The second of a trio in the Apples theme, spanning three categories with sexual tension resolved the Zaedah way.
First sin: Tony and Ziva...
Second sin: Peter and Olivia...
Apples: Luxury's Bite
Somewhere in the breaths between ducking bullets and chasing mutants lay the luxuries of life. Not that life, with its wily humors, allots much time for wallowing in opulence. Rather, they are stolen seconds among the frantic pace of hunting wisps of the paranormal. Once, her preferred method of unwinding involved a filled tub and wine. Solitude. Alone. With thoughts devoid of translucent flesh and mind melding. Once, relaxation was a daily aim rarely achieved but eagerly anticipated. Now it's unreachable Valhalla. Except…
His hand shouldn't be there. Someone will see.
The alley is dank, the erosion of society on display. Bodies that traveled despite the absence of life are found heaped together in an unfortunate Jenga. Move one limb and they'll tumble. She tells him this, knowing he's thinking the same and an agent within earshot scoffs at her disrespect. The rookie hasn't seen what they have, his stomach lining still blessedly intact. Let him view an elderly newborn. Let him join the dreams of the dead.
His mouth is full of snark and fire. Just there. Now there.
Luxuries, she decides, are the ultimate fish-in-a-barrel. Too many variables to determine optimal success. How many shots, how big the prey, how long to choose? Distance and clarity mold the weapon but the damned things squirm. How does one hold onto a moment of peace when it's as slick as destruction and twice as fickle? He knows, having calculated for all improbabilities, foregoing any weapon and forcing nimble hands into the barrel to claim his prize. But he uses faulty math because peace is fleeting. Still, the glimpse of it covers the gaping holes this world is carving into her. And she's brimming with potholes.
He also has holes and she's touching every one.
In the quest for meaning, the mythical greater good, an agent signs away personal time, interests and romance. A younger version of her needed none of these, purpose her reward for abstaining. But after she'd fallen, after snatching at the personal, she'd been tread upon, trampled under the mob shouting traitor at her hobby. And she vowed to never again eat of the Tree. But that was before she acquired a taste for a new apple, tart and crisp. Nibble the edges. Don't reach the rotting center. Of course, like every good fighting dog, secrets are impossible to keep close. They growl, they bite, they snap.
Fingers dripping with sinister intent trace angels on her skin.
They're reduced to hurried expressions of the many emotions that defy words. Love is a decorative doily, a quaint concept with no actual life application. Nor is there practical use in the entertaining of fantasies, though portions of meetings are spent in bruising daydreams. What activities passed the twilight. Where. How. Quickies are the luxury now and he never stays. It's the con version of gallantry. He likes to remind her that her first words to him were lies and she suspects every sentence thereafter falls into that category. But he's not known for honesty either.
Truth, when excavated by the greedy hands of liars, is orgasmic.
Her heart had been a tender thing fortified by bureau-issued armor. Under the glare of the Pattern, the organ shriveled; sufficient to perform the designed task but not capable of producing feeling. It's struggling to break its crinkled shell as they lie on her cold floor. His arms cradle her in a willing shield she can't quite trust. In the panting of midnight she reaches out with no direction, no map. Luxury is hovering just beyond the freezing linoleum and the holstered gun and the ringing phone. One can't take what isn't owned, she explains to patient stars. Beneath their glow she borrows the talented hands that make her forget. She'll have to give them back one day.
His brilliant mind isn't his most impressive attribute.
Eons ago, when innocence wasn't a cosmic joke, she was warned about dangerous men. The abusive kind was easy to manage. It was the heartbreaker, the swindler, for whom her family installed an inner sensor. It's been alarming for weeks but they failed to prepare her for the addiction. When a day of panic and fear culminates in a moment of impossible bliss, it's simple to ignore the blaring horns of impending stupidity. He'll leave her and take the last luxury with him.
When the bad man is good, he's so very good. And when he's bad…
And then she is made to answer for the crime; how a seasoned agent could be led into sin by a questionable civilian with laminated credentials and no moral compass. Hours ago she had whispered shameful hopes in his ear, found his answer pushing into her core, sinking her with the insistence that defines him. Now judgment spins webs around her name even as she denies what they know. They know. Give them nothing, look for escape. And she does. They seal the record, inconclusive, and the schoolgirl she's reverted to runs back to the source of the trauma. And he's whispering pretty words on a velvet tongue and truth becomes something to either hang onto or hang from.
If the pursuit of luxury requires pain, she'll gladly bleed for it.