I didn't intend to finish this tonight - I actually wasn't sure if I'd ever finish it - so I've even taken myself a little by surprise! I warn you now that I don't think either character is particularly likeable in this, but it just seemed appropriate for them.
Set after ep9, 'Crazy Love'. (Reposting because something went decidedly wrong with the link the first time.)
As usual, the characters are far better off with their creators - I'm just borrowing them for nefarious purposes.
It's been happening since the second year of their acquaintance – he even hesitates to call it friendship, it's that messed up – but she's never been predictable. There have been nights he was sure she would be standing on his doorstep, only to wonder if that was disappointment he felt; and nights where nothing had happened but there she was, eyes hiding the ghosts of unshed tears and searching for something he's not she'll ever find in him – or maybe in anyone.
He sometimes wonders if he uses Natalie as a shield – because the only times he knows for sure where he stands are the intermittent periods when his commitment switch is forced down. Even at those times, he admits (only to himself and only to be faced with a week of guilt afterwards) to sometimes wondering what would happen if he went to her.
He never has. He's always waited. For her.
He's a fool, he tells himself. It isn't even like he really thinks they could be something – anything… He spends too many days on the verge of hating her for the risks she takes and the way she's played with all their lives at some point. She's selfish, blinkered, ignorant of the pressure she puts on everyone around her. And he's unreliable unless there's a gun in his hand and a vest on his chest, unable to make decisions about his own life never mind anyone else's; he's too ready to preach at her and ignore his own actions, too quick to assume her own turbulent background is driving her reactions.
But still he waits. For her.
Like always, the night he expects her he spends with a beer and the television for company. He laughs at himself when he realises the inherent dichotomy in expecting her yet knowing she won't come precisely because he expects her. He's twisting his own theory in his head, sure that because he would never normally listen out for her on a quiet night he'll now convince himself she'll come and therefore end up waiting for the buzzer to go. Sometimes he thinks his colleagues would be surprised at the amount of time he spends over-thinking.
So it's not the night they watch a teenage girl's life crumble in front of them but two nights later – when he really isn't expecting her – that she's there when he opens the door.
She doesn't say hello, just, "Natalie here?"
He shakes his head. "Thought you knew."
"Not like you tell me these days," she says, flatly, sidling past him without waiting for an invitation. "Isn't it normally you who ends up homeless?"
He doesn't need to tell her, he reminds himself; he knows he's goading, taunting him into frustration so she can ignore who he is and what she's doing to their partnership. He's not blameless but he knows it will always be her who instigates. "She's at her mother's." He gestures to the boxes scattered across the floor. "I'm packing."
"You know damn well you'll be unpacking by Tuesday," she scorns, not meeting his eyes as she scans the half-filled boxes.
He stares at her, unresponsive for so long that she's forced to turn to face him.
"That's really what you want to be thinking about right now?" he asks her, wondering if that's menace he hears in his own voice.
She shrugs her shoulders.
He follows her into the kitchen, watches as she pulls a beer from the fridge, pops the cap on the worktop and swallows a third of the bottle without pause. Sometimes he thinks she wants to convince herself she's not sober on the nights she comes to him; it'll never work, she can drink with the best of them.
She looks at him as she downs the next third of the bottle, her eyes daring him to say something.
He still isn't sure how close he is to hating her.
"What are you here for, Annie?" He breaks the silence as she slides the bottle from her lips, condensation running down the glass.
She chuckles, a harsh, ruthless sound. "Fuck, Jimmy, if I'm not predictable by now you need your brain testing."
His eyes narrow. "That it?"
It's not the first time they've had a variant on this conversation and one day he hopes he'll stand his ground.
"Yeah, that's it." There's a challenge in her voice, one they both know he won't meet.
He nods and takes the bottle from her, tipping the remaining third down his throat. He can feel her watching him, knows she's half-aroused and half-bitter, determined to hide how lonely she is sometimes. It's been a long time since she masked it successfully and almost as long since the last time he dared bring it up, to be met with her intense stare of angry sadness. She walked out on him that night and he's never risked it again.
He steps towards her, forcing her to back against the counter.
"You fucked up with Carina," he says quietly, gliding the cold, wet bottle from her collarbone down over the exposed curve of her breast. "You know you were too close."
"Hell, we gonna have this argument every week?" she spits back, riled. "Not like you can say I risked anything this time."
He notices she doesn't stop the movement of the bottle over her heated skin but knows better than to comment.
"You risked yourself," he murmurs in her ear, tipping his head closer. "And you damn well know it. You might not have been leaping off cliffs but you know you lost sight of rationality."
"Shut up," she mutters, leaning back slightly and watching the dampness spread over her chest.
It's a weak comeback from her and for the moment he's content she's had no choice but to listen. He knows he takes advantage of these moments, saying things she brushes aside every day; he's not always sure she modifies her behaviour, but he's not lost hope.
She's breathing audibly now, even though his hands haven't touched her, and his heart is beating faster. It's the only time he holds the power and they both know it; he thinks she secretly likes it. He trails his index finger through the path left by the water droplets, the light touch moving down over the rise of her breast and down into her cleavage. Her breath catches.
"You done with the lecture now?" she asks in a tone that would sound irritable to anyone but him, in his kitchen, right now.
"Depends," he tells her, his lips brushing the edge of her ear.
"On what?"
"On what you're going to do to stop me," he whispers, taking the final step towards her so that she's pressed against him.
She tilts her head back to look up at him across the slight height difference. "Then we're done," she confirms, her mouth meeting his halfway through her reply.
He's always surprised by her kiss: the first time she kissed him he was caught completely off-guard by the gentleness. He still expects her to be firmer, more controlling; but even now, a thousand kisses later, she's still almost tender.
He wonders if it really is a thousand kisses and what that says about the whole fucked-up mess.
So it's him who deepens the kiss, like always, fighting against the subordination she forces him into during the day in the only way he'll allow himself. His hands grip her waist as he presses her back against the counter, hips already starting to grind. Her arms come up around his neck, her fingers playing with the short strands of his hair.
She joked once that his hair would be as uncontrollably curly as Goldilocks' if he let it grow. He's never told her she was right.
Her tongue slides against his without resistance as she lets him tip her head back, one of his hands moving up her back to tug her hair loose. He's always preferred it down; it helps him distance the woman in his arms from the one he spends his days with. She moans into his mouth and then draws in a sharp breath as he pulls his lips away to nip her neck gently.
"Remember not-" she starts, before he cuts her off when he kisses her again.
"I won't mark you," he mutters, not enjoying the reminder that tomorrow means leaving no evidence on her body that would force her head to remember who she is sometimes.
Her fingers are working ineffectively at the buttons of his shirt, but he knows he needs to move this out of his kitchen; whatever they are – or are not – he won't fuck her on the counter like she's not worth his bed. He grips one thigh, bringing it round his hip and trying not to be distracted by the sound she makes as the swelling bulge in his jeans thrusts against where he knows damn well she's already wet. She resists his attempt to wrap her other leg around him so he can lift her, grasping his wrist.
"No," she mumbles, her tongue swiping over his upper lip before she sucks it into her mouth, biting sharply.
"It's okay," he assured her, knowing why she's so resistant. "I changed the sheets yesterday."
Is it wrong that he wouldn't care about fucking her in the same sheets where he's slept with Natalie? He remember it's not just her he ends up hating every time this happens; it's himself as well. When he changed the sheets he knew exactly why he was doing so.
"Okay," she breathes, her nails scratching the back of his neck as her fingers slip beneath his collar.
He lifts her easily, reminded – as always – that she's smaller than the persona she adopts. His hands squeeze her ass, making her gasp as she kisses his neck; her mouth opens against the juncture of his shoulder and apparently the no marking rule doesn't work both ways. He hopes it's lower than his collar.
They meander, unsteadily; he halts to resettle her twice, the second time using it as an excuse to push her against the wall, his body an unforgiving cage of muscle around her. She doesn't even pretend to fight, inhaling sharply when one hand sneaks under her t-shirt to cup her breast, his thumb easily funding her swollen nipple.
"Fuck," she breathes, her forehead falling forward to meet his.
He chuckles wickedly. "Hell yeah."
She glares at him. "Put me down."
He obeys, steadying her against the doorframe of his bedroom, watching her hand grasp the wood to compensate for her unstable legs. He loves that he can do this for her and hates that his blood boils at the thought of another man seeing her like this. That's not allowed, not by the unspoken rules of this abnormal relationship.
It doesn't stop him wondering whether she ever thinks of him with Natalie and how that makes her feel.
She turns away from him to almost stalk towards the bed, tugging her top over her head as she moves. He watches the lines and shadows she creates in the semi-darkness, feeling the relentless pulse of his cock mirrored in the rest of his body.
"Take off your clothes," she orders, turning back to face him as she balances on first one leg and then the other as she unzips her boots.
He's thought about asking her to keep the boots on, but he always spends too long wondering how she'd react.
He's long abandoned any attempt to undress gracefully, opting for speed over finesse. The impatience that fills the office whenever she's present doesn't dissipate when they're alone and by the time he's down to his boxers she's reaching behind herself to unhook her bra.
What they're doing here isn't fair to half a dozen people but that never seems to be enough to shame them at this point. Right now, it's like they don't have any reason not to be here, hidden in twilight and illuminated by desire. His eyes ache with the strain of trying to memorise her for the hundredth time and he moves to turn on the lamp, washing her with dusky yellow.
He wonders if it's really the hundredth time and whether that says anything either of them want to know about this whole fucked-up mess.
She moves towards him with purpose, her pale skin almost translucent. His fingers glide over her shoulder, deliberately slow, trying to work out how long he's got before she forces the pace again. It's not cold but she's trembling slightly – so slightly he's not sure he'd notice if their skin wasn't touching. She's never been nervous before and he can't think of anything that's changed since the last time.
He doesn't question her, because he knows that would be a certain way to make her shut down. Instead, he pulls her to him, engulfing her with his body as he pushes her down onto the bed, catching her surprised gasp with his mouth. She sighs in pleasure as she wriggles slightly beneath him; he tenses as her thigh presses against his straining cock. His mouth moves over the soft swell of her breast, his facial hair scratching the sensitive nipple and making her shiver involuntarily.
It didn't take many nights of her appearing at his front door for him to work out that she's generally half-aroused before they exchange one word. He's never asked what she thinks about on her way to him, although his curiosity is more than piqued. Does he feature in her fantasies? When she's beneath him, whimpering in his ear, is it what she hoped for on the journey she so deliberately makes?
He sucks her nipple into his mouth, her back arching and tensing as she hisses sharply, her nails digging into his shoulders. His teeth tease the other nipple all too briefly, not allowing her the chance to properly register either sensation and the frustrated growl that escapes her only serves to incite him further. She opens her legs so that he nestles against her and he can't stop the groan against her breast. Soft warmth radiates from her, cushioning his aching, throbbing cock. He can never quite believe how hard he can get for her from the slightest stimulation.
She stretches beneath him, her silky skin slithering along the planes of his body, and he feels the scratch of her nails down his back. She's done this to him before; the last time she clawed him like this he had to deflect Marco's questions on Natalie's assumed wildcat tendencies. He's just grateful his friend was too discreet to mention the marks the next time he saw his girlfriend – and grateful that Marco never seems to have worked out that the scratches tend to appear when they're barely speaking, so far away from tearing each other's clothes off that it's hard to imagine they've ever cared.
He looks down at Annie's face just as long as he thinks he can get away with it, before stopping her imminent question with his mouth, his tongue relentlessly tantalising hers, until he hears her panting for breath and he's sure any question she wanted to ask has left her head. His hands slide down her sides, smoothing over her hips and into her underwear, pushing the soft material as far down between them as he can reach without moving. Her fingers patter over his back, running along the waistband of his boxers before moving inside.
He breaks first, lifting himself off her just long enough to discard his underwear, watching as she wiggles out of the confining cotton and spreads her thighs for him, her eyes meeting his. She grasps his hand and presses it snugly between her thighs; the burning silk of her skin and liquid heat coating his fingers makes him exhale sharply. No matter how many times this happens, he never seems to get used to it.
Her hand reaches for his cock, her fingers tracing the ridges and veins like she's learning him. Only the accuracy with which she pinpoints every ultra-sensitive spot gives away that she's already learned exactly how to touch him.
They don't talk. Not through any conscious decision but because they both know inherently that there are no words that can ever be appropriate for these times. This strange surreal universe that only exists when they're together like this can't be defined by any words they would ever use, so they simply leave them behind.
When he pushes into her, feeling her wet silky warmth engulf him, he waits for the gasping whimper that she can't help making. He loves that sound, the one that tells him she isn't in control anymore.
"Okay?" he breathes, more out of habit than any real need to check.
She nods, her nails scraping up his back as her hands grip his shoulders, her body rippling under him. He moves slowly at first, revelling in the increasing tension in his body, the way she can't steady her breathing. Despite their haste in every other part of their lives, somehow they always take their time here. It's as if they know that this is stolen time; stolen from the guilt, the pressure, the conflict they have to create between them because anything else would be too dangerous. It's rare that he admits to even wondering if one day they will attempt even a semi-normal relationship, but sometimes he can't stop the thought invading his head, when he realises just how perfect they can be together.
And then he remembers it's only now, only in his bed, when they're able to be this perfect.
She's panting now, her body urging him on, and he can't help responding. He quickens his pace, his thighs quivering as the pressure mounts in his body. Her face is flushed pink, her blonde hair fanned across the pillow, and he catalogues the memory just in case he never sees it again. He never forgets that this is her choice and there's no certainty she'll ever choose him again.
She cries out suddenly, her legs tightening around him and he feels her body tense and buck against him.
"Almost," she gasps, her eyes wide, her head pressing back into the pillow as she pushed her breasts against him and flutters around every thrust.
He can only grunt in response, speeding up further until she moans loudly with every thrust and finally locks rigidly around him. A breathy cry fractures from her lips as the rigidity morphs into uncontrollable shudders, her body bucking and jerking beneath him. He tries to hold out, to watch her as she splinters, but only a few thrusts later he feels his control give way, his hips jolting hard against her as he comes inside her, groaning through the breaths he has to suck in. His arms shake and he surrenders to the urge to collapse on top of her, trying not to shock her with his sudden weight.
Her nails are still embedded in his shoulders, her body shaking as she gasps for air through the aftershocks that erratically clench around him. He doesn't want to withdraw; he wants to stay there, buried deep within her, as she drifts off to sleep – but he knows she'll never allow it. It's just a question of whether he feels like saving face by moving before she does.
He risks it for long moments afterwards, not even attempting to move. His hands stroke over her damp skin and he wonders if she realises she's tracing circles on his back.
They still don't talk.
He thinks he sees tears in her eyes when he dares look at her, but his gaze shifts away before he can be certain. It wouldn't be the first time she's cried, although she always tries to hide it from him. He's never asked why. He doesn't think he needs to ask – the same sense of futility always overcomes him, too.
He tries to subtly pull her close to him, sliding his arms around her as he rolls to his side, slipping out of her pulsing heat. She inhales with the sudden sensation and he almost immediately feels her drawing away. He knows what's coming.
"I have to go," she whispers, her voice full of some indefinable emotion that never quite reaches regret.
He knows if he ever hears regret that she won't be coming back. "You don't have to," he murmurs, reaching for her hand as she swings her legs over the side of the bed.
It's not the first time he's said the words, but he rarely responds when she tells him she's leaving. Normally he lets her go, his eyes following her around the room as she dresses rapidly, every movement designed to prevent her eyes catching his. Tonight, she doesn't move as quickly, sitting on the side of the bed long enough for him to move behind her, his arms wrapping around her and pulling her back against his chest. "You could stay," he breathes next to her ear, hoping he doesn't sound like he's pleading.
He isn't sure what he's doing.
She makes a sound that's half laugh, half snort. "No…"
"You can," he repeats, his lips brushing her cheek more tenderly than he expects himself to be.
Now he definitely doesn't know what he's doing.
She disengages his arms, slipping out of his embrace gracefully. "No," she says again, quietly but more firmly this time.
He knows she isn't going to stay. He watches her dress with fading hope, trying to convince himself that they don't cause more damage to themselves every time this happens. It's too hard to do that this time – he knows both of them lose just a little more of themselves in the days after they're together, corroded by the guilt and the feeling that this shouldn't be part of their lives.
He doesn't move to see her out; he knows she won't like that. Instead, he forces himself to watch her leave the room, moving into the brighter light of the hallway before she disappears from his sight. Seconds later, he hears the front door open and close softly, almost as though she wants to believe nothing has disturbed the peace of his apartment tonight.
They're letting down too many people every time this happens. It can't go on much longer before something breaks. And for now, maybe that's the only thing he's sure of.
I'm not sure I'll ever write for them again, especially as the series was so short-lived and normally I like to get to know characters well before I write for them, but I suppose you never know! As usual, all reviews cherished but no pressure on those who prefer to read and move on.