Title: "Nowhere Near"
Author: Mala
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Fandom: "Witchblade: the series"
Rating/Classification: 'R', Sara POV, IN/SP, angst, language, physicality.
Disclaimer: Top Cow, etc.
Summary: A series of scenes set after the Great Rewind of S1 and vaguely in the comics universe. May end up having to expand and write a sequel if you all don't feel it's "finished." Previous stories can be found at http://ats.malisita.com .
"YOU--wait--you were trying to *save* me!?!"
"Sara, you're nowhere *near* safe."
--"Witchblade Revelations".
You feel the whisper of his long, black hair brushing your face. And, then, you reach for him, in the night, only to close your fingers around air thick with the musky-scented memory of sex. The imprint of his body in the sheets is all you have to curl up to...it's heat the only indication that he was ever here, ever close.
He never speaks. You never ask.
You simply fuck.
And you know he is the man from your dreams and nightmares. Visions you cannot explain that spring from this bracelet that is clasped, cool and enigmatic, around your wrist. You see him diving out a window...caught in a hailstorm of bullets...tracking you through a jungle...reaching across a table for your hand and clasping it tight.
You recognize the texture of his fingers when they interlace with yours. Firm, callused, warm. Strong, violent, gentle. A warrior's hands. You've fought him, you've fought *with* him, you've fought *for* him.
That's why you took him to bed the first time. Because your hormones remembered even if your mind didn't. You spun around in an alley, caught your elusive shadow in the act. You reached for your gun. He reached for his sword. And then something broke and you reach for each other.
"Sara..." he said, even though you'd never told him your name.
"N-nottingham?" you wondered as you slammed him against the bricks and tasted the confirmation on his lips.
So, you leave your window unlatched. You leave a candle burning.
He douses the light with his fingertips and locks the glass before he goes.
But you know he'll come back.
He always does.
***
"Pez...coffee?"
"Hmmm?" you murmur, distracted, fingers stalling on the laptop.
"Cof. Fee," Danny says, emphatically. "Your favorite beverage?"
"I heard you," you snap, gesturing for him to put it down by your elbow. "Thanks."
"What's with you, Partner? I haven't seen you this out of it in years. And you look like shit."
Oh...so he's noticed the blue smudges beneath your eyes and the swollen lips? You look up, offering an exhausted grimace as you roll your head around on your neck and feel the tense spots pop. "Fuck you."
He flinches, flopping down in his chair and saluting you with his own Starbucks to-go cup. "Ouch." Luckily, he's used enough to your morning moods to not feel particularly insulted. "Siri put you on assignment without telling me?"
You take a sip of steaming java, eyes flashing, guiltily, over the Vorschlag Industries web site as you tilt the cover of the Powerbook down. "Not really. Just tying up some loose ends on the Midtown Museum."
"What Midtown Museum?" He mimes a mushroom cloud, tacking on a boisterous "kaboom!" And he says *you're* the morbid one???
You make a face, pretending you don't remember the reflection in the display case...the glass shattering under fire...the moment that changed your life. Twice. "Just thought it was interesting that there was an extensive Joan of Arc collection there owned by Kenneth Irons. He hasn't claimed his insurance policies."
"The Vorschlag guy? The billionaire?" Danny whistles long and low, shaking his head. "Damn, to be rich enough to blow off insurance..."
"Mhmm," you agree, rubbing the silver band beneath your shirt sleeve.
Last night, Nottingham, of course, didn't say anything. The first time notwithstanding, he doesn't even say your name when you make love. But you don't need words from him. Everything you need to know goes unspoken. You feel it.
You know Ken Irons wants it back.
*It*.
The Witchblade.
He has failed a thousand times three different lifetimes. Failed to get it away from you, failed to destroy you, failed to keep Ian from loving you. You wonder which of those things pisses him off the most.
You think you know.
You flip the laptop open again and shiver, staring at the rows and rows of text. This time, when Danny tries to get your attention, you can't even bother with monosyllables and cusswords.
Irons doesn't need to collect on insurance for what he owns.
He has it all ready.
***
"When does this end?" you half-mumble, barely able to lift your head.
He answers with silence, pulls you back against his chest, until you are draped in a sleepy, sated, mass of arms, legs, and Nottingham. This is the first time in two weeks that he has stayed all night...held you afterwards.
This is the first time since you've met again that you've wanted him to.
He never implies that he's in a rush to be anywhere else. That, elsewhere, his master has snapped his fingers and expects him posthaste. He just goes. And you just let him.
And there are times, you know, that he's been tempted to slide the Blade from your skin...take it with him...and never return.
"When does this end?" you ask, again.
He strokes your throat with his mouth and tongue...the throat he could so easily slit. *Never*, he tells you. *Nevernevernever*.
***
"You look like Hell, Pezzini," the rookie tells you as you pass him in the hall.
"Screw off, McCartey," you growl, irritated, quickening your pace as you burst out into the bright midday sun.
Usually, the guys can't quit talking about how fucking hot you are. Something about lately has made you tired and old and ugly in their eyes.
And you understand it.
Because the only time you don't feel those things, yourself, is when Nottingham is inside you.
***
Sunset. Your window is wide open and cool air comes rushing into the loft. You know that your cherished Academy t-shirt hangs like a shroud on your too-thin frame...you also know you won't be wearing it long and Nottingham won't be troubled by what he finds beneath it.
Your Glock lies, loaded, on the bedside table. You turned it over and over between your hands, feeling it's slick weight as you locked the clip into place. He'll unsheathe his sword and place the weapons side by side.
It is a sign of trust.
And a sign of mistrust.
A sign of what's to come.
There is talk. Low rumblings at the stationhouse and louder noise on the street that makes no sense to anyone but you.
Irons and his other, more loyal, cronies could attack at any time. His contacts with the Yakuza could spill in through the front door...Jackie Estacado has taken up the contract on your heads for the Mafia and you know there's really no doors, windows, or walls that will keep him out when he chooses to attack. He'll blow up the building and cut the Witchblade off your cold, dead, hand if he has to.
All you can do is wait.
Wait and see how this permutation of your life, your destiny, plays out.
Wait for your lover to snuff out the candles one last time.
--end--
February 17, 2002.
Author: Mala
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Fandom: "Witchblade: the series"
Rating/Classification: 'R', Sara POV, IN/SP, angst, language, physicality.
Disclaimer: Top Cow, etc.
Summary: A series of scenes set after the Great Rewind of S1 and vaguely in the comics universe. May end up having to expand and write a sequel if you all don't feel it's "finished." Previous stories can be found at http://ats.malisita.com .
"YOU--wait--you were trying to *save* me!?!"
"Sara, you're nowhere *near* safe."
--"Witchblade Revelations".
You feel the whisper of his long, black hair brushing your face. And, then, you reach for him, in the night, only to close your fingers around air thick with the musky-scented memory of sex. The imprint of his body in the sheets is all you have to curl up to...it's heat the only indication that he was ever here, ever close.
He never speaks. You never ask.
You simply fuck.
And you know he is the man from your dreams and nightmares. Visions you cannot explain that spring from this bracelet that is clasped, cool and enigmatic, around your wrist. You see him diving out a window...caught in a hailstorm of bullets...tracking you through a jungle...reaching across a table for your hand and clasping it tight.
You recognize the texture of his fingers when they interlace with yours. Firm, callused, warm. Strong, violent, gentle. A warrior's hands. You've fought him, you've fought *with* him, you've fought *for* him.
That's why you took him to bed the first time. Because your hormones remembered even if your mind didn't. You spun around in an alley, caught your elusive shadow in the act. You reached for your gun. He reached for his sword. And then something broke and you reach for each other.
"Sara..." he said, even though you'd never told him your name.
"N-nottingham?" you wondered as you slammed him against the bricks and tasted the confirmation on his lips.
So, you leave your window unlatched. You leave a candle burning.
He douses the light with his fingertips and locks the glass before he goes.
But you know he'll come back.
He always does.
***
"Pez...coffee?"
"Hmmm?" you murmur, distracted, fingers stalling on the laptop.
"Cof. Fee," Danny says, emphatically. "Your favorite beverage?"
"I heard you," you snap, gesturing for him to put it down by your elbow. "Thanks."
"What's with you, Partner? I haven't seen you this out of it in years. And you look like shit."
Oh...so he's noticed the blue smudges beneath your eyes and the swollen lips? You look up, offering an exhausted grimace as you roll your head around on your neck and feel the tense spots pop. "Fuck you."
He flinches, flopping down in his chair and saluting you with his own Starbucks to-go cup. "Ouch." Luckily, he's used enough to your morning moods to not feel particularly insulted. "Siri put you on assignment without telling me?"
You take a sip of steaming java, eyes flashing, guiltily, over the Vorschlag Industries web site as you tilt the cover of the Powerbook down. "Not really. Just tying up some loose ends on the Midtown Museum."
"What Midtown Museum?" He mimes a mushroom cloud, tacking on a boisterous "kaboom!" And he says *you're* the morbid one???
You make a face, pretending you don't remember the reflection in the display case...the glass shattering under fire...the moment that changed your life. Twice. "Just thought it was interesting that there was an extensive Joan of Arc collection there owned by Kenneth Irons. He hasn't claimed his insurance policies."
"The Vorschlag guy? The billionaire?" Danny whistles long and low, shaking his head. "Damn, to be rich enough to blow off insurance..."
"Mhmm," you agree, rubbing the silver band beneath your shirt sleeve.
Last night, Nottingham, of course, didn't say anything. The first time notwithstanding, he doesn't even say your name when you make love. But you don't need words from him. Everything you need to know goes unspoken. You feel it.
You know Ken Irons wants it back.
*It*.
The Witchblade.
He has failed a thousand times three different lifetimes. Failed to get it away from you, failed to destroy you, failed to keep Ian from loving you. You wonder which of those things pisses him off the most.
You think you know.
You flip the laptop open again and shiver, staring at the rows and rows of text. This time, when Danny tries to get your attention, you can't even bother with monosyllables and cusswords.
Irons doesn't need to collect on insurance for what he owns.
He has it all ready.
***
"When does this end?" you half-mumble, barely able to lift your head.
He answers with silence, pulls you back against his chest, until you are draped in a sleepy, sated, mass of arms, legs, and Nottingham. This is the first time in two weeks that he has stayed all night...held you afterwards.
This is the first time since you've met again that you've wanted him to.
He never implies that he's in a rush to be anywhere else. That, elsewhere, his master has snapped his fingers and expects him posthaste. He just goes. And you just let him.
And there are times, you know, that he's been tempted to slide the Blade from your skin...take it with him...and never return.
"When does this end?" you ask, again.
He strokes your throat with his mouth and tongue...the throat he could so easily slit. *Never*, he tells you. *Nevernevernever*.
***
"You look like Hell, Pezzini," the rookie tells you as you pass him in the hall.
"Screw off, McCartey," you growl, irritated, quickening your pace as you burst out into the bright midday sun.
Usually, the guys can't quit talking about how fucking hot you are. Something about lately has made you tired and old and ugly in their eyes.
And you understand it.
Because the only time you don't feel those things, yourself, is when Nottingham is inside you.
***
Sunset. Your window is wide open and cool air comes rushing into the loft. You know that your cherished Academy t-shirt hangs like a shroud on your too-thin frame...you also know you won't be wearing it long and Nottingham won't be troubled by what he finds beneath it.
Your Glock lies, loaded, on the bedside table. You turned it over and over between your hands, feeling it's slick weight as you locked the clip into place. He'll unsheathe his sword and place the weapons side by side.
It is a sign of trust.
And a sign of mistrust.
A sign of what's to come.
There is talk. Low rumblings at the stationhouse and louder noise on the street that makes no sense to anyone but you.
Irons and his other, more loyal, cronies could attack at any time. His contacts with the Yakuza could spill in through the front door...Jackie Estacado has taken up the contract on your heads for the Mafia and you know there's really no doors, windows, or walls that will keep him out when he chooses to attack. He'll blow up the building and cut the Witchblade off your cold, dead, hand if he has to.
All you can do is wait.
Wait and see how this permutation of your life, your destiny, plays out.
Wait for your lover to snuff out the candles one last time.
--end--
February 17, 2002.