End Game – Interlude 1: Night Follows Mourning

Rating: R (sexual situations and discussion)

Author's Note: End Game takes place roughly a week and a half after the events of Blade: Trinity. In an effort not to ignore that time passing entirely, I present the Interludes, End Game-associated side-stories and flashbacks. In deference to the TOS I will not post them as separate stories. I've not planned out all of them as yet, and they will be a mixed bag. Some will be character-driven introspection, some side-plot or background, still others will be PWPs, and if you don't know what that means, skip on ahead. Because this first Interlude, Night Follows Mourning, is definitely a PWP (among other things). A present for you Abby/King fans with a little bit of how I see their dynamic thrown in for good measure.

Enjoy.

"Lie back," she whispered against his lips, and, for once, he complied without comment. Tentatively, he leaned down, first dropping to one elbow, then the other, then easing himself the last few inches until his head rested on the pillows. He readjusted, chin nudging forward as he settled comfortably, signaling he was ready when she was.

In the dark, the bruises on his abdomen weren't as defined, so she would have to tread carefully so as not to hurt him. No loud noises, no bright lights, no squeezing, no pain. That simple and that complicated all at once. His eyes were dull from drugs yet tracked her every move as she shed clothing beside the bed. First, her shoes and pants, then her shirt and hair tie, which left her in a sporty camisole top and matching gray underwear and socks. These she left on and sat beside him on the bed.

"Just let me do the work, okay?" She kissed him, convincingly, and he uttered an agreeable groan, squeezing her hand once. Still sweeping his mouth with her tongue, she drew his arm onto her lap, caressing it cautiously so as not to aggravate the reopened wound on his shoulder. Her other hand traveled to his pants, forgoing the buttons and zipper and sliding deftly underneath, between his skin and the elastic of his boxers.

"Mmm?" She hummed against his lips. They were usually more articulate, King impressively so. Tonight was different. Words felt heavy in her mouth and unnecessary when a look or touch or hum would suffice.

"Mmm," he sighed and gripped her waist, rubbing her belly with his thumb as she closed over his cock with her hand. They kissed again, mouths open wider, tongues more adventurous and erratic, but maintaining the same rhythm, slow, steady, lingering, longing. A mournful celebration of the fact they were still alive, held too soon after the deaths of so many close friends to be quick or erotic or hard.

After a few minutes of this, she straightened, removing her hand to better remove his pants and shoes. She swiveled, facing away from him and leaning over to accomplish this, staying in the one spot because he could touch her that way. And he did, his hand tracing circles down her stomach, over the rise of her pubis, skipping her underwear and continuing on down her thigh to her knee then working his back up again.

"Lift up a bit for me," she instructed, kindly, aware of how sore a task this was for him, rewarding him with more petting when he complied. She set his shoes on the floor at the foot of the bed and shrugged his boxers and pants off his legs, draping them with dignity over the footboard. Now he was naked, his expression proving him sharply aware of this fact.

"You, too, Whistler." His voice was honey thick, oozing unwilling from his sore throat, squeezed out by the invisible hands that left red finger prints on his skin. She ran one hand up from his ankle, over the crest of his knee and hip bone straight on up to his chin, kissed him again, and stood up so he could see her completely.

"Watch me."

"Yes," though he wasn't really talking to her. Yes, his sharp gaze was saying, yes, watch. He liked to watch her; it was no onerous obligation. Crossing her arms over her front, she hitched up the hem of her undershirt and lifted it over her head, the elastic under her breasts clinging until the last moment and then letting her chest go with a gratuitous jiggle.

The panties went next. She had never figured out how to remove them gracefully, preferring to let her partner do it whenever they were intimate. He didn't seem to mind how she did it, awkwardly stepping first out of one side then the other, balancing perfectly yet feeling ready to topple at any moment. King smiled, tiredly, sorely, beckoning her closer so he could curve his hand around from her pelvis to her ass, nudging her back onto the bed beside him.

"Better," he rumbled as she pressed against his side. Because of his shoulder, she supported her weight on one bent elbow, reaching immediately to dance the fingertips of her other hand over the mogul ridges of his abdomen. His hand, flat between her shoulder blades, brought her closer still, and he caught her earlobe with his lips.

"You still have your socks on."

She snorted. So she did. She sat up to tug them off, and his hand fell along the arch of her spine. A moan escaped her as his fingers spread the skin on either side of her vertebrae, massaging upwards as she leaned her weight backwards on her hands. It didn't stop, he didn't stop, and his fingers found her neck, thumb and forefinger pinching the nape under her hair.

All this he could do with just the one hand. Amazing, yes, but why settle for one when she could have two with a change in position? Kicking upwards, she rolled into a crouch and straddled his legs, walking up his body on her knees. A couple of times, he bent his knees outwards, forcing her legs farther apart and lower over him.

"Be careful with me," he smirked when she reached his hips. "I'm fragile."

"I know," she croaked, his humor touching too closely the truth for comfort or play. From this position, eyes fully adjusted to the faint light, all his injuries stood out as tar stains did on the highway; a road map of pain, trekking from the tattoo on his stomach upwards to the stitches and scars on his face.

"Don't stop, Abby." He lifted his hips to nudge her labia, the pressure delicious, frustrating and soothing all at once. Her back arched involuntarily, and she braced her hands on her thighs, remembering at the last moment she couldn't support her weight on his body as she was used to.

So many things new, different, changed, but the essentials remained the same. He gripped her waist with his large hands, shifting them forward and massaging her clit with his thumbs. In return, as she rocked her hips in time with his fingers, she clawed lightly on his thighs. Whereas he would typically loom over her, she bent forward and stretched, supporting her weight on her forearms and tilting her head up for a kiss.

Her hair fell in his face; he huffed at it, but it ended up caught on their tongues anyway. His mouth tasted coppery and dry, and she avoided the raw patches on the inside of his cheeks and gums, inviting, teasing his tongue into her mouth, a safer, less abused playground. The kiss ended with a moan, hers, as he slipped a finger inside her, then another, curling them against sensitive folds.

She mouthed his Adam's apple, tonguing it as he swallowed, distracted from the pleasure he was giving her by that she gave him. It vibrated when he growled appreciatively. She employed the same technique to the rest of his body that she did to his cock: lips, tongue, suction. No teeth, no biting. Ever. He didn't like it, and she couldn't fault him for that. Around the neck especially, she kept her teeth well away from his skin.

Arched over him, she barely noticed his level of arousal while lost to the sensations of his rough palms on her body. When it became unbearable, the separation of only inches, she ground her hips in a circle, lower and lower, questing for the pleasurable friction of his hardness against her. Surprise. She stopped, opening her eyes and leaning back, shocked.

"What's wrong?"

He sighed, rubbing his eyes, dragging his hand down his face, roughly tugging on his beard. "I'm pretty fucked up, Whistler." His lids were heavy, shaded with embarrassment, frustration, disappointment - none of which she was used to from him, not during sex. Self-deprecating in all else, in the bedroom, his ego never faltered. Nor did his anatomy.

"Does this hurt?" Maybe she'd rushed it, so in a hurry to fuck him and feel normal again she overlooked something. All her caution for naught.

"No, not that," he laid one hand over his stomach, covering one of the nastier bruises there. "I think it's the painkillers. I feel pretty groovy."

"But don't feel much else?"

"Give the lady a prize." The timbre of his voice shaded to disgust and irritation, so far from his typical off-the-cuff and deadpan good humor that it made her choke with worry.

"Fuck."

"Your wish would be my command if I had any choice in the matter."

Dejected, she climbed off, legs tucked under her, feeling a pout coming on. She ought to get dressed again, go check on Zoe, find her own bed among the new crew, and pretend this didn't happen. Easier for both of them and it would save explanations in the morning.

He laid one hand high on her thigh, thumb idly stroking the inside of her leg. "We can still fool around if you need to."

"If I need to," she repeated, bland and indifferent. She needed something all right, but it was an oversimplification to believe that an orgasm was it. "Never mind." Without looking at him, she edged off the bed; she'd sooner walk around it, ignoring his eyes on her, than go over him to get to her clothes.

His hand caught her wrist before both feet were on the floor. "Where are you going?"

"To sleep," she answered, shrugging.

"Stay here then. Plenty of room." It was a queen-sized bed. Though undersized for his height, there was space enough for two bodies side-by-side. Room to spare, really.

"But…" She couldn't force out a coherent counter to this logic. None of their friends were around to find out and tease them. She wondered if any of them had ever known. Sommer had, for sure, because they girl-talked about the woes and wonders of screwing coworkers, her and King, Sommer and Dex. Dex would have never let up – he always thought she was too serious. Hedges, too, but his jokes would have been tinged with envy.

King's thoughts jogged alongside hers. "No one here knows anything about us. Blank slate, Abby."

She considered this. Caulder's wife, Alyssa, had shown her this room when Caulder and King returned from the hospital. No other had been mentioned save for the one Zoe now occupied. There were no assumptions, no camaraderie yet established that would lead to cat calls and knowing smiles. Caulder had a wife; he slept with her. She had a partner; she could sleep with him. Only she and King would know it was the first time. Why not?

Resolved, she worked first at freeing the covers from underneath him without jostling him too much. A mild concussion left him sensitive to light and noise; too much abuse would slow recovery or lead to relapse. Maybe it was better things fizzled, no matter how flighty and itchy her body felt.

King threw his arm out to the side, welcoming her against his left, uninjured shoulder as she got into the bed once more. Cuddling with him or anyone was a foreign concept. She told him so.

"Never?"

"Never." All her teenage hookups were exploratory, tinged with the kink of panic lest a parent walk in. Adult liaisons were there to serve a need not to nurture a weakness for intimacy; in this, she and her father were in perfect agreement.

"Doesn't surprise me much."

She glared at him. "What does that mean?"

"You're not the romance type is all. Hey, have I ever complained about that?"

"Watch it," she grumbled, secretly pleased. It was why they worked, after all. They came together to burn off tension and attraction; he made her laugh at herself, she gave his mouth a different kind of exercise than its usual. Mutual benefit. Win-win. Symbiosis, not dependence.

Neither spoke while she fidgeted, trying to get comfortable. It was something she'd never believed in or understood the need for - post-coital heroines snuggling up to their partners, nestling in just-so, heads tucked on shoulders, legs intertwined, that whole nonsense. It was always so perfect, so necessary for fictive characters. Reality was quite different. King's body was unyielding muscle, hardly a fluffy or ergonomic rest for her head. And where the hell did she put her other arm?

King started chuckling quietly, then not-so as she continued to fight. She settled on the pillow - not his shoulder; leg on top of his at the knee - not at the hip; arm under her pillow - and his arm. By the time she stopped thrashing about, he was holding his stomach, gasping with pained laughter.

"Jesus, Whistler, you're going to kill me."

"Keep it up, and I might." She smothered irritation; she couldn't beat that smugness out of him until he healed up. Then she would kick his ass.

"See all you've been missing? Cuddling, spooning, morning sex? You've been living a shadow of a life there, Abby."

"I've had sex in the morning," she said, defensively.

"Not sex-in-the-morning," he corrected her, playfully tweaking her nose. "Morning sex, dummy."

"I'm never going to understand you."

"Morning sex is when you wake up the next morning after sleeping with someone and go at it."

It begged the question, and since he was going to tell her anyway, she asked, "How's that different from just sex?"

One corner of his mouth twitched. "Ask me if you still don't get it in the morning."

"If you can get it up."

"Ouch." But he was smiling. "Goodnight to you, too."