Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Sense8 characters.
The first time Will sees the smooth, milky white expanse of her back is when he exits the club and sees the cop push her against a patrol car, cuffing her without preamble. It knocks the wind out of her, but she doesn't say anything, keeping her eyes down. He sees red but approaches the cop carefully, asks what's the problem, and when the cop flips him off nonchalantly, he rolls his eyes and takes out his own badge. The cop's face turns red, and he begrudgingly tells him that an anonymous tip about a drug deal at this club came through earlier.
"Look, my partner and I were here for two hours tops. Nothing happened. She's a DJ, not a drug dealer," Will explained to the cop, his voice becoming strained.
"Take it up with the chief in the morning," the cop—Dickson, or whatever his last name was—bites back. "'Sides, you're off duty, and you've got booze in your brain, kid. Ain't much you can do about this."
Dickson fumbles with the backdoor while holding onto the girl's arm. By the look on her face, Will could tell his grip on her was too hard. Her wild, hazel eyes meet his for the briefest of moments, pleading and frightened. Help me, he imagines her saying, but then she ducks her head in shame. She fidgets with the handcuffs, and the material of her backless halter top shimmers in the hazy evening light.
"Seriously, brother?" Diego chimes in from behind him. "You're gonna leave bruises on her arm."
"Mind your own business," Dickson replies, all while shoving her into the backseat.
Before Diego has the chance to pull him off the curb, Will brushes his fingers against the window. She looks up at him with tears streaming down her face, and then the patrol car drives away.
This had to be one of the worst nights off he's had in his entire life.
The second time Will sees her, she's wearing a polka-dotted bikini top that left little to the imagination and a smile that could rival the sun. He and his roommate, Capheus, had been invited to their neighbors' wedding anniversary, which they were celebrating the whole week long with different themes. Today's theme was "escape the heatwave with all the second floor residents" or whatever it was written on the invitation. Instead of abusing their air conditioning unit and racking up a ridiculous electricity bill, Will and Capheus left their apartment for the sandy beaches of Chicago's South Side.
They're dragging their cooler full of beer along the shore when Capheus squints at something from afar, then waves excitedly. He follows his line of sight and spots a small group of people milling about an open air tent. As they approach, a woman with brightly-colored hair skips towards them, hugging Capheus first, before turning to him.
"Oh my god, you guys came! I had my money on just Capheus showing up—apparently, you can bribe this man with free food to do just about anything—but you! I'm so glad you're here, Will." she chatters happily. "Now, let's get out of this heat. Lito's boyfriend made the most incredible lemon basil sorbet. There's nothing like it in the world!"
He's ashamed to admit that he can't remember her name. "Who's she again?" he whispers to Capheus when she's out of earshot.
Capheus laughs and claps his back. "Her name is Amanita," he answers, "and you need to get out of the house more often."
When they reach the tent, Amanita's wife, Nomi, greets him and Capheus with the same enthusiasm, and they quickly make the rounds among the neighbors they've never really gotten to know until today: Lito and his significant other, Hernando; Sun and her friendly dog; Wolfgang, who lives next door to him and Capheus; and her. Riley. Finally, a name to a face, he thinks to himself.
"Riley's a friend from my days in merry old London," quips Nomi, handing Will and Capheus their sorbets. "She lives on the other side of town. She's doing her master's degree here and working as a model and DJ. I don't even know how you do it, but cheers to you, my peroxide blonde friend!"
Riley giggles, and the sound triggers a rush of adrenaline throughout Will's body. They make more small talk about Riley's music, Capheus' new job, and Nomi's recent brush with the law. "Please, Will? Help me out of those stupid parking tickets," Nomi nags in jest. She leaves for her other half shortly after, while Capheus takes an interest in Sun and her pup.
Will and Riley stand around awkwardly, waiting for the other to restart the conversation. It takes all of Will's resolve to concentrate on her face and not be too happy about the fact that she was there in person, so close to him, wearing a bikini. "Well. So, uh," he stammers, "we've met before."
"I remember," she says, tucking her hair behind her ear.
"Really? That's good."
The wind blows her hair askew, and he can't help laughing at her attempts to tame it. He stops when he catches a whiff of her, notes of something flowery, woodsy, and something else he couldn't quite make out.
The wind dies down and they resume talking. "How are you? You know, with what happened last month? At the club?"
She realizes that he's referring to that night, and she crosses her arms tightly. "Oh. Right."
"Shit, I'm sorry," he blurts out. "Shouldn't have brought that up. You don't have to say anything."
She gives him a small smile. "No, it's okay. Well, there was a misunderstanding, of sorts. I know the people involved in the drug deal, unfortunately. But I swear I'm not involved. I didn't touch anything, hide anything for them, carry anything. They found that out after a few hours, and I was cleared."
He nods vigorously. "I believe you."
Her smile widens. "I…thank you," she says.
Later, when the last of the pizza and beer are gone, and most of them are laid out on the sand, Will dares to glance at Riley. Her back is to him, and he can see a tattoo peeking out of the hair at the base of her neck. It's a flowy script, written in a language he doesn't recognize. His stare trails down the arch of her waist, before ending at the swell of her hips. The lines of her back shift as she moves to sit upright, and that's when he's forced to cast his gaze to the sea.
The next time Will sees her with less clothing than usual is at the hospital. It's late in the afternoon, but his room is void of people, and the chorus of beeping machines have woken him from his drug-induced sleep. There's a flat screen television mounted on the wall, a small couch, a table by the window, and two uncomfortable looking chairs. His bed is against the other wall, the headlight above it turned on to its dimmest setting. He's tangled in wires and tubes, and the flimsy hospital gown he's wearing is open, revealing the bandages covering his right shoulder. He's tired and groggy, and thoughts keeps racing in and out of his mind, but he's stuck in this limbo between wakefulness and sleep.
He hears the door creak open and close, and footsteps approach his bedside warily. He shuts his eyes, not in the mood for nurses prodding and poking him again. When he opens them, he sees a disheveled-looking Riley shedding her coat and bag, placing them on the table by the window. She settles down on one of the chairs and covers her face with her hands.
He shifts around on his bed, hoping to get up to a sitting position, but to no avail. She takes a peek between her fingers when she hears his bedsheets rustle. When she sees that his eyes are open, she sits ramrod straight.
"Hey," he begins.
"Hello, Will," she replies tentatively.
Will grins. Her presence calms him somehow, his mind edging closer to sleep. "What're you wearing?"
She glances down at the yellow tube top and striped purple leggings she's wearing. "My pajamas," she says softly, her cheeks flushed.
He chuckles. "Those aren't pajamas."
She snorts. "Well, this is what I like to wear to bed, so they're my pajamas. And I know it's the afternoon, but I do work the DJ graveyard shift, so this is what I look like during daytime."
"Alright. P'jamas," he mutters. "You look cute."
He sees the blush crawl down her neck, and just as she snatches her coat from the table, Will reaches out for her with his uninjured hand. She looks stumped for a few seconds, but recovers as soon as Will raises one eyebrow at her. She drags her chair to his bedside and takes his hand in hers, cautious of the IV needle on the back of his hand. She loosely threads her fingers with his, the heat of her hand seeping into his skin.
"Are you cold?" she asks.
"Can't feel anything right now," he lies.
She gives his fingers a slight squeeze. "So you can't feel this?"
He shakes his head. "But I'd do anything to feel your hand right now."
Something sparks in her eyes, and she bites her lip. "You can't feel this either?" she asks again, this time caressing his wrist with her free hand.
"Not really," he says, his eyes fluttering close.
"And this?" she asks one last time before pressing her lips to his fingers.
His wry smile tells her otherwise.
She lets out a soft laugh. "I'll let you get away with this for now," she warns him weakly.
When Dr. Dandekar, Will's orthopedic surgeon, comes in for her evening rounds, she find Will and Riley asleep—him drooling on his pillow, her curled up in her chair—their hands resting near the edge of the bed, locked together.
The next time Will sees her, she's at his front door wearing a lacy, black, backless top and daisy dukes. She's clutching a brown paper bag in one hand and a couple of DVDs in the other. She purses her lips at the sight of his arm currently supported by an arm sling, then scowls at his face.
She steps past him brusquely. "You're avoiding me," she says over her shoulder. "Calls, texts, Facebook, Snapchat. Everything."
Will lets out a long breath and locks the door. "Yeah, sorry about that." He finds her in the kitchen, taking Chinese takeout boxes out of the paper bag.
"Why hasn't Capheus come home yet?" she asks.
"Told him to go back to work. He can use the overtime pay," he replies.
She rummages around the cupboard. "Have you eaten yet?"
"Not hungry," he grunts back.
"What about your pain medication? Have you taken them?" she asks as she takes glasses out of the cupboard.
He scratches the back of his head. "I can't take them on an empty stomach."
Suddenly, she stops moving about, then slams the cupboard door and grips the edge of the counter. Minutes pass before she replies, but it feels like hours.
"Why are you refusing our help?" she grits out, eyes trained on the countertop. "I know you want to go back to work, Will, but it's only been a month. Dr. Dandekar said you could be out for up to 10 weeks."
He runs a hand through his hair in frustration. "Look, the last thing I want is your pity. It's just that I hate having nothing to do. Pushing papers and answering phones? Not my thing. I gotta speed things up and get back on the field."
"By driving your physical therapist crazy? By spending all your time at the gym, or running late at night, or doing God knows what when you should be resting?" she retorts. When she finally looks up at him, her eyes are brimming with tears. "Don't be so hard on yourself. Don't push us away."
His voice has been replaced by a raw, gnawing feeling at his throat, and all he can do is nod in response. She moves away from the counter and stands in front of him, tugging on the hand in his arm sling lightly. "Don't push me away," she rasps.
A beat passes. "Okay," he says finally, "okay."
She bites her lip when her tears spill over. "I miss you," she says quietly.
And with that, he closes the space between them, pulling her against his body with his uninjured arm. He mumbles apologies into her hair while she presses her ear against the steady drumming of his heart.
When she runs out of tears, he pulls back and cups her cheek with his good hand. "I miss you too, Riley," he confesses. He lowers his head and kisses her forehead, his fingers ghosting down her neck, her arm, her waist, before resting at the small of her back.
The first time Will gets a really good look at her, she's fast asleep on her bed, lying on her stomach, naked as the day she was born.
He, too, is sans clothing, but fully awake and content with the sight before him. Her body is bathed in moonlight and shadows. He can clearly see the tattoo on the base of her neck, an elegant scrawl that she said means 'courage' in Icelandic. His eyes catch the rhythmic rise and fall of her shoulders before travelling down the furrow of her spine. He watches the curtains' shadows dance on her back before his eyes dip down the curve of her buttocks, her thighs, the length of her legs. A slow burn creeps through him, the stirrings of arousal. Not wanting to give in to such carnal delights just yet, his eyes journey back up her body and settle on her face. The tremble of her lips and the deep crease on her forehead tell him that something is wrong. A bad dream, or the cold air, perhaps.
He strokes her shoulder softly. When she startles awake, he retracts his hand quickly. "Sorry," he says, watching her carefully.
She shakes her head. "It's okay. I was just…dreaming."
He relaxes visibly, the corners of his lips tugging upward. "What were you dreaming of?"
It's her turn to smile this time. "I'd rather not say," she says sheepishly.
He raises himself on one elbow, looking at her intently. "Riley," he breathes, tucking errant lock of hair behind her ear. He pretends to miss the shiver that runs through her body.
"It was you," she answers reluctantly. "I was dreaming of you."
His self-restraint falters. "What was I doing?" he asks, shooting her a devious grin.
She licks her lips and swallows nervously before replying. "We were at my home in Iceland, and your apartment here. I don't know how it's possible, but we were in both places at once. You weren't wearing a shirt, and you had your back to me. I hugged you from behind. And then I…" she trails off, burrowing her face in her pillow.
"Aww, c'mon," he chides, pulling her flush against him. "Tell," he presses a kiss to her shoulder, "me," a kiss to her neck, "more," a kiss to her earlobe.
She emerges from her hiding place, her cheeks pink and eyes hungry with desire, and that is when the last vestiges of his control slip away. He grabs her at the waist and kisses her fervently on the lips. She freezes at first, but recovers quickly and eagerly, trailing her nails lightly on his chest and wrapping her legs around his. When she mewls in appreciation, he catches her bottom lip, sucking on it and tugging it gently with his teeth.
"Tell me," he says hoarsely, pulling away from her momentarily.
She looks up at him with hooded eyes. "I started counting and kissing the moles on your back. It was…pleasant, but weird, because I could taste you. You tasted like my perfume."
"Uh huh," he hums. "Do you know what you really smell like? What you taste like?"
Her breath hitches when she says no. And so he kisses her again, a hot, bruising force on her lips, then nuzzles her neck with the same fervor. He nips at her shoulder before bracing his hands on her hips and turning her body over so that she's lying on her stomach again. He hovers on top of her, drinking in the view of her pale, smooth back. He drags a path from her neck to her lower back with his fingers, his touch agonizingly slow and feather-light. She quivers when he reaches the end of her spine, gasps when he kneads her bottom, and outright moans when he retraces his way up her back with his mouth, his pace even slower than before, his lips lingering in places where she seemed most sensitive. When he reaches her neck again, he lowers his body onto hers, and she arches towards him, turning her head to get a glimpse of his face. He kisses her cheek and guides her to lie on her back, propping himself on his elbows while she turns.
"You smell like roses," he says before capturing her lips again, "and you taste like wine."