Chapter Twelve:
Original Sin
Oh, the furnace wind
Is a flickering of wings about your face
In a cloud of incense
Yeah, it smells like Heaven in this place
Tell me how, you know now, the ways and means of getting in
Underneath my skin,
Oh, you were always my original sin
And tell me why I shudder inside every time we begin
This dangerous game
Oh, you were always my original sin
Up in the balcony
All the Romeos are bleeding for your hand
Blowing theater kisses
Reciting lines they don't understand
--Elton John
The heavy door slammed satisfyingly behind her and she fell against it for a moment in an attempt to catch her breath.
Spike had just kissed her. Spike Spiegel – the lanky, fuzzy-headed, insufferable lunkhead had actually kissed her. She had half a mind to storm back into the room and shoot him dead right then and there – over and done with, though perhaps not the grand scene Luke had been hoping for. Except that she didn't have her gun. Or her keycard. Damn it.
She also realized, then, that she was wearing nothing but a blood-soaked gray tank top and a pair of short flannel boxers. She sighed, staring down at her bare feet for a moment. It wasn't as though she could just pound on the door and demand that he let her in after the scene she'd made.
She sank to the floor and hugged her knees against her chest, titling her head back against the door and closed her eyes.
It was funny. She'd always imagined kissing Spike would be like some half-realized experience from a fitful dream. But standing there, feeling his body pressed against her frame—all harness and heat—taut muscle and bone, his rough hands and strong fingers tangled up in her hair—breathing the smoky sigh that escaped his lips as he kissed her—it became all too achingly real. Like some kind of nightmare she couldn't shake.
She balled her fists at her sides, long fingernails digging into soft skin. Just when she trusted him enough to open up—
Okay, fine. Maybe it wasn't about trust. Maybe it was about her being hurt and confused and shit-faced drunk. Well, what the hell was the difference anyway?
She ran her hands through her hair, gathering the loose strands into two tight fistfuls. She was losing sight of the goal. This wasn't about obtaining some impossible reconciliation, it was about—
Well, what was it about? It was about him leaving, wasn't it? About him running off to his death two years ago and leaving her alone to deal with it however the hell she could? It was about the fact that after working together for years she still meant absolutely nothing to him. She was expendable.
It was about revenge and Luke and her whole new, fucked up life. It was about getting rid of him once and for all--out of her life, out of her mind.
And, most of all, it was about giving him what he wanted—exactly what he wanted. A meaningless death at the hand of a former comrade. Right? Right.
She needed a drink. Badly. Pushing herself off the floor, she padded down the hall toward the elevator.
As soon as his fine motor skills began functioning again, Spike loosened his tie and began to unbutton his shirt. He made his way slowly to the bathroom, deciding that a hot shower might be the best course of action.
He hit the lights and kicked the door closed behind him. Faye hadn't bothered to put a towel on the floor after her bath, and he could see her watery footprints standing on the cool marble tile.
He tossed his tie and shirt aside in the corner and began fumbling with his belt.
So maybe kissing her wasn't the best idea. He spit into the bathroom sink, blood clinging to the porcelain.
Okay, it definitely wasn't a good idea.
His feet slid through the water on the floor as he made his way to the shower. He turned the heat full on—nearly scalding. Just how he liked it.
The shower soon filled with steam and he let out a satisfied groan as the water soaked his hair and cascaded over his back and shoulders.
He noticed that Faye had, in fact, left some of the soap and shampoo for him. He smirked, picking up the heart shaped lavender soap and inspecting it carefully. It was one of those decorative, molded soaps that only seemed to materialize in hotel rooms.
He looked over his shoulder cautiously—as if by instinct—and then shrugged. Ah, what the hell. He rubbed the soap between his palms and worked the rich lather over his body. For once he was thankful that Jet wasn't around. Had he smelled lilac flowers on Spike's skin he'd never let him live it down. Still, it wasn't like there was anything else he could use…
He set the soap back in the ceramic dish and picked up the small bottle of shampoo. As he poured a portion of it into his cupped palm, he was suddenly hit with Faye's scent all over again. The smell of lilac and cheap shampoo permeated the shower mist and, with each breath he took, he drew the scent deeper into his lungs. Just what he needed—another reminder of her. As if the whole scene burned into his brain weren't enough—as if he'd needed something else to go along with the feeling of her that hadn't left his fingertips.
He realized he was working the shampoo into his hair harder than he'd intended. Fingernails scraped against scalp as he closed his eyes, the entire scene flickering behind his eyelids. Parted lips, wild eyes. The heat of skin against skin—hips to hips, chest to chest, mouth to—
Oh, Christ.
Somehow, in-between lathering his hair and letting the hot water cascade over his shoulders, he'd failed to notice that he'd become painfully hard. He swore under his breath and rested his forearm against the cool shower wall.
This couldn't be happening. He let out an unsteady breath. Of all people—Faye? No. This wasn't about Faye. It was about the fact that it had been nearly five years since he'd been with a woman. And over ten since he'd felt his blood surge through his veins like a fucking AC current.
It wasn't about Faye.
He felt his hand close around his shaft and a ragged sigh escaped his lips. It'd been a long time. Too long. And maybe if he kept his hands on his own body he could keep them off of hers. Jesus.
He moved his fist slowly, dragging his palm over his entire length.
He gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut as a low moan tore from the back of his throat. "Oh, fuck—" The words were swallowed by the hiss of the shower spray.
This isn't about her. This isn't about her. It's not about her.
He let his shoulders roll forward and he rested his forehead against the shower tiles.
"Say it again. Say you don't love me."
No. It's not—it's not about…
He remembered her breath fluttering over his bare chest the night before—her slender fingers trailing over the hot skin of his neck, and her pelvis moving slow and hard over his own. He swore he'd stayed unbearably hard the rest of the night. He groaned at the memory and tried to concentrate on the slow movement of his calloused hand over his increasingly sensitive skin.
He drew a sharp breath. The air was thick with steam and perfume. Steam and perfume. Her perfume. It clung to his lips and hair and didn't let go.
Another long stroke to the tip and all the way back down. Moving faster. His thumb teased the sensitive head and his mouth fell open.
"Fuck—Oh, God—"
Say it again.
He tried not to think of her. Tried to think of anything but the taste of her on his tongue. The feeling of her hair falling between his fingers. He tried to think of something besides the sigh she breathed against his mouth as he kissed her, and the desperation that sound had fueled in him.
Fingers slipped over skin and gripped at wet tiles. Groaning now—just a little louder. His hips moved slowly like he'd do if she were pressed close against him.
He didn't know much about the devil or sin, but he knew that if Faye was the devil, then this was sin. Something about what he was doing felt so wrong--keeping her locked away in his mind where she couldn't see, couldn't defend herself; couldn't escape. It pleased him more than he wanted to admit.
I. don't. love. you.
He felt his muscles tense painfully, and he reached for the shower railing as his knees weakened and his nerves ignited. Blood roared in his ears, and he drew a desperate breath of air deep into his lungs. Then kips opened and words spilled like water. Oh, fuck—fuck—
"Faye—"
Spike jerked his hand away from his softening skin quickly and pounded his fist hard against the shower wall. He took one deep breath and then another, suddenly feeling as though he were drowning in the humid air.
He lifted his forehead for a moment, only to let it fall back against the slick tiles—as if that simple action could shake the thought of her from his mind.
"Fuck," he muttered again, pushing himself off the wall. He turned the water off and stepped onto the cold marble floor.
Sleep. That's what he needed. And some ice for his jaw. He wrapped a towel around his waist and opened the bathroom door. The steam billowed into the cool air of the bedroom and soon dissipated to nothing.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?"
Spike's voice caused her to jump. And she had almost made it to the elevator, too. She turned toward him, arms crossed defiantly over her chest.
"Oh, as if—"
Spike stood in the doorway wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. He ran a hand roughly through his wet hair, shaking free a shower of water droplets. Faye watched one as one stray drop rolled along his well-muscled chest and disappeared into the white towel.
She cleared her throat and continued, "That's not really any of your business, is it?"
"You'll make it my business when you blow our cover."
Faye glared at him. She was so tired of hearing him say that. As if it mattered. She toyed with the waistband of her shorts, pulling them down slightly just under her sharp hip bones. "You know what? You—you can just—"
He raised a brow in anticipation.
She balled her fists at her side. "You can just—shut up, Spike. You don't even know anything."
"I know that if they caught you looking like that in the lobby they'd throw your ass out on the street."
Faye kept her eyes narrow and chewed on the inside of her lip. So she'd failed to look that far ahead. Whatever. She could probably find some poor sap to take her back to his hotel room before she was thrown out, anyway. Stupid Spike.
She huffed and spat out the only response she could think of. "As if you care, anyway."
"How can you say that? Of course I care. If you blow our cover I'm out over 900 million woolongs."
"Oh, forgive me. And here I thought you didn't have a heart."
"An honest mistake."
"Brutally, you might say."
He shrugged. "You might."
"Fuck you."
"Don't you think we should go back inside, first?"
She rolled her eyes. "Sure—you can, if you don't mind putting on a one-man show. I'm going downstairs for a drink."
Something she couldn't recognize flashed behind his eyes and he took a long breath. "Get back in the room, Faye," he said.
She gave him an exaggerated pout and sauntered toward him, "Oh no—I'm so sorry. …You're not going to ground me, are you, Spike?" she asked, her voice low and playful, feigning fear. She stopped inches in front of him and ran a fingernail teasingly along his chest.
He smirked and grabbed her wrist. "I can't make any promises."
"So, what's my punishment?"
"Get back in the room."
"Well, well … you know, lately you have quite a way of dodging my questions. Do I make you nervous?"
"Nervous isn't exactly the right word."
She drew the corners of her mouth into a cruel smirk as she let her eyes travel the length of his body. "Yeah. So I thought."
His jaw tensed but he didn't respond.
She pressed her palm flat against his cool chest and shoved him out of the doorway. He stumbled a bit as she walked past him. She heard him grumble as he walked into the room and slammed the door behind him.
Faye made a beeline for the mini-bar and withdrew two small bottles of vodka and orange juice. She reached for a glass and filled it quickly.
"So…" Spike began. He was leaning against the door, apparently not feeling the least bit modest considering his current state of undress.
"So, what?"
"LWK. Mean anything to you?"
She dropped the lid to the vodka bottle and swore under her breath. "What?"
"LWK. What are they, initials?"
"What kind of a question is that?"
"I just thought you might know something, is all."
"Oh, right…given that I'm widely known for my uncanny ability to decrypt random code in acronym form." She took a deep gulp from her drink and slammed the glass onto the top of the mini-fridge.
"Don't get so bent out of shape, I was just asking."
"Well, don't."
"You said you wanted to help."
Faye pursed her lips together, her jaw shifting slightly before she made her way into the bedroom.
Spike sighed and she heard him follow her across the room. "Okay, so—what? We're not on civil terms now?"
"Your call, not mine. Remember?" She let her eyes scan the bedroom for a moment and, not finding what she was looking for, she moved into the bathroom. Spike muttered something she couldn't understand behind her. Finally, in a heap in the corner, she found his suit jacket. She lifted it off the floor and shuffled through the pockets for the pack of cigarettes she knew he kept there.
"The hell are you doing?" he shouted as he entered the bathroom.
Faye tossed her head, attempting to keep her long bangs out of her eyes as she continued riffling through his jacket pockets. "Cigarettes," she said simply.
"You could have just asked."
She ignored him, finally finding his Marlboros and slipping a slender stick between her lips. She lit the tip as soon as she fished the lighter from his pants pocket. "Why are you asking me these things, anyway? The initials, I mean."
"They were on some of Bosch's invoices. Billing information, apparently."
"Anything else?"
"Yeah. This LWK has a thing for ladybugs."
Faye raised a brow in his direction as she took a drag from her cigarette.
"It's a cover. I would think, anyway. The invoice came from Hart's Beneficial Insect Co.—a subsidiary of St. Gabriel Laboratories."
"Bosch's front corporation."
"Bingo."
"So, do you have an address for this LWK? Home, billing—anything?"
"No. The personal information all appears to be hidden. The account numbers are obscured by X's and the addresses have all been blacked out with magic marker. But, from what I can tell, they're all original invoices."
Faye growled under her breath. She couldn't wait to give Luke and Bosch an earful concerning this recent development. She'd glanced at the invoices in the board room but hadn't been paying much attention to anything but the prices printed on them.
She made her way back into the living room to retrieve her drink. Spike followed on her heels, of course, and she resisted the urge to turn around and deck him again.
Spike cleared his throat and she took another drink. "We can take a look at them now, if you like."
"Oh, really? Thanks for granting me permission, partner."
"Christ, Faye, what do you want me to say? You said you wanted to help."
She finished her drink and then placed the glass upside down on the top of the fridge. "Okay, fine. I'll take a look."
A/N: All right, so…I should say that I really, really, dislike this chapter. I found it incredibly hard to write, for one, and also, it just seems sort of dull. Of course, that may be due to the fact that a large chunk of it was written while I was consuming jello shots. From a martini glass. Yes, I am that trashy—though, in my defense, I only did this because I learned that you can't make jello shots in those little paper cupcake holders. Ahem. But I digress. I know this chapter is short, but I have been trying to write it for a long time now, and I just wanted to put it out of its misery, so to speak. Or me out of my misery. The lines have sort of blurred there.
Also, about the Spike-on-Spike action…I am not sure what to think about this scene. POV, punctuation, and style all go to hell toward the end for obvious reasons, though I am not sure how effective this is. It is one of those things where it either works really well or fails miserably—so feel free to tell me what you think. I promise I won't cry if you say the attempt totally blew up in my face.
So, in conclusion, I hope to have a better chapter for you all soon. Thank you for reading and bearing with me through some of these not-so-interesting chapters. I love you all!
'Till Next Time!
Nevi
