/two/
"What use are you then?" her voice was hard but she barely noticed it. She kept her gaze on his brown eyes; discerned the hue of barely veiled hurt, the look of distress in among pain. It did not connect – she felt dissociated from it.
She let go of his oblique's, the flesh under her hands warm, fingers travelling around his hips and in front, down the muscles of his stomach, the tension she felt when she came to the edge, the belt of his jeans cold in comparison with skin. She lingered there, his muscles quivering beneath her touch, a little tremble of anticipation even in light of his hesitation, even in light of his now narrowed eyes.
"I'm not in the middle of breaking down. I'm conscious and fully aware of my actions," she told him, trying to keep her tone reassured, trying to keep her hands steady. It was about need now more than anything else; rationality had left her completely when the warm splatter of blood had hit her skin. A spray of blood that had impacted with her skin with a suddenness she had not been prepared for. She was not familiar with blood in this phase. It had surprised her. It had been decidedly warmer than she had imagined at first impact, then within a breath it had turned slick and cold, sticky and nauseous.
Her fingers had of their own accord run along her cheek, coming away in a red color. The smell had permeated the air around her. It still lingered, aching bitter in its sweetness, tart in its metallic tang. She wondered how long it would reside in her nostrils even when she had washed it away.
"How can you be aware of anything when you are in fight-or-flee mode? You are walking around like a robot, on automate," he countered, brusque glare displayed for her, "Shit, you were a second away from being shot. You had a gun forced into your face, goddamn it."
Why was he so defiant, so resistant? She had been certain he would instantly yield and simply flow away in the moment. Still, he let her touch him. Still, he had kissed back just as desperately.
"I'm fine," she tried to tell it with a smile but she could not work her lips around it, "I'm perfectly fine."
"Perfectly fine, my ass. Bullshit and you know it! You're in denial. I know denial when I see it, okay – you're in shock."
"Do I look that weak? I'm not fragile," she paused, "I'm okay."
"Goddamn, it's not about being weak."
He sounded exasperated.
"Then what is it about?"
"This is bad idea. Plain and simple."
"Bad idea," she repeated.
"I mean," he sighed, "This is reckless and stupid. It's based on a faulty foundation. This is not you."
"You don't know me that well."
"Maybe not," she could tell he did not agree, his voice still hard, "But I know this is not how it's supposed to be."
It suddenly made sense to her. She smiled, "You envisioned this in a different setting, in another way? You want it to be gentle and in a bed, comfortable and calm?" It was not meant to sound condescending but somehow it must have come across as such for his eyes narrowed and turned dark, almost black in their depths.
She ran her fingers gently up and down his lower stomach, trying to soothe her words.
It was amazing what you could decipher about him from his eyes if you made an effort. Her words were not far from the truth, she knew. It was what she had envisioned herself, under normal circumstances. She understood, however, that leaving room for alterations in your imaginations were better than altogether denial and strict adherence.
His eyes narrowed further when she deepened her smile, she understood him – there was nothing warm in her smile.
"I envisioned it alright," he acknowledged in a rigid tone, "I just did not think you would be this, this…" he paused, lost for a word.
She saw her window of opportunity.
"I want you," she whispered, turning her voice down a notch, standing on tip toe so she could let her breath hit his lips, so she could bring her lips into contact with his and whisper; "I want you so much it hurts. I need you, it's simple. It has nothing to do with denial. It had nothing to do with bad decisions. Plain and simple, I want you in this moment, right now."
It struck him, impact hard and slipping underneath his skin. She could tell by the sudden look in his eyes, naked need unveiled. He was as unsettled by the whole ordeal as she was.
His thumb ran along her jaw, tender – eyes still dark as they took her in, examining her. She wondered what he saw, she wondered if she had to beg for him to do as she wanted. Ordinarily she got what she wanted, whether it be in moments of clarity or irrationality. Fear and terror never invoked her with incoherency yet she was never certain when it came to him.
It was a matter of pulling forth the small little pieces that made up his being, tugging him along till he acquiesced. She needed him forceful – needed that reassuring feeling of him completely washing over her. He had a tendency to be raw, brash and determined; he never backed down from a fight. He never wavered. She needed that firm, sturdy belief. It would transfer in every touch, in every breath shared.
There was no confusion in her mind in this moment; his skin kept her grounded, kept her in connection with something. Oh, she would regret it tomorrow with potency of that she had no doubt. That, however, was knowledge that did not weigh much into her considerations. This moment was not enveloped in the foresight of what tomorrow would bring. There was no room for thoughts in this, no room for rationality or reason.
She had a tendency to break and splinter aggressively when she finally let everything go; it was better to follow the flow of insanity then she found. It was better to follow the rhythm that kept her heartbeat up, kept her blood in a hurried flow, better to keep to that which beckoned forth life within her. Otherwise she would slump to the floor like a used doll, motionless and still – lifeless and utterly useless.
She unbuckled his belt, watched as he continued to look at her. There was no reproach in his eyes, no hesitation. It was something she knew about herself that he would not believe or understand; she always remained cohesive in her panic. Fear did not riddle her completely incoherent. He was transferring his own concerns onto her. The rich tint of darkness to his eyes, the soft way his hands continued to imply contact and pressure to her skin, the continuous embrace displayed his fear more than hers, displayed his pain more than hers.
"You want this?" he grumbled, voice hard and rough.
She nodded, fingers going under the band of his underwear.
His hands were quick, around her waist and pushing her further into the wall, his body in full contact, lips crashing into hers. She pushed under his underwear, grasped around his cock, the hard flesh feeling thick in her hand. He wanted it as much as she did; it surprised her even if she had known it. She ran a thumb along the head, reveled in the feel of his mouth more firmly on hers.
She whimpered when he hitched her skirt up, bunched it around her middle; whimpered when she felt the growl he bit into her neck with. She whimpered at the sure knowledge of what was undoubtedly about to happen.
He was finally unhinged; forceful and raw.
She stroked along his length, felt the ability to suddenly exhale air instill her. It had felt like asphyxiation since the warm spray of blood, since that man had pulled the gun at her and pushed it into her head. This was exactly the energy she needed. Where a motionless, still heart needed a jolt to come back to life, needed that extra kick of energy to once again start its uninterrupted beating, she needed a likewise jolt. Electricity was what sparked to life her lungs; lust sweeping through her in a throbbing fashion – sudden desire and something that hurt, jolted to life in her heart, through blood vessels, to limbs, to her lungs.
Her mind jolted to another avenue, no longer centered on that cold feeling of the gun pressed into her head. Oh, it was a wonderful reprieve, being able to linger in pain and fear that had nothing to do with death. No, the pain and fear of desire flooding her instead and leaving behind nothing but the impression of pressure that needed to be alleviated.
Fueled into life – jolted into action, into sensation.
She pushed his jeans down, dragged down his underwear as well, and pushed her own down till it pooled around one ankle. Her hand around him, going down his length – just the feel of him and it slipped underneath her skin in a tingle. It did not register that this was precariously novel for them; it merely was her hand around him, stroking and feeling him, his lips slanted across hers, his hands reassuringly warm on her thighs. Naked from the waist down, her silk blouse against his white shirt.
His hips grinded into hers, mouths inches apart as they let up for air.
She sought his lips again when he lifted her from the floor, a leg around his waist, one foot still on the ground.
"I thought I was about to lose you," he whispered into her ear, his voice soft and low, fragile and resonating with fear; one hand went down between her folds, rough in comparison to his voice. She opened her legs wider, tilted her head back and looked into his eyes. "I thought it was over, for sure. It so vivid still, that gun pressed into your face. I'm going to have nightmares about it."
His voice was genuine and somewhat small, a croak that tried to conceal upheaval within him. She nuzzled his lips before slipping into another kiss, this one slow.
"I thought he'd pulled the trigger when Sanchez shot him," she whispered back, "I only heard the shot, felt the blood. I thought it was my own." Her voice sounded odd to her own ears. "I just -," she stopped, not sure what to say. It felt too fresh to talk about.
She looked up and caught his eyes. Raw, intense brown eyes; seeking and forceful in their connected gaze. Finally he was on the same wavelength as her; finally he understood the rank, decaying feeling inside that she needed to get rid of.
Her other leg came around his middle as well, his hands under her, his body pressing her into the wall – keeping her surely and safely against the two compact structures; one of concrete, the other of hard muscle and bone.
"I'm sorry," he kissed into the side of her mouth; for what she was not sure. She did not care much for the tone of guilt but it was not something she could do anything about now.
She caressed the sides of his jaw, breathed without obstruction when he entered her, slow – the angle not completely right but wonderfully encompassing nevertheless. It did not matter. It was not about precision. It was not about the act in itself – it was about potentiating it to another level, one that did not hinge on anything but impression and sensation. It did not hinge on anything but escape.
/
Shit, she was tight around him, buried to the hilt when she repositioned her legs around him and he slid deeper. Warm thighs surrounding his middle, hands warm against his neck – her mouth hot against his. Eyes closed one moment and the next open and wide, hanging unto him with a look that struck him hard. Long lashes, dark – delicate eyebrows – the soft skin as he traced his breath along her neck; he could not concentrate.
It was a jumble of images, a messy tangle of emotions splattered not unlike the blood that had hit her a few hours earlier. It did not register in his mind, not really. Animated, simply neurotransmitters tumbling through his system, enforcing he slid into her, ensuring he pushed her hard into the tiles behind them, made him grovel into her hair, seeking lips not able to surrender to a long kiss but forced to breathe against each other instead.
They bumped into the wall repeatedly, the room silent but for heavy pants.
It was an awkward rhythm, not one that would stick in the long run. It was not meant to be like this but it was the best he could do. He was too occupied to put finesse into it, too estranged from himself to linger in this – to be considerate. It was the repetition of grim images that kept running through his mind, disorganized flashbacks that centered on her face and the blood. It pushed at him, prickled and however much he tried to force it down to a faint sidetrack, it kept on being vividly on display.
He could feel her breath against his neck, her fingers digging painfully into his back, her teeth nipping at his skin one moment complacently and the next roughly.
His muscles were already aching with strain, tense and trembling; he would tire out more quickly than normal. Adrenaline had a curious timing of leaving when you needed it the most; he was running on low fuel in this aspect. Still, exhaustion would be blissful. The goal was to completely exhaust her as well – she would be far more malleable when she was drained. He could drive her home and tuck her into bed; she would not disagree or put up much of a fight then. If only he had taken her directly home – forced her to go home right after they had given their statement to fid.
If only he did not feel nauseous in the midst of arousal.
If only he could put to rest the image of her dead, painted in her own blood and lifeless open eyes. If only he could force it away, bury it. It kept flashing through him, piercing and sharp and he settled on trying to banish it with further skin contact. He tried to settle on the knowledge that she was alive now, that she was safely in his arms, safe in his kiss.
It only felt dangerous, still. There was nothing safe in this breakdown, in what was playing out now. How could sex in any way diminish this nightmare? If anything, it would only highlight and intensify the feeling of pain inside of them. This, it threatened to swallow him whole, crush him till he was nothing but a numb shell. Yet, he could not deny wanting her, he could not deny that he wanted this as much as she did.
It would be a setback tomorrow; it would be another fissure in what was supposed to be unbreakable concrete between them. Professionalism was a long gone myth; it had left them with nothing but trouble and pain. Relocating small touches and secretive, encompassing smiles was an easy accomplishment. It did not even invoke a need to ignore it or pretend it had never happened. It had been so subtle, so weak it could have been chalked down to nothing but easy comradeship.
They had settled into an acquaintance of light flirting and restraint, on and off – a roller-coaster that had left him winded and disorientated in hindsight. But this, in this moment, would not be easily relocated. It would be deafening between them, consistently. Whatever transpired now between them would make too much of an impact, would be dense and heavy. It was already solidified in his mind.
It was already a howl within him – it would be vivid inside of him for too long to simply ignore. Sex like this was too precarious and intimate to simply pretend it did not exist. She had not thought this through, obviously. He had not thought this through either; otherwise he would have put up more resistance.
Their personalities had clashed with something tensile back when she had been strutting about in internal affairs; a certain look in her eyes and he remembered the tense coiling under his skin. It had been a power play back then; antagonism at its fullest and powered by a yearning to dominate, a need to exert some kind of control over the other. Beneath the more obvious layer, however, had been puzzlement. She had intrigued him on a certain level, even when he had detested her presence.
Somehow, it had been overtaken by something else over the years, potentiating when she had transferred to major crimes. It was suddenly a different incentive that came over him, a different yearning within him. Antagonism and resentment were quickly replaced by a need to protect her, an urge to envelope her into his life. It was a development he should have anticipated; really, it was no wonder he attached himself to her with far more energy than was healthy.
They had kept it professional and cordial the first year; then it was chaotically pushed aside for a celebratory kiss. It was not the first contact of skin between them but where small touches on the arm were easily managed, the brief touch of lips was outside the boundaries. Rules and conduct forgotten in a haze of needing to touch some part of her, a need to somehow transfer his own happiness onto her. Order got pushed aside whenever she decided she needed to caress his jaw, hold onto his arm or otherwise situate herself into his life.
Somewhere along the line it had transformed into something that was neither about control nor power. In among professionalism and friendly approaches came an intimate touch here and there; it sneaked up on the both of them.
Small little incidents no one knew about; and they had kept them hidden. It was not sex, there was no fucking – why, a little touch did not hurt. What was a mere kiss in the grand scheme of things?
It was confounding; she had gone from the bane of his existence to the reason for breathing. A transformation he had not predicted. Denying her anything, in the long run, was just not an option. Denying her this outlet was not an option – in a way he needed it as much as she.
In hindsight, it had begun with eye contact. Many, many years back. It had barely burned back then, embers fanned every now and then, smoldering in the dark, out of sight. A still blaze otherwise silent till one day he realized it had turned into wild fire, roaring and almost too bright to look at.
There was an underlying reason behind even this madness.