The O.C
A Force to Be Reckoned With
Author: Alba's Room
A/N: Just another one-shot. I have to warn you, there's a bit of smut in this chapter so if it makes you uncomfortable, don't read it. For anyone interested, I will be elaborating on 'At What Price?' in the next few weeks. I'm just trying to figure out exactly which way I want to take it. I am in love with Kirsten stories. There is absolutely no limit to the way you can twist her character. Here's another take. Hope you like. Alba.
Summary: AU. Kirsten didn't ask him to love her. She didn't ask him to care either. There's only one thing to do in this situation. Punish him.
Background: Kirsten is about twenty-one in this story. She runs away from home with only a couple of thousand dollars in her bank account. When she runs out of money, she asks Jimmy (who's a complete stranger) for some change but instead, he gives her a place to say and a chance to start a new life.
Disclaimer: I do not own The O.C. Lucky Josh Schwartz does. Clever boy.
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"I don't want you to love me anymore!" she screams at him. He flinches and steps back. The knife wobbles in his hand but doesn't fall.
"You don't?" he asks, his voice a whisper.
"No," she says, her voice just as quiet, just as still. She walks around him in a circle. He doesn't move. "I never asked for you to love me. I never asked for you to care. I never asked you to marry me. I asked you for fifty cents to make a phone call home and instead of giving me that, you gave me your heart. I didn't ask for that. I don't want that!"
"Well, I didn't ask to fall in love with you either," he shoots back. He is silent for a moment while he muses. "Are you saying you don't love me?"
"Have you not been listening to me?" she screams. She throws her hands up in the air and steps towards him. "I don't want you to love me. I don't need you to love me."
"So, what? You're going to kill me?" Jimmy asks. He looks at her, into her and laughs. "Kirsten, you're crazy. You are crazy."
"Ten seconds ago you were holding a knife to my throat and I'm the one that's crazy?" she spat out, shaking her head. Her throat is dry and she wants nothing more than to take a swig of the half empty bottle of vodka that stands open on the bench. He glances at her, sees her swallow, and then follows her eyes to the bottle.
"Here," he says, swiping it off the bench. He hands it to her and she guzzles it down greedily. "Hey, hey. Baby, slow down."
She closes her eyes and shakes her head. Baby. She destests the word. Hates it. She spits a mouthful of vodka out, showering him with a spray of the ink-tasting liquid before she throws the now empty bottle on the floor.
"Don't call me baby," she says, staring at the shards of glass that cover the green linoleum floor. Her eyes are bloodshot but she looks up at him and her voice turns into a shriek. "How many times do I have to ask you not too? How many times, Jimmy? How many times?"
"Ok, I won't call you baby anymore," he says, holding up his hands and taking a step back. The knife is still clutched in his hand and her eyes travel towards it.
"Lose the knife," she spits. He looks down at it and over at her.
"Are you crazy? You might kill me," he counters.
"Believe me, knife or not, I could still kill you," she throws back.
"You're drunk."
"And you're an ass."
"Touché."
"If you'd left when I'd asked you to, we wouldn't be in this situation," she reminds him. He shrugs and leans against the kitchen counter. She stares at him. The wind sweeps into the room and ruffles her white dressing gown. With a gust, the split opens and reveals that she is wearing nothing underneath.
"You know, if you wanted me to leave, you should have worn something a little less revealing," he whispers. She chuckles a little as her hands move and close the gap. She tightens the sash around her waist and falls backwards onto the lounge.
"Jimmy?" she asks.
"Yeah?" he replies, not moving. She tries to stifle a sob but fails. She hears the knife dropping to the floor and hears him moving across the room towards her. He gently falls over the arm of the couch on top of her.
"I don't really want you to stop loving me," she whispers. He silently kisses her brow and then kisses away the tears that fall before collapsing on top of her, his face buried in her neck.
"And I don't want to stop loving you," he whispers into her hair. Her dark blue eyes gleam in the dark. He tries and he tries but he cant read them. She sees that and smiles over his shoulder into the night. Jimmy pulls up and kisses her lips. She smiles peacefully as the kiss deepens. She shudders as Jimmy's ice-cold hand makes it's way under her dressing gown and up to her bare bottom, where it rests. As his hand gains warmth and continues to caress her, she sighs and gives in to the inevitable. She takes his other hand and places it on her breast and moans as he squeezes it.
"Jimmy," she says, clutching his face. She pulls him towards her and kisses him, biting his lip as they pull away. Her breathing gets heavier as he pulls off her gown. She somehow gets his belt off and his pants down. He stops and pauses. He looks at her.
"Are you ready?" he asks. He moves off her and sits up. She nods, her eyes darting all over the place, her breath quickening. He smiles and holds her thighs in place so she can't move. "Just a little longer."
He pushes himself backwards and moves his mouth to her. He breathes on her and she shivers as his mouth connects with her. Her back arches as his tongue licks and dips and licks again.
"Jimmy," she cries, clutching his hair. He pulls away from her and repositions himself. She groans and cries out as he enters her and pulses in and out. Release comes quick for both of them. What comes next is quicker.
The glint of the knife catches his eyes briefly but he is spent and takes no notice. His breathing is heavy as he bends over her, panting, so he hears nothing. It's the pain he feels first as the knife is plunged into his back. It's the mirth in her faces he catches next, as she smiles, pleased with herself. She pushes him off her and struggles to get from underneath him before succeeding. She pulls the dressing gown back on and kneels on the floor, placing her face right in his.
"You should never have betrayed me," she whispers at him. She shakes a finger at him as she peers at him. "That's a no-no."
She tightens the sash and walks calmly to the front door. She turns around and sees him spluttering. He coughs up blood and struggles to breath, but she is cool, calm and in control.
"I never betrayed you," he somehow chokes out.
"Ah, but you did," she smiles. Now he can read the malice in her eyes.
"All I did was love you," he chokes.
"I didn't want you to love me," she says, loftily. He looks at her, wishing so much he could live to stop another man falling for her charm.
"How many other men have you killed?" he asks, knowing this isn't the first time she's done this.
"A couple," she says. She begins to laugh and throws her head back. His blood stains her clothes but she doesn't notice. Doesn't seem to notice or doesn't care, he cant tell. "I really thought you'd catch on."
"And I really thought you loved me," he says as he clutches his chest. "Why me? Why kill me?
"I keep telling you, I never asked you to love me," she whispers as she walks back over to him. She sits down on the couch next to him and begins stroking his hair. "And you're rich."
There's silence again until she speaks again.
"That's the one thing you never knew about me. I'm a force to be reckoned with. If something gets in my way, I move it. It's nothing personal, but you were in my way. I need your money. Sorry, hon."
His eyes bug out as she jabs with the knife again. And again. And again. She waits patiently as he groans and bends over in pain. She waits a few minutes more and then there is silence. She smiles and then looks over at the phone, which she picks up.
"Hello?" she cries into the phone. She begins to sob. "Is someone there? Anyone?"
"What's the problem, miss?" a kind voice comes on the line.
"It's my husband," she says, sobbing. "He's dead. I killed him. He hurt me and I got scared and I think I've killed him. I didn't mean to do it."
"Ma'am, where are you?" the lady asks, becoming businesslike and urgent. Kirsten sobs out the address and then hangs up. She picks up the knife and without wiping her husband's blood off, plunges it into her stomach. She flinches with the pain but she brings it up to her face and slices into the flesh below her eye. She punches herself a few times, rolls in the glass, bangs into a few pieces of furniture to make her injuries authentic and consistent with the elaborate story she will concoct.
She is a force to be reckoned with. There is no doubt about it.