Burn
A/N: This story takes place sometime after the events of the S3 episode Last Call.
"This is a bad idea," Shaw said, as the sweat dried on their naked bodies.
"It's a little late for that," Peter Collier reached for the bottle of Diesel on the nightstand. "And besides, you contacted me."
Burn.
Shaw didn't really understand why some people burned, but she was drawn to the heat.
Maybe it was because as Gen said, her feelings were dialed down so low, that it took a bonfire, a raging inferno, for her to actually feel something.
Cole had burned, Reese and Finch with their little crusade had burned, and Carter had been like a supernova, something so clear and bright and pure that you wanted to be near it, even though you knew it would hurt you, even though you knew that when it died, everything around it died as well.
Shaw expected John to fall apart; he loved Joss and though he was back, he was as empty as the suit he'd hung in that elevator when they rescued that little boy. Harold would take Bear for long aimless walks until the pain in his body forced him to forget the pain in his heart and Fusco would try to make stupid jokes, the punchline drifting away into the silence, while his fingers crushed an empty bottle of club soda.
Bear would watch them filter aimlessly into the safe house, waiting for her to walk in, lean down and whisper in his ear while she ruffled his neck, but whatever words Joss would say to him were a secret between the two of them, and Shaw knew that even if she knew what they were and repeated them to Bear, it wouldn't be the same, he'd stare at her blankly and look past her, look at the door again.
Shaw expected them to be broken and sad and lonely. They'd known her, worked with her, cared for her, loved her.
She just didn't expect it of herself.
Anger, yes, but not this. Not this gnawing hole that seemed to get bigger every day.
They did their jobs, they saved lives, they shared a drink by the fire.
But they didn't burn anymore. And Shaw needed the heat.
She watched Collier's slim, strong fingers open the bottle, his smooth dark skin gleaming in the lamplight as he poured them both another shot.
He'd known she was following him tonight, of course. She'd made sure of it.
Shaw had told herself it was because she wanted to rattle him, to set him off base, to make him wonder when she was going to make her move and how.
But he wasn't frightened of her, indeed, he seemed to enjoy the company, slowing down to make sure she was still following him, glancing in a store display window, a soft smile gracing his lips as he walked along.
Collier handed the glass to her, their fingers touching, and Shaw knew that even though they had already tugged and twisted and torn the sheets more than once tonight, they would do it again, soon.
Shaw didn't toss back the shot, instead sipped it slowly, savoring how the taste of Collier on her lips mingled with her favorite drink.
He rose and went into the bathroom, softly closing the door behind him.
Shaw looked at her clothes strewn on the floor.
She knew Collier was testing her, giving her the chance to leave, to call her teammates, to kill him.
Draining her glass, Shaw leaned back and closed her eyes.
She'd followed him to an old church that had been converted into a sort of community center. Finding her way to a dusty unused balcony, Shaw listened as he was greeted enthusiastically by many in the crowd there – apparently he had used his skills as a lawyer in the past to help them save the building from a wrecking ball - and the place was packed on this bitterly cold winter evening.
They listened intently as he spoke about the privileges, and even more importantly, the responsibilities of citizenship, the untapped power they had to make their street, their neighborhood, their city a better place.
His voice was warm and encouraging and passionate, and he skillfully drew the crowd in, firing their imaginations, challenging them and encouraging them to ask questions, to even dismiss what he said, and some did, some told him he was full of it. Some laughed and joked and heckled him.
But they didn't leave.
And Shaw saw the heat rise in the room, little tendrils of energy that flushed faces, and parted lips, that made heads nod in agreement or shake in disapproval, that caused people to actually put down their electronic devices, and listen, actually listen for once.
The balcony was unheated and drafty, but Shaw opened her coat, let the heat drift over her, let it cascade over her face and neck.
She opened her hands and let the heat spill between her fingers, felt it wind around her wrists.
She wanted to close her eyes, wanted to listen to his voice and his footsteps as he made his way around the spellbound room, but she couldn't, she had to watch him, had to watch the crowd's reaction to him.
As Shaw scanned the crowd, she saw a woman standing against a wall in the packed room, the woman's gaze sharpening just a bit as she picked out the one who leaned forward a just a little bit more than the others, the one whose questions had the right blend of skepticism and hope, the one who could seamlessly infiltrate a corporation or an agency or a governmental department.
The one who, after being carefully groomed, recruited and trained, would become the next member of Vigilance.
They surged around him after his speech, hugging and kissing him, slapping him on the back and Shaw almost missed the deft sleight of hand as Collier passed an envelope to a young A&F* looking man in the crowd, an envelope that Shaw knew contained information on Vigilance's next target.
They gradually drifted away, heading to a reception in the basement. The woman approached Collier, touched him lightly on the hand, and Shaw knew that she'd been with Collier in the past, knew she wanted to be with him tonight.
He murmured in her ear, gently dismissing her.
She gave him a weak smile, then left to join the others downstairs.
As she walked away, his eyes followed her, and for a moment Shaw saw something that looked like it might be regret or guilt on his face, but he closed his eyes, and Shaw saw the feeling pass.
For the first time, Collier looked up at the balcony.
He walked out of the building.
Shaw followed him.
He was waiting for her on the sidewalk.
Wordlessly they made their way to a nearby hotel.
Shaw didn't ask how Collier knew what her favorite drink was, just nodded when he handed the desk clerk a large bill and asked him to send a bottle up.
They didn't wait for the bottle of course, and Shaw was still gasping through her first series of orgasms, when Collier strode to the door and took the bottle from the bellhop.
He was lean and lithe and utterly beautiful, an intoxicating combination of precision and elegance and raw power and a fierce intelligence, that kept her off base – he'd slow things down or speed them up when she least expected it, press her face into the mattress so hard she could barely breathe, then tenderly take her hands in his and kiss her fingers one at a time so sensuously that she was breathless.
Shaw wondered if her coldness was why he wanted her, that after all the slogans and polemics, the meetings, the missions and the murders, the rage and passion, the losses and the guilt, he wanted to clasp something cool against his body, wanted to bank the fire for a little while, for even just one night.
Shaw knew Collier would die, knew that she would probably be the one to kill him.
Perhaps that was why he was so attractive – she'd feel the heat, bask in it, but then extinguish it before it burned her.
Collier stepped out of the bathroom, stood there looking at her.
Shaw put the glass back on the bedside table.
"This is a bad idea," she said again, and then all rational thought fled, as he took her in his arms.
Peter Collier burned.
And Shaw wanted sit by the fire for a little while.
*Abercrombie and Fitch