Fic: Gauntlet (Gail/Nick)
Pairing: Gail/Nick
Rating: ever so PG
A/N: In all the chaos over my move/new job/renovating, I forgot to post this post 3.04 oneshot over here. Sorry for that.
"So, you like me?" Gail asks, a distinct mocking tone to her voice as she forks up the last of her pasta and angles it into her mouth. She's chewing, lips closed, but smiling at him as he tips his head down a touch and lowers his eyes to his hand. His thumb strokes over the ridges set into his water glass as the corners of his mouth twitch in response to her question.
It's an obvious Peck maneuver: put it right out there, force the awkwardness onto your opponent. It's all about control with her. Same as it ever was.
"You're okay." He rocks back in his chair as he takes a drink. At this point, he's really trying to not respond to her, but the little laugh that sneaks out as she wipes her face with a napkin slices through him. Deeper than he expected. Much deeper.
She gets her forearms up on the table in front of her, folded and ready for business like she's ready to negotiate a hostage exchange or some damn thing. And she's staring at him like she thinks it's going to break him. No. Like she knows it's going to break him.
"Oh, I think I'm a little more than okay…" she replies, a challenge in her gaze as her grin widens. Nick's eyes drop away again.
He sets the glass on his knee, feeling the condensation seep through the denim of his jeans as the ice rattles away, only an inch or so of liquid left at the bottom.
He knows she is, of course. More than okay. After all, someone who was merely okay wouldn't have kept him awake on random nights in the desert when he was so tired he'd been practically ready to drop on duty. Someone who was only okay wouldn't be able to make his heart leap up into his throat with a simple glance from across the room.
Yeah, definitely more than okay.
But he shrugs. "You're nothing special," he says, totally deadpan as he lifts his glass to his lips. It's meant more as a joke than anything else, but Gail's silent for the longest five seconds of Nick's life, and he wonders for a moment if he's actually gone a little too far. If he's legitimately hurt her feelings.
It's happened a few times in the past. Way back when. Twelve years old and suddenly much too cool to hang out with the blonde girl who'd been his partner in crime, stuck like glue to his side through every dare, every broken window, every grounding. And again, in grade eleven when he'd told her that no, he actually didn't want to take her to the dance that weekend, because his dad had gotten Leafs tickets for him and his brothers. Even today, it's no huge surprise to him that he'd shown up at her door that night regardless; suit and tie in place, a fist-full of apology flowers he'd snaked from her neighbor's yard clutched tightly in his sweaty, nervous hand.
The memory fades as he hears her chair move, wood squeaking against vinyl flooring as she pushes it back and stands, hands flat against the table top.
"Nothing special?" she repeats, a little put out. Her eyebrows are up, and her mouth open in surprise. But there's a tone to her voice. Hurt for sure, but a little mocking, like she's getting ready; loading up her guns, intent on punching a hole through him when the time is right. "I suppose you make spaghetti for every skank off the street."
"It's fettuccine actually," he argues, struggling to keep the smile off his face when he sees her eyes narrow. "My grandmother's recipe, but you probably remember that."
She tips her head back. "Well, your grandmother's fettuccine sucks."
Nick grins at her suddenly, showing his teeth. "You certainly ate enough of it."
"I was being polite," she snaps, staring down at him.
"You had seconds," he laughs back at her, enjoying pretty much everything about this moment. The triumph he feels coursing through him as she glares down at him. The way the nails of her index fingers are tapping a quick, nervous staccato against the tabletop. The way the overhead light is sort of shining through her hair until it looks another couple shades lighter.
Yes, there's really nothing bad about this at all.
At least not until she rolls her eyes, and pulls her hands back, letting them fall to her sides as she turns around, looking for her bag. She finds it, far too close to the exit for his comfort and Nick's out of his chair in a shot. He gets to the door while she's stepping into her shoes; gets his back flat against it, resisting the urge to fling his arms out to span the surface.
"What are you doing?" she asks, in a quiet accusatory tone that will forever remind him of Elaine Peck and that summer she caught him necking with her daughter on the back porch. Twice.
He does not smile at the memory, but he thinks about it, in between all the other things rushing through his head. He's not entirely sure what he's doing, not entirely sure what he hopes to accomplish. It's not like he expects her to be nice; in fact Nick's pretty damn sure he likes her mean. But that bitchiness used to overlay a much softer, more fun, open-minded girl; a girl he's caught a glimpse of more than once over the last few weeks. She's still in there somewhere. Right this second, he knows he'd do just about anything to see her again. And even more than that, he just doesn't want Gail to leave. Doesn't want to lie awake missing the weight of her spread over his chest.
"Just… Don't go, okay? I was kidding," he clarifies, looking at her seriously. "But I'm sorry."
Gail stares at him, and for a second, he's pretty sure he's blown it; that she's going to deck him and be out the door before he knows what's happening. But then, her bag falls to the floor and she folds her arms across her chest.
"You're gonna have to do better than that."
"Um…. I'm really sorry?" he says, grin now firmly in place.
She runs the tip of her tongue over her lower lip. "Is that what you were planning on saying after you practically left me at the altar?"
He rolls his eyes, unable to control the impulse. "I didn't leave you at the altar."
"Close enough," she snaps back.
He takes a step closer, watching her closely.
"Are you ever going to let me forget it?"
"Nope," she replies quietly, a sly smile quickly spanning the lower half of her face.
He feels his eyebrows draw together, and she must see something in his expression, some sort of disturbance or maybe….defeat. Because her lips are pulling back from her teeth in an honest-to-God grin and she's looking him up and down appraisingly, far more amused than he'd expected at the beginning of this conversation.
"Are you ever going to forgive me?" he asks, the words coming out quick and quiet; telling himself the whole time that it's just pure curiosity. That he doesn't actually care one way or the other.
But she doesn't answer. Just continues to stare at him with that conniving smirk.
For a second, Nick considers giving in; just falling to his knees and apologizing over and over again until she forgives him. Okay, it's actually more like a millisecond. That option is automatically discarded.
Instead, he decides to call her bluff. To force her hand.
He steps away from the door, arms folded, hands tucked under his arms as he turns away and takes a slow step back towards the kitchen.
"Then I guess we've got nothing else to talk about." The words leave his lips and then he's back in the kitchen, collecting plates. Silverware scrapes against ceramic as he stacks dishes and carries them to the sink, depositing them loudly into the basin.
"Wait." It's just a single word, stark and clipped.
He ducks his head as he wipes his hands quick on a dish towel, and then spins, noting that she hasn't moved even a centimeter towards the door.
"What?" he asks, voice tighter than he intended, and he sees her wince, just a smidgen. The tiniest little movement of muscle at her temple and around her eyes.
She presses her lips together and then, after giving him a good hard stare, shakes her head, an even smaller movement. As he continues to watch her, Gail runs a hand through her hair, pushing it roughly behind her ear as the clock over the TV ticks loudly, marking the seconds of silence stretching between them. And then, right as his hands fall to his sides, as he feels his shoulders sink an inch, she speaks.
"I really am trying, you know."
Yeah. He sort of got that from her speech at the barn.
It's just me, man. Being me.
"And I don't want this to get messed up. Not again."
He refolds his arms, resisting the urge to just walk up to her, to sink his hands into that light, soft hair. Instead, he takes a deep breath.
"You weren't the one that messed it up the first time."
Her eyes lift to his then, acknowledging the admission; his part in whatever the hell happened between them before.
Of course it's not as simple as all that. It wasn't like he left her standing next to Elvis, white dress tugged into place, a bouquet of wilting carnations swinging against her thigh in irritation. It wasn't a sudden, split-second decision. At least he hadn't thought so at the time. At the time, Nick had been reasonably sure that she'd felt it. The unease, the weird disturbance in their rhythms. But apparently, he'd been wrong.
"You really want to get into that tonight?" she asks, arching a brow at him. "Cause, I've gotta warn you. I don't think I've quite got the whole 'delicate flower' routine down yet. I'll probably yell."
He doesn't say anything, just keeps his eyes on the quirk of her lips, on the soft line of her collarbones at the neck of her shirt. She shuffles a few steps closer.
"And I never thought I'd say this, but I don't actually want to yell at you right now."
Nick doesn't breathe for the next few seconds, not until he's standing right in front of him. Her eyes flit across his chest, then lock onto his; pale blue, fringed with black. When he does finally take a breath, it's a little shaky. Just the tiniest catch in his throat, really; because her arms are snaking around his waist, and he can feel her hot against him from knee to stomach.
"So, what do you want?" he asks, tipping his head down, feeling her hair brush against his cheek as he leans in.
Her tongue flicks out over the pink of her lips and her eyes find his again. "I want you to give me a reason to be nice to you." Gail's gaze is strangely shy, but never moves from his, not even when her shoulder shrugs sheepishly. "At least for tonight. I don't know how long I'll actually be able to keep it up." The corner of her mouth lifts a little. "Doesn't really come naturally, you know."
Nick smiles back, finally lifting his arms until they circle her, threading his fingers into that corn silk hair. She's really leaning into him now, face sort of tucked in against his neck; that alone is almost enough to completely undo him. The familiarity of it. So many nights spent with her head on his shoulder, her fingers trailing down his arms. But he sucks in a breath, inhaling the warm scent of her skin, then gets his mouth somewhere near her ear, resisting the impulse to kiss her silly as he whispers all low, trying not to laugh.
"Don't strain yourself. I can take you."