My Blood Approves
1.
A/N: This is equal parts episode tag and birthday gift… So spoilers for There Will Be Blood and a very Happy Birthday to the-oh-so-talented Starry19…
(…)
He waits in the quiet offered only by the deepest moments of the night. The air is still, the sky is calm, it's an hour saved for slumber. The moon sits high and full along the arch of the midnight sky. The stars crowd together, huddled against the darkness as the sphere takes the suns burning rays, transforms them into a gentle glow, the edges trimmed in silver. He watches from his perch along the hood of his car, as the world soaks it up like a potion bringing on gentle dreams. He knows if he lets his mind rest there will be nothing gentle waiting for him, now or on the brighter side of tomorrow.
He knows, because he's been here before.
It no longer startles him to find the edges of his vision trimmed in green, the envy slowly slipping from him, a steady drip, like a spring thaw, barely there, and yet all together unavoidable. It's been sometime since he's felt anything gentle. Can't quite place when the need started clawing at him, slowly chipping away at the mortar of his walls, begging for an entrance into the black hole oblivion that is his heart.
Can't claim to know what would happen if he invited it in. Stifles a laugh drippy with resignation at the thought of her reaction to his much desired knock at her door, wonders what she'd do if he put some action behind his desire. Doesn't know if he's ruined their chances, knows he's watched their window of opportunity close before his very eyes more than once before.
Knows it's always on his terms, finds himself startled and humbled every time she places her own heart on the line and releases the lock. Draws the shades and once again slides the sashes open. She sets herself up for his failure, welcomes his insanity with the open arms of a woman whose days dawn and dusk with not enough hope and too much acceptance.
He hasn't been much for conversation or coherent thoughts since the realization dawned on him hours ago.
He's parked along her sleepy suburban street, settled beside the curb beneath the baron limbs of an aging oak tree. Can't count the times he's ventured out into the night, only to find himself unable to bridge the final span of his intended journey. Doesn't know how many minutes he's watched bleed into hours, all the missed opportunities and regrets pooling together, settling within his veins, thrumming in time with his heart.
All he does know is the sight before him is a new one. It's gone past two in the morning and her lights are still on.
He knows there isn't much she can't handle, knows she's driven and headstrong and defiant as hell. She's had to be, he's made sure of it over the years. He also knows she isn't one to put it all away even when she's no longer faced with the need for pretences.
So he makes no effort to swallow the sour taste of guilt and regret, like spackle along the back of his throat. Because he knows he's done this to her. Robbed her of what little peace she's been carrying around with her and replaced it with doubt and sorrow and disappointment.
He lifts off the car then, refuses to acknowledge the warning signs, like blinding red lights behind his eyes. He's had enough of his own regret, refuses to knowingly cause her any more of her own. Wants nothing more than for there to be no need for more pretenses.
No call for casting shadows along the lines of truths and consequences.
He hesitates only a moment more before knocking, his fist pounding wood in rapid bursts breaks the barrier of nightly silence, demanding to be heard.
She opens the door to him, the golden glow of lamplight cloaking her frame, hovering like a halo. But with the light there's shadow and it casts her features in deepening shades of gray, keeping her eyes and expressions in darkness.
"Jane." His name is neither question nor demand. Merely recognition as she steps aside to let him in. No matter the war or the heartache he brings her, he's defenseless in the knowledge that she will always let him in. She's dressed, not for bed or work but in faded jeans and an old Henley whose original shade could have been black at one time.
In one sweeping glance he takes in the scene before him; there's a half empty bottle of white poised alongside a single wine glass, both glistening and shiny with condensation, droplets sliding and pooling like tears along the table. There's no sound, only light and an old hardcover copy of Angela's Ashes, spine broken and pages worn with reverence, thrown over the arm of the couch.
As she turns to throw the deadbolt he catches a glimpse of her firearm as she covertly attempts to place it back within the waistband of her jeans along her lower back. His heart stutters at the sight, knows he's responsible for causing her fear. He instantly crowds her, invades her space, the wings of her shoulder blades are pressed along the line of the door before recognition dawns along her features. He catches her hand before it clears the hilt of her gun. He increases the pressure of his fingers as she tries to pull her hand away, causing her hips to cant toward him, the gun between their hands, her body between his and the door.
There's caution along the line of her eyes and it eats at him, he hates that he's done this to her. They've come so far and it seems every time they reach this place he throws another layer of armor up between them, gives her yet another reason to doubt and fear. Lets her believe she's finally found the man behind the masquerade only to watch him throw another mask in place.
He pulls the gun from her grip, finds himself surprised when she makes no move to halt him.
He raises the gun to eye level, shifts it slightly along the line of her vision. Keeps his eyes fixed on hers as he leans further into her, reaching behind her to place it along the ledge beside the door. Her breath hitches so very slightly as his sleeve makes contact with soft skin along her hip where her shirt barely meets the waist of her jeans, directly below her elbow. As he brings his arm back, he increases the pressure along her side, presses the pads of his fingers along the smooth skin at her waist. She doesn't move, not even when his lips nearly graze her jaw line, her ear, no contact but his breath along her skin and the heat of their bodies lapping like waves on a shore.
"Expecting someone?" His breath dances through her hair, sends a flush up the snow white plans of her collar bone. She lifts an arm and lays a hand to his chest to push him back, to gain some balance or perspective. Only he refuses to move, takes the pressure and exerts his own.
He returns a hand to the small of her back, refusing to allow her hips to fall away from him. He threads his fingers through the loop along the rise of her jeans. Anchors her to him with little room for escape, brings the other to her face, startling her slightly with the gentle contact.
"Why is it when I look at you, you never see what's really there?" He lifts her face as he speaks, angles her chin with the tip of his thumb, fingers resting along the line of her throat. She moves with him, her body soft and giving, her eyes hard and focused.
"Self preservation." It's spoken softly but with reverence. There's desire within the gentle whisper of her voice, along the line of her shoulders. He can feel it vibrate through the tips of his fingers as they drift along her collarbone. Watches the pulse beat along the line of her neck before he's distracted by her tongue, the slick pink tip darts out a moment before her teeth drag her lower lip within her mouth.
His smile is soft, his eyes sad. "I find that slightly ironic considering every time I look at you I see exactly what everyone else sees. What you're thinking," He brushes an errant strand of hair from her brow before meeting here eyes once more. "How you feel."
She goes ridged in his arms. Her eyes lock on his for a brief moment before looking anywhere but at him again. She pushes her fingers deeper within the wool of his vest, throws some energy into freeing herself from his hold. He's not having any of it though.
"Hold still woman, and look at me." She's flush against the door now, eyes wide and a little more than startled at the tone of his voice. At the way his left palm cups her face, the other gripping her side, his thumb pressed possessively into the bone of her hip, his grasp no longer gentle.
He watches her a moment more before his right hand takes both her wrists, forcing her palms flat along his chest. He can feel her body vibrate, her eyes bright and shimmery and incandescent with rage.
"Is that why you're here, Jane? To ask questions you already have answers to?"
He feels her pulse continue to quicken, watches the frost and flame war within the forest of her eyes. Knows she's on the verge of falling, teetering along the edge he's dragged her to. Doesn't know which way she'll turn, knows deep down he doesn't care, knows all he wants to do is catch her when she does.
"What I see when I look at you, all I ever see when I look at you, is exactly what you want me to see." She does as he asks, meets his gaze, stares him down. And he knows she's hoping he sees and hears nothing but her anger, hopes he doesn't recognize the hurt and heartache. She should (she really should) know better by now.
"You don't think that I want to see? Have you ever thought to let me, after all you claim to see in me?"
Her arms shake with the effort to keep him at a distance, eyes glisten with the tears she's too proud to allow him to see fall, but it's the erratic hitch in her breathing that becomes his undoing.
He lets go, it's a reflex, the only thing he's any good at is letting go. She shoves him harder than necessary, beats angry fists along her own cheeks before shoving them through her hair.
"I think you should go." She turns for the door, back ramrod straight, pride beaten mercilessly but intact.
"Everyday." He'll be honest if it means he doesn't have to leave. She doesn't turn but pauses before she can fully throw the lock.
He can't wait another night, is terrified all he craves will no longer exist come morning, dreads she'll find her senses with the dawn and never look his way again.
"That's how often I think to let you see. That's how often I wish this wasn't the path life paved for me, for us. I shouldn't have to remind you how dangerous it is to be the person standing beside me."
She presses her shoulder into the door, lets the wood take all her weight. With the lock still pressed within the palm of her hand, she turns slightly to peek at him around the curtain of her hair.
"I didn't come with the intention to hurt you, I hope you know that." He takes a step closer, makes no move to straighten the mess she's make of his attire when she shoved him away. Only lifts his hands in a gesture of surrender. Wants her to believe him more than he wants his next breath.
She laughs in response, it's cynical and harsh and it sounds nothing like her at all. She places the door behind her again, keeps the deadbolt within the tips of her fingers as she toys with it over her shoulder. He knows when she speaks, she's addressing him, it's just her eyes are fixated on the floor between them.
"Well your intentions, a lot like your motives, are never what they really seem. And I'm done with your white lies and half truths. I deserve much more than your measly thirty percent. And I know we long ago passed the point where there's a need for me to remind you of that."
She meets his eyes and swings the lock free from its hold.
"And you're right, I'm well aware of how dangerous it is to fall in step with your shadow, but I shouldn't have to remind you that I've been doing it regardless for the better part of a decade. If you're trying to tell me you've kept me out of your bed to keep me alive than you're more of a coward than I ever gave you credit for."
She opens the door, stands aside and lets the night in while waiting for him to make his way out. The wind picks up and it rapidly cools the small space. It makes him think of open windows again. How this time he's secure in the knowledge that should he leave, she'll never hold it open for him again.
He doesn't plan on leaving, only makes his way close enough for contact. Can't begin to mentally follow the path this evening has taken, how the conversation started and ended the way it has. He's so focused on all that went wrong he has to rein in his surprise when her hand reaches out for his where it hangs unless at his side.
"I don't know if I can do this." It's nothing more than a whisper. She sounds so broken, so unhappy, and his mind and his heart are absolutely filled with everything that he can't even begin to understand what she's referring to. He knows how she feels, has always known. Has become increasingly aware of how easily observed her emotions are to outsiders.
"Lisbon."
"I can't do this. I can't stand beside you if all I'll ever do is stand in the shadow. I deserve the truth. And more than just the insignificant details that make up your meager thirty percent."
"Lisbon," He wants to tell her the shadows are the only safe place left for her, that all the people he lets in get hurt and then they die.
Instead, he pushes the door closed, pulls her in simultaneously. Throws the deadbolt for, what he'll attempt to make the last time.
She burrows into him, rests her face along the line of his clavicle threads her fingers through his hair, grabs at his vest and the sleeve of his shirt. They've never been very good with words. Any conversation of any worth they've ever had has been through gestures and movements and eye contact.
So she lets the minutes sneak away, lets them drag all the things left unsaid with them. There's no need for any more spoken confessions tonight.
She's far from naive, is well aware the brand he will knowingly put on her body will be nothing compared to the one he'll unknowingly leave on her heart. Now with his hands on her skin, the cool line of his limbs along the flushed edges of her face, she can do nothing to curb her want for everything she knows he is capable of.
She refuses to focus on his ever present faults, all the beautiful ruins she knows he will leave in the wake of his actions. She's waited too long, forever even, for this moment. And she currently can't find the frame of mind to force herself to walk away. Doesn't know if she wants to anymore. Doesn't know if she can.
"Stay." She thinks it's the first time her voice is sure all night.
But before she can fall over the edge, into the unknown, down the undiscovered, much desired road of permanence, she forces herself to take a steadying breath. Inhales the scent of him as she stares down all the demons her actions will awaken. She refuses to continue to be afraid.
He offers a hesitant touch, just a brief skimming of fingertips along the slope of her cheek. A gesture of assurances, a request to continue, an offered escape should she need.
She hopes he knows it's not the night she looks to save them from, it's all the demands the dawn drags with it.
Her fingers lift to curl around the back of his palm before she lifts her chin and allows her eyes to follow. Her limbs are cool and tender, no grip along her grasp, no hesitance in the way her palm brushes his knuckles, or how seamlessly her fingers braid with his. The smile she unleashes on him as her other arm snakes around his neck leaves him slightly breathless. It's shy and surprised and all together unsure, but it's overflowing with acceptance and a demand for more. Her arm anchors her to him. She's managed, with that one effortless gesture to fill every one of his empty spaces.
He lifts her off the floor, fingers grasping, digging into the backs of her thighs, thumbs brushing along the slope of her hip, palms sliding down the curve of her back. She's warm and pliant in his arms, her anticipation hovers along the edge of his every movement, responds to the call of his hands, the demands of his lips without hesitation or resistance. Her wants and needs evident as she presses her back flush against the door, lifts her hips and groans as she finds the purchase she craves, still can't find a way to bring them close enough for her liking. His chest rumbles in frustration at the obstacles of their clothing, drags his mouth from her face only long enough to speak. Punctuating each word with the wet smack of lips and skin.
"Yes. I'm staying."
"Yes."
"Upstairs."
"Yes."