, gets her mouth on the crazy warm patch of skin where his neck meets his shoulder.
(Now that they're committed to this her brain has gone sort of oddly quiet, just the murmur of the TV and a low constant buzz at the back of her head. Could be the cold medicine, she guesses. It's sort of disconcerting.)
"MP," Ben mutters, breath hot and humid on the skin just below her ear. He slides his hands out from under her sweatshirt, fists them in the fabric and tugs. "Arms up."
And okay, yes, probably this is Missy's last chance to do the right thing here; recover her conscience, go back to her trailer and chug more DayQuil, watch youtube videos of cats until they're ready to do the night shots, but--
But.
She lifts her arms.
(They're committed, is the thing, are throwing themselves over the falls together, pinky swear, one-two-three and jump. Missy is not a welcher.)
The sweatshirt comes off easy, bra all tangled up inside the cotton. There's static around Missy's ears, the snap and pull of her hair, and then boom--she's bare to the waist in Ben's lap, broad daylight in the middle of his trailer.
Fuck, she hopes the door is locked.
"Is the door locked?" she asks.
"What?" Ben looks up, like he's startled--and okay, he was definitely like, staring a little, which, um. They've seen each other pretty close to naked at this point--
("I hate how on TV you can always tell when there's nothing in the coffee cup," she said randomly to Tassie once, way back in the day when they were chatting about what shows they both liked. "Also how after people have this supposedly hot sex the girl always still has her bra on."
Which--that'll teach her to say anything like that ever again; still, their coffee cups are always filled, which Missy appreciates.)
--but definitely not, like. All the way. So.
"Um," he says, and boosts her off his lap so he can check--except she lands kind of sprawled on her back, head against the arm of the couch. She tries to shift around so it's a little less overtly come at me, baby, but--"Yeah." He's looking again, eyes dark and like--hungry. "Locked."
"Okay." God, she feels like she should maybe cross her arms or something, this is just--That scene where Andy's back was bare, all the way down, Missy still had a modesty band, like, basically glued to her front, so. "That's good."
(It slipped once, actually; the way Missy was sweating a bit, pressed up against him, was um. More than the body tape could handle, apparently. Ben tugged it back into place, not looking.
Clearly they are, you know. Making up for that now.)
"Mmm." He's back over by the couch, not even listening to her, one hand trailing slow and steady up her side. His palms are warm. Missy arches slightly, not completely intentionally (but, okay, like, she wants him to--it's possible she sticks her chest out a little). Only then that works a bit too well: Ben tweaks a nipple suddenly, no preamble whatsoever.
Missy squeaks.
He grins. "Yeah. That's what I thought."
"Ugh." Missy flings an arm over her eyes, weirdly embarrassed. "Can you just--" She grabs for his wrist and yanks until he gets the message and comes, stretching out on top of her on the couch. Her legs open up to make space for him, an instinctual thing. She likes feeling his weight. "God."
"Don't get shy," Ben says quietly. He's got himself balanced on one forearm, ducks his dark head and licks a little. Bites. "It's just me."
"I'm not." And she's not usually shy, is the thing, but like--it's Ben. It's Ben, and her hips are doing all kinds of unforgivable things, and. Jesus. She pushes him up by the shoulders and gets her fingers in the hem of his hoodie, tugs it over his head. "That's better." This part is familiar, the hair on his chest and the muscle underneath, how solid he is against her hands.
(She wasn't actually particularly attracted to him, the first time they met each other. She's always liked prettier guys. She doesn't even know when it happened really, Pavlovian response or something, this is your love interest. God, it would be super embarrassing if this whole mess was just the result of Method.)
Ben ducks his head again, starts paying some serious attention to her breasts. Missy isn't doing so hot with the breathing thing anymore. And yeah, part of it's the cold, sure, the way every inhale feels like it’s being dragged through a wet blanket, but--
(Ben leans in closer and sucks, his messy hair stupidly soft under Missy's fist, and jesus christ, he is like, looking up at her, all this fucking awkward eye-contact, Missy just wants to--)
--you know. Part of it is not.
"Okay," she gasps out, tugging at his hair a little to get his attention--it's just, if they're going to do this they need to do it, Missy's pretty sure, or she's going to totally lose control of herself and all her stupid feelings, detonate like some kind of improvised bomb: glass and shrapnel everywhere, no survivors (and she's not, she's not the kind of girl who cries during sex, god, but she just--she's not the kind of girl who messes around with other people's husbands, either, and she doesn't trust herself right now). She gets her hands down in between them, works the button on his jeans, and--
"Jesus, MP." Ben groans when she wraps a fist around him, forehead falling forward against her shoulder (and shit, he is like. He is warm); he bucks a little bit against her palm. She uses her free hand to push at his waistband, impatient. Ben shifts around to help her out.
So, yup. Okay. They are in business.
He only gives her a minute of leeway, tops, head ducked down close to hers while she feels him out, learns a couple things (he's breathing slow and purposeful, like he's trying to--yeah). But then he's catching her wrist, palming her sweatpants down and off, and--
And nothing. Missy is not shy.
"Nice underwear," Ben says in her ear, low and amused.
Ugh, nearly all of her thongs have inappropriate shit written across the front and--whatever, whatever, Missy does not even care. (Over, they just need to get this--like ripping off an band-aid.) "Shut up."
"True, though," Ben continues, skimming them down her legs and spending way too much time doing it, like he likes the view.
(They say hot stuff. In sparkly script. So.)
"Yeah, well." Missy rolls her eyes at the ceiling, scrubs a hand through her hair (and god, it's a rat's nest up there at this point, she has no idea how she's going to explain--). "You know me."
Ben's gaze flicks up to her face for half a second, unreadable. "Yeah," he says. "I guess I do."
Which like--okay, but not what she meant, exactly. Also she didn't mean for him to get her pants off and like, stay down there, stroking up her thighs and higher, thumbing her open like he's going to--
"Ben," she starts. She can't relax: it's freezing in here without her sweats on, goosebumps springing up all across her arms and torso and her nipples so hard they almost sting (which, okay, that last thing is possibly not from the cold, whatever, who the fuck knows anymore). Her fist opens and closes against his shoulder, a little desperate. "Seriously--"
She's not actually sure what she's seriously going to tell him to do, but in the end it doesn't matter because he's sliding a finger inside her, careful, pressing his tongue against--
Missy gasps.
Um.
Loudly.
And god, she doesn't mean to, it's just--it's Ben, is the problem, with his stupid messy hair and one hand on her thigh, hot and a little sweaty. It's way too much, basically, and Missy is in no way equipped to handle this, should go have a good cry in her trailer and examine her life decisions, but none of that is going to help her right now because fuck, she needs--
"Shh," Ben says, turning his head to suck a mark in the crease of her thigh. "MP, you've gotta--" Only then he works his tongue alongside his finger, licks up until he's got her gasping, and just--she tries to be quiet. She does. She damn near hyperventilates anyway.
(She's never normally this skittish, jesus. That hand on her thigh alone has her--well. Not actually, but. Almost.)
"Easy," Ben murmurs; two fingers now, the wet press of his mouth. "Nice and slow."
"Yeah." Missy swallows thickly, tries to calm down. Ben strokes a soothing thumb across her hipbone. He flattens his tongue a bit, pushes his fingers deeper, and this could, um. Could really, really work for her, conceivably--
("Apparently Swarek's real good in the sack," she told him, when she got the script for that one episode last year; they were splitting a pack of peanut M&Ms, Missy picking out all the blue ones.
Ben only smirked. "You surprised?"
Which--no, actually. She wasn't.)
--but still, it's like--weirdly lonely up here, or something? She doesn't know--he's right there, so there's no reason--fuck.
"Okay," she manages, around another truly embarrassing intake of breath. "Okay, okay, can you--can we just--?"
Ben grins right between her legs, she can feel him. "Can we just what, exactly?"
Missy screws up her face, tries to get it together (but--yeah, nope). "Ben." And her throat's a little dry, actually, so it comes out all-- "Up."
He lifts his head to meet her eyes, puzzled (and shit, that's really--looking down at him like that is just--), only Missy must be telegraphing something, like, serious, because another moment and he's crawling up her body, fever-warm slide of skin.
"Better?" he asks when he hits her mouth, quiet. He's still got his fingers between her legs.
Missy swallows. (God, she just--she doesn't even want to know what he read in her expression just then.) "Yeah."
"Good." Brisk, like they're agreeing on something. Then he's rolling them, tight and close on the narrow couch; Missy ends up sprawled on his chest, a leg on either side of his. "Now--" Ben runs his free hand through her hair, works the elastic out. Crooks his fingers, slow thumb rubbing over her clit. Missy whines. (And crap, he's totally watching, he's--) Missy tries hiding her face in his neck, but he nudges at her with his chin. "Come on, MP. Let me see."
So.
She, uh.
Lets him see.
(God, it happens stupidly fast like this, sharp and splintering and bright, one knee pressing into his hip while she works herself down and forward, pressing against his thumb. Ben's free hand palms at the back of her skull, pulls her close--wet tongues and chapped lips, that vague sick taste at the back of her throat. Missy keens a sound into his mouth.)
"Um," she says, after a minute--and ugh, she's shaking a little bit, vibrating against his skin. "So. That worked."
Ben laughs a little bit, quiet; when she glances up at him again he's got that expression on his face he gets when they nail a scene on the first try.
(Only, you know. Not like that at all.)
"Yeah," he says softly. "Looked that way."
And dammit if that doesn't make her blush (god, just--she is a ridiculous human being, apparently). "Yeah well." She boosts herself up slightly, swings a leg over so she's straddling his hips. "We have chemistry." Low and sing-songy, parroting maybe every interviewer ever (which--shit, interviews, how are they going to--?)
"Yeah," Ben says again, still with that odd smile. She can feel him against her thigh, twitching a bit. It's, um. A lot.
"Really committed to the job," Missy continues, trying to make a joke out of it (because seriously, she is not going to cry here, okay? She is not).
Only Ben's shaking his head. "MP." Quiet, like he's trying not to spook her. "That's not why."
Well then why, she wants to ask him (wants to ask him all kinds of things and wants, just as badly, to never ever know the answers). Missy feels her eyebrows knit together. She must have that look again, the one that got him up here in the first place, because Ben pulls until she's stretched out on top of him, her chest pressing down against his. It's weirdly comforting, actually, all that skin on skin.
He gets both his hands on her face and kisses her for a good long time, one leg wrapping around her calf like he wants to keep her exactly where she is.
And where she is, there is definitely, like...contact happening, which, um.
Um.
(Shit, they are going to need a condom.)
"Ben," she gasps, because his hips are shifting and-- "Do you have a--?"
(Only he doesn't, of course he doesn't, she can see it all over his face, which: duh, he’s a frickin' married man, perfectly nice girl off in LA, so why would he--
Why would he?
There are a lot of questions Missy wants to be asking here.)
She closes her eyes, just for a bit, just so she can think better. They're inhaling each other's air, warm and close because neither of them can breathe through the nose. Ben's hips have stopped moving, like pressing pause; he's hot, right up against her, and for a second Missy feels like a high school boy; I'll only put it in for a minute.
But she's not in high school, is the thing. She’s not a kid. She's also not an idiot, though you'd never know it to look at her these past few days, and furthermore if ever there was a sign from the universe that even Andy McNally could understand with little to no room for interpretation--
(god, she doesn't care, she doesn't--)
She opens her eyes and Ben's looking at her, patient. It feels like she's got glass in her throat. She's sweating all over her body and he's still, like, impossibly hard, and the question, then, she guesses, is how committed are they here to complete and total self destruction?
(Committed, apparently.)
Missy tips her hips at him, infinitesimal. Ben hisses out a shaky breath.
"MP..." he starts, not a question or a warning but something in between. He tips his hips back, just slightly; it could be involuntary, what does Missy know. (It's not, though, she knows it's not; his leg's still wrapped around the back of her knee, warm and heavy, like they're stuck in a holding pattern, but now her thighs are splaying open, slow slow slow, as wide as the couch will allow, and jesus, they are definitely--they are actually going to--)
"Ben," she whimpers. She's pressed up against the whole length of him, one long wet slide, and fuck, she can't--she is not going to be the one to line them up. She is not.
"Okay," Ben says, and god, both of them just sound-- "Okay, we need to--"
(Seek psychiatric help, is how that sentence should end. Missy doesn't say it.)
In the end he doesn't finish the thought, words just hanging there like something with physical weight (and god, this is so incredibly stupid, this is so unfathomably dumb). She closes her eyes and this time he lets her. Ben eases a hand down in between. She pushes up a bit to give him room, weight on her elbows and face in the crook of his shoulder, and then--
okay. Okay.
(god, god, he feels, hefeelshefeelshefeels--)
Missy sinks down little by little, arms braced on either side of his head: hot and a bit painful, a slow aching kind of stretch. His hands stroke down her damp back, palm her ass. As he bottoms out she hears a quiet sound she doesn't recognize; it takes Missy a second to realize it's coming from her.
"Shh," Ben tells her, kissing her cheek messily; Missy tips her head so he can get at her mouth. "Easy honey." He tugs on one of her thighs, pulling up until she's spread a bit wider. Probably they can't blame this on the fever anymore.
"Okay," Missy mutters, as much to herself as him. She shifts her weight onto her hands, gives herself a little leverage, and--
Yep. They are doing this. Self-destruction is a go.
Ben groans a bit (and god, his face, he looks heartbroken and hungry, those dark serious eyes), gets his hands on her everyplace; pinches at her nipples until she gasps and shoves down. Her head comes back, hard and sudden; Ben's mouth drags down the line of her throat.
(And the honey--that is. Well. That's new.
It's possible she doesn't hate it.)
Missy rolls her hips, keeps him deep for a second. Ben nips at the curve of her ear. He's been letting her set the pace up to now, easy, but the next time she pulls off he curls his hands around her hips and, um.
Pushes.
Missy bites off a whine, still oddly self-conscious, but the way her spine snaps straight--yeah. Probably indication enough. Ben grins at her, pleased.
Then he does it again.
And shit, Missy--it's working for her way too well, being yanked down like that;it's possible she's not even really moving her hips anymore, is just letting him-- The first time he tries pulling her onto him while pushing up, she bites his shoulder to keep from making noise.
Like. Bites hard.
Ben hisses in her ear. "Jesus, MP." He's cupping her ass now, not exactly gently. "Feel good?"
"Mm-hmm." Missy nods into the crook of his neck, and she is--she is more than a little desperate at this point, is the truth. "Yeah, just, um--jesus, Ben, please--"
And god, he likes that, the please; pulls her onto him again, sudden and fast. This time, Missy can't keep her voice down. Ben kisses her hard to shut her up.
"Come on, honey," he mutters, once he trusts her enough to back off a little, one hand palming at the back of her skull. His fingertips dig into the place where her thigh meets her ass. "Let me feel you."
Which--that, plus the honey, plus the way he yanks her down, one last time--yeah. Missy arches her back helplessly, stomach grinding against his. And she's making way too much noise but, fuck, it feels so good, she one-hundred percent can't help it. Ben pulls her head into his shoulder and just lets her go (and Missy's pretty sure he likes that too; hearing her. She wants to do this again, somewhere she can be loud; wants to try that please--
Shit.
Wants to do this again.
Shit.)
And okay, okay, she can think about that later; for now she's sliding off almost before she's finished, reaching down to wrap a slippery fist around him (and god, between the two of them they've already made such a ginormous mess, she doesn't--). Ben pushes restlessly into her hand. Missy scoots down a bit on the couch, free hand smoothing over the packed muscle in his thigh; she glances up at him for a minute, tries not to think about what perfectly nice girls will or won't do, and gets her mouth on him, warm and sloppy.
Ben--well. Ben sounds well and truly wrecked.
She tries taking him deep a couple times, jaw relaxed and open (although okay, it's probably more about--it's possible she’s showing off) but he's so far gone it's not really the time or place. On her third pass, Missy backs off and just sucks, fist twisting around the base.
"MP." Ben's got a hand in her hair now, gentle. He's not even resting it there really, just has it hovering in the general area. "Gonna--"
"Mm-hmm." Missy hums a bit to let him know she heard him. Her voice sounds like she's been swallowing sand. "That's the idea."
It happens a few seconds later, fist tightening in her hair and a groan so quiet it's almost a sigh, like something inevitable. She can feel him fighting not to push against her mouth.
(And yeah, okay, yes, that is a sound she can imagine wanting to hear again, it's--)
God.
God.
She lies there for a minute catching her breath, face against his warm hard stomach. Missy doesn't want to raise her head.
Then she sneezes.
Ben starts laughing, quiet and horse. The hand in her hair tugs up. Missy moves with it until he's got her back in lap, blushing. "Shut up," she says thickly. "And be thankful it didn't happen, like, two minutes ago."
Ben snags a Kleenex box off the end table, hands it to her. "I'm thankful, I'm thankful." He shifts until they're leaning against the arm rest, pulls Missy into his chest.
(And just-- he's so close, and he keeps touching her, and when Missy fusses with her dirty Kleenex he actually takes it from her, so.
So.)
She was a bit afraid he never look at her again, after. Apparently that's not happening.
(She's a bit afraid anyway.)
Missy stays there for a minute, sweat cooling and the beat of his heart steady underneath his skin. Ben strokes idly through her hair. She can hear people moving around outside the trailer, the rattling sound of Travis's cough.
("Wouldn't have pegged Swarek for a cuddler," she told him, lying in bed while they lit that scene in the apartment, his knuckles warm and rough against her spine. The first three takes she kept laughing when he did it, weirdly ticklish all up and down her back.
Ben shrugged into the pillows, like she was being dense on purpose. "He loves her," was all he said.)
Well.
"MP," he starts now, but Missy interrupts him.
"We gotta go to work," she says. She honestly can't imagine what he's possibly going to tell her; her head swims a bit, fuzzy and strange. "People are going to wonder--"
Ben nods slowly. "Yeah." He looks at her another minute, then blinks. "Yeah, you're probably right."
Missy looks around for her sweatshirt, wonders when this fever's gonna break.