Fandom: Painkiller Jane, tv series Characters: Jane Vasko, Andre McBride.
Genre: gen Length: 1,100+ words Rating: PG13, for language Set: post-episode 'Toy Soldiers', contains spoilers for said episode.
Notes: C'mon. Like I could not write fic for a hot, snarky blonde with guns. It goes against my programming!
Traditions 101 by ALC Punk!
::"You shot me."
"You survived it."
Jane throws him a look of irritation, and starts to go. But she stops to look back at him, her tone flat, "You didn't know I would."
"No, I didn't." And McBride almost looks regretful. Almost.::
--
It's how it is, she figures, slumped in her chair. The television's on, some random, mindless show about doctors. She's got the mute on, because the sound was giving her a headache (everything gives her a headache, these days). She's got a gift, or a curse, and it doesn't matter which, because it's going to hurt. And keep hurting.
The phone ringing doesn't even make her jump, and she glares at it. "I'm not answering you," she mutters. But her hand moves towards it, reflex making her grab for it.
You grow up, and you're trained to answer the phone. It's your lifeline to the reality outside of your room, your apartment, your house. Jane figures, if she'd been born a hundred years before it'd be different. People talked in person, then. Or wrote letters.
Her hand closes into a fist.
The machine picks up, sounding tinny. There's a pause after the beep, and then McBride's voice. "Rooftop. Ten minutes."
A click.
The words are almost an order, and Jane's halfway out of her chair before her brain catches up with her instincts.
Fuck him, she curses, dropping back down.
Some doctor on the screen kisses a patient in front of everyone, and she hits the power button.
--
Jane is ten minutes late.
Not that he seems to notice, sitting on the edge of the roof, staring out across the city. There's a bottle next to his right hand. She grabs for it, but he's faster.
Off-balance, she has to grab the crumbling wall to keep from plummeting towards the city street--not something she wants to do, ever again, if she can help it. "Fuck," she breathes, once she's not in danger of splitting her head open again.
"Not really the best place." McBride shifts around, and puts his feet back on the rooftop before holding the bottle up, "You didn't bring glasses."
"You didn't tell me to."
He shrugs and twists the top off the Cuervo. "No limes, either."
"Don't like limes." Jane holds out a hand for the bottle, not really caring why the hell he's there. He has tequila, and she's been craving tequila. She has the fleeting thought that she could literally drink herself to death and survive. But she doesn't feel like giving it a try.
"It's an old tradition," he downs a shot, grimaces. "A soldier under my command gets shot and survives, we drink a toast."
"Great. I'm not your fucking soldier. And I didn't get shot by the bad guy."
"That's why I'm drinking the toast and you're not."
"God, you suck," Jane turns to go, deciding the cold is pointless to endure when he's not even going to fucking share. "You have anymore stupid traditions, send me a postcard."
"Jane."
"McBride."
He laughs, a little, and the sound isn't amused.
When she turns, he's right there, in her personal space. Close enough to touch, but she refuses to step back. "You shot me," she says, repeating her earlier complaint.
"Yeah, I did." He holds up the bottle, and he's close enough that when he speaks again, she can smell the tequila on his breath, "And I'd do it again, too. This isn't a game, Vasko. This is real life. And it's not something you can just play at."
That was just great to know. She glares at him, "So, you'd shoot me again if it got the Neuro. That's great--who won't you sacrifice to get a Neuro?"
"And if he'd gotten away?" Ignoring her (mostly) rhetorical question, McBride challenges her, his voice rough with scorn, "What then? This is our job, Vasko."
"He was a kid!" The words are angry, and Jane wonders if he reminded her of herself a little too much. "A kid who was just looking for a place to fit in, McBride."
"Like you are?" The words are soft, and the look he's giving her is far too knowledgeable.
Jane steps back. "Fuck you. I don't need this psycho-analytical shit, McBride. I can get that just fine from Mo'."
"This isn't about you, Vasko--well, it is. But not the way you think." He shakes his head at her. "This is about you running off on a lead without waiting--or asking--for backup. This is about needlessly putting yourself into the line of fire and making your team take the hard road."
What? Oh, he is so full of shit. Jane snaps back, "I told you it wasn't the president. You told me to shut the fuck up and do my job. Well, I did my job. And you know what? I was right."
"This time." McBride retorts. He twists the top back onto the bottle. "What happens next time you go haring off on your own, Jane? Does Mo' take the bullet that time?"
"You leave Mo' out of this," she hisses, eyes narrowing. "She can look after herself."
"Like she did against a dead guy. What was it you said? Ah, yes, 'he was going to put a pipe through her head'."
He has a point. Jane looks away, remembering her own failure at protecting her friend. If the kid hadn't run, Mo' would be dead, pipe through her head. She wouldn't have been able to get to their attacker in time, and Mo' certainly did not have Jane's healing abilities. She slumps a little, thinking about that. And then her head comes up and she stares at McBride, almost half-understanding what he's trying to say.
But she's still not going to make this easy for him. "I still deserve a shot."
His eyes are hard, but he holds the bottle out. "You going to run off on your own again?"
Before answering, she grabs the bottle spins the top off and downs a hefty shot, gasping as it burns its way down. She wonders if the lining of her throat is healing after the alcohol passes it. "Maybe."
"Next time," he says, taking the bottle back from her, "I won't shoot you. Probably."
Jane shrugs, figuring he's trying to say he'll do worse--but she doesn't exactly care--essays a grin and steps back. "Guess we'll have to see, won't we?"
"Yeah. Guess we will."
--
Laying in bed, staring at the ceiling above her, it occurs to her that she could have asked him in. She was lookin' for tequila and sex relaxation, and he's certainly attractive in an older-guy who still has awesome muscles kind of way. But he's her boss.
And he's not Brad Pitt and Angelina.
-f-