Title: Goodnight, girl

Pairings: Loker/Torres, Lightman/Foster

Rating: T

Genre: romance and drama

Spoilers: for season two, especially Darkness and light.

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters or this show. Fanfiction writing brings me only fun, and no profit.

Author's notes: I fell for this show in record time and then fell in love with Torres and Loker and their banter and push - and - pull of their dynamic. Then I ended up with this story. I hope you'll enjoy it. Reviews are always loved and very much appreciated :) This fic wouldn't happen without perpetually and vickysg1, who are both amazing people, and I love them more than words could possibly describe :)

Things that change your life are most likely to happen when you don't expect them. Eli always believed that. There's beer in his hand, and the bar is half full, the music lost to his ears. It's the same damn bar where he kissed her, and he tries not to think about that. They look like carefree young people in the mirror behind the bar, and he reminds himself to be happy that she's here with him. Some things aren't meant to have, Ria Torres is one of them. He can be content with what he's got, though.

He lets her play him. It's not like he has to try, because in their little game, she's usually two steps ahead, and he's usually busy figuring her out, like tea leaves in his cup. Sometimes he admits to himself he's not about to stop her, because that is, anyway, the best he will get. He's aware that he's selling himself short, that it won't lead anywhere in particular, but sometimes, he cracks a joke and she laughs, a true, open laugh. It always sounds like getting a main prize.

Questions she doesn't expect work the best, and he tends to be unpredictable with his wide range of interests. He likes surprising her, because seeing her caught without a mask is so precious.

"So. What do you think, in which Hogwarts house I'd be sorted in?" he asks and she almost snorts her drink through her nose, she definitely didn't see that one coming.

"Excuse me?"

"Hogwarts. Wizards, elves, Voldemort? Harry Potter?" he helps and amusement seizes the hold of her expression.

She sits upright, regarding him in that way that's uniquely hers, calm face and penetrating eyes.

"Eli Loker, are you telling me you're a Harry Potter nerd?" she asks and he gives her a sheepish look.

"You make it sound like a bad thing."

"How old are you, again?"

He smirks lightly, "Old enough."

The moment and the smile lingers, and he thinks, he can almost read that thought hidden in the corner of her eye, in laugh – wrinkles.

"Slytherin," she says suddenly and makes his jaw drop, although he should have expected that.

"Slytherin?" he repeats, it's definitely not the answer he was going for.

"Admit it, Loker. You want to be famous, you have very high opinion about your knowledge, and the goal matters more than the means attitude," she says.

"But you forgot the bravery," he teases.

"Oh, please."

"What, now? You're saying I'm not brave?"

"A mighty mouse," she's playing with the straw in her drink, distracting him momentarily from a witty answer. His mouth quirks up,

"I think it's safe to say you just described yourself. What? Don't like sharing a house with me?" the words are faster than his brain, and when she raises her eyebrows he realizes just what he had said.

She rolls her eyes at him and ignores the obvious implication of his own words.

"You're sure you'd share with a Slytherin like me?" there's a wicked grin spreading on her face, one he likes too much. "A house no less?"

Heck, he'd share with her a lot of things. And she can be bad, or pretend to be that way, and he would still share, because deep down he's a soft; soft enough for her to push but not break him.

"Depends," he says and she is about to continue teasing him.

Before she can speak his cellphone rings. It's Lightman.

"Oi, Loker. Get your arse here and bring Torres with you," he says. Eli wonders if Lightman has cameras stacked even here, on top of the bar, or in the corner, or he simply knows everything. That could be entirely possible. Before he can say anything Ria already knows who's calling and what he's asking, and she's picking up her coat. Their hands brush as they walk through the door. Eli leaves the sharing for some other time.

Forty hours later, he is beaten up. Again.

It's becoming a habit. Perhaps he is becoming reckless, but he couldn't allow that guy to touch Ria. He was twice Eli's size, and bringing Eli down wasn't a problem for him at all, but right now all that matters is that Eli could read him well enough to lure the heat of his anger onto himself. That's how he ended up like this. He's sitting in his little work corner, in a lowered chair, with a cut lip and head that hurts like hell, and possibly bruised ribs. He is enjoying the view, though.

Ria. Her eyes. God, his head is spinning.

She isn't very gentle. There's a streak of anger on her face, covering fear. There are tissues and wet washcloth on his crammed desk. He takes the icepack from her hand, wondering if there's a bruise on his eye. She smirks. It's still fake.

"You've got interesting timing," she says, eyes intently on his face, and he wouldn't mind that, really, in any other situation.

"What 're you talkin' 'bout?" his eloquence isn't at his best. There's still too much adrenaline rushing through his system, enough for him to run. She purses her lips and the smirk melts into a genuine smile, just for a moment, before she masks it, but he is content because he caught it.

"Hey, you manned up," she says, the lightness of her tone false, coming up with a washcloth. "I'm proud of you, Loker."

"No, you just like seeing me hurt," he closes his eyes because it's pounding in his head. That guy hit him with force of a freight train.

"That's not very kind of you," she says, her voice somewhat softer and he cracks his eyes open, because he wants to see her expression. It's not what he hopes for, but not bad either. She's frowning in concentration and he doesn't mind having Ria Torres concentrating on him. Her fingers trace his cheek, fascination and intent and fear etched on her face. He winces. "That was incredibly stupid,"she says.

"Lightman does it all the time," he answers and his head feels weird.

"Lightman has a thick head."

There is something they're not talking about.

"And I don't?"

She laughs, somewhere between amused and defensive as she's trying not to let something else slip out from her control. It's a fine line to walk, one he doesn't particularly care to cross, because he doesn't want to think about what if.

What if he didn't piss off their captor enough, what if he decided to take his anger on Ria, what if he called in his buddies and did things which...

Her hand is soft and warm on his cheek. His eyes snap to her, she is okay, she is safe, they are safe. He breathes.

"You're lightweight," she says, sighs, patting his lip with the washcloth and she's much gentler this time around. "A boy – man. Imitating Lightman is dangerous stuff. You should have learned that."

"A boy – man," he repeats with faked amusement, leaning deeper in the big chair, not sure what's doing him in. He swallows, not acting then and there wasn't an option. His head doesn't feel like it's screwed on straight, but he catches her hand and they grin at one another, just a little, and he thinks of that night, when he told her three truths. She read him flawlessly. That was probably an idiot plan, because there's no way going back on knowing how it actually feels to fall asleep with her in his arms. But he doesn't have to admit that she can push him out of his comfort zone, and push his buttons, just as easy as Lightman can. He can live with it. He can live with it.

They're made of same piece of clay, she and Lightman. To her, being loyal to Lightman isn't such steep climb.

Her face hovers above his, her eyes dark and huge, and he'd be damned if he can really read her. However, she can read him.

He doesn't really care about this difference in advantage.

"Boy – man," she repeats, tip of her finger set delicately atop of his lips. He can barely feel it, and he hates it. He hates being barely there, almost sneaking under her radar and finding a way behind that proverbial wall, hates that stubbornly present line she drew between them, and purses his lips just to feel little bit more of it. She lets him, actually lets him, before her hand floats away, too slowly, and she's just watching, and damn if he's not holding his breath when she's looking at him like that.

And then it happens. He'd wanted it ever since that night, only, it's a moment of bliss before his lower lip starts protesting and he has to pull away. She smirks, her forehead against his.

"That hurt," he says.

"Yeah, like you said," she shrugs, "I like seeing you hurt."

"That's a lie," he doesn't miss a beat, even as her voice is an immaculate flat line and not even a hitch gives her away.

That, because she learned how to lie from the best. He can see her pupils, huge and dark and smell her breath. It's too close to be a lie.

"Are you willing to take a chance on that?" she asks, hands on arm handles, bracing around him. His hands settle on her hips, warm, secure, and he feels grounded. The world around him stops spinning and then there's only her, and she's safe. That's all that matters, and there's just a tiny amount of pride, for being there to defend her, and even though it hurts, he'd do it again and again. A small smile escapes him, upward curl of a lip, and he sees the same on her face a moment before he closes his eyes and kisses her.

It's slow; slow and wet and hot and somehow she manages to avoid his cut and make his brain melt. He pulls her, so she's sitting across his thighs, and she lets him hold her head in place, until he needs to breathe. He pants and feels dizzy, and wonders would continuing this be a good idea, here and now, in a place with at least half dozen cameras lurking around.

"Giving up on me?" she teases gently.

"You're saying you'd use an injured, incapacitated man?"

"You're hardly incapacitated. Besides, wouldn't you let me use you?"

He bites his tongue before answering that.

But, on the record, he would.

"Want to be fully functional," he nuzzles his nose against hers, enjoying the fact that he can do this, that she's letting him. "Wouldn't you like that?"

She moves away, enough to take a better look at him, and he can feel his heart dropping, but just before it's sunk all the way into the pit of his stomach, she kisses his forehead, and he takes hope in the gentleness of her gesture.

"You're not in your right mind," she says.

"No. Happens around you a lot," he knows he's blurting, but he knows she knows. He also knows thats he's scared of it, but if that kiss is any sign, then he shouldn't abandon hope just yet. "Ria," he says, trying out her name, the feel of it, the way her face changes when he says it. She runs for cover, not literally, but there was something there. He doesn't dare naming that particular microexpression.

"I should get you home. Or better yet, to the doctor."

He sighs. It's probably the best he'll get tonight, but she offers to take care of him. He's not going to protest.

"Only if you kiss me goodnight later," he says.

She looks at him for a moment before she smiles.

"I'll tuck you in, too," she says. "Come on, I'll help you get up."

She doesn't take him to the doctor. He insists that he doesn't need it, because he already had a concussion, and knows how that feels. This, supposedly, is not it, and he's being stubborn and slightly obnoxious, so she gives in and takes him home. He seems fine enough, except the cuts and bruises. Ria knows it's a bad idea following him in, but the thought of him, beaten and bruised fumbling through the medical cabinet in bathroom all alone leaves her unsettled. She discards his reassuring and walks inside looking for gauzes and peroxide while he sits on the bathtub rim. She turns around, with a gauze in her hand, and Eli suddenly seems so fragile. She walks to him slowly, this way she's taller, and he looks up at her. There's a cut under his eye that she hadn't noticed back in the office.

"Eli," she says quietly, packing a lot more into that single word, his name. She usually doesn't say his name, but right now she can't call him anything else. He manipulated that guy into beating him, instead of her, and it took courage and brains to push the right buttons and make him so mad to lose it. She is pretty certain he saved her from really bad things she'd rather not think about. Eli bought some time and created a distraction, and Lightman could crash inside with calvary. Eli took it all on himself, like some goddamn hero and that is only a part of it, why she's worried and pissed at him.

It's not just that.

"He was going to hit you," he says as she starts patting his face.

"You don't know that."

"I do know that, and you know I know it," he answers stubbornly. She can't say he's completely wrong, she's been scared as hell, but still, she doesn't want him beaten up. That guy – if Cal and the police hadn't arrived in time – that guy would have... She tells herself not to go there, not to think about that, not to replay the scene in her head. He was on the floor, curled, and the guy was kicking him with his foot wherever he reached. Her hand pauses and Eli touches her face, as if knowing what's going through her mind.

He probably does know.

She doesn't tell him, just as Cal doesn't tell him, but Eli's skills at reading people are flawless. Eli, oh, he gives himself too little credit sometimes. She turns her face into his palm and the moment is quiet and tight, and she just breathes him in, before she can move.

"Let me see you," she says, coming even closer and inside of his personal space. He was kicked in his stomach and punched around, and she wants to make sure there aren't cuts and broken things under his clothes. Yes, just that. A moment before she starts unbuttoning his shirt she just looks at him, and he looks at her, and when he doesn't say anything, and doesn't move away, she takes it as a quiet yes. Her fingers fumble with the buttons and he helps her, until the shirt is off and down on the floor. There's a patch of red on his chest, and it will probably turn into a bruise even before tomorrow. Ria touches it lightly and he gasps.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"It doesn't hurt," he answers, looking down at her hand. "Not really." He looks back into her eyes.

She breathes, feeling like she's taking in the details for the first time – he is thin, thinner than he looks in his clothes, and he has dust of freckles on his shoulders. His eyes are clear, and strikingly green, and huge under the bathroom light; his pupils are blown. She knows what it means, knows this look on his face and the beating of her own heart, and thinks how he put himself in front of her, how he lets her tease him, just to make her smile, how he brings her coffee, how he challenges her to be better.

It feels like it's time for her to allow him to do so. She lets him pull her closer, until her palms are on his shoulders and his hands splay on her lower back. His skin is warm and her hands are cold and his breath is hot against her abdomen, when he buries his face against her. She runs her fingers through his hair, pulls and makes him look up as she frowns at him, at his battle scars, and thinks how he shouldn't bear them.

"Do I look that bad?" he smirks, but she remains calm; calm and serious as she moves closer to him. She kisses him slowly, feeling the increased press of his palms, they way he wants her to come even closer, the way he needs more. Then he pulls away, looks at her with emotions raw and open on his face.

"We better stop this right now," his breath is strained, and voice sounds rough. She swallows, she probably should listen to him, but she doesn't want to. She wants that voice, and his palms, wants to feel him, solid and alive. But it's more than that. It's more, there's more.

"No," she shakes her head slightly, stroking his lips with her thumb and pulling them apart. He swallows, looking at her with hope and disbelief and longing and something in her breaks apart. Her finger traces the cut on his lip so gently, and she says, "Just give me the best you've got."

In the morning it's not even awkward. She untangles herself from his sheets, tells herself it was a stupid idea, she tells herself to shut up. She can see a newly formed bruise under his eye as he peacefully sleeps. She thinks how this is all backwards, but she doesn't want to flee like last time, either.

"Eli," her voice is low and soft. He wakes after few nudges, frowns at her and then smiles, then rolls over onto his back in his naked glory and she has to tear her eyes from yet another bruise.

"'this the part when you go?" he asks sleepily.

She waits a heartbeat, her face close to his.

"I need to change my clothes."

"You can have mine," he says and makes her laugh a little, despite her best intentions. He rubs his eyes and then they're looking at each other.

"They're not really my style."

"Yeah, you're ridiculously color – matched."

"Sad and boring, I know," she says, and knows she better go, before he pulls her back and convinces her to stay. "Loker," she's back to his last name, because it feels safer. "I'm not sneaking out."

"And not leaving earrings behind," he adds.

"No," she says. It sounds too final, and she's not really sure she wants that.

Her hand still lingers on his chest.

"I just need -" she sighs.

"A little time?" he offers, looking both scared and hopeful, and she is glad that he doesn't look hurt. She doesn't want him to be hurt.

"I can work with that," he says and there's that cute smile and she knows he will be tagging behind her, like a puppy. It will be okay.

"Good," she says.

"Good," he agrees.

He walks her to the door and promises her lunch, she allows him a peck on the lips and knows she hadn't seen the last of Eli Loker and his advances.

She doesn't know half of it yet.

TBC.