A/N: Rating change, peeps. It will probably be a little while before I updated chapter eight, just as a heads up. 'cause I am rather stuck on it at the moment, despite my outline for the entire fic itself.
For any of you non-Americans (or East Coasters) Port Authority Bus Terminal is New York, and is nasty as hell. And before you ask, no I never ended up in the situation South describes.
An honorable mention goes to the lovely and talented Piewacket who sat through my long PMs explaining the background I had given South, and how to get the psychological stuff just right. It was her who told me about the concept of "losing one's emotional virginity".
Either way, thanks to my beta, Mel, and even more kisses, thanks (and perhaps a lap dance or two) for Ever Heard of a Dictionary, who saved my sorry ass with the Wash/South in this.
By the time you swear you're his,
Shivering and sighing.
And he vows his passion is,
Infinite, undying.
Lady make note of this -
One of you is lying."
- Dorothy Parker
Agent California used to be a girl of routine. Up every morning at seven, tea with her father (the Russian way) at four o'clock on the dot. There was something comforting about ritual, a sense of ease that left her in a calmer state.
When she was small she had loved it- sameness, nothing new or scary to think about let alone have to face it in reality.
That had changed as soon as she turned twelve. As she took on the duties every Observant girl was supposed to, she noticed the way her mother had withered over the years. Washing endless dishes, lighting the candles every week- it left her with a loneliness she couldn't describe. Yet when she looked up at her mother's tired face, she could see that she felt the exact same way.
From that moment on she could feel it weighing her down; a noose around her neck that squeezed just enough air out of one's lungs to be uncomfortable, but not yet dead- the worse torture of them all.
Trapped in a religion she had loved so much but could never be equal in; forced into an engagement she had never wanted.
"An honor," her father had said.
"An honor," repeated her mother, sisters, and brothers.
But to her it had been more of a prison- she dreaded the day she would have to go through with it. It was never about love, and it never would be. Maybe that's why she left when she was seventeen- underage, of course. But the recruiter certainly didn't seem to mind; especially when she let down her hair and cast aside the long sleeved dresses she had worn her whole life.
This sense of power was beyond giddiness- it was dangerous, addicting, and she drank it in the way an alcoholic yearns for a drop of vodka.
She had never learned to fire a gun in her life. Hell, she had never even touched a gun before she ended up in basic training. But it was another danger, another taste of the drink.
Whereas the old Shoshanna had been timid and shy, this new Susannah had morphed into a fierce boldness. And with each step she took, each bullet she fired, she shed that old person slowly until the day came that the old Shoshanna was never there and only Agent California stood in her place.
Maybe that was what caused her to corner Agent Maine that day at Base- a rush of power and the newfound knowledge that her appearance could have such an effect on men.
Or perhaps it was Maine himself.
She admitted she took joy in his witticism, and even more so that she could reply without being berated.
Another sip.
She had heard the rumors surrounding him, and even if she hadn't, she would have known anyway from the way he walked; the charming but devious smile on his lips. But the more she watched him, the more she began to realize that there was more than mere bravado underneath that white armor of his.
Even if she had gotten slightly carried away with the kissing.
She hadn't interacted with guys very much back home because of her father. In fact, she had barely been involved with anyone before Project Freelancer. It was York who had been her first kiss, who had told her that her eyes sparkled when she smiled.
She had felt it then- the intense crackle of attraction, the spell of waiting and leaning, wondering what would happen next. And if she was going to be honest now, she still felt a little something for the yellow armored Freelancer.
Maine, however, was a whole different story. More than a mere schoolgirl crush, settling only for shy kisses and slight touching. Maine was an ache, a wanting that drove her to be far more reckless than she had ever intended to be.
The whole damn bottle.
Running on this drunkenness, she had been beyond stopping- a car with no brakes. When she woke up the morning after that incident in the hallway, she felt the buzz fading from her body, her lips swollen and a hickey on her neck.
But like any addict, the first taste was only the beginning.
She had no idea what time it was- that always strange sensation between sleeping and wakefulness when the memories of the previous night were not fully connected to her mind.
With her head pounding and body throbbing with exhaustion, South felt as though she was experiencing a hangover tenfold. Opening in her eyes slowly and wincing as she did so, she considered getting up but even the idea of moving seemed to be an immense effort.
That sentiment, tempting as it was, barely lasted five minutes as South swallowed, only to find her mouth and throat painfully dry. Fumbling next to her bedside table, she tried and failed to find water, juice, anything.
But there was nothing and she resigned herself to getting up, albeit slower than usual, every muscle in her body protesting as she stretched them. The misty clouds of her vision began to clear at the same moment as her mind and she instantly noted two things.
One, she was alone and 'Lina had thoughtfully left a bottle of water and two painkillers on the bureau.
Two, she was totally fucked.
South's mind always worked in stages, taking in color, words, sounds and touch at each different times, slow and agonizing. Usually it took at least a few hours for her brain to fully process what she had experienced the day before, diminishing the impact and allowing her shell to do most of the work.
Today was a different story and she was hit with every experience straight on- sounds and touch and sight shuffling themselves past her defenses and settling in for a stay.
Shit.
Before these past few days she couldn't remember the last time she had been attacked by her own thoughts like this.
What had she done then? What could she do now?
Whatever it was, she couldn't stand to stay still for a moment longer. Grabbing the water and pills, she downed them in an instant with the brief prayer that the drugs would get her to think straight. Or not at all.
As much as she relied on impulse and escape to guide her, South was not stupid. She knew if she was going somewhere she couldn't just leave without an idea of where she was going.
Otherwise you would end up at Port Authority Bus Terminal at three in the morning with nothing but a pack of watermelon bubblegum and a grand total of five dollars to your name.
Of course, she had never experienced something like that.
Not at all.
This time, she knew that escape would do her no good, as tempting as it was.
No.
It was time for a battle.
And with that, she prepared her armor slowly, carefully, with the quiet assurance of an assassin.
He ran further into the desert than he ever had before, pushing past the protesting ache in his muscles and the orders not to be too active due to his hand.
Five miles.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
That was one of the best things about running- you could lose your thoughts somewhere between the sand being kicked up behind you and the thrum of your pulse in equal rhythm to the pounding of your footsteps.
Granted, the sand made the latter impossible, his feet sinking deeper into the wavelets of the stuff with each stride, but the difficulty only made him work harder until he finally gave in and collapsed on top of the sand, the way a child would, the adrenaline buzz peaking before fading completely.
His thoughts caught up to him sluggishly, a few paces behind everything else- the poor sap in the last leg of the race that is applauded out of mere pity.
This time, however, his thoughts were sly bastards and after half preparing himself to be bombarded with images of South, he saw California instead.
She had seemed even more lost than the rest of them on their introduction to base. York knew most of the other Freelancers (himself included) had been in the military for a few years before being chosen for the Project; they fell into the routine without a hint of hesitation.
But she was awkward, colt-like in her movements and her accented words. She was Israeli, she had told him one night when she was up far too late, still adjusting, she said.
He had noticed her eyes right away; a periwinkle blue that deepened into a violet color when she smiled. That was when he had kissed her, over a glass of tea at 3am, in a world all their own as the rest of base slept.
She had been shy in her response and York hadn't pushed it any further- he would realize later he didn't have much of a desire to go further. She was sweet, but he could see her attraction to Maine, that need oozing off of her- a need to go beyond everything she had known, a need York understood himself.
That was around the time he had first run into South and he couldn't help but compare the two- both lost, and in need of healing, perhaps even saving.
Shit. He was probably developing a white knight complex or something.
He shrugged his shoulders. While he could go the psychological self analysis route, he much preferred to lie in the sand and enjoy the endless sunshine that this strange alien planet provided. Lacing his fingers behind his head he closed his eyes and allowed his thoughts to slowly disintegrate until there was nothing left but images.
Until those, too, were gone, and he didn't bother grasping the lingering shadows.
She had planned to march into his room and take him head on, not allowing him to get under her skin the way he had before.
But, of course, upon seeing him sprawled out on the bed, his chest slowly rising and falling as he slept, her resolve weakened.
Georgia's words echoed in her mind.
"You're part of what makes Wash…Wash."
Removing her helmet, she walked over to him, pressing her lips lightly against his forehead. As she turned to leave, she heard his voice- not husky with sleep the way it would be if he had just woken up.
"Wait."
"You bastard! You were awake this entire time?" She felt her temper coming back, but even that was diluted with a smile.
"Not really."
"Bullshit."
"I might have been. For an hour, tops."
She shook her head, hands on her hips.
His shoulders sagged but he still had a cheeky grin on his face, "Okay…all night?"
"Asshole."
She perched on the edge of a wooden chair, as far away from his bed as possible. While she loved this type of banter between the two of them, she didn't trust herself to get any closer to him. Especially not when she had something important to say.
His expression changed as he half sat up, leaning on his elbows. "We need to talk." He uttered the cliché words that she hated so much.
Unfortunately, he was right.
"Yeah, we do."
"Can you come here? Please?" He indicted the space on the bed next to him, and she shook her head.
"No."
He sighed, sitting up fully and running his hands through his hair, "Look, we both really messed up yesterday."
"David, if we're going to fucking end up here again, I'm out." She regretted taking off her helmet, and of showing such tenderness towards him when she first came into his room.
He grimaced, annoyance clouding his features. "Christ, can you give me five fucking minutes to apologize?"
"That didn't sound like an apology."
"Well, maybe I shouldn't bother then."
"Fine! I don't give a shit."
"Then why the hell are you here? Shouldn't you back to draping yourself all over York?"
"Stop. Just stop." Her voice was tired, broken, and vulnerable. He wanted to draw her close, stroke her hair and remind her that he would always be there. But that wall was still between them, like reinforced glass.
"I'm sorry, Cass. I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions yesterday."
"Nice to know you think of me like that."
"Cass, can you just let me talk for one goddamn second? Why the hell do you make it so hard for me to love you?"
She inhaled sharply, afraid that if she let out the breath, his words would disappear as well. The dominant half of her, her outer shell, called bullshit.
"You love me," she said flatly.
He got up, walking to where she sat, taking her hands in his. She flinched, but didn't pull away.
"Of course I do. Why the hell else would I be doing all this?" He groaned in frustration.
Her mind was thinking too fast for her tongue to catch up, the range of thoughts coming to a head. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block it out.
Act, not think, she reminded herself.
That was when she kissed him.
She had underestimated her need; a longing to stay close to him, to love and be loved. She wasn't sure she was capable of the former but right now, pushing her body against his she didn't care. She pressed her lips to his, a kiss far deeper than she ever intended, and he responded with eagerness, beginning to fumble with the locking mechanisms on her purple armor plates.
She trembled- fear and not desire in her movements, and she couldn't help but pull back, her old instincts taking the floor again.
"You confuse the hell out of me, you know," he remarked, and she laughed softly.
"Maybe that's the point."
She forced her mind to focus on him, blocking out the past.
This is what you wanted.
She kissed him again, standing on the tips of her toes to do so- curse her shortness. With her armor plates gone, she began to peel off her under suit, his hands brushing up against hers. He couldn't stop himself from moving his hand down to her hips and with a slight bit of apprehension, her ass.
He expected her to move away as she did before but she didn't; a small sound of satisfaction as she desperately ran her hands across the thin shirt he had slept in, slipping her tongue in his mouth as she kissed him like she had never kissed before.
That was when he lost control completely; exploring every inch of her body- he had waited far too long for this. In his frenzy he almost forgot to pull apart to breathe, and he could see that she was the same, her cheeks flushed and the same look in her eyes that he had seen in the desert, the moment that he realized he loved her.
"I fucking love you, Cass."
"Love you, too," she mumbled, expressing all she couldn't say in her heart with a single kiss- lustful, but tender.
In that moment he knew what he had to do; it was beyond cliché, but it was the only way.
It didn't take long for the stretchy black fabric to be gone, and without a moment for her to protest he scooped her into his arms and laid her on his unmade bed, his lips on her jaw line, her neck, her collarbone. He hesitated at the clasp on her bra and she nodded, guiding his hands to the hook and eye.
His hands trembled as he undid said clasp, but the encouragement in her blue eyes lead him on. He wanted to please her, show his love beyond mere words, finally connecting with her in the most intimate way.
It was the first time he had ever seen her like this- shivering with lust, that guard that she always had shattered into a million pieces.
He wanted to know every inch of her, exploring the curve of her waist, a touch on her inner thigh that left her beyond thinking, a groan escaping from her lips.
"Further…"
"I want to," he breathed in her ear.
"I need to."
She felt…confused when they were finished, his passion giving way to a sleepy relaxation as he looked at her with heavy lidded eyes.
His arms beckoned her closer, as close as she had been earlier, but something held her back.
Instead she was adrift in her thoughts as they washed over her- a mix of sadness, joy, fear. And there was openness in her heart that was thrilling but left her clinging to the remnants of her shell, the spark trembling from head to toe.
Is this what it feels like to truly lose your virginity?
She had lost hers at fifteen, a drunken encounter that she didn't recall the details of. All of her sexual experiences were that way- she was there but not there, a body that she did not recognize or belong to. It was emptiness, numbness; she had thrown herself in as an effort to stop those feelings, but they never did disappear, a lingering smoke she could never quite catch.
