JE VOUS VEUX
type: one-shot.
pairings: surprise, surprise. read on; i'm sure you'll get it.
synopsis: he's not supposed to be so desirable.
time: around the "more than a single" ep.
reviews: greatly appreciated.
disclaimer: don't need one, no names are used in this particular story ;)
a/n: title means "i want you" in french. first RFR fic, working on several others, generally much longer with multiple chapters, based around this pairing. this may have a companion piece, from the male POV; we'll see. ;)
* * *
* Underneath your clothes,
there's an endless story. *
She'd never felt this way before. Ever. Sure, she'd had crushes before, even seriously liked guys, but this was different. This was something else. At first, there had been the friend connection. The "we-click" thing. The basis, of course, for any solid relationship.
But what any real relationship needs, one with romance and passion, trust and compassion, in addition to that solid relationship, is something else. That little something, that attraction. She'd never had that with any other guy friends, though she may have thought she liked them. But the attraction had been missing. That certain magnetism, that certain factor that divides friend and more than friend. And with him too, she'd never seen it coming. Because, after all, he was the most unsexy person ever. Always so serious, and weird in a way that turned a lot of girls off. He wasn't suave. He wasn't charming and obviously funny, like the other two boys she was close with. She couldn't figure out where the appeal was, she couldn't figure out why suddenly, she couldn't get him out of her mind. He wasn't that kind of boy that was supposed to get a girl all giggly and flushed and…hot.
He would never use a pick-up line, under any circumstance, that was for sure. And he most certainly would never wear a wifebeater, or anything for the purpose of showing himself off. He didn't stand with his thumbs in his pockets or try to exude that rugged, masculine look. He wasn't a flirt, he had never flirted in his life, he didn't say tacky things like, "You have beautiful eyes." He didn't brag. He never spoke of past experiences with the opposite sex.
In fact, there really was no reason to even believe there was any past experiences with the opposite sex. Except for one thing, of course. You looked at him, and—you knew. You knew there had to be a past, a history, maybe even a line of women. You melted at the astutely uttered lines that seemed to just roll of his tongue, and sometimes they were probably corny, but they most certainly didn't sound that way. You found yourself blushing when he caught you staring at the impressive upper body clad in only a wifebeater, and reveled in the sincere way that he was unaware you'd even been staring, and wondered what was up with you. After all, it just got a little hot out, so he took off the top layer of shirts. The relaxed way he stood, and leaned against whatever wall was behind him, and rested his chin in his hand and you found yourself thinking thoughts you didn't know you were mentally mature enough to conjure in your head. And the irresistible smile, the half-smile that was barely even there, almost laughing to himself at some private joke, and his eyes laughing right along.
And when he tells you that your eyes are beautiful, he truly means your eyes are beautiful. He's making a simple observation, in the way you'd speak of a painting, or a song, or the weather. He's not saying this because he wants you to fall in love with him. He's not using a corny line to try to get in your pants.
But suddenly, you want to rip them off anyway.