A/N: I am so behind on reading all the stories on here! Gah! So sorries in advance for that, I'm like a solid two chapters behind on everything and each time I sit down to catch up I make it *almost* there and then get distracted again *facepalm*. Ehm. So I'm writing this other prompted story right now but I had an idea for one scene I wouldn't be able to incorporate and eventually it just turned into this thing with a story of its own.
Also, I'm pretty sure this is the first sex I have written? Yeah, I think so. I wouldn't call it smut though because it's very light on the descriptions sooo rating it Teen? Yeah, I think that's okay. I think. I don't know, tell me if you think that's wrong and I will change it *flounders*
Enjoy! :3
Disclaimer: I own only the DVDs and my own imagination - NO TOUCHY
XxxxxxxxxxX
She turned on him in a flash, prey becoming predator, green eyes wide and showing him exactly how much of his motives she knew. Suddenly he was pressed by her against a wall, short form close. It was her lips that hovered over his ear, taunting him, whispering a collection of lies, half-truths, and secrets that had him shivering constantly, confusedly, hands coming around to grip at her hips, grounding him.
It appears again after a twenty-three year absence. Having disappeared after his actions at the carnival, the thought of it certainly hadn't. He would rub the skin sometimes without thinking, wishing at rare times that the ink was still there, if simply to remind him of the most viciously passionate adversary he had ever dealt with.
She dodged his mouth, an action of his own that should have shocked his mind but felt so very right. Her teeth dragged painfully across his neck. He groaned. He didn't know how he knew, but she was smirking and it sent a shot of heat through him.
Peter and his family had moved out of the state five months ago. Now, stalking without purpose through this city full of anonymous faces and various worlds layered under one umbrella of a name, he found himself bored. And lonely. That harsh May night, he had the dream.
She straddled him on the bed, warm hands of each roaming over the other, mapping every curve, scar, and sensitive trigger. He asked her why and she didn't respond, leaning down to kiss his rough and hard, claiming him. He growled, wanting the same. He flipped them, entering her, and she made a sound he could only equate with heaven.
He wakes in a cold sweat, distinct uncomfortable tenting in his boxers. He felt frustration and befuddlement, both of which fueled anger. He hadn't seen her in person in more than ten years; there was no prompting for this. Padding to the bathroom, he telekinetically pushed the glass door open and the water dial on.
The cold water stream ran like a waterfall over his body, hitting every patch nearly equally with its force, causing his skin to spasm and seize. He grimaced, huffing out a steaming breath. Palms leaned against the wall, he dunked his head underneath it, his neck's forced lack of heat spreading quickly through his limbs.
He was grateful for it.
It was when he turned off the water that he saw the tattoo, her red-inked face staring back at him with an innocent smile once again.
He broke the glass wall.
She was exactly where he had expected, having kept tabs on her almost non-stop over the years. It was habit with everyone he knew for any length of time, especially become some - ones like Matt Parkman, a name which always flowed easily off the tongue when thinking about such topics - held grudges throughout the entirety of their lives and he had yet to fully outlive those, unfortunately.
Her reaction had been one he expected as well.
"Get out."
He smiled charmingly at the hissed words, as though they had been said jokingly and without the threat of another pencil in the eye behind them. "It's been a long time."
She rolled her eyes. "What do you want?"
"Your help."
"This better not be like that time at Arlington."
His smile drooped a minuscule amount, but she saw it all the same. "It's similar," he admitted. Reaching out, he wrapped his fingers around her forearm a few inches above her wrist. She moved to snag her arm back but his grip imitated iron. "Like it or not, Claire, our lives are intertwined for, well, ever," he smirked.
"What. Do. You. Want?"
He leaned back in the limo, pulling her forward slightly. She counterbalanced that with sliding on the seat. He frowned. "What have you been doing lately?"
She looked at him blankly. "What do you mean?"
He weighed his options before sighing, letting her go, and lifting up his sleeve.
She rolled her eyes at him. "That's what's got you so upset? The tattoo?! You are unbelievable."
He glared at her, smirk gone. Reaching over, he smashed his lips against hers, at a loss of what else to try other than Lydia's technique once more. No images popped in front of his mind, no feelings, no indications of anything that would give him an answer other than the soft feel of her lips and the smear of the last glittery remnants of some glossy lip product she had yet to re-apply before she reached whatever her destination would be.
It caught him off guard.
She used that to her advantage and pulled back, kneeing him in the groin. He groaned in surprise and before she could unleash her claws on him, he teleported out, the ability he had acquired by accident after coming to an understanding with one Hiro Nakamura.
He needed to think.
She tastes like honey and Pino Noir and a tang of salt - what others would say is the ocean, he says is tears. The bitter tang of her red lipstick stings his tongue as he pushes into her mouth, the application once again a small distraction. He memorizes it all, searching for something he doesn't even know the name of, finding a level of warmth and comfort in the kiss he didn't think was possible, something he thinks must then be a remnant of something else. But there is nothing there except his lips pressed against hers, intrusive tongue swiping through her mouth.
There's a sweet second where his coaxing works and she responds with a mewl, pressing against him in return eagerly, promising the start of a sparring match between their mouths that he finds himself excited for more than he should be-
-and then she pulls back and slaps him. He only smiles at her as though they were old friends chatting and she huffs at that, glare sliding back into place, before she stomps off down the hallway and back to her college reunion that he so rudely stalked and ambushed her at, a month after their first encounter, having to see her again because the ink was still there, pointedly stark against his skin.
He watches her go, the way the stiff movements of her hips make the green dress's loose fabric swish furiously around her legs. He has all the time in the world to chase her and he intends to do just that until he gets answers, finds himself feeling not as put out as usual at the prospect of trying and waiting around a very long time.
A redhead with pouty lips only possible from extensive plastic surgery stands in the corner by an old classroom door, most likely one of her past lecture halls. He spots her because of the way she peaks around the door, drunken actions not at all subtle, strappy heels scuffing on the linoleum floor. She giggles and he winks, un-minding of the audience.
As he walks back to campus's center plaza, he contemplates whether Claire's brief response had been genuine. His hand reaches over, thumb grazing absentmindedly over the ink that rested inside his skin underneath the black dress shirt. He thinks that maybe he was wrong about its intent.
She seeks him out after his seventh visit to her, a charming stop by her office that had her receptionist swooning and her stomping her foot, especially after he teased the ghosting of a breath over the back of her neck when she failed to register his presence for a near minute after she entered her private office.
He doesn't understand why the empathy is failing to work now and why he continues to dream about her - them - in compromising positions. It unsettles him each time after he finishes teasing her and retreats to his apartment, mind left to ponder studiously. It's not like he has anything better to do right now, his calendar intentionally free. However, he's finding he likes it, teasing her this way, catching her off guard, and maybe each time he gets a little lost in it himself. It's almost a form of therapy.
It's six months after he resumed their contact and she pounds on his door, staring at him with a blank face through the peephole. It takes him by surprise. He lets her in.
Before he can close the door, she spats out, "What games are you playing?"
He raises an eyebrow at her, arms crossed over his chest. "Specifics, Claire."
She stares at him for an unnerving length of time. He doesn't flinch. He watches her hook a hand around the back of his neck and pull him down for a kiss before he can register it, believe it. It's brutal and she bites his lip, drawing blood, making him gasp. He keeps his hold on her shoulders. She's the one that forces tongue contact this time, something he hadn't dared again since their second encounter.
He spins them, slamming her against the wall, unable to help himself, craving the control if she's going to act like an animal with him. She gasps and disconnects their mouths with a pop. He waits, breathing heavily, for her reaction.
She's out of his arms and out the door in less than a minute and all he does is lean his forehead against the wall, wondering if there was something wrong with them, running her words through his head until the sun set.
She peaks his interest with her words and he calls Peter the day after. He tries to skirt the details as much as possible and ends up with a vague story that his best friend is intensely suspicious with, but nevertheless promises him he will help look into.
That evening, he goes to watch her. She would call it stalking but he finds fault with that word and at this point is not willing to attempt to even label it. The terms are either too idiotic or presumptuous so he doesn't reflect on that and instead tightens his jaw when he sees her on a date. The man is a snob-nosed prick that talks about himself too much and compliments her only when he tries to seduce her back to his hotel room.
She declines and he feels relief that he knows he shouldn't but it is all consuming and he couldn't turn it off if tried, which at this point he doesn't think he is.
He follows the guy this time and not her, letting her go home in peace. The guy's hotel room is a nice suite, he'll give him that, but it was not like he was expecting anything else. He knocks on the door and the guy opens it with an impatient "What?!"
He throws him against the wall with his hands, liking the feel, and watches the fear blossom in the grey eyes, stripping the man's facade away in a wonderfully satisfying way. He only stays to make the man piss his pants and leaves. He gave no reason for it, doesn't feel he needs to, and this way the man will sit in his own urine in his hotel room for the next hour, thinking over everything he's done in the past month, talking himself up in a way that only a person's mind can.
He feels it's worth it and smirks the rest of the night.
It's an unknown number that calls him forty-eight hours later. He answers with preamble, bored.
"You seriously only answer with 'Gray speaking'?"
"What else am I supposed to say?" He retorted easily.
"You could just say 'hello'."
"Boring."
A pause. "When did the tattoo pop up again?" She asked with a weary tone.
He replied just as somberly, cutting the games. "A day before I first saw you."
"That was fast."
He grunted.
"So." He could hear her lick her lips. "When did it go away?"
That question he had not expected. He stared out across the brief shot of New York City landscape he could see, a less-impressive space of low storey old brick buildings. "The day I saw you; when I went to Parkman. And, when Peter and I got out of the wall. The trigger could be anything. It was a long day," he said quietly, rubbing a hand along the bottom of his jaw absent-mindedly. "The day you jumped."
There was silence on the other end of the line for so long he pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at the time, noting that four minutes had passed. He said nothing to prompt her back to their conversation, the silence strangely comfortable since he knew that she was still on the other end. For everything and nothing at all.
"I guess I'll see you later."
"Probably," he allowed. He hesitated before bidding her goodnight. She hung up a few seconds later without another word of her own.
It was several months later, the first of January, that she visited an estate in far northern Texas. He knew about it from Peter, whose family he had spent the holidays with. Emma's face was as soft as ever, despite the few faint wrinkles she complained about, and seeing the children again was a nice surprise, something he found himself having looked forward to more than he initially presumed. Claire called them, chatting over video, and he had left the room.
He knew she bought the estate from something Peter had said a few years prior, something he had not paid much attention to at the time. Not until he returned to New York did he know she was out of town. He checked Texas as his second stop.
Her place was not hard to find. The sun was setting when he walked around the side of the house and up the back patio. She tensed when she saw him before looking back out across the beautiful landscape.
When he caught the label on her wine bottle, he smiled. "Pinot?"
"It's unfortunately an acquired taste," she said flippantly. "It's the most common at all the functions."
"Hm." He walked through the open french doors and found her kitchen easily. He returned with a glass.
"Help yourself," she mumbled.
"Thank you." His smile was just as mocking as her comment when he regarded her again, sitting down beside her in a separate chair he pulled over with a flick of the wrist. "You been out here the whole holidays?"
"No."
He stared at her. "How was Noah?"
She swiveled her head, staring right back at him. "None of your business."
He shrugged. "Fair enough."
"Do you even have a job?"
It caught him by surprise so much he chuckled, loosening up a bit as he took a sip out of his glass. "Depends on who you ask."
"What kind of answer is that?"
"A complicated one."
She snorted.
"An honest one."
She choked on her wine. "Right! You, honest! Those are two words that go together so well," she said sarcastically, swirling the wine in her glass. She stood, crossing to the cedar oak railing, taking a deep breath. She whirled on him while he was still talking himself off the ledge of spewing an insult at her. Her eyes were vibrant. "I have dreams."
His own came to mind but he only raised an eyebrow. "I'm not your therapist."
"About us; they're about us." Her eyes were calculating. He sat up, setting the glass down. "Are you doing that?"
"Thought I wasn't honest," he commented slowly, cocking his head.
She set her own glass on the railing. "You are when you want to be," she relented.
He licked his lips. "No. I'm not putting them in your head, or mine."
The surprise on her face was so genuine it made him smile. Most of her gestures were in mock lately, it was a sort of shock to him to see the mask fall away. "That's why you have the tattoo."
He inwardly applauded her ability to put all the pieces together without having to be told. "Probably." He stood, crossing to her. He put his hands on the railing at either side of her petite form. "They're problematic," he said bluntly. "They won't go away."
"Because you have such a busy schedule for them to distract you from."
Her head tilted up to look at him fully and he saw the flush on her cheeks, knew now why she had the need to be sarcastic and so lacking in warmth around him. Ducking his head, he pressed his lips a hair's width away from her ear. "You're the only one I didn't apologize to," he told her off-handedly.
"Why?" She questioned, voice imitating a whisper.
He turned his head, lips on her throat. "I liked all our... sparring."
"Pity."
He lifted his head.
"I hated them."
The tingle from the lie that raced down his spine and the naked expression on her face had him closing the small space between them quickly. This time, she truly did respond, meeting every movement of his with fervor. His hands encircled her waist, delicately, and her own clutched at his collar. As they moved, he was momentarily dreading the slap to come, but then one of her hands cupped his jaw, the other running through his hair, and he couldn't help the way he automatically worked to control himself, to return the gentle touch.
She let him lift her on the railing, heels of her feet pushing into his lower back, making him suck in a breath as he moved to lick the column of her neck, her collarbone. He didn't know why he was doing this, succumbing to urges like this, but then she let out a soft moan and he didn't care, moving a hand up over her ribs.
It felt like he was in a whirlwind as he worshiped her, dropping open-mouthed kisses everywhere he could reach, touch, claim. She returned the love bites, encouraging him, arching against him when he moved higher, burying her head in his shoulder when he moved lower.
Sometime during the delicate dance that consumed them, he moved them to her bedroom, the thought nagging him that if anyone was watching them they would see her indecent, her being revealed for all to see, but not before she stripped him of his shirt out on the deck, him of her sundress against the stairwell, her withdrawing his belt from his jean loops in the hallway. The metal clasp fell with a clinging sound on the hardwood and a few seconds later she gasped as she hit the bed.
She moved to flip them and he let her, conscious of the movement with a grin, mesmerized by how her shoulder-length hair, curled from the humidity, fanned a curtain over their faces when she hovered a few inches from his face, running her fingers along his cheekbones. Her pupils were dilated with a thin ring of green along the edge but it was still as vibrant as ever.
"I hate you," she lied softly and he surged forward, unable to handle the distance any longer.
They moved leisurely, sensually, sharing control. He didn't know why they hadn't done this sooner but as she breathed whimpers of pleasure against his skin, he could not help thinking that some things were worth waiting for, a theory he would have balked at years earlier.
When they came it was so close together he did not know who fell off the cliff first and as he cradled her close, nose pressed in her hair, eyes contentedly shut, he could think of no better metaphor than a cliff as there was no climbing back to the way they were before, for better or worse.
The dream manipulator walked through the sated minds of the two sharing a bed back in a cream room in Texas, in reality. The images he saw of dreams, memories, and pure wanting, satisfied him on the success of his mission. With a quirk of a smile, his appearance in their imagination flicked and then disappeared forever with no intention of returning ever again, leaving no imprint on their minds of his being there for the briefest of seconds. They didn't need to know they had been given a helping hand.