Title: Bane of Contention
Author: Roguie/ SunSpecOps/ Danae Bowen
Fandom: Eureka
Characters: Jo/Zane
Rating: T
Word Count: 1500
Spoilers: Up to 5x04
Disclaimer: Eureka obviously doesn't belong to me, if it did, I could use my Primeval disclaimer without worrying about offending people. :D Please don't sue, my house is small, my car is useless and my dogs are pains in the arse, but they're all I have.
Summary: Episode Tag to 5x04 - He asked for an answer, he was lied to in kisses. He shouldn't be alright with that, but it's who they are.
A/N: This was supposed to be a crack!fic about burning that bloody sweater Jo was wearing in 5x04, but Zane didn't feel like playing silly today and went all serious thought mode on me. The Mr. Rogers reference is courtesy of a conversation with Wyndes – because she made me laugh in the middle of a full on sweater rant, it had to be used. Also, somewhere down the line, we've made Erica laugh about that damned sweater too, so I'm good with this. :D My day is complete. :D
~~~E~~~
Zane Donovan was no fool; a miscreant, maybe, a playboy, at one time, an ass, of course, but never a fool.
He recognized avoidance when he saw it, knew deflection better than most, but when Jo leaned in, brushing her soft lips over his in a kiss so gentle that it was almost unfamiliar in its touch, for once he let it slide. He'd laid his ultimatum on the table and Jo had answered him with the only truth she could allow; when all was said and done, she wanted him, Zane Donovan, physicist, almost astronaut, pain in the ass Donovan who was just grateful she hadn't told him to take a hike.
He knew there was still something not quite right about his fiery Lupo. Her eyes still traveled to the small family in the corner of the café, her head still ducked, face flushed, as Vincent interrupted them, and she wore that bloody sweater like a suit of armor, held tight to her body, hiding her from him and the world.
Every nuance, every action, every single breath Jo took radiated avoidance. He sighed softly, slipping his fingers into hers, squeezing her hand reassuringly.
Did he bring this on? This slow crumbling of the strong, confident woman of whom on some level he'd always been terrified? With whom he's always been enamored? Even, perhaps, a little bit in love? Did he bring those walls in which she'd hidden herself tumbling to the ground, leaving a shell of destruction in their wake, her nerves bleeding and unprotected, raw and waiting for the next blow, hidden only behind a thin veil of fabric as if that alone could save her?
Of course he did. He'd seen her breaking, little cracks around the edges, little fissures of emotion peeking through when she thought she was alone. Those cracks were the reason he'd pushed the kiss in the sheriff's office what seemed like so long ago.
When those fissures grew wider, he'd pushed his fingers in there and pulled, leaving her vulnerable to attack, so he did. At first, the attacks came in the form of little touches, his shoulder against hers, his hip against hers, his breath on the back of her neck as he reached around her just that little bit too close, loving every second of her uncontrollable tremors that she thought she'd hidden so well. When touches became kisses, she was too weak to do more than protest, her battered defenses letting him in too close for retreat, and how fast had he become addicted to the feeling of his lips moving over hers, of her leaning against his powerful body for support when her knees buckled, an undeniable whimper escaping her against her will, setting fire to every ounce of blood in his veins. When kisses devolved into long nights of sweaty, sticky, rough sex, who was he to argue when her final method of protection was to run from his bed, his sofa, the floor, wherever and rationalize away the heart stopping sensations that kept her coming back, night after night, always denying the power of the next day.
It was their thing, it's what they do: get under each other's skin until they explode and then start back at square one. Touching. Kissing. Sex. Touching. Kissing. Sex. Nothing more, nothing less; a routine, a comfort. It was all either of them needed until they faced six months without the other and everything changed with the single panicked beat of two hearts irrevocably linked.
He may have forced her walls down, brick by infuriating brick, but she slammed them back in place faster than he could say ionic resonator. Sex had turned to love, he knew it, she knew it, but he was just about too far away to catch her when she started to run.
No, there was no place to start over. His heart lay on the counter in front of her, and she twitched with every beat, like a frightened rabbit ready to flee. They couldn't start with touching – she would run too far, too fast with that much freedom. They wouldn't start with kissing – she'd just proved that it was far too easy to lie with a brush of her lips. They'd start with something they were impressively good at together and work their way back from there.
There was just one tiny little thing standing between them and a night of working out their frustrations, skin on skin, bodies flush and panting as they buried memories they'd need a lifetime of bleach to begin to erase.
His fingers moved slowly to the sleeve of her sweater, his thumb playing over her pulse point as he tugged on the offending fabric lightly.
"Great fashion choice, there, JoJo. What'd you do? Wake up this morning and think, I want to dress like Mr. Rogers today? Because I gotta say, not the best look for you."
He watched as her eyes flashed and her cheeks burned a rosy hue. "Not the best way to get me to go home with you, Zane," she muttered, quietly, climbing to her feet.
He grinned mischievously, his bright blue eyes dancing as he cocked his head towards Carter and Allison. "Would you rather go home with that?" His dimple flashed and an eyebrow rose in question.
"Good point."
As they walked out of the café, Zane quietly peeled the offending sweater from Jo's shoulders, sighing softly as he ran strong fingers over the soft skin of her arms, breathing her in silently.
"I'm burning this, you know." He grinned again, but when Jo met his eyes, she was startled by the dark seriousness smoldering in his gaze.
"You are not."
"Like hell I'm not. You are a strong, beautiful woman; you shouldn't want to hide yourself away from the world, from me. I want to see you, JoJo, all of you." He broke the headiness of his statement with a crooked grin. "Literally and figuratively."
His eyebrow rose, his eyes danced, and just like that they fell into place again. Her fist connected with his shoulder only seconds before she was leaning into him, his arm around her waist holding her close.
Time could change. Reality could change. Hell, they themselves could change, but every time change came to pass, they would survive, stronger, together, sealing their questionable future just a little more every day.
If she noticed when he dropped her sweater into one of the fire pits Vincent had set up outside the café, she didn't say. She waved a quiet goodbye to Carter as they walked past the window and she could almost feel the smirk radiating off Zane in the way his posture shifted.
"Y'know, you're lucky I still want you after the whole Carter fiasco."
"Zane…"
"That the way is gonna be, JoJo? The minute I'm out of the picture, you'll fall into Carter's arms? 'Cause if that's your only other choice, I think I'm a little offended."
"Zane, oh my God, nothing happened!"
He smirked again and shrugged his shoulders with fake nonchalance. "Well, he did see you naked."
"What?"
Her shock stopped her in her tracks and Zane almost wasn't able to prevent his laughter from spilling over. Instead, he closed his eyes tightly, controlling himself as he uttered his next words carefully.
"Yep. Just ask Fargo; he was there, too."
"Fargo? Fargo saw… me… Fargo?"
Six hours earlier it had bothered him. Six hours earlier he'd been so insecure in his relationship with Jo, if it could be called a relationship, that the mere thought of any other man laying eyes or hands on her, even a poor representation of her, had him behaving like a spoiled six year old. Maybe on some level he'd always be a child when it came to sharing Jo, maybe on some level he'd always be wondering if tonight would be the last night he'd hold her in his arms.
He wasn't the only one to tease about leaving town, about having no reason to stay.
She wasn't the only one who'd had to swallow the terror born from impending separation, all in an attempt to support the other's chance at happiness.
Every day for the rest of their time together he'd wake up asking himself what made him so special that she'd choose him over everything else at her fingertips, because in his entire lifetime, no one else ever had.
They were a mess, he and Jo, climbing out of the ruins of defenses long since torn down, learning to trust each other one more time. That he could laugh now at the look of exaggerated horror crossing Jo's face proved how far he'd come in those six short hours. It was a game now, a tease. Soon her shoulder would bump his, soon his breath would whisper across the soft expanse of flesh just below where her ponytail lay. Soon there would be kissing, and skin on skin, teeth, tongues and fingernails trailing intense paths of sensation across flesh too long without touch. This time, however, he'd not let her leave when the sun began to rise. He'd hold her tight, wedging open the crevices in her armor, standing on the ruins of her walls. He'd not let them return to normal, status quo, hearts just that far out of reach.
This time when he falls, he's taking her with him, kicking, screaming, and biting if necessary. He had her now, safely in his arms, safely in his heart. Come hell, high water, or a Global Dynamics disaster of the week, this time he wouldn't let go.
~~~Fin