Variations
Tag for episode 4:12, Reprise
My hands and arms are full of Jo Lupo.
It's amazing, head spinning, hotter even than I'd been prepared for, and I'd been prepared for pretty damn hot. She kisses like she fights, all in, take no prisoners, bend to her will and I'm all for it, ready to go down on my knees and surrender everything and – holy shit, her hands are slipping under my shirt and into my waistband and I'm reaching down to grip her amazing ass and pull her close against my thigh and the warning bells – hell, klaxons – start sounding and this is all going way too damn fast.
She must hear them too, because almost at the same instant we both rear back, panting hard. We just stare at each other. My heart is pounding. Hers too by the way her chest is heaving. Her pupils are so huge, her eyes so dark, I swear I can see the stars reflected in them. She puts her hands on my chest and I'm afraid she's going to shove me away, so I catch her wrists and hold them still. "Jo?" I ask.
I hope my tone does a better job with my questions than I can, because I don't have any words right now.
She steps back, jerks her wrists free and promptly folds up her arms across her chest and glares at me. She has a fantastic glare. And she's practically snarling she's so amped on everything that's gone down today. "What. This isn't what you wanted?"
She has that look. That fierce look where I can't tell if she's going to burst into tears or rip out my throat and either would be horrible and then she'll want to die of embarrassment and we'll be back to square one. Again.
"Yes. No! Not like this," I practically yelp, worried she'll stomp away and another moment will be lost. "I want to know you, Jo. The rest is…it'll take care of itself."
I'm kinda lying here. So, so badly, I want it. Want her. Right now. I'm lightheaded with want. Ever since the tiny taste in the sheriff's office weeks and weeks ago I've been restless and unfocused. Now? After this … I don't even know what to call it. Kiss isn't anywhere near powerful enough, but all the other names I know sound stupid or corny – clinch, make-out session, embrace – yeah. No. But whatever it is, I want it. And the rest of the package too.
I want her so much that a hate fuck or pity fuck or a stress release fuck or whatever the hell we might do right now in the ashes of her house is not at all what I want.
I step back inside her space and bring my hand up, slow and steady, trying not to spook her, until I can touch her arm, bring my hand to rest on her shoulder. Not quite holding onto her, not letting her go either. "I want all of that. But not until after you answer my damn questions."
"Fine. We were together. Obviously." She spits it out like she's admitting to some past crime. Which stings, I'll admit.
"And… it was hot." I make it a statement, not a question, because, really, I already know the answer.
She scowls at me. "That's what you want to know? How good our sex life was?"
"No! Well, yes." I try out a grin. Because of course I want to know. She rolls her eyes. Which is an improvement over the glare. Mood wise, anyway. "But I asked you to marry me, Jo. And you said yes. So I know it was way more than that."
Has to be. I can't imagine any version of me wanting to get married for sex alone, no matter how spectacularly awesome it might be. It's not like there's any shortage on that front in my life, quantity if not quality wise.
It's all the other things I want to know. So I can, maybe, figure out why she's so afraid to try again.
She's turned her head and dropped her eyes, staring at some pile of charred rubble. Probably thinking some melodramatic thing like how it represented the whole of her life. Which, damn it, babe, I'm fucking standing right here!
"Yeah." Her voice is soft. So soft I could barely hear her. "It was more. You loved me. I loved you."
"Why?" This was it. Part of it, anyway. Part of what I had to understand.
"Why what?" she looks back at me, bewildered.
"Why did you love me?"
"Because you're, you…he," she fights her way through the pronouns, "he made feel beautiful. And precious. Like, he couldn't believe how lucky he was. He made me laugh. And when he figured out I was letting him win at Call of Duty he got really angry, and wouldn't stop yelling at me until I kicked his ass."
It comes out so smooth, like she's said it to herself hundreds of times. Comparing him to the disappointment of me, no doubt. She's also a little angry, a little defensive. Glaring. Definitely comparing him to me. And I'm not looking good.
Which kinda pisses me off. I could do all of those things too, given half a chance. I know it like I know math. Like breathing. And this …terrifies me. I drop my hand, because all of a sudden holding her feels dangerously like a beginning neither one of us is ready for. Okay. I'm not ready for. Yet. And I sure as hell don't think she is either.
One of the most basic rules I keep for myself, in my Eureka career as a serious, no-strings attached player, is never, ever hook up with someone who is drunk or on something. I don't think Lupo is drunk – she doesn't taste like booze, only like herself, sweet and warm – and Holly Marten's neuro-linguistic programing is supposed to be out of our systems. But, man would I hate to be wrong. The last thing I ever want to see on her face after we get it on is disgust or regret.
So I try to keep it light. My only goal from here on out is to keep her from closing the door on us. "If you promise not to throw the game, I promise not to yell at you. When we play Call of Duty."
"Ha!" She lets out a disbelieving crack of laughter. "When are we going to play Call of Duty?"
I realize I have the perfect solution. I grin at her and say, "Tonight. Come on. You shouldn't be wandering around here in the dark, and this way you can kick my ass for burning down your house without, you know, actually kicking my ass."
I lean down and pick up her suit jacket, which she'd dropped on the scorched floorboards. I try not to show my wince. Man had I been thorough. Then I look back at her and I hold out my other hand, willing her to take it. "I'll even throw in pizza and beer. I have some of Vincent's in my freezer."
I stand there with my hand out, holding her jacket hostage in my other hand. She considers me carefully for what feels like a short lifetime, solemn and wary, and then finally she steps up and puts her hand in mine. Not just letting me hold her fingers, either. She's holding on too. "Not the beer, I hope," she says.
"Nah. Not the beer. That's in the fridge," I say. I don't say that it's been in the fridge so long I can't remember when or why I bought it. But I doubt she'll care. I've seen her face when she's with Carter at Café Diem. She drinks the beer when he brings it, not because she likes it all that much.
I'm not floating, exactly, as we walk to her car, but I'm definitely feeling lighter than I have any right too, leading Lupo out of the remains of the second house she's lost in the last year. I don't think we'll be getting naked tonight. Or tomorrow. Maybe not ever, but that's …not how I'm betting.