Author: Fallon Ash ( fallon_ash@hotmail.com )
Show: Fastlane
Disclaimer: The characters don't belong to me but to Warners Bros. Television, McNamara Paper Productions, Wonderland Sound and Vision, Fox Broadcasting. I make no money from this.
Rating: R - for just about any reason you can think of... sex, reference to drugs, violence, language, angst...
Pairing: Billie/Deaq
Spoilers: Small one for "101"
Archive: Must ask permission first
Summary: "He stares at her before he turns and walks out. He can't play it like he doesn't care. Not tonight."
too much but not enough
*
He watches her. Sometimes the looks he throws her way when Van isn't looking are so furious he can barely see straight. Occasionally he's worried, when she gets too deep into a case; lives, breathes, only through the case. But most of the time he just observes. Sometimes he thinks he sees that hint of something else, that miniscule indication that she's actually human, like the rest of humankind. He's never quite certain.
*
Not even with her head thrown back in pleasure, her body shuddering from the hard spasms, does she break cover. Because he's certain that's what it is. No, she has learned to grab what she can, enjoy it while it's there, and then move on. He's never seen anyone cut their losses quite as efficiently as she does. He wishes he could see the rest of her, he wishes he could talk to her, because he needs talking. Instead he fucks her. For a few sweet moments minutes hours he can make her forget whatever it is that's making her shoulders tense and hard, her gaze hollow and her knuckles red and bruised from the bag. And then he lets her climb out of his bed, his, never hers, and walk away. She never falls asleep. She never comments on it. As soon as her breathing has slowed she gets up and walks away. He wishes she'd say something, anything. He wishes he could have more of her. Not because of her, particularly, but because he's never been good at fucking. He can't leave the emotion out of it.
*
They'd been seated on the couch; emotionally washed out, tense, exhausted and so wired sleeping wasn't even an option. Van had limped off home, refusing to let her take care of the scrapes and cuts from being too close to the BMW when it blew up. His knees were vibrating up and down, and he was staring at them as if he'd never seen them before. She was on the other end, knees pulled up, minutely rocking back and forth, eyes empty and focused far away. At some point she'd focused her gaze on him. He'd felt the weight of it but she hadn't done anything more. She'd waited until he came to her. And then it was just their mouths, and tongues, and clothes being wrestled off, and their bodies slick with sweat pressing close together, sliding against each other, and pleasure so intense that when he'd finally come down he was able to relax and fall asleep to the rhythmic motion of her hand over his hair. Of course, when he'd woken up a few hours later she was long gone. A momentary release of tension in trusted company. Not that he'd expected more, but he couldn't quite quench a feeling of disquiet with a hint of regret. Not so much that it had happened, but something else. He was fully aware that she'd closed her eyes and turned her head away when she came.
*
He hates seeing her like this, even if it's all an act. He hates seeing her stick that needle in her arm, even if the content is harmless, might even do her some good. He hates that she so explicitly has to expose this part of her past when she obviously hasn't been comfortable in sharing it with them before. He hates that Van and Jared are watching. He hates it all. He hates that he can't protect her. He hates himself for even thinking that, knowing that she'd have him flat on his back in ten seconds if they were fighting. She watches him from the bed when they're done, fingers tapping restlessly, eyes flickering from his face to his body to his hands to his eyes. Shirt unbuttoned, see-through bra. She kicks at the covers; smoothing them, bunching them up, grabs a cigarette and flips it over and over in her hand. "It's gonna take Van two hours to get the pictures developed," is what she says. He stares at her before he turns and walks out. He can't play it like he doesn't care. Not tonight.
*
It's too heavy. He can't breathe. He doesn't know what to do. She is passed out beside him and he's keeping watch. His house has at least five different security alarms and locks electrical, mechanical and all so sophisticated it would take her at least seven hours to break them. He's still keeping watch. She'd been up for three days, she needed sleep more than she needed air, but she came to him. Didn't say a word. They never do. He undressed her, and tried to get her to sleep but she reached for him. He couldn't not go to her. But afterwards she fell asleep. And now he's suffocating. She's beautiful lying there, breaths slow and deep, calm in a way she never is when she's awake. He can barely stand looking at her, but he can't look away, irrationally afraid she'll disappear if he looks away, that she'll stop breathing, that she'll wake up. He might be falling for her, but hopes he's not. Four hours later he goes to the bathroom for a minute. When he comes back she's gone.
*
Van is yelling at him, his voice is high-pitched and funny. "You're screwing Billie?!?" He winces at the word but can't deny it. He's not sure why Van is angry. Maybe jealousy, though of him or of her he doesn't know. Maybe it's just because he felt he should have known sooner, but there was nothing to tell. Suddenly the anger changes into something else. There's an ugly sneer on Van's face. "So is the ice-bitch as good in bed as she looks?" "Don't," is what he answers but Van doesn't stop. "Is she as tight as the rest of her body? Does she lie on her back and spread her legs for you, or is that your part?" Attempting to mask the hurt with cruel crudeness. He's not surprised when he sees Van's head snap back as his fist impacts with the other man's jaw, even though he's not consciously aware of hitting him. He wants to go home. Van wipes the blood from his nose with the back of his hand and looks at him with murder in his eyes. Home to New York.
*
He stands outside her apartment door a long time the night before he leaves. She must finally have tired of having him out there because she opens it and pulls him in. She's kissing him while she secures it behind him. Actually kissing him while looking into his eyes. Her hands are on his shoulders guiding him further into the apartment. Later, in bed, she doesn't close her eyes or turn away her head. Her pale blue burns into his dark brown, a connection between them that has never been there. He isn't sure if she's playing him or not, but he doesn't care. He wants to believe this means something to her, and if she's willing to let him have that, he doesn't care if it's true or not. He makes love to her slowly, for a long time. When she finally shows him out the door she kisses him again and whispers "You're a kind man. Too kind for this." And that's the last time he sees her.
*
end
Proceed to the epilogue at will.
Warning: Character Death
Show: Fastlane
Disclaimer: The characters don't belong to me but to Warners Bros. Television, McNamara Paper Productions, Wonderland Sound and Vision, Fox Broadcasting. I make no money from this.
Rating: R - for just about any reason you can think of... sex, reference to drugs, violence, language, angst...
Pairing: Billie/Deaq
Spoilers: Small one for "101"
Archive: Must ask permission first
Summary: "He stares at her before he turns and walks out. He can't play it like he doesn't care. Not tonight."
He watches her. Sometimes the looks he throws her way when Van isn't looking are so furious he can barely see straight. Occasionally he's worried, when she gets too deep into a case; lives, breathes, only through the case. But most of the time he just observes. Sometimes he thinks he sees that hint of something else, that miniscule indication that she's actually human, like the rest of humankind. He's never quite certain.
*
Not even with her head thrown back in pleasure, her body shuddering from the hard spasms, does she break cover. Because he's certain that's what it is. No, she has learned to grab what she can, enjoy it while it's there, and then move on. He's never seen anyone cut their losses quite as efficiently as she does. He wishes he could see the rest of her, he wishes he could talk to her, because he needs talking. Instead he fucks her. For a few sweet moments minutes hours he can make her forget whatever it is that's making her shoulders tense and hard, her gaze hollow and her knuckles red and bruised from the bag. And then he lets her climb out of his bed, his, never hers, and walk away. She never falls asleep. She never comments on it. As soon as her breathing has slowed she gets up and walks away. He wishes she'd say something, anything. He wishes he could have more of her. Not because of her, particularly, but because he's never been good at fucking. He can't leave the emotion out of it.
*
They'd been seated on the couch; emotionally washed out, tense, exhausted and so wired sleeping wasn't even an option. Van had limped off home, refusing to let her take care of the scrapes and cuts from being too close to the BMW when it blew up. His knees were vibrating up and down, and he was staring at them as if he'd never seen them before. She was on the other end, knees pulled up, minutely rocking back and forth, eyes empty and focused far away. At some point she'd focused her gaze on him. He'd felt the weight of it but she hadn't done anything more. She'd waited until he came to her. And then it was just their mouths, and tongues, and clothes being wrestled off, and their bodies slick with sweat pressing close together, sliding against each other, and pleasure so intense that when he'd finally come down he was able to relax and fall asleep to the rhythmic motion of her hand over his hair. Of course, when he'd woken up a few hours later she was long gone. A momentary release of tension in trusted company. Not that he'd expected more, but he couldn't quite quench a feeling of disquiet with a hint of regret. Not so much that it had happened, but something else. He was fully aware that she'd closed her eyes and turned her head away when she came.
*
He hates seeing her like this, even if it's all an act. He hates seeing her stick that needle in her arm, even if the content is harmless, might even do her some good. He hates that she so explicitly has to expose this part of her past when she obviously hasn't been comfortable in sharing it with them before. He hates that Van and Jared are watching. He hates it all. He hates that he can't protect her. He hates himself for even thinking that, knowing that she'd have him flat on his back in ten seconds if they were fighting. She watches him from the bed when they're done, fingers tapping restlessly, eyes flickering from his face to his body to his hands to his eyes. Shirt unbuttoned, see-through bra. She kicks at the covers; smoothing them, bunching them up, grabs a cigarette and flips it over and over in her hand. "It's gonna take Van two hours to get the pictures developed," is what she says. He stares at her before he turns and walks out. He can't play it like he doesn't care. Not tonight.
*
It's too heavy. He can't breathe. He doesn't know what to do. She is passed out beside him and he's keeping watch. His house has at least five different security alarms and locks electrical, mechanical and all so sophisticated it would take her at least seven hours to break them. He's still keeping watch. She'd been up for three days, she needed sleep more than she needed air, but she came to him. Didn't say a word. They never do. He undressed her, and tried to get her to sleep but she reached for him. He couldn't not go to her. But afterwards she fell asleep. And now he's suffocating. She's beautiful lying there, breaths slow and deep, calm in a way she never is when she's awake. He can barely stand looking at her, but he can't look away, irrationally afraid she'll disappear if he looks away, that she'll stop breathing, that she'll wake up. He might be falling for her, but hopes he's not. Four hours later he goes to the bathroom for a minute. When he comes back she's gone.
*
Van is yelling at him, his voice is high-pitched and funny. "You're screwing Billie?!?" He winces at the word but can't deny it. He's not sure why Van is angry. Maybe jealousy, though of him or of her he doesn't know. Maybe it's just because he felt he should have known sooner, but there was nothing to tell. Suddenly the anger changes into something else. There's an ugly sneer on Van's face. "So is the ice-bitch as good in bed as she looks?" "Don't," is what he answers but Van doesn't stop. "Is she as tight as the rest of her body? Does she lie on her back and spread her legs for you, or is that your part?" Attempting to mask the hurt with cruel crudeness. He's not surprised when he sees Van's head snap back as his fist impacts with the other man's jaw, even though he's not consciously aware of hitting him. He wants to go home. Van wipes the blood from his nose with the back of his hand and looks at him with murder in his eyes. Home to New York.
*
He stands outside her apartment door a long time the night before he leaves. She must finally have tired of having him out there because she opens it and pulls him in. She's kissing him while she secures it behind him. Actually kissing him while looking into his eyes. Her hands are on his shoulders guiding him further into the apartment. Later, in bed, she doesn't close her eyes or turn away her head. Her pale blue burns into his dark brown, a connection between them that has never been there. He isn't sure if she's playing him or not, but he doesn't care. He wants to believe this means something to her, and if she's willing to let him have that, he doesn't care if it's true or not. He makes love to her slowly, for a long time. When she finally shows him out the door she kisses him again and whispers "You're a kind man. Too kind for this." And that's the last time he sees her.
*
end
Proceed to the epilogue at will.
Warning: Character Death