First SOA fic in a while, so please review.
Many thanks to the inspirational Jen!
She lives near the train, and for the past two nights he has been jolted awake as it speeds by at 3:14 while she sleeps on, her brow furrowed even in dreams. Filip stretches, then groans at the way his abdominal muscles scream in response. She's a handful, and no mistake.
His mouth is dry, but he picks up the stubbed out joint from the ashtray on the bedside table, lights it, and takes the last few drags before pushing back the covers and shuffling down the hall to the kitchen. He looks for a glass, opening and closing a few cabinets. Most of them are empty, but after a moment he finds them, an odd set of seven, stacked two deep by three across, the lone one sticking out of the pack, uneven.
He chooses the rogue glass with a thin layer of dust on the inside and runs it under the tap, rubbing the smooth surface clean with his fingers. The hollow sound of the water hitting the tin basin of the sink echoes in the quiet house, but he feels comfortable; there's a looseness in his shoulders and jaw, a settling he hasn't felt in a long time.
When he re-enters the bedroom she is sitting up, bleary-eyed, checking her phone. The sheet pools in her lap, leaving her torso bared before him. Her phone casts a white-blue glow along the strong lines of her cheekbones, the swells of her breasts. Feline eyes flick over emails and slender fingers traverse the keypad.
He clears his throat. "Sorry to wake you."
Althea jumps, not, seemingly, out of guilt, but rather mere surprise. "Hey."
"Water?" He proffers the glass, takes a sip.
"I'm good." She closes her phone and throws them both into darkness.
His eyes adjust. "Goddamn train woke me up again."
She exhales sharply on a hum; it might be a tired laugh. She moves to the edge of the bed and plants her feet on the floor. Placing her hands on her lower back, she tips her head back and lets her torso follow, arching her spine until she hears a satisfying pop. He watches her, breasts pointed skyward, her thick hair tumbling backwards over slender shoulders. Her lips part slightly as she hears her disks click into place, blissfully aligned in a way he loves knowing he's undone.
"Didn't your mother tell you it's not polite to stare, Telford?" she teases when she's righted herself.
"You didn't seem to object to my impoliteness when I had you bent over your kitchen table last night," he growls, finishing off the glass of water and placing the empty cup on the bedside table.
This time she gives a clear laugh, a sated sound in the back of her throat that sends a shiver up his spine. She turns over her left shoulder and walks across the mattress to him on her knees, a full head shorter than him standing.
"That," she breathes across his chest, "is because you are just too damn delicious to resist."
He looks down into her golden-flecked eyes and tilts her chin upward at ninety degrees to place a sleepy kiss on her lips.
"I don't even hear it anymore," she says when they part. "The train."
He snorts. There is a silence, but not an uncomfortable one. Still kneeling on the mattress, she traces his collarbone with long fingers. He cups her shoulder in one strong palm, marveling at how such soft skin encases such a hard woman.
Finally he inclines his head to the empty glass of water on the bedside table and asks, "You saving your good china for someone else?"
She shrugs, eyes not leaving his chest, where she has now moved on to tracing the tattoo in the center. "Just haven't finished unpacking yet."
"Been a little busy?" he teases.
"You could say that." She cracks a smile.
"Where's all your stuff?" Chibs asks. "Travel light so you can just cut and run?"
"It's in the garage," she answers with an admonishing scowl, finally breaking from him to pull a pre-rolled joint from the drawer of her nightstand and light up. "I don't, uh… I don't nest well."
"Ah, well that's just some good old-fashioned avoidance. Nothing wrong with that," Filip teases as he watches the lines of her body, her long-limbed reaching and smooth skin stretching over strong bones. He follows her across the mattress, reaching out and taking a drag.
"That's what this is for," she says in an almost sing-song voice, taking the j back from him.
"You got more friends in low places?" he asks, gesturing to the joint.
"Medical," she intones dryly. "Post-traumatic stress. Occupational hazard."
They settle in against the headboard, passing back and forth. Her hand rests on his, which rests on her thigh.
"Can I ask you something?" she asks, exhaling a curled cloud of smoke. It hangs in front of her face for a moment, like the aftermath of a cannon or a dragon's roar. She blows at it with a puff of air and it dissipates into nothing.
"Aye," the Scot answers. With other women he'd be worried by the question, but there is a lack of bullshit about her that tells him she is a straight shooter and she says what she means.
"'Chibs'. How'd you get the nickname? What's it mean?"
He gestures across his mouth, wide. "The scars. Slang for knife."
She nods slowly, in agreement. He can tell she is starting to get stoned. Her hand feels heavy on his which means she's relaxing.
"You got a nickname?" he tries to sound offhanded. "You know I love saying your name but it's a bit of a mouthful."
"Ally," she says quietly.
"Ally," he repeats, rolling the name around in his mouth, his accent doing something delicious with the L's that she loves.
"It sounds better when you say it," she says, throwing a leg across him. He grabs on, laying a slap on the smooth skin of her thigh.
"Everything sounds better when I say it, love," he says with a squeeze and a smile, and she can't help but think how devilishly handsome he looks.
Her lips purse into an almost wicked grin and she takes the last drag of the joint. After it is stubbed out and smoldering in the ashtray beside her, she asks, looking into the darkness of the room, "What are we doing, Filip?"
He laughs, low and sad. "That's the million dollar question, isn't it, love?"
"I'm serious."
She can feel his legs tense beneath her. "I don't know, Althea, and it makes my head spin when I think about it."
"Can this… happen? Can we make this work?"
His fingers trace patterns on the smooth skin of her thigh. When he speaks his voice is roadworn and weary. "I learned a long time ago that nothing's worth forcing things."
"And are you?" she asks, watching his rings glitter in the small sliver of moonlight that cuts through the room. "Forcing it?"
"I am not. And you better not tell me you are, cause if you are you're the best damn faker I've ever seen."
She smiles, almost giggles, her body feeling heavy. "No," she says slowly. "I'm not."
He shrugs. "Well there you go then."
"That's not an answer," she pries playfully, flexing her toes against his calf.
"I can't give you an answer, LT," he says, suddenly serious. "You know that."
Ally feels her jaw tighten and her chin jut up. "I know that."
"You're not acting like it." Filip gives a sigh and moves to the edge of the bed. There is a distinct note of aggression in the way he jerks his shoulder away from her, almost like a petulant child.
"Don't be a dick," she snaps, reaching for the sheet to cover herself, suddenly feeling very cold.
He turns over his shoulder and spits at her, "I thought that's all I was to you, Sheriff."
She is on her feet in an instant, sheet still pulled up high around her chest. He stands too, facing her across the bed, his eyes equal parts exhaustion and fire.
"Goddammit," she exhales, but she wants to scream it.
"You can't have it both ways, Ally," he says, quietly picking his clothes from their scattered locations around the room as he moves to the door.
"And what do you have?" she challenges.
He shakes his head, making one of the legs of his jeans sway back and forth over his arm. "Nothing."
"Bullshit. You get your precious Teller and a piece of ass on the side."
"For a sheriff you're damn good at picking fights, you know that?"
"The world's got a cruel sense of humor," she says, squaring her jaw.
"So do you." Filip turns to look at her finally. "I'm gonna go."
Ally feels herself nod. "Yeah, okay."
His footsteps are silent as he walks down the hall and it unnerves her; normally his bike coming down the street and his boots coming down the hallway announce his arrival. There is some shuffling in the living room, a dull jingling as he fastens his belt, the smooth sound of sliding leather, two dull thuds as his booted feet hit the floor, and then nothing.
She can picture him staring into the darkness, unmoving in her living room, unable to leave and unable to stay. Her back is suddenly very cold and she shivers, padding around for a t-shirt. She finds one in the darkness, and is overwhelmed with sadness when she pulls it over her head and is enveloped in the smell of him. It's one of his, thin and gray and exactly the size she wants it to be. She pulls on a pair of underwear and pads down the hallway to find him in the kitchen, one gloved hand leaning on the counter as he stares at the back door.
"You're a dream and a nightmare all at once, Althea," he murmurs.
She moves closer, careful to slide her feet along the linoleum in the kitchen to be sure she doesn't scare him. His shoulders are slumped and defeated but the Reaper meets her eye, gaze unwavering, and she can't help but feel that she's waiting for it to blink first.
"I don't… know how to do this," she says aloud, suddenly staring Death in the face. "And I don't know how to not."
"Aye." His voice is so sad, and suddenly her chest feels very tight. He finally turns to look at her. "I really am gonna go now."
"You should," she says evenly, but she doesn't have the energy to cross her arms across her chest and cock her head like she means it.
"I'll call you," he says with a nod. "Tomorrow."
And minutes later, after she's shuffled back to bed and listened to the dull roar of his bike go up the street and turn right, after she's rolled onto her side and felt a tear slide down her cheek, after she's almost fallen back into a restless slumber, she remembers his tomorrow and can't help but feel like a nervous schoolgirl waiting by the phone, and she knows that she's doomed.
X
Ally's not sure if it's several hours or just a few minutes, but the moment she hears the first bang she is on her feet, gun in front of her in both hands. She is grateful she'd put on a shirt before Filip left, but she still feels utterly exposed as she moves noiselessly down the hall to the living room.
Yellowed light spills over the intersection of tile and carpet at her feet, and he stands there with his hands raised above his head. He holds a hammer, which makes only a little more sense when she sees the cluster of nails hanging out the side of his mouth like cigarettes.
"Thought you were a heavy sleeper," he drawls.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Filip," she spits, and lowers her gun to rest against her bare leg.
"You should know better than to leave a spare key under the plant on your doorstep, Sheriff," he advises, bringing his hands back down. There is no trace of mockery in his voice. "You worry me, Ally."
"Like hell I do," she snaps, reaching to snatch the hammer from him. It's hers, the one she keeps in the metal toolbox in her garage. She's about to ask how he got it, when suddenly she takes in the scene around her for the first time and realizes he's hanging a picture above her sofa, a stock art nouveau thing her sister had gotten for her years ago.
Her lips have formed the "W" of a question but he talks first. "You haven't had time to unpack, so I took a few liberties."
Ally looks behind her at the kitchen where empty boxes, formerly filled with dishes, sit on the counter. In the living room photos and candles have been placed on the mantle.
"Breaking and entering," she stammers. "I should-"
"I'll say you gave me your key," he says with a shake of his head that brings a piece of hair down across his eyes. He isn't challenging her. If anything he's defeated.
She can't remember the last time she was this angry. Her face is flushed with fear and rage and embarrassment. Does he want her to scream, to tell him to leave? Is she supposed to be appreciative of what he clearly sees as a gesture of goodwill?
"What do you want?" she sighs, exhausted and feeling something rising in her throat.
Again, there is nothing taunting about the way he says, "A cup of coffee would be great."
Tightening her jaw, she wordlessly strides into the kitchen, where the coffeemaker tells her it is 5:42am. She shuts the lid of the coffee grinder aggressively and revels in the way it shakes her body awake, gently pulsating in her hands. She has to be up in an hour and knows the restless sleep she just awoke from is not going to sustain her through the mountain of paperwork on her desk.
Out of the corner of her eye she sees Telford hesitate for a moment, and for a second she think he's going to cross the kitchen to her and pick her up and she will wrap her legs around his waist but that doesn't happen, and then he gets back to work on the wall.
In six more broad strokes of the hammer the hardware is hung, and he steps back to see if it's even.
"There was a level in there too," she says dryly. "If you're going to rob me blind you might as well take everything you need."
"Don't be so indignant, Althea," he says as he sets the picture to hang against the wall. "I'm helping you, for Christ's sake."
"I didn't ask you to."
He keeps a physical distance between them but his voice is low and intimate and dangerous. "You asked me into your life, into your house, into your bed. You didn't seem to have a problem with any of that, did you, Sheriff?"
"That was-"
"Different, aye. But whatever this is-" He gestures between them with one leather-clad hand, "-is too much for you, Ally. Me hangin' pictures and you makin' coffee is too goddamn much."
"You surprised me," she snaps. "I could have shot you, Filip."
"You've got to be okay with this, or not have it at all," he throws between them.
In the kitchen, the coffee maker beeps the notice of its completion, deafening against the silence that falls around it. She reaches for words and can't find any that aren't fuck you.
"I don't…" she sighs, finally, "I don't believe in extremes. In… blacks and whites, in all or nothing."
To her surprise, Chibs chuckles. "That was damn clear from the moment you set foot in this town, Lieutenant."
"I'm not kidding, Telford," she snaps, her voice taut like a nerve. "You can't give me an ultimatum because I don't accept them."
A smile dances across his face, and he drawls, "You're a smart woman, Althea, but you've got a lot of nerve, making demands in a town you just showed up in."
She squares her jaw. "And you're a convicted felon who's just entered the home of the sheriff against her will." She is pleased to see the surprise that crosses his face. "I don't play games, Filip. I'm trying to find a way where we all come out on top. And in order to do that, you can't bury me."
He nods evenly, hands coming to rest on opposite elbows as he crosses his arms in front of him. "You want me to back off."
"I want you," Ally says emphatically, "to knock next time."
X
"I've never really liked that picture," she says, taking a sip of her coffee and liking the way it almost burns her throat on the way down.
"Then why'd you bring it?" he asks, looking up at her from her lap.
She shrugs and lays a hand across his chest, fingers flitting over road-worn leather. "Does it look like I have much else to put up?"
"You've got a right bachelor's pad here, Althea, and no mistake," he muses, turning over the side of the couch to take a sip of his coffee and then settle back into her lap. "I'll get you a neon beer sign, we can hang it up in the kitchen."
She flinches instinctually at the use of the word we, and hopes he doesn't feel the tensing of her thigh against the back of his neck. But nothing gets past him, and as his eyes slide shut and a knowing smirk crosses his face, he teases, "Didn't I tell you, I'm moving in."
Her hand has moved to smoothe against his shirt under the cut, and she takes a fistful of cotton and gives him a playful shove. "Don't fuck with me, Telford."
Chibs opens one eye and retorts, "I thought you liked it when I did that, darlin'."
Ally leans over him and lowers the pitch of her voice to an almost inaudible murmur, her hair brushing the sides of his face, "Only when I've been very bad."
Both his eyes open now, and dance with the grin that spreads across his face. "You're a minx, you know that?"
She takes a sip of her coffee and smiles sweetly. "I do."
"C'mere then," he says, his voice rough. He is up and clearing her coffee to the end table in one swift movement, and then he's kneeling before her, palms pressed into the couch cushions on either side of her, surrounding her with his scent.
She arches her back to meet him and the kiss is sweet in nature and bitter in taste from the coffee, and it's simultaneously surprising and exactly what she expects. Ally's hands reach to take fistfuls of leather and pull him closer as one of his sure hands sweeps up her back, bringing the hem of her t-shirt along with it. The other works between her knees, spreading them apart and coming to rest, warm and possessive, on her femoral pulse.
From down the hall, her alarm beeps loudly and persistently. Filip groans against her lips, sending a wonderful vibration down the taut length of her body. She smiles and breaks the kiss and it feels like coming up from underwater.
"Very bad indeed," he whispers low, and gives her thigh an affectionate squeeze.
She coaxes a few more light kisses out of him, all the while mumbling, "I should get ready."
"Then do it," he teases, his breath hot in her ear as he hooks a finger into the waistband of her underwear but doesn't pull down-not yet.
"Tell me you want me to go and I will," she smirks back.
The full-bodied laugh he lets out makes her jump. "You're a goddamn devil woman."
"And you're the Reaper," she hears herself say.
She catches the sad smile in his eyes before he leans in to kiss her and say, "I guess that makes us even, then."