New
>> New
TITLE: New
AUTHOR:
ultraviolet9a
SPOILER: Not for SPN. For CSI Miami, 6.04.
GENRE: Het. Crossover. SPN/CSI: Miami
CHARACTERS: Jo Harvelle/Eric Delko.
SUMMARY: Miami is supposed to be shinier.
RATING: PG 13.
FEEDBACK: Dude…duh.
DISCLAIMER: I don’t want to own them. Though I can imagine some uses for Delko. Hm.
NOTE:
vanillafluffy Santa list. It’s not exactly what she requested, but it’s the only thing I could come up with. Points for effort? :)
NOTE2: betaed by the lovely
ileliberte.
She has no idea how she ended up tangled in sheets with him. Okay, she does have an idea, because he’s tall and she knew even before seeing it that his body would be firm and worked-out, and it’s been just so.freaking.long, and even though she likes her guys fairer (fuck you, Dean Winchester), he’s got the whole womanizer thing going down pat, and well… fuck you too, Jo Harvelle, she’s thinking. You goddamned idiot.
Miami is supposed to be shinier. It should be different, so different from where she grew up and where she’s lived and where she almost died. But her whole life’s been about shadows and grit. Geography is a mere formality.
Here she doesn’t fit in. She wishes she did. She likes the clothes and she likes the party attitude, but it all feels like trying to dance tango to the sound of… Bach. No matter how she looks, in the mirror she can always trace the rough edges left by her hunter’s life.
The only thing that’s right is her hair. Her father’s hair.
“You’ve got sad eyes,” was the first thing Eric said, and she didn’t get it at first, because she doesn’t have the well-toned legs and the full breasts and that… glitz that most women seem to carry around here. What she has is grit. And darkness. And a taste of blood and ashes in her mouth.
But Eric tastes good, tastes fresh and kind and fun, and something she can’t put her finger on at first (but she puts hands on. And other parts of her body, and it feels good), but she thinks she gets it now.
Eric is out of the shower, drops still sliding town his torso, and he smiles at her. Then the smile fades; he looks somewhere across the room and goes still as a statue. Jo has seen this before, Ellen Harvelle raised no stupid children: Eric has the look of a haunted man.
And suddenly Jo fits right in. Feels herself click in place like the right jigsaw piece, feels the life she left behind claiming her back in a lover’s embrace.
Getting it out of him is easy, so easy. The loss of his partner. The coma. The loss of memory. The hallucinations. Hell, she’s spent all her life in a bar.
“I keep seeing him,” Eric says quietly, sitting at the edge of the bed. Coaxing the ghost out is easy and familiar, and Jo gets all of it. It’s not glitz that Eric needs. Not at this time of his life.
Her hand trails down his back, her tongue and lips flicker over his shoulder as she holds him. She feels flesh give in as her chin leans against his skin.
“I’ve got to go to work,” he says, and there it is again, that full-lipped smile of fun and gentle that caught her in the first place (always catches her, thank you very much, Dean.)
She doesn’t wait for an invitation to stay or a subtle hint to go. Either could ruin it all. Jo Harvelle is ready before Eric. No fuss and muss on her part, always ready to just… move. Come and go. Just like her daddy.
“I want to see you again,” Eric says. There is a question mark in his voice. She likes it. There is a need she likes even more, that is raw and gritty and not glitzy at all, and makes her sex throb as he pulls her closer for a goodbye kiss, and there, just there, she tastes it and it feels like home: the first hint of darkness in his mouth.
She’s got a ghost to salt tonight. And maybe, if she stays long enough, if he lets her stay long enough, maybe she’ll tell him about how they all carry ghosts, and they aren’t hallucinations. Maybe she’ll tell him how there are other people who try to catch the bad guys, not beneath fluorescent lighting, but amidst the shadows. How she was one of them. Is one of them.
And maybe Jo will tell him that, no matter how fast she’s been running, life always has quicker feet than her, and always catches up.
“Okay,” she says instead.
At least for a while, she can stop running. If Eric lets her, if she lets herself, she can try staying still. Just for a while.
-The End.
SIDENOTE: Not characters I usually write, but. I needed a break from my other OMG long crossover of doom. So. *headdesk* I’m all xovery lately.
Also, title taken from the same-titled No Doubt song. I loved that song.
The ending lines sound eerily familiar for some reason. Is it a song? Maybe that “Learn to be still” country song? Why do they sound familiar? *more headdesk*
Ahem. Okay. Bye.