Note: It's all her fault. She started this thread about 'ships, and named them all, and then of course (since I've, uh, kinda been writing about it since forever anyway) I had to write the Max/Kat one, which she named "Adrenaline". Therefore, I am completelyexempt from blame. This is set a little after Season Three's "Deep Cover", wherein Josh asks Kat if she wants to be president of his fan club. And that to me sounds suspiciously like flirtin'.
"Adrenaline"
Berto would look at it through a scientific lens and talk about biochemistry, psychological factors, the inevitable inward spiral of propinquity - but Berto is asleep at his desk, the victim of a long night of technology bingeing. And his two roommates are outside playing basketball on the driveway and they don't care about the science. The only biochemical Josh and Kat have ever been interested in is adrenaline. In high doses. Any way they can get it.
This way has only just occurred to them.
Kat shoots and misses. The basketball clangs off the rim and Josh snags it out of the air before it can hit the cement. "Nice shot," he says, teasing.
She rolls a shoulder, exaggerating the movement. "You'd miss too, if you were sleeping on a couch for a week."
The beach house has two bedrooms. Josh as the owner has one, and Berto took the other. Roommate number three sleeps on the couch and lives out of a duffel bag.
He bounces the ball from hand to hand, feigning unrepentence. She did have a chance, after all; he was willing to give up his bed for the couch, and she nixed the idea. "Sorry. But you turned down the bed."
"Ask me again," she says, with a wink and a grin that tells him she isn't talking about trading.
Adrenaline washes through nerves and lights them up.
Josh's shot goes wide and misses the backboard altogether. "Who says the offer's still good?"
Kat retrieves the ball, spins it on one finger. "How about... The winner does."
It's always a competition for them. Even with this - they have to see who's best. I dare you. That's part of the fun. That is the fun. "First to ten?" he suggests.
She tosses the ball to him. "Three."
"Short game." He passes it back.
She shrugs and, arrogant, asks, "Why delay the inevitable?"
I dare you.
Kat spins the ball on her finger again, then starts dribbling it, shifting from foot to foot. Josh warns, "Don't forget - I have home-court advantage."
"That's your only advantage, McGrath." Smirking.
They both know it's true; they both know he doesn't care. She takes her time, keeping the ball and her feet in motion but not really going anywhere. Takes her time and gives him, standing behind her, between her and the hoop, a chance to make contact.
His hand brushes her arm. Maybe an accident - the first time. Not the second. And there's no reason at all for it to settle against her side, his fingers splayed down over her hip. Fire dances along neural pathways and pulse rates speed up.
Fight or flight. The oldest choice in the world.
Of course, for them, it's not much of a choice.
It is a distraction - trying to flirt with your opponent while also trying to win. Ups the difficulty level along with the biochemical rush. Raises the chances for an accident.
Kat breaks away and goes for a jump shot. Josh has to move fast to block and doesn't mean to - but does - catch her in the ribs with an elbow. The ball goes nowhere near the hoop. She stumbles and loses her balance, lands sprawling in the almost-beach sand at the edge of the driveway.
"Sorry," he says, chagrined that he can still miscalculate his strength and force like that. (Distractions will do that to even the most well-meaning superagent.)
"Foul," she says from the ground. She pulls herself to her feet and dusts sand away.
Josh picks up the ball and walks forward to meet her. "Take your shot."
That's a challenge, not a courtesy. I dare you.
The distance between them is the width of a basketball. The world narrows down to a few square feet of sun, sweat, and sand, and over it all the question: How far?
How far can this go? How far will you go?
I dare you.
First one to blink loses.
Kat takes the ball, throws it at the basket without taking her attention from him - and then she takes her shot.
One step forward, lean in, contact. Mouth on mouth and skin to skin, as wild and hard and thrilling as they can make it. Adrenaline surges, pure and sweet. Exhilarating.
The basketball slices cleanly through the hoop. Nothing but net, as the old boast goes. It smacks into one of the dirtbikes as it bounces down the driveway and the metal crash wakes both of them up. Out of breath, surprised, running high on endorphins.
"Nice shot," he says. This time he means it. A lot.
"Oh yeah? Wanna be president of my fan club?" she asks, and now she's teasing, repeating his words of a week ago - the words that started this entire game, though they've yet to finish it.
He remembers, and laughs a little, and so does she, and that's the end of basketball. And by the time Berto finally wakes up, it's too late for him to know that the science of his teammates has moved into other areas: physics, for example. Equal and opposite reactions. Bodies in motion staying in motion.
With as much adrenaline as possible.
fin!