PART ONE: INTO THE DEPTHS
Episode 4: A (Drunken) Nightmare Revisited
The Floating Aquapolis of Terragrigia (Pre-Panic), 2004
The send-off party was all fireworks and excitement. It was a herd of nerds on a beach by the ocean eating scallops and oysters and lobsters on the tax payer's dime. To assuage himself of the yuppie guilt that came with it, Leon avoided all the expensive shit and helped himself to a beer and a hotdog from a local vendor.
The evening rolled in and all the shirtless, pale, scary nerds began to cover up. It was the science lab dorks with their little soda and chip bellies and the skinny, shapeless geek girls in their tasteful one pieces with their overly untanned limbs all put on wraps and shirts atop their sunblock and SPF 70.
Leon?
Shirtless at 9 pm sitting on the side of the ocean.
Sunblock? He hadn't worn any in 20 years. He figured, objectively, if the T-Virus didn't get him, cancer probably would.
Consequently, he was tanned a lovely golden brown after three days of hanging around on white sand in pristine sunlight. His hair was blonde on a good day and turned a pretty pale beach bum beneath the relentless warm rays. His toes traced in the sand, watching it curl between each digit in a feathery fluff.
The Bud Light tucked into the fluff beside him was sweating. It was barely sipped on. Why?
He was a scotch man. But scotch was yuppie booze. So he was sticking with All American for his theme this evening. A beer, a hot dog, a pair of red white and blue swim trunks. He was so patriotic he was practically ready to fart the national anthem.
There was a flicker of lighting out over the water nearly lost beneath the myriad of colors thrown up into the sky by the fireworks display. He watched it, tracked it, and knew it would rain before dawn. The air tugged at his hair, sending it around his face like fingers had scattered it. It was cool enough that he shivered, tucking his arms around his knees where they were tented lazily before him. He rested his chin on his knees, watching the lighting and the fireworks.
A pretty night.
He could, easily, go up the beach and get one of the eighteen girls up in there in the bachelorette party to go home with him. He could, objectively, head back to the send-off and get one of the science geeks to slob on his knob for a half an hour to drain the snake and take away a little of the loneliness he was wallowing in. But, like all things, it would just leave him emptier than when he'd started.
As he often did, on a long night, he questioned the fight. Why was he still in it?
He knew, objectively, why he'd gotten in. For Sherry. After Raccoon. It was the right thing then.
And now?
What about now?
Did even believe in what he was fighting for?
Sometimes, he was pretty sure he was fighting simply because he didn't know how to stop. He'd believed, the day he'd picked up the badge in Raccoon, that he was meant to serve a greater purpose. In his guts and his bones and his balls, he believed he was meant to do good.
It was altruistic and cliché as all hell, but he meant it.
And now?
He'd stop thinking about the "why" a long time ago. He was now invested so far in the thick of it that he'd gone blind to the reason for it at all. The T-Virus was evil, sure, and it needed to be eradicated. The world needed to be protected.
That was the hero in him talking. And the hero understood the price would probably be his life.
The man in him knew the price wouldn't even matter. If he died tomorrow, fighting the fight, what good would it do? No one would remember him. No one would care. And the T-Virus would keep killing everywhere it touched.
He laughed, lightly, and said, "You need to stick with scotch."
Apparently, beer made him introspective. The brew was not his friend on a warm night when he was feeling like he might want, just for a minute, something to forget about the uselessness of it all.
He shivered again and blinked as a towel fell over his head.
Curious, he pulled it around his shoulders and looked up.
She sat down in the sand next to him, wearing some little-flowered dress in white red and blue. Hers had big lotus flowers all over it. Color-wise, it appeared they were playing tag. A little shawl in tasteful white was draped over her shoulders.
Her dark hair was loose and waving in pretty sleek locks in the breeze.
She had enough black eyeliner ringed around her eyes to make the blue look smokey.
They sat in quiet for a long moment before he finally said, "Thank you."
"Sure."
They didn't look at each other now. They watched the fireworks and the lightning.
Jill finally spoke, no stuttering at all, and surprised the hell out of him, "After Raccoon City, I spent three days in a hotel in Idaho…" She smiled slightly, amused, "Why? Who knows. There's nothing in Idaho but potatoes. And even those I couldn't find or didn't care to. I cried. I drank. I cursed. I watched bad t.v…when I finally climbed outta that hole and got on with things, it was time to jump right back in and start burying Umbrella."
She curled easily in the sand and the dress fluttered prettily. Behind them, people were oohing and aahing and laughing. She kept watching the lights above them. "I remember when I got in front of a mirror for the first time, the look of horror on my own face – because between the surviving, the nightmares, and the boozing, lack of sleeping, and sobbing – I looked like hammered shit and felt worse."
She turned her face to look at him. He turned his back, laying his cheek on his knees and managing, somehow, to look utterly fucking adorable.
And she finished, "I didn't look half as bad as you do now. Tell me what you saw. Tell me what you did. Tell me…because whatever it was? It's better out than in."
He considered her, watching her eyes reflect the growing grumbling sky, watching them shine in the flicker of red, orange, green and pink. And he queried, "Did you? Let it out?"
"I did. To Chris. He listened. He got it." She smiled, softly, "It helps to tell someone who gets it."
They held eyes, breathing now, so simply entranced with each other.
And he just started talking.
It was effortless once he got going. He talked about Spain. He talked about Saddler. He talked about Ashley Graham and Ada Wong and Wesker. He talked about the sample he'd lost and the parasite that had lived in his body. He talked about the night sweats, the fever dreams, the drinking and the forgetting. He talked and talked and he didn't flirt. He didn't wink and drive her insane.
He just…charmed her by being real.
She listened, she took his beer and drank it. She watched his face, captivated by it, and the words that seemed to desperately escape his mouth. She'd come out of her room to the beach to escape the idea of him…and here he was.
But it was like he was here for the first time as well.
Because there was no witty banter and playing around. Just a guy, on a beach, feeling lonely.
And a girl, on a beach, feeling the same.
He said, softly, "I don't think this is what I was supposed to do with my life."
Curious, she tried to see the truth of that on him. Amazing. He meant it. For a guy who was the fucking talk of the town in terms of what he could do. Meant to do it? Maybe not. But he was made to do it.
She replied, softly, "I'm glad you are. I really am. Every single person that comes to the fight and stays, makes a difference. Every single time you choose to go back in and not give up, it matters, Mr. Kennedy, no matter how small you think it is. And you? You're good at what you do. I don't know a single person on Earth who'd have survived what was in the Kennedy Report. But you did. And you didn't just survive it, you made it legend."
She touched his face, lightly, where it rested on his knees, almost soothing him now, "Don't give up. Not yet. We're close to something, I can feel it in my blood. You've earned the right to see it through, Kennedy. Don't deprive yourself of that."
He smiled, softly, and she liked that too. He answered her, quietly, "Jill?"
"Hmm?"
"It's Leon. Just Leon."
It was. She knew that. She also knew if she called him that, if she said it, she'd make it personal. It wasn't, not right this second, now? Now was about the war. About the battle. About the cause. It was keeping a good soldier in the fight with her. It was how she separated herself from her men without crossing that line. It was what she was good at.
She wasn't good at separating herself from "Leon." She was able to seperate herself from Kennedy. Kennedy was a name on a piece of paper. A file folder. A man with more notations for bravery and adaptability than any agent in a decade. A faceless stranger up to his eyebrows in the same fight as her. If he started to have a real name, he'd start to matter.
It was easier for him to stay Kennedy.
And so she answered, almost a whisper, "Promise me you won't give up."
He eyed her, watching the storm flicker in her eyes, and replied, "Not today." He laughed lightly, "I'm still on duty. The story of my life."
Jill smiled, softly, and dropped her hand from his face, "Ah, yes. The story of my life too. That's all we can ever do anyway. One day a time."
The fireworks ended. The party died down. The chill off the ocean spilled almost too cool.
The silence filled up between them when he finally stopped, watching her face. But it was a good silence, the kind that comes after a purge. She finally rose, picking up her sandals from the fluffy white beside him, "It'll be raining soon. And it's a long ride back to the mainland tomorrow for me. It…" She laughed a little, lightly, "It was nice meeting you….Mr. Kennedy."
She turned to walk back to the hotel.
He sat in the sand to watch her go and kept on sitting there even as the first drops of rain plopped soft and wet onto his face.
It was curious to him that he'd wanted her to stay. Just a little longer. So he didn't feel so fucking alone.
There was a tap on his door about two a.m.
He opened it to find her standing there. Still in that dress. Hair wet. Skin damp.
He had a highball of scotch in one hand and sleeping pants thrown on in green plaid. They were slung low on his hips and left…really…nothing to the imagination since he was shirtless and divine with it, from the cut of his hipbones to the curve of his collarbone.
She whispered, softly, "I…I just..I wanted to-you know-just say goodbye."
He leaned in the doorframe, watching her, "Again?"
She was barefoot, she was nervous, he could smell it on her like an animal. "I just…who are you?"
Their eyes met. He smiled, gently. And she asked again, "Who are you? One way, another. A mystery. A double mystery. A mess?"
He shrugged, lightly, "I'm me. That's all I got. Take it or leave it."
She eyed him quietly. He eyed her back.
And she whispered, "….take it."
He shifted aside, pulse skipping, and she walked past him into the room.
He closed the door quietly as she set her shoes down on the carpet by the dresser. And he mused, in the shifting shadows from the lightning beyond the windows, "Not playing games here, Jill. Flirting, sure, but I'm not playing you. Whatever this is, is whatever you want it to be."
She turned back, watching him.
And she finally responded, "What do you want?"
He set down the highball, gently. "Now. That's all we have anyway. Now."
She agreed. Wholeheartedly.
And he added, "What do you want, Jill?"
She moved forward. She was shaking. He saw it in her hands as she took his scotch – and threw it back in a single swig.
Impressed, waiting for her to choke or cough, and floored when she simply eyed him coolly, she finally answered him, "You."
A good answer.
"Now?" He tilted his head. The room lit for a moment with lightning.
Her hands lifted and trembled, they caught the straps of her dress and tugged. It fell in a whisper of cloth to the floor. Simple – elegant – blue lace panties and a beige bra beneath it. No thigh highs. No garter. Nothing in place to say: seduction.
Just her.
The least effort any woman, ever, had put into seducing him.
And the first time he'd, ever, been nervous facing one.
It was almost amusing to him.
He watched her and she, almost, covered up her body after the dress fell. Like she was, what? Embarrassed?
No.
Like she was nervous too.
Well, that part? That part was easy for him. He made it easy for her too.
And swooped.
He scooped her up and carried her to the bed with its red silk sheets. Like blood and fire. Like sunset on a horizon before it goes dark.
He laid her down on it. His mouth touched the hollow at her throat, tender, soft.
And he trembled a little.
Touched, Jill slid her hand over his chest and felt the swift tattoo of his heart. He was nervous. For a "man-whore", he wasn't falling into the right places Jill had set up in her brain for him. He wasn't playing the game right.
He was supposed to be superfluous and callous and charmingly conceited. He was, in one hand, the most charming man she'd ever met. And, by turns, the most insecure.
Her shaking hands shifted under her back to the clasp of her strapless bra. It gave and she slid it off her to let it fall on the floor. The more she looked at him, the more her nerves calmed. Why? Because he wasn't trying to get in her pants here. He wasn't pushing. He was just…touching her like she was touching him.
Experimental, sincere, discovering.
He set his mouth to her breasts, tender, tasting and even there, even that, was smooth and questing. She gasped, she shook, she watched his face the whole time. And she whispered, "Oh, god."
His hands shifted to scoop her hair back from her face and leave it naked to his eyes as he leaned over her.
"…what?"
And Jill answered, quietly, "This is so complicated."
He skimmed his mouth over hers, tasting the tremor of her need that echoed his, "Is it?"
She laughed, lightly, as her hands smoothed up his back so delicately it left goosebumps as she went. And she felt him shiver atop her.
Yeah, she thought, complicated.
"Isn't it?"
He studied her face. His thumb skimmed her mouth and brought her sighing, and he answered, "It is. Wanna run?"
Oh, he was something else. She laughed again, quietly, "Maybe. You're in my zone."
His quiet chuckle made her just a little less nervous. "I am. Want me to do what I do there?"
Jill gripped his hair, almost forcefully tugged it back from his face. He grunted, eyes flaring, and she liked that too. She whispered, "I can't be chasing you around like a simpering little thing. I'm not this girl."
He kissed her, eyes open, watching her face and grunted, "Nope. You're not like any girl I've ever met. You don't chase guys?"
"You kidding? Ever. No. Hah. I-am-I am not a girl who…"His mouth slid over the tip of one breast and suckled, making her belly knot and her hands jerk in his hair, "…cares about-the chasing…and-and…the…"
His mouth trailed over her belly and down one hip.
And she squeaked, "…and the catching…with-and-likes—the fucking."
His head lifted, tilted, curious. "You don't like the fucking?"
Oh, haha, ok. So that wasn't where she was going with this. She'd, gotten confused or something. She pursed her lips, eyes twinkling in the dark. "No. Yes. What? You're just…stop doing that."
He licked above the line of her panties and she wiggled against him, delighting him. "I…am not a girl that…wants-needs-…to…" He nipped her over her panties. She felt her brain fall out her left ear and plop on the floor and she grunted, "…shit."
His forehead dropped against her belly and rubbed, ruining her ability to process human thought at all and he just…laughed. He just laughed. "You don't need to shit? That definitely makes you like no other girl I've ever met."
Jill shook her head, face flushed, eyes hooded but twinkling. Holy moly, he mused, she was beautiful. And she whispered, "You're not as cute as you think you are, Mr. Kennedy."
He flashed white teeth in a little sheepish grin, "I'm a little cute...maybe."
"...maybe." Breathless. She was hoarse looking at him. "What are you doing to me?"
A good question. And he whispered, "Swooping."
Yep. That. And staring. They both were.
His hands slid into her panties to tug them down her legs. She bicycled them off so fast he couldn't stop the laugh again.
Amused, a little irritated by it, Jill tugged him down atop her, feet tracing the soft sleeping pants he wore. She fisted his hair again, eyeballing him. "Don't..you know…try to make me love you, you…idiot."
Bright with laughter, his eyes were retardedly gorgeous inches from hers. He rubbed his nose against hers and had her sighing, "I can't help it, Jill. I can't. Girls? They just follow me around like the pied piper. I have to spend all my time hiding from them when I go out on missions. They find me. I huddled in a shed for three days once when an entire high school filled with girls tracked me in Minnesota. It was terrifying."
His good humor. He was so fucking annoying.
Ok, that was a lie. He was so fucking charming. It was painful. Jill chortled and reached a hand down to slap his ass, making him – legitimately- stick his tongue between his teeth and wink at her.
"You're not funny."
He dropped his mouth, kissing her sweet and pecking, making her squirm in his arms, "Oh, I'm funny. Charming? Maybe not so much. But funny I got, kid. Hands down."
Jill caught the legs of his sleeping pants with her toes and tugged them down his hips. Charming or not, she mused as he shifted and settled himself hard and ready against her eager body, he wasn't laughing now. She rubbed against him and he licked her mouth, lazily.
"Mr. Kennedy?"
"Hmm?" He nipped at her neck and had her head turning for more. One hand shaped and molded her breast, carelessly.
"Do what you do."
He lifted his head, watching her face, "What do I do?"
She rubbed him along the warm heat of her and had them both shivering with it. And she answered, "Shut up…and fuck me."
He laughed, lightly, eyes flaring with it and whispered, "That wasn't clever at all, Jill. That? Just dirty."
"I'm entirely too…clean. Make me-you know-dirtier."
Yep. His brain liked it. He was rock hard and throbbing for it now. He shifted her hips and took her, swift, thick and claiming. She was so used to the banter she wasn't prepared – oh but she was ready. She was indeed. Her little center just swallowed him down and loved it.
He grunted. She gasped. And he pinned her, twisting his fingers in her hair, "Jill?"
She made some sound that might have been, "Fibbitybibbit."
Hah! She was fucking adorable. "It's Leon. My name? Leon."
Her eyes blurred. They hooded. Her hands gripped his ass and rolled him inside her. She squeaked, high and beautifully, "…shut up and fuck me, Mr. Kennedy. Hurry."
He couldn't stop the laugh. He gave up and hammered her into the bed so hard he was afraid it would break the damn thing. Not that he cared.
He couldn't seem to give a shit.
Admittedly, he'd never Hustler fucked a girl who refused to call him by his given name, so there was a first time for everything. Like that first time – this girl didn't quit.
She rolled him over, she rode him so hard he was fairly sure he'd be bruised in the morning, and she made noises like a feral animal.
No.
He listened as he sat up and jerked her down on his lap so hard it slapped.
Nope.
Not just her.
He made sounds like a rutting pig or something. It was almost comic. But nope. It wasn't that either. Because it was too goddamn hot to be funny.
Amused, delighted, he threw her to her back on the bed and gave it to her like he'd kill her with it.
She spilled off the bed during the thrusting and he cushioned their fall to the floor but he didn't stop. She laughed, high and loud and happy, and hit the wall and the dresser, half wedged there.
Sweating, spitting his hair out of his eyes, he laughed and said, "Just…let me…here…"
"No! Don't stop! Idiot! Keep going!"
Yep. Animal.
His arms jerked her up from the corner and he kinda walked on his knees with her just…rodeo riding him like a wild thing…to throw her on the rug by the bed so she wasn't smacking her head into the wall at least.
Rugburn, somebody cursing in three languages, and they were back where they started with her wedged against the wall and the kitchen cabinet. She grunted. She pushed. She rolled over onto all fours and said, "There…jesus…here. Like this."
His hand grappled to find the bottle of scotch on the floor beside them. He jerked open the top and shot a mouthful of it. And? She whipped her head around and said, "Here. Me."
He poured it in her mouth and shared it on the worlds wettest kiss. Smooth liquor, the burn of it, and the burn of her in his blood. Again? No coughing, no flinching girl here - she downed the expensive booze like a champ.
She gasped, "Hurry."
And killed him. He poured down her spine, he licked it off her like a dog or something. She turned her face for the taste of it, and him, and moaned, "Now. Please?" And wiggled her ass at him.
His brain said, "Gibberflerbitron." The bottle tumbled to the rug, she grabbed it to take a big swig, and he grabbed her hair like a brace to hold her for it as he took her from behind bathed in sweat and scotch.
Somebody cursed in gibberish. Her?
Nope. Not his brain. His mouth.
He was her now. Shouting and muttering and speaking in gibberish.
When they were both so close it hurt, he looped an arm around her belly and hips and lifted her. She squealed and jerked and fought to stay down and he gasped, laughing, "Wait…fucking Christ…just wait…"
And he threw her back on the bed again. She opened her arms and legs and down he came. Somehow? Still wearing his pants.
Laughing, he kicked them clear and moved atop her.
She grabbed for his junk to put him in her and he breathed, with a sharp laugh, "Jill, up here. Look at me."
She did, quaking and one eye twitching, which made him laugh again with pleasure, "Jill?"
"Mm? Yes? I am? Am I? Who?" Oh, LORD, he liked this girl. She was charmingly inept at finding words. It was fucking refreshing as hell, "I am, Jill? I think?"
"You, are. I'm pretty sure." She eyed him, and his perfect hair was a mess. Sticking up in places and limp in others. One side? Completely poked up like Bart Simpson. Her? She looked like somebody had just dragged her dead body out of the ocean. She was all wet and used. And beautiful. "Who am I?"
Jill shuddered, she gripped his ass and murmured, "God?"
Oh, haha. She was…she was exquisite. "Leon."
She blinked. She considered it. And she breathed, "Sure. Whatever you say."
She humped. She took him in. He grunted and forgot what they were talking about anyway. It was a good, slick, slow finish for a surprisingly fast ride.
She did a lot of stroking his sides and his back and cupping his face to kiss him. He'd thought she was untapped when he'd looked at her that first time. And she was. It wasn't virginal. Not like that. What was it?
Passion. She was untapped there in the passion. She was looking for what he was looking for too. More than just a quick fuck. The stroking, the touching, the laughing – it was more than that. It was intimate and very addictive.
Untapped. Unsoiled. Dirty, sure, but raw with it. He just liked her.
And that was all he knew.
He felt her go, tightening and squeezing and coming around him wet and needy. She took his mouth while she went, easing in and out of her slow and torturous to feel each spasm. And she grunted, "Go. Ok? You ready? Go."
Hah. Bossy.
And he liked that too.
He dropped his mouth to kiss her. "Jill?"
She mewled, taking the plunging heat of him into her and trying to focus,"…sure?"
He laughed, spitting his hair out of his eyes again. Christ in a big red clown car, he thought, he was going to get the shit cut off. Enough was enough with it always in his damn face. "Are you on anything, honey?"
She considered it, shaking, and tightening when he found the spot in her that set her bells off again. She grabbed him so hard he stopped thrusting. "I'm…what? I'm just…I-I think I'm on…you? I'm on you. Yep."
She was. He felt his balls tightened with the possessiveness of it and shivered over her. "No..not…shit. Jill, stop moving."
She did, going still. Her eyes tried to focus on him. "Why?"
He kissed her lightly and had her sighing. "The first time…I just went in you, honey. I went. Stupid and spontaneous and exciting. I don't…want to again…ok…hah…I DO want to again…like all the time…but not if…unless you want me to…but are you, you know…on something? The pill? Or?"
Jill blinked, trying to make sense of what he was saying. He sounded like her. Why was he blathering on when he was balls deeps in her!?
She gasped, "Safe. Good. Yes. Pill. Ok? We're good. You're good. It's good here. Be good, do good, do it. Please. Now with the doing and the coming and the good. Now. Thanks. Thank you. I'm…Jill. I'm Jill."
He laughed. Tugging her into him to…
Jill went still.
Because he was kinda…holding her.
That was affection, pure and simple. No fucking. Just holding.
Alarmed, she pushed him back and shouted, "None of THAT, good sir! No! NO HUGGING! Finish with the fucking..and the swooping…"
Amused, he shifted and drilled her while he watched her face.
She squealed, she jerked, she grappled at his back and gripped. "Like that?" Hoarse, he queried.
"Yes! Oh, hah, hell…like that. Now. Again."
He slapped into her and had her squirming and humping. "Good! Mr. Kennedy, harder!"
And so, he just gave up trying to get her to like him and fucked her stupid instead. Mr. Kennedy, the dumbest thing anyone had ever shouted at him during sex, and he'd once had a girl ask him to piss in her mouth and hold it closed until she swallowed (he didn't do it, naturally, he wasn't THAT drunk).
She came screaming something that might have been gibberish again, he held her hands down above her head and nailed her like he'd paid her for it, and came in her while she bounced and squealed.
If she knew him at all, she'd know that – A: He didn't bareback girls, ever. EVER. B: He didn't come in them. EVER. Not even in a fucking condom. He pulled out, he came, he went home. C: he couldn't remember EVER laughing with one during sex, before it, after it. D: Every fucking one of them had called him Leon during it. Except one in Norway when he'd been so drunk they'd forgotten the other's name anyway.
This one?
The one he liked? She didn't bother to call him Leon. She shouted fuck me harder, Mr. Kennedy, and used him like a whore.
He liked it. He did. No strings was his thing. But?
But?
HE LIKED THIS GIRL.
He didn't want no strings, entirely, here. And it made him laugh as he rolled to his side and brought her back against him to nestle her butt against his groin and hold her.
He woke up to the rain and the thunder beyond the balcony.
And Jill Valentine cursing in the dark and stumbling into things. Amused, he listened to her try to hunt up her shoes, muttering.
"…stupid, stupid…brain tumor…idiot-sniffing and drinking…why!? Drinking and fucking…" He heard her look under the bed, "…no panties…and the-kissing-"
She paused, sighing, and he saw her shadow swoon a little. "Oh, god, the kissing. Idiot. Dumb girl. Man whore…" She was muttering as she was desperately seeking her panties, "…fuck it. FUCK it. Panties of a trampy brain tumor girl. Panties of sin. Satan's fucking panties."
His hand covered his mouth. He was going to laugh. He was. It was painful to hold it in. The shifting had his head swirling. Yep. Hang over. Craptastic.
He heard her muttering - also worth it.
She rose, clutching her bra, her dress half dangling and she started to, no lie there, tiptoe toward the door.
Oh, dear lord in heaven he had never seen anyone cuter.
Musingly, he said, quietly, "Running huh?"
She jumped. She dropped her bra. She racked her knee on the coatrack by the door and cursed. And she ducked down to find the bra. "I-hah-uh-I'm just…I should get back to my room, right? Early flight and all."
"Hmm." He rolled to his back and over to one arm to watch her, "Feels like a coward move here, Valentine."
She pointed at him, she scrambled to find her bra, "No..no..hah-nope. Not that. Why? Stupid to run. From what? Just..you looked tired."
He laughed, lightly, "Jill?"
"Man whore," She muttered it, shaking her head, "Hair in the eyes and the kissing…the fucking.."
She tripped trying to get her shoe on. She fell into the wall and cursed.
"Jill?"
His voice? All amusement.
"Yes? Hi. Yes. I'm fine. I'm good. Really. Just…I'm good. What is it?"
"You still drunk?"
She stumbled a little. She closed one eye. She pointed at the wall and her hand wavered. "….possibly? Maybe."
"Come back to bed."
She turned and swayed. "…that's…probably a bad idea? Maybe it is. I think. Probably."
He shrugged and rolled over, watching the rain against the door. He waited, listening to her mutter and curse. She said something about brains in her vagina. He smirked.
And she curled against his back.
Her arm slid over him. She muttered, "….don't tell."
He laughed, lightly, and rolled over to face her. She snuggled into him and looped their legs together under the sheet. Their cheeks aligned, he pressed a kiss behind her ear, and he muttered, "Not a soul. Man whore doesn't mean blabbermouth."
Murmuring, she let his hands hike up her skirt and pet her naked hips and bottom. "Man whore code of silence."
Amused, he trailed their mouths together, "….hmm. Something like that."
And they fell asleep wrapped around each other.
She woke him, twice, once when it was still dark. And once when it was peaking up pink and purple for sunrise.
The first time manic and fast. Her hands pumping him like a flat tire until he was hard and ready. He'd rolled on her and they'd both gone in moments.
The second time was slick, smooth, tangled sheets and touching. He'd rolled her over to rouse her. He'd breathed her name. They'd merged - fluidly- the dawn painting faces and shadows soft and trembling.
They'd joined hands over her head and locked eyes. Complicated, she said, and it was. Because she wasn't drunk anymore. She was there, utterly, in the watchful hunger of her face.
Their hands parted, they slid around each other and clung, and moved together - holding on.
Complicated.
The sun was fully up when he opened one eye lying on his belly. He was tangled in the sheets, one leg poking out, hips and butt nicely covered. His mouth felt like gravel and his head like cotton stuffed with thunder.
And alone.
He rolled over, looking for her.
Sneaky little thing. She was gone.
The little hotel stationary was propped by his highball glass on the nightstand. A simple elegant scrawl. One word: Thanks.
And? A whole bottle of Macallan 25-year-old single malt scotch whiskey just...sitting there. A mother fucking eighteen hundred dollar bottle of scotch. Like a gift?
No...like payment for a job well done.
Like a fucking whore.
And still? No Leon.
Amused, insulted, he rolled to his back and scratched his belly, watching the shadows on the ceiling.
He kept on thinking about her until his phone chimed on the floor.
And was still thinking of her when he answered it.
It was, indeed, a rare woman to turn the game so cleanly back on him.
Under his breath, laughing, he muttered, "Women."