The Wild Flowers Grow

Summary:Their relationship is complicated. They are not lovers – they are not enemies. Yet they know each other – have known each other for a long time. He likes to think they're two dark flowers growing in the same spot of earth. (Raydor/Flynn) (Snapshots from 1978 to present).

R: M

A/N: This is a multi-fic around a backstory of Andy and Sharon having known each other for a long time. Obviously it does not seem they know each other intimately before red tape on the show but I like the notion of them having a history that goes back father than you realize. So this might be a bit au in that context, yeah. =) Hope they don't seem to out of character for you. This fic assumes Andy's born in 1950, Sharon in 1954; just in case you're wondering about age. Enjoy.

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Part 1: Spring morning

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It was the year 1999; and it was splattered in an vivid painting of something intense. It came alive within a breath; a small momentary intake of breath at the sight of her – her eyes burning a path through his skin, cold and detached. It came alive with a silent roar when he registered her intent; the noise deafening in his mind.

She was calculating.

It was a matter of nature; a natural element to her existence. A dark piece of machinery that existed within her body, within the cell bodies of her construction. It was something that resided in her; he liked to fool himself into believing it was a permanent fixture of her dark essence – an endless void inside of her that made up the trappings of her mind. But it was a lie; not only to himself but to her as well. Recall was never an easy feat for him; either streaked with the faded colors of drowning in alcohol or impaired by the horrified images of murders ad nauseum. He had been too preoccupied in the past to comprehend her nature; to understand the small intricate weavings that made the tapestry of her heart. She had been different, once upon a time.

Now; it was a web of conceit and deception. He liked to entertain the thought of being caught in her web, silk and softness luring him into a false sense of security; he liked to think she was slowly spinning him into a cocoon of darkness. He would be unable to move then. She had him ensnared with the touch of her fingers, had him addicted to the vast bottomless sea in her eyes. He entertained the thought she was unaware he was no fly caught in a spider's web, unaware she had entered into the terrain of a dark wolf. He was as ready to devour her as she was to spin him into her web.

She was dangerous to his wellbeing; it hummed with clarity to the sole of his feet and thrummed in his veins, surging through his blood, into the crevice of his being. She was hazardous to his control; wrong for him. If forced to admit the truth; he was just as dangerous for her; he was just as wrong. It was not a matter of the repulsive forces of two wrong ends of magnets; it was not about the kindred spirits of magnetic pull either. It was the acknowledgement that they both struggled with the same little thread of darkness.

Acknowledging the dark parts of himself became like the rush of a waterfall when she was near; she shared that distinguishing property with the acrid taste of whiskey. Acknowledgement was however not enough to stop himself from drinking till he bled darkness; thought alone had never kept him from the bottle of his choice. It was an achievement that had cost as much blood and sweat as had his acquaintance with her. Now it was a matter of remaining sober; an existence that mostly revolved around the need to not drown himself in old habits. He knew his limitations and he knew from experience what would propel him into a nightmare lake of whiskey; being a drunk meant a history of trying to become sober and falling back into the arms of alcohol – a rollercoaster of failures and sobriety. Unfortunately, he had never determined where she fit in the scheme of it all. Her presence would always keep him on a precarious edge; but whether she was the force that kept him from falling or whether she was the reason he fell, he had no idea.

His soul was battered and bruised enough; he certainly had no need for further torment.

Her lips were red; a vivid color that took his breath from his lungs in a forceful drag; friction causing him to snap for air; pressure building and dropping into the pit of his stomach, tendrils grasping round his cock in a too hard unrelenting grip.

He wanted her.

He did not necessarily want her but he needed her; he needed to somehow take back control. He needed to somehow align his existence with hers. They had been out of orbit for a good year. He sometimes liked to think the gravity of their souls meant they always came back into the same plane of existence; once every now and then. Her presence felt foreign however; it always did when he had not seen her for a long period of time. He always felt cautious then; he was never really sure what creature would greet him. He was never sure what motivated her to seek him out; it always brought forth trepidation. Was it mere gravity? – the pull of the dark matter of their souls?

Sometimes he greeted her with warmth and joy; sometimes he ignored her and sent her away. Instinctually he always seemed to sense whether his actions would do too much damage; there was always a small crinkle around her lips that foretold what would be the better course – a little warning system in place for him to rely on. Sometimes he did not bother with the alarms and pushed her away from his life anyway; sometimes he was not ready for their lives to come into planetary alignment.

Equal cruelty was a habit borne out of experience.

Her smile was brittle; a cold spring morning, dew at the corner of her eyes – the morning sun a weak blur on the horizon. Not high enough in the sky to have any illusion of warmth. Her smiles had always been a disconnected fragment from the rest of her; never in accord with her other facial expressions, never in sync with her movements. He always looked to her mouth when he wanted to gather her mood; catalogued whether it was in accord with her eyes or not.

She seemed fragile; the façade of a brisk morning always bore the promise of turmoil within her. He opened his door further, stepped aside and let her in. He restrained from guiding her in, from placing his hand upon her shoulder and calming her down. Experience had taught him it was better to let her initiate contact when her eyes were doused in a faded weak gray. It was better to let her decide what she intended for their beginning.

Her lips parted further, teeth glistening; a blossoming brittle smile. The door closed behind her with a resounding click; it seemed like a foreboding.

Her eyes were neither alive nor dead; neither cold nor warm. They seemed alert; specs of color shimmering with that approach she seemed to take to whatever the world threw at her existence; aloof, detached – slightly bemused serenity, slightly revered disdain. With her it was never simply one emotion; it was never simply a single sentiment. It was always a myriad of conflicting emotions, twirling together in a mash that always alluded to something beyond his comprehension. She was a whole painting in itself; never a mere color or an object – no she was encompassed by such complexity it always left him breathless.

Treacherously his hands trembled when she neared, her gait slow and purposeful; she had always reminded him of a leopard. Shy and sly in essence; hesitant yet forceful and raw – crouching in the low grass of the savanna, approaching an unsuspecting prey.

She was a predator; a hurt one albeit.

It was a notion he liked to pretend was another infinite constant in her; but if forced to truth he would admit she had not always been like this. She had been something altogether different; once upon a time she had been precious and full of warmth. It seemed a lifetime ago; something that might as well have never been.

Inevitably you changed throughout the course of time; inevitably you evolved and regressed; a peculiar lifespan of shedding layers and putting new or old layers on.

She was a hunter now; intent and with perfect aim.

Her fingers landed on his clothed chest, slid upwards and came to the left collarbone. The movement of her fingers – her hand – was full of intent to him; carefully crafted to elicit exactly what she desired.

The slightly breathy air that escaped her parted lips was carefully constructed as well; the full red lips sinister as they neared his own. Her eyes were windows; but never to her soul. Their light, their hue always in the command of what she wanted you to see, of what she chose to let slip pass the barrier of her irises.

Her seduction was forceful only in its slow unfurling; it was aggressive not in approach but in what lay beneath the intent.

Her fingers were soft against his jaw, small drops of drizzle ghosting in through his skin – always so tender when she touched him. Her lips touched his – soft and pliant. Her touch always seemed soothing and so soft it barely felt like a touch. He would be a fool to mistake her approach for hesitant; it was anything but.

It was precisely measured – immaculately planned and carried out.

However much it troubled him; she knew him. Not in the conventional way; not the way his team or his family knew him. She recognized the layer in him that rarely came into daylight; daylight was too precarious for the dark. She recognized the fragments of him that were buried into the dark; only because they were mirrored in her own being.

She knew it only took the ghost of a touch and the trace of a kiss to awaken him; to haul him up from the darkness – to drag him along to her own little world of nightmares.

She knew she only had to let her lips touch his; and he would catapult them into the turmoil they were familiar with – a world that was too familiar to let go – a world of surrender.

His being leaped; sprung forth with the pressure of something being uncoiled upon her touch. Tensile force bringing him into collision with her; rough in movement, hard in approach. Whereas she slithered, crouched and calculated her line of attack, he burst forth in brute strength.

He crushed his lips into hers; too much force to evoke anything but the impression of teeth and shaky breaths.

He anchored his hands easily fitting around her wrists and brought them in a pendulum-wave behind her; too painful to do anything but evoke a small pitiful whimper from her throat – it never escaped her lips but instead he swallowed it – the tone going straight into the pit of his being.

He anchored himself to her; brought them together in an embrace that felt like coming home to something you had forgotten existed.

"I need to feel empty, washed away by rain," she whispered when he let go of her mouth, sliding his lips in a downward route to her bared neck.

He drew the skin around her pulse point into his mouth – the tender flesh seemed fragile as well – keeping it between the edges of his teeth.

She whimpered again.

There was no need for words; he would have told her he had read her broken soul the moment he opened his door and saw her eyes and that smile to accompany the distress. Telling her however would have destroyed it; he knew she never liked to be transparent when she strove for opaque. The problem with that was that he knew her too well; was too familiar with the small nuances of her when she was in a plight. He knew the different shades to her being when she emmerged in beastly darkness; he knew it with his eyes closed. He recognized every little band of different hues and what they meant.

He suckled the flesh deeper into his mouth before he let go; he tightened his grip around her wrists and led her away – tugging her along, one arm going around her waist to guide her.

Yes, he acknowledged the brittle spring morning; watched guardedly as she seemed to pull curtains further away and let slip a little of what was troubling her. Murky gray – her lips parted in slight apprehension. Brittle.

She followed along with him, quiet now and pliant; her body following the motion of his hands. He sat her down on his bed and started unbuttoning the top bottoms of her jacket, slowly slipping the small buttons out, every now and then forcing her eyes to land on him; one hand on her chin. He slipped her arms out of the sleeves and folded the garment before he put it on his commode.

He slipped the silk blouse over her head and it joined her jacket.

He undid the clasp to her bra and put it on the pile of clothes.

Her eyes followed his movements now; distant gray yet a present small smile.

He nudged her backwards on his bed and he followed her as they both slid along the length.

He caressed the curve of her neck, going upwards and behind her ear; he leaned closer and kissed the opposite ear.

His hand travelled down across her chest, going down between the valley of breasts – bypassing them – down her abdomen, the rounded belly before he came to the band of her skirt. He traced his fingers across clothed thighs until he came to the top of her knees; he then slid under the hem and started reversing his trip; upwards, the soft feel of bare skin beneath his tips.

He could feel her shivering; legs trembling; her eyes were steady though, her smile still delicate.

His fingers crept up till they reached the band of her underwear; drew a finger beneath and started pulling the garment down. He let it pool around her ankles; keeping her legs together.

He drew her bottom lip into a kiss, pulling the soft mound into his mouth; one hand under her skirt on a thigh, the other guiding her hands to the bedpost.

The hand under her skirt went upwards and settled between her folds – starting a slow rhythm, fingers circling in a gentle pattern. Brute strength was always a matter of timing; sometimes you needed to take it slow before you unraveled the need for hard and rough. Spring morning needed to be coaxed before it blossomed into a lukewarm day.

Her eyes closed and her head fell to the side; his lips slid down her exposed neck – her lips landed on her own arm; her own lips soothing on her own skin (probably grounding her). He breathed along her collar bone; dipped into the crevice that was lined above – wandered further down and rounded a breast; he circled a nipple before he sucked it into his mouth.

She was still quiet; he knew she rarely made much noise in this mood. She simply wanted to be washed away; into an abyss of only sensation – it rarely heralded words or noises before the end. She spoke with her eyes and mouth albeit her eyes were closed and her mouth silent. It had taken years to decipher her in this mood – he still remembered all those pitiful attempts at consoling her in the past. He had finally figured it was about letting her decide; about letting her spill her heart in her own time; eventually she would tell him the details.

He kept pressure on her breasts, alternating between the two – one hand going into the delicate skin beneath her ear; strands of hair tangling between his fingers. This way he could feel the tension in her neck; the strain beneath the skin when he alternated between different levels of pressure with his other hand; fingers along her outer labia; circling her entrance – rubbing into her small bud.

His hand became trapped beneath her head when she leant it backwards; he trapped one of her legs with his own; straining the seams of her skirt and the underwear still around her ankles.

He nipped into the sides of her breast; grazing teeth across flesh that puckered and tingled; sharp edges that travelled across nipples and caught her tensing.

Her breaths were controlled despite the labored tension in her body; neck an arch, eyes still closed; legs trying to escape the confines of her skirt – one foot slipping out of the restraints of her underwear. He looked up and caught the half open mouth, the pale hands around the wood of his bed.

He pressed harder, quicker; but kept a rhythm of something unhurried – not too hard, not too fast. He suckled her nipples till they were soft again; warmth enveloped by his tongue and mouth. He managed to pull his hands from underneath the nape of her head; his fingers travelled up and down her exposed neck instead; felt the force of her breaths and the motion when she swallowed.

He bit into a nipple, harder than previous, when he felt her hips moving into him. He looked up; her bottom lip in between her own teeth as she came, wriggling beneath his fingers. Yet, she was still quiet, even then.

He nudged her hip and she turned around; eyes clear water before they were hidden into his mattress. He put a pillow below her stomach, pushed the skirt down over her hips and buttocks, down her legs till it was bunched around one ankle. She spread her legs farther apart. Her arms went up towards the bedpost again; fingers tense, one moment grasping around his linen, the next moment open palms.

He quickly dispensed of his own clothing; hand around his own cock when he unbuttoned his own shirt. He was half hard; the trouble with old age. It did not matter; he would get there eventually. Meanwhile, he slid one hand from the small of her back and up her spine, pressure into the muscles of her back – the other hand between her legs once again, finding her swollen. She flinched and her hips moved, the pads of his fingers against her clit.

There was a sound now; a muffled little moan into his mattress. He pressed harder, circled harder – the other hand going into the back of her head, into the tangled mess. She shook a bit; caught in the contradicting tingle of trying to press her center more firmly onto his fingers and yet trying to buck away from his touch.

He rubbed himself against the back of her thigh; flitting his fingers across her clit in the same rhythm.

Another moan; a little louder this time.

He hastened his pace, settled his body along hers – his groin pressed into her left buttock, one leg nudging hers father apart and his lips in between her shoulder blades, breathing steadily as he continued his motions against her clit.

He began to feel tense himself; hard against the soft flesh of her – he began to feel the familiar tension of wanting release, needing it.

She came again; a little noise escaping her.

He settled himself and entered her – hands going under her thighs and pulling her hips further up. She was warm and tight, quivering around him.

He guided her up on her knees, watched as her hands automatically came to close around his bedpost; he trust into her in a slow pace, hands going around her hips and keeping her in solid contact with him.

She had traded silence for continuous moans now, noises that travelled in pitch and vibration; small little whimpers from deep in her throat to louder moans that seemed to be pushed past her teeth with force.

He slid into her with more force; quickening his rhythm, fingers digging into her flesh to find something to hold himself grounded. He pounded into her, the sounds of their groins meeting in between his own now labored breath and her voice trembling with whimpers. Dark hums of pleasure; small little hums that followed one another with almost no pause between them – waves upon waves of breathy tones.

One hand left her hip and went in search of a breast; he caught a nipple in between his fingers, kneading it as he continued to thrust into her.

He felt her contract around him before he heard her cry out; he followed after a few more trusts, his world tumbling into a narrow field of being only aware of his cock and the tightness of space it was situated in.

He came with a groan, a deep rough voice that slipped past his throat – her nipple pressed between the pad of his index finger and thumb.

He slipped out of her, pushed out by her still contracting muscles. He watched as she curled herself into a ball on his mattress, knees practically under her jaw.

He pulled a blanket over her and went into his bathroom. He took a short shower; letting the lukewarm water press into him with more force than usual. He toweled dry and put on boxers. He found a washcloth, wet it and went into his bedroom again.

She was in the same position, taut and far away he imagined. Tentatively he pushed her legs down and apart, cleaning away the stickiness between her legs. She curled into a ball again the moment he left her.

He dimmed the lights and lay down next to her, heaving up a bed sheet to cover him. She had pulled the blanket over herself again; he tugged her into him, curling himself around her, lying behind her.

He kissed the skin just under her exposed ear, let his arm curl around her, curled his own body around the crescent of her shape.

The thing between them; he had never determined what the bond between them consisted of but he knew it was rarely a thing they spoke about. It was not something neither liked to examine let alone talk about; it merely was.

Sometimes it was encompassed by talk; sometimes it was embodied by touch. Sometimes it was a thing entirely outside comprehension. It was a connection that flickered; it was never constant between them. A connection that was palpable one second and in the blink of an eye it was gone. It came and went; fickle as the weather sometimes chose to be.

She quickly fell asleep; he knew the moment he felt the way her muscles slackened, the way her body fell apart from itself and followed his own, uncurling from the tight little ball of comfort. His hands went under the blanket in search of skin, his legs slipping beneath and around hers; arms bringing her body closer into contact with his; her back pressed into his chest.

He lay awake for a long time before he followed her; she would be gone in the morning. There was never really a question of if but only a matter of how. Sometimes she left him without awakening him; left in the still of the early morning light, barely any trace as to her presence. Sometimes she nuzzled into him, woke him with a small whisper – left him with a small smile as she dressed. Sometimes she stayed in his bed and only left when reality knocked; stayed in his bed even when he went for a morning run, still there when he returned, sweaty and out of breath. Sometimes she woke him in the middle of the night; mouthing stories into his skin – begging him to give her some kind of absolution, wanting some kind of understanding.

It was inconsequential – she always left no matter the circumstances, she had her own little orbit to cycle back into, her own life to fall back into. He never felt remorse; it would be pointless to feel sorrow at seeing her go when he was stuck with the same nature – he had never stayed with her either.

Yet; she had been a spring morning when he had opened his door; brisk and breezy – low hanging vapor about to condensate – that inevitably meant she would wake in a twilight composition, eyes dark and lips seeking his in between words of what had led her here this time.

Spring morning meant her separated-husband had once again managed to rip her heart out of her chest, accomplished to once again break her into a thousand small pieces that fluttered in the wind and were never easy to assemble.

He hated spring morning; he was always left with the pieces.

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