NOTES: For orchiids over on AO3, who has done a lot of fantastic and diligent work with me. I started this back while I was on vacation and thought this was as good a time as any to polish it up. Thank you, Sov, for all your wonderful help and commentary! The world does need a little more Miss Pauling love. ;)

Warning for: blood, mention of violence, semi-public sexytimes

She tugs you into a little alcove, a narrow alley between the closed pizzeria and some poor sod's townhouse, presses her lips to yours. You can feel the blood still spattered on her cheeks slide, sticky, over your skin. "Oh my god."

She laughs, rubs your noses together when she parts, smiling, glasses catching the moon's silver glow. "What?"

"You just… killed that guy." And the blood drying on her cheeks is now smeared across yours, crimson, nearly black in the night.

A smile steals across her lips, mischief in her eyes. "Yeah, and if we don't make this quick, I won't have time to bury him before he attracts attention."

Wow. You probably shouldn't be aroused, but you are, in no small part because she's rubbing those nimble fingers along your thigh, tracing up underneath the hem of your skirt, and your breath catches in your throat—

"Miss Pauling?"

"Mm?" She removes her mouth from your neck for only a moment before pressing and kissing and suckling again.

You lick your lips, tangle your fingers in her dark, mussed tresses, tilt your neck and hiss as she finds the delicate skin behind your ear. Pauling. "I don't know your first name."

She chuckles, lightly. "Do you need to?"

Her fingers retreat from beneath your skirt and really now do you need to know her given name? Now? Right now? Come on!

You don't let her go. "Maybe not. I just…" You feel heat creep up your neck and into your cheeks. "…I'd like to be able to say it."

Miss Pauling presses you against the wall again, face tipped up to yours, lips pressed to yours under the shadows and the moonlight and oh those fingers you'd only just seen wrapped around a pistol, positively deadly are under your skirt again, nails scratching lightly on nylon, and she's doing this amazing thing with her hips—

And now her lips are at your ear. You can smell the coppery remains of the jerk currently slumped in the mouth of the alley there on her soft cheek… "I think Miss Pauling is fine for right now."

A moan catches in your throat. "Yes, Miss Pauling." The formality doesn't taste strange on your lips at all. Not after a date interrupted by her… job. Not after watching this woman produce a gun from nowhere and nail the asshole that thought he could ruin your evening right between the eyes like she'd done it before a dozen times. Hell, maybe she has. Maybe she does this all the time. Seduces young ladies, shows them a dangerous and exciting time…

But she leans back, studies your face with a furrowed brow; she seems unsure now, fingers delicately tracing the hem of your skirt. "Is this all right?"

You nod, oh you nod. "Yes!" Yes, yes, of course this is all right! She can't stop now! Not after the kisses and the blood and…

Her expression softens. "All right; I just wanted to make sure. I don't… this normally doesn't happen."

A weak chuckle escapes your lips. "What normally happens?"

"Uh…" Her face is flushed. "Things don't normally get this far. I mean… I don't get much time off. Technically I'm still working. I was really out today to get that guy." She jerks a thumb over her shoulder at the messy corpse thankfully shrouded in shadow and half-hidden from your view by her own body—beautifully tapered shoulders, dark hair half-falling into her face…

But—"Oh." You feel your heart sink a little. "Dinner was just a cover?"

"No! Well…" Miss Pauling bites her lip. "Yes. But I do like you! A lot. Usually at this point I'm just taking care of the body, but you're still here, and I'm glad—really, really glad, actually. I just want to make sure it's okay if I—if we—" She gestures at a loss between the two of you, the mouth of the alley, and the dead guy. "I'm glad you stayed and I want to make sure you're okay with staying."

Oh. Yes, you can see a potential date fleeing when the firearms came into play. But damn if that didn't seem to make things sweeter. Nothing like a bit of extra guilt in pleasure, eh? You run your hands along her shoulders, lavender satin blouse smooth beneath your fingers. She's beautiful and dangerous and you're sure you'll not see her like again. Of course you want to stay. So, you press your lips to hers this time, holding her close. "Yes," you murmur. She smells of copper and lilacs and gunpowder and no, there's no place you'd rather be at this moment. "Miss Pauling."

Yes; yes, you like that, too, the respect intoned in her title, and, apparently, so does she, as her hands are under your skirt again, caressing your thighs, hitching the fabric up a little higher. Her kisses spill over onto your cheeks, not minding the blood that's made its way there, and her fingers, light over nylon and cotton, trace your slit. You gasp, hand finding the small of her back, skin hot to the touch beneath her blouse, tracing your way up her side, playing along her ribs, just beneath her breasts. "Is this fine?" you ask.

She nods, swallows. "Yes. Is this…?"

"Yeah," you moan.

Miss Pauling wastes no time after that, pressing her mouth to yours, her fingers finding your clit, and you gasp, teeth catching on her lip, back pressed against cool brick. You bring your hand to her breast as those nimble fingers slide along nylon, pushing in a steady rhythm that has you muffling your moans against her mouth; she tastes just faintly of the red wine you'd shared at dinner, and sweetly of a summer rain. Her skin is so soft against your fingers, far pleasanter even than silk or satin; like petals, or—

She dips her hand into your tights and underwear and oh! A finger on either side of your clit, gently sliding, and your hair catches in the brick behind you, nearly all your weight reliant on that solid surface because if she keeps like that you'll just—

You release a long moan, burying your face in her hair.

"Good?" Miss Pauling asks.

Oh yes, very good, so good—amazing—but you're not sure any of those words actually made it out of your mouth as she slides her fingers just a bit further, uses the heel of her hand as leverage to speed her ministrations, and you hold her close, biting your lip against sounds that might echo along the alley, tilt your head to the moon as she presses her mouth to your throat and oh—oh—you're not sure if those are the stars or some sparking rhythm behind your eyelids, but every nerve is on fire and she presses even still, rubs gently, gently as your gasps give way to sighs, and she kisses you softly upon the lips, and puts your skirt neatly back in place.

Your knees shake a little, but you're able to push away from the wall as Miss Pauling produces a handkerchief from her pocket to wipe the blood from first your face, then hers, and clean her hand with the same sharp efficiency she had used with the revolver. "I—uh—was pretty quick," you joke, though the pleasant, rosy fog filling your mind. Your brow furrows as she tucks her blouse back into her skirt. "Wait—what about… I want to—um—" You gesture helplessly "—for you."

But she smiles, cleans the lenses of her glasses on her skirt. "Next time. I've gotta get this guy out of here."

Your heart leaps. "Next time?"

Miss Pauling nods, and presses a kiss to your cheek. She winks. "And maybe I'll even tell you my name. Next time I'm in town… who knows—maybe I'll have the whole day off."