PAIRING:Jackson/Lisa
SUMMARY: A year isn't too long to be obsessing over your hostage/captor, is it?
RATING: Hard R.
DISCLAIMER: I own the story, the plot, and my brain.
COMMON SENSE WARNING: It usually doesn't take only a year to repair major damages on a hotel and especially not to build a complete underground assassination business, but any longer than that just seems way too long for the two to still be obsessing over one another. I know it's not realistic, but this is also a story, where it doesn't have to be. ;)
REVIEWS: I'd appreciate your candid opinion of this work.

Stockholm Syndrome: A Possible Fairytale
Chapter One: Death and Other Comforts

Tendrils of smoke wafted up across Jackson's troubled countenance through full lips and golden bangs, a habit he'd undoubtedly picked up from his father, whoever he was. The dimly-lit lamp sensuously played with the dispersing smoke and he gazed in fascination as the grey creations faded to nothing.

In the blurry file cabinet of his mind, he was still holding Lisa against the wall in the plane's lavatory, his grip tightening around her neck. Her soft eyes brimmed with tears and just as quickly she blinked them away, sputtering "you don't have to do this."

No, he didn't.
But that was what he'd chosen to do.

He should've taken her.

Those were his thoughts as a finger gently traced small, warm circles over Isabella's collarbone. The raven-haired beauty stiffened under his touch, whispering "you're perfect" in a waspish pant into his ear. So easy was the woman in his arms, dressed in a cream-colored silken nightgown that ended inches above her knees, knees that had not long ago been closing around his body as it rocked forwards into hers with a harsh slapping sound. A waterfall of dark brown, tousled hair cascaded gently over her shoulders, only a little longer than Lisa's and not nearly as nice wrapped around his fingers.

"I never lied to you, Leese. Know why? 'Cause it doesn't serve me. We're both professional. We have the will and the means to follow through. 'Cause when we don't, our customers aren't happy. And when they're not, we suffer and our lives go to shit. And that's not going to happen. Is it?"

He still focused on every move she made, in that lavatory especially. He had a tendency to fixate on the little things, like the defeated but sexy way she whispered "no" when he grabbed her chin and forced her to look into his eyes. The way she had to pause and fight for breath before she whispered it; that was where he was in his mind, instead of anxiously awaiting his flight to L.A whilst running his fingers over Isabella's skin.

At first it was easy, using the young co-worker as a replacement. She had no objections to him being rough with her and had agreed to role-playing wherever he pleased. She'd settled for that, didn't care that he once drunkenly took her against the back wall of a player's club, mumbling "I have to have you, Leese" as his hand slithered up her thigh. But his hands began to tighten, and he'd stopped calling her by her real name at all, even at work.

Jackson tried to ignore her low-keyed pants, soft expels of breath that didn't sound anywhere near as sexy as he'd remembered Lisa's to. His hand didn't dare go lower, the cigarette dangling between his lips making more ash than he could put out. Before the ash could fall to Isabella's shoulder though, he moved his arm and watched as an inch of his newest addiction broke off into the porcelain tray.

What was it that captivated him about Lisa? In the past year and a half (with the lawyer who'd somehow gotten him out of jail and the new business he'd started and the meaningless girls he'd fucked), he still couldn't pin-point why he was so attracted to her.

Isabella turned and slid into his chest, clutching his ribcage and burying her face into the warm contour of his chest. She kissed his skin through the cloth, knowing he was far too numb then to feel it. But it was the thought that counted. She looked up, hoping to see anything but what she saw. Anything. He simply sat there, drowning, his ocean eyes hard with the fury of tsunamis and midnight hurricanes. He stared straight through her, off into some distant place where the sheets and the bed, she and the frigid air didn't exist. Somewhere where he hadn't just claimed her body again. Somewhere she couldn't go. Somewhere she's wanted to travel since their first time together; somewhere with Lisa. Somewhere - somewhere else.

"I'm sorry..." the brunette whispered softly. He didn't move -- it didn't feel as though he was breathing, but she knew he was listening. His jaw tightened as he fought to stay in that somewhere else, cigarette back in his mouth as an excuse to avoid response.

Finally, she felt his ribs expand with shallow heaves, his chin lowered to rest on top of her head. His fists released and his hands moved to her back - his forearms enclosing around her. She was holding him. He was holding her. They were holding this moment, and this was moment falling away slowly, despite it all. A torrent of tears found her as he clutched her tighter, fighting to keep her staying with him, fighting to keep her staying Lisa. His Isabella, his Lisa, heard him sigh.

"Damned town," he huffed, "I hate this fucking town. Not a damned thing to do... except die." Die inside the ramshackle motels with faded floral wallpaper walls that would ignite and perish with the stroke of a single match. Die outside in the sweltering heat. Die waiting for Saturday to finally come. Die anyway he looked at it.

"Just die..." he said as he stubbed out his last cigarette in his palm and tossed the empty pack onto the night stand.

--------------------
MEANWHILE, IN MIAMI...
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Lisa was more than aware of the worried glances that were shot at her from across the room. Every time she looked up from her desk, Cynthia would sharply look the other way, but then slowly and inconspicuously raise those worried eyes back to her.

It was now happening every two minutes on the dot and mild amusement had long since ebbed into irritation. For about the twentieth time, Lisa peeked up and caught a glimpse of her concerned stare. And for the five millionth time since Jackson Rippner was out of her life, she found herself not wanting to talk to Cynthia. Not because she didn't like her- but because she was forever worried that she was still afraid and though she was, it didn't help to be reminded of the fact when she went to work every day.

Finally, Lisa enunciated in the nicest voice she was able to make, "I'm O-kay. Really."

Cynthia made a point of blushing and nodding, before dropping her pen and crossing over to the Lisa, holding a finger up to the arriving customer.

"Are you sure? I know it's been a year since..." she trailed off, letting the sentence die kind of like she wanted to when Lisa's eyes sharply raised. Wincing, she quickly added, "You don't have to talk about it if you want to. But I know you." She held up a warning finger. "You have that look on your face when you're thinking about something bad."

Lisa sighed and ran a hand through her light chestnut mane as she psyched herself up for the promising confrontation. "We'll talk about it tonight," she mumbled dejectedly, "You know what room I'm in."

Cynthia had to swallow about four times in order to attempt to lubricate her suddenly-dry throat. Was Lisa actually agreeing to open up again? For the first time in a while, she felt safe thinking that Lisa was going to tell her how she was really feeling. "Good." The redhead shot back a wide grin in response before returning to the front desk and exposing the same candied smile to the waiting customers.

"Can I help you?"

X-------------------------------------------------------X

Lisa rubbed the back of her neck, trying to relieve some of the stress that had manifested itself there.

"Coffee?" Offered Cynthia as she tumbled into the room, handing the girl a nondescript paper cup of steaming dark brown fluid. "I got it from the coffee machine," she continued nervously, approaching the shaken brunette and holding out the cup, gently breaking her from her reverie.

"Thank you..." Lisa mumbled softly, hands shaking as she accepted the drink and set it in her lap, forgetting its presence almost immediately.

"You're welcome," the co-worker whispered with a small, soft smile. Her hands fidgeted in front of her as she took a seat on the bed, about a few inches away from Lisa, nearly spilling her drink. She was almost too nervous to apologize, anxious to know what was on her mind. Well, other than the obvious.

Lisa blew into her cup in an attempt to cool the boiling liquid before hesitantly taking a sip. She winced as the scalding coffee poured over her tongue but forced herself to take another sip in hopes that she would get used to the bitter flavor. "I don't know where to start," was her first confession as she set the drink down on the stand.

"Well, we both know Jackson didn't... get arrested. Well, not for long..." the redhead offered, hoping to get things started.

"What if he comes looking for me?" Lisa blurted, the color leaving her face. Her eyes rose to Cynthia's, who's locked on hers with passion and admiration for her courage to speak up. "It's been almost a year, like you said. What if he comes back? I don't know where he's been, if he's alive, or if he's planning on coming back and..." she paused for breath, lowering her voice to a whisper. "I'm not sure I wouldn't be disappointed if he didn't."

The redhead's smile disappeared almost as quickly as her eyebrows raised. "What?" She couldn't have POSSIBLY heard her correctly. Who would want--?

In an attempt to remove further thoughts from her brain (or to take back what she'd said), Lisa shook her head and avoided eye contact.

It didn't work.

"He was so charming when I first met him..." she started, gazing longingly at the blankets in hopes that they would rise and envelope her completely. When they didn't, she continued. "I don't know. Some part of me still thinks that he could really be that charmer; I think he almost cared when I told him what happened two years ago."

Cynthia nodded sympathetically, carefully placing her hand over Lisa's, letting her know that she could continue. The warmth radiating from the other girl's skin almost made her want to move her hand, but at the same time she relished it.

The brunette rolled her eyes, even as she felt her heart pounding wildly in her chest. "Even though he hurt me and choked me and... almost killed my father..." Her voice was starting to die. "I'm sick, aren't I?" Her soft eyes brimmed with tears, and Cynthia was drowning in the sympathy.

"No, honey, you're not sick," she confirmed, hoping that statement would help in some way. "Maybe it's Stockholm Syndrome," she'd finally offered for an excuse. "Maybe you sympathize with him more than you thought." Cynthia smiled when the other girl's eyes finally found hers, still glassy.

Even for Cynthia, Lisa had to admit that was a nice excuse to pull out of her ass. It would've been convincing, had the part that her father almost died because of this asshole not been stabbing her in the heart.

"Alright. Let's say that I have this 'Syndrome'," Lisa offered. "What do I do?"

"That's up to you. You stay here and wonder if you want or you go out and find him if you want. Personally, and this is just in case he's not who you think he is, I think you should choose the first option. And don't let your sympathy get in the way of anything if he comes back."

Lisa nodded and picked up her coffee, instantly bringing the cup to her lips and draining it's cooled contents. "Why're you being so understanding?" she finally asked, a coffee mustache on her upper lip evident when she put the empty paper cup back on the stand.

Stifling a laugh, Cynthia cracked a smile. "Because I'm your friend."

The brunette wiped away the coffee-made mustache that had formed with a smile, becoming consumed in thoughts of her rugged ex-captor. How could she still want to see him? How could she even sympathize him when he--in big yellow lights--tried to murder her father? And not to mention, he almost killed her in the process. Lisa shuddered, mentally pushing the thought to the back of her mind. It made no sense.

Unable to stand the burden of her thoughts, Lisa finally began to explain (in wondrous whispers and broken sentences) what she thought attracted her to the man and what it was that attracted her.

"Just so we're clear, I'm not saying I completely want him to find me. In fact, I want him dead. Because if he finds me, he's undoubtedly going to kill me for probably permanently damaging his throat and stomach, in which case I'd have to grab Dad and run."

"Right."

"On the other hand, I wouldn't be one-hundred-percent objective to seeing him one last time, whether it be at a graveyard or not." Lisa confirmed, her hands balling into fists where they rest on her knees. "I just need closure. I need to know if he's dead or alive, and if he's alive I need to see him again before I.. I don't know, place a restraining order. It's not much, but I have a strong feeling that it'll help."

Cynthia didn't object, just nodded, flashing her pearly whites winningly. "I think you should head to bed; these thoughts have been in your mind all day. We both have the weekend off, and you can spend it with me. I'll even stay here with you, if you want."

Lisa accepted the offer and embraced the other girl tightly, smiling through a torrent of joyful tears as one mystery was finally solved. Undoubtedly in a way that she could've solved herself had she'd worked it out in her head and put aside her other confusing thoughts long enough to attempt to, but Cynthia had been the major help she always was nonetheless.

There was a rustle of bedspread as Cynthia settled into the bed next to Lisa's, smile set in place.

"Good night," she whispered, eyes slowly closing.

"Thanks for everything..." Lisa responded, slipping into unconsciousness.

TBC