The journey to Paris was long and eerily quiet. Wheeler tried to grab Linka's attention as they boarded the small aircraft, but she steadily ignored him, taking her seat and opening a magazine without looking even once in his direction. Wheeler, despite his mortification at how he had spoken to Linka earlier, felt a large dart of anger. He knew he'd made a mistake, knew he'd spoken badly and knew he'd monumentally fucked up. But he'd tried to apologise, hadn't he? He'd tried to make amends; tried to patch the gaping wound he'd opened between them. Didn't that count for anything?
But so far as Linka seemed concerned, clearly not. She'd spoken only to the others on the journey, blatantly ignored him when he offered her coffee, and as they disembarked, went so far as to turn her nose up at the hand he offered.
Wheeler was stung by such uncharacteristic rejection from her. For years now, he and Linka had been close, and in a world where he'd been mostly abandoned by his parents and forgotten by any lingering remnants of family, she'd become the person he depended upon the most. He adored her, wanted to spend every spare minute he had with her, and placed her at the very centre of his universe. He needed her, far more than he needed food to eat and air to breathe. Linka sustained him. She was the oxygen in his blood and the nourishment which fed him. He couldn't be without her.
"Babe," he whispered desperately while they huddled over coffee, waiting for their transfer. He let his pinky finger just touch the edge of hers, and he saw her cup tremble momentarily in her hand. She turned ever-so-slightly, looking up at him from underneath long lashes, her eyes sparks of green that made his heart swoop in his chest.
God, but how he adored her.
"Sorry," he said slowly, under his breath. "I'm so, so sorry."
The others didn't hear him. Kwame was bent over his speech, frowning and correcting his English, while Gi had her headphones in, her fingers tapping on the formica table in time with her music. Ma-Ti was slumped over a nearby chair, one hand over his eyes, sleeping off his jet-lag. Even after six years, he still couldn't handle long journeys. It just wasn't in his nature to be so far from home, he always said, though Wheeler could never understand it. So long as Linka was near him, he never felt homesick or alone or troubled by the thousands of miles they travelled in their work.
So long as Linka was near him, everything was okay.
Linka blinked twice, still gazing up at him, but said nothing. Wheeler, taking a chance, allowed his pinky to now rest entirely against hers, comforted by the warmth of her skin next to his.
"I fuck up a lot," he carried on quietly, running his free hand through his hair. "I sabotage my own happiness too. I don't know why I do that, and I don't know why I did it to you. But I'm sorry. I really am."
Linka nodded. It was small and barely perceptible, but still, Wheeler felt hope flare within him. Emboldened, he dropped his hand from hers, letting it rest under the table upon her knee.
"I like what we're doin' together," he admitted softly. "I like it and don't want us to stop—"
"Lenka!" a voice, warm and enthusiastic, broke out across the cafe and Linka jumped, glancing towards the doorway.
Wheeler's eyes followed the same path, and his heart sank. There, beaming in the doorway, looking cool and unruffled and tidily handsome, stood Gregor. For a moment, Linka stared at him, blinking twice, before she sprang up from her chair, brushing Wheeler's hand away. She hurried over to the door, throwing her arms around Gregor and hugging him closely. Wheeler's hand involuntarily clenched around his coffee cup, and he looked down, scowling hard. When he looked up again, he found Gi watching him closely. Her headphones were out, her lips pursed together, and she was staring at Wheeler with a curious expression of detached interest.
"What?" Wheeler mouthed at her, and she shrugged, before standing herself and walking over to greet Gregor too.
"How are you here?" he heard Linka exclaim as Gi gave Gregor a small hug. "How did you know we had arrived?"
"I knew you couldn't land your neo... geo—"
"Geo-cruiser," Wheeler interrupted sharply, and Gregor looked over at him, as though seeing him there at the table for the first time.
"Thank you, yes," Gregor replied easily. "Your geo-cruiser at the hotel. So, I asked the hotel what time you were due to arrive and where, and they told me you were due to land here at Issy-les-Moulineaux and would be travelling onwards by car transfer. So, I thought to come here myself and greet you. You can wait for your transfer if you like, although I had hoped that..." Gregor trailed off, his cheeks suddenly dusting red, and Wheeler's fingers clenched again. Just fuckin' spit it out, he thought violently. Get on with it.
"Yes?" Linka asked, a little breathlessly, and Wheeler hated that her eyes were so bright in Gregor's presence; hated that there was still that old lingering remnant of her crush on him about her.
He hated that somebody else made her light up this way, he realised. Somebody else, another man, who wasn't him.
"I thought that perhaps you might like to travel to your hotel with me?" Gregor finished, his eyes resting on Linka hopefully. It was a lame disappointment of a question, Wheeler thought unkindly, though he held his tongue and looked to Linka.
Her smile, to Wheeler's alarm, was warm and genuine when she replied. "All of us?" she asked, slipping her hand into Gi's. "Or just... umm...?"
"Oh," Gregor paused, as though considering Gi and the others for the first time. "Oh, well, I hadn't thought of... that is, I..."
Wheeler bit down a malicious grin. Linka valued friendship, and as such, she likewise valued her colleagues. Gregor's lack of consideration for Kwame, Ma-Ti, Gi and himself wouldn't impress Linka at all. A sudden surge of hope ran through Wheeler, and he sat taller at the table, taking a sip of coffee to mask his satisfied smirk.
But Gi, damn her, shook her head and laughed. "Lin, don't you worry about us. You should spend time with Gregor and catch up with him," she paused, and Wheeler could have sworn he saw her give him a sideways glance. "You go and have fun. We'll wait for the transfer. Besides," she paused again. "Wheeler is still finishing his coffee."
Linka glanced hurriedly in his direction, but Wheeler refused to meet her eyes. He quickly looked back down to the table, into the dregs of his thoroughly depressing drink, and another flood of bitter anger went through him. It was sharp and sudden and surprising, and he inhaled sharply, trying to shake the unwelcome feeling from his skin.
"Wheeler..." he heard Linka begin, but he shook his head.
"You should go," he said, a little more sharply than he intended, and he looked back up into Linka's now woebegone eyes. "Gi's right. We'll wait for the transfer."
"But you and I were talking—"
"So? We can talk later. Or not. It wasn't like it was anythin' important, was it?"
There was a callous tone to his voice he hadn't planned, and he watched with a sinking feeling in his stomach as Linka recoiled slightly. But it was only slightly, and after a moment he saw her pull herself together, standing taller and setting her face into a careful mask of indifference.
"You are absolutely right," she said softly. "It wasn't important at all."
Linka took Gregor's hand, and Wheeler was left to watch on helplessly as the handsome Russian led her from the Cafe and out into the bright Parisian day.
When Gi came back to the table, she glanced at the sleeping Ma-Ti and the still engrossed Kwame before leaning into Wheeler's shoulder. "You," she said bluntly, "Are a fucking idiot."
And with that, she shook her head at him in disgust before shoving her headphones back on, tapping her fingers once more on the table while Wheeler looked on, suddenly bereft and once again full of regret.
They should have seen it coming, Wheeler thought afterwards. Planeteers arriving at a Green Planet convention were prime targets for an ambush. The car was nearly at the hotel when they sprang out from all angles, surrounding them and shouting in a language which — in the heat of the moment— wasn't instantly recognisable to any of them.
Wheeler, perhaps perversely, enjoyed moments like these. He wasn't the diplomat of the team, or a savvy politician, or natural orator. He was a man of action, and it was like a reflex, how easily he sprang into his role when the circumstances demanded it. Adrenaline surged through him, and he recalled shouting to Gi and Kwame, recalled pushing Ma-Ti to the floor of the car, recalled smashing through the window and aiming his ring at a nearby stall, causing it to burst into flames and cause the distraction they momentarily needed to take stock and react.
"Captain Planet," Kwame spluttered, but Wheeler had shaken his head.
Linka and her ring weren't there. She and her wind element were with Gregor, and probably by now safely ensconced in the hotel, wondering where they were.
Or maybe she wasn't. Perhaps Gregor and his classically handsome features were engrossing her, keeping her busy over coffee, or even over secret kisses in a—
An assailant took advantage of his distraction, and pulled him from the vehicle, slamming him against a nearby wall. Wheeler vaguely remembered swinging out, landing a punch or two of his own. 'Fuck this,' he thought, before pushing Linka almost violently from his mind and throwing himself into his current predicament, mentally counting down the seconds to help arriving.
Later, when it was done and five men — all identified as cronies of Looten Plunder — had been arrested, Wheeler took himself to his hotel room, peeling off his shirt and assessing the damage to his body in the mirror. He winced when he saw the purple bruising breaking out over his shoulders, and retrieved a damp towel from his bathroom, running it tenderly over a scratch on one of his pectoral muscles. With a sigh, he pressed the towel against his flesh, stemming the small flow of blood, before sitting on his bed, resting his head on his hand and taking deep breaths.
Gi was right, he thought miserably. He was a fucking idiot. He'd been in such a funk over Linka he'd let his guard down, and his lack of concentration had come back to royally bite him in the ass. With another sigh, he flopped back on the bed, not caring about the pristine white sheets or the fact that he now had a little under an hour to shower, dry and dress himself for the convention dinner.
Kwame, bleeding himself and nursing three broken fingers, had been adamant when Gi suggested they cancel his speech that evening.
"I do not need my hands to speak," he assured her. "And I made a promise. I cannot rescind that. It wouldn't be right."
So all five of the Planeteers, including the four who'd been ambushed that afternoon, were expected to be in full black tie by seven pm, and with a groan Wheeler sat up again, hauling his tired body towards the shower.
He'd taken just a few steps when a knock sounded at the door, uncertain and timid and definitely not housekeeping. Wheeler went towards it wearily, knowing full well who it was and bemoaning, once again, that small flare of hope and excitement that went through him at the thought.
Linka looked pale but beautiful, and Wheeler stared at her for a moment, drinking her in. She was dressed in a black dress which tied around her neck, hugging the curves of her body before flaring out around her legs. Her hair was pulled back into a loose chignon, with wisps of golden hair framing her lovely face, which was lightly dusted with makeup, enhancing her features.
Wheeler looked at her, swallowing heavily. He was both aroused and dismayed, realising uncomfortably that this was like that blue summer dress all over again. This was Linka, but not his Linka. His Linka wore Orioles sweatshirts and old shorts. His Linka wore her hair loose, or pulled into a scrappy ponytail or messy braid. His Linka didn't need make-up to draw attention to her beauty— no, why would she? Her beauty was luminescent, wonderful and so completely natural she had no need for cosmetics. Now, with her eyes lined and cheeks unnaturally flushed, she looked like a different woman. Wheeler frowned at the red lipstick she wore, hating it almost immediately.
Linka kept her eyes to the carpet, shifting awkwardly under his intense gaze. "I have checked on all the others," she said stiffly. "I thought I had perhaps better check on you too."
"Right," he replied, leaning against the doorway, even though the skin of his shoulder smarted in protest.
"I am sorry," she carried on. "I should have been there. It would have been easier if I had been, I know, and—"
"We handled it," Wheeler replied tightly. "Don't you worry your pretty little head about it, okay?"
He saw her frown, before she chewed on her lip, the white of her teeth obvious against the false red of her lipstick.
"You are angry with me," she said softly. "You are angry with me, but I do not know why."
"I'm not angry with you."
She looked up at that, her green eyes sharp. "Yes, you are. Or maybe you are angry with yourself... you told me earlier that you sabotage your own happiness, and I think that maybe you are right. Maybe you do sabotage your own happiness."
Wheeler let out a bitter laugh. "So, you think you goin' off with Gregor was me sabotagin' my own happiness? That's cute, Lin. Real cute."
She stopped at that, looking at him curiously. "You are angry with me about Gregor?"
"No, look, I—" Wheeler began, before he sighed, shaking his head at her slowly. "We ain't got time to do this now, Lin. Kwame will go nuclear on me if I'm not scrubbed up and stuffed into that shirt, tie and jacket he picked out by seven."
Linka nodded, though there was a sudden air of defeat around her. Her shoulders seemed to sag, while her eyes looked hurt. Wheeler, who could never bear to see her unhappy, pulled her into his room and closed the door behind her.
"Lin..." he began gently. "Babe."
"I do not understand you at the moment," Linka told him, leaning against the wall of his room and looking him in the eye for the first time that day. "You seemed so keen for us to... to... well, be together. And yet, you were so cruel the other day, so mean and hurtful. And then earlier, you asked for my forgiveness, you said you were sorry... and then as soon as Gregor appeared, you turned on me once more. I do not understand you, Wheeler. I do not understand you at all."
Wheeler couldn't help himself. He reached out, brushing a hand along her cheek. "I don't understand myself either," he confessed, honest at last. "I don't know what's goin' on, Babe, I really don't."
Linka stared at him, chewing on her lip again. "You want us to remain friends?"
"Yes," Wheeler answered instantaneously. He couldn't imagine a world in which he didn't have Linka. Didn't want to imagine such an awful idea.
"I mean... you want us to be just friends? Not anything... more?"
Wheeler paused, mulling her question over. "Are you askin' me if I'm in love with you or anythin' like that—"
"No," Linka replied sharply. "Don't be ridiculous. I know you are not. Just as I am not in love with you."
"Right," Wheeler said, his words an exhale of something that was either relief or disappointment.
"I just meant, you want to be friends who are friends only? Or friends who are...umm... a little more?"
"A little more? You mean friends who fuck," Wheeler supplied blankly, and Linka blanched a little, before taking a deep breath and smiling at him widely.
"Yes," she said, seemingly recovered from his bluntness. "Friends who... fuck."
He grinned at the filthy words on her lips. "I want you," he admitted. "And it's messin' with my head to want you. You're my best friend... I shouldn't be thinkin' of you the way that I do," he paused. "The way that I have for a long time now. And now you're offerin' yourself to me on a silver platter and I was all for havin' a taste and then... I don't know," he scratched his head thoughtfully. "I got scared."
"Scared? Of me?"
"Yeah," he admitted. "But not of you. Of losin' you, babe. You're my world."
"So you... how did you describe it? Sabotaged it? Sabotaged us?"
"I guess so. Like I said, I don't know what's wrong with me at the moment. I gotta be honest with you, I don't normally have such scruples where women are concerned."
She smiled at that. "You are not really jealous of Gregor then... he is just an excuse for you."
Wheeler paused. Everything Linka said sounded reasonable, and he was fairly certain a good psychoanalyst would have agreed with her. But at the sound of Gregor's name, a hot ball of something ugly and fierce shot through him, and he felt a sudden violent need to lay claim to Linka again.
"I don't wanna talk about Gregor," he said, stepping towards her. "Let's just leave him out of this. Out of us, okay?"
"Okay," Linka nodded, casting her eyes downwards. Wheeler didn't like that, and stepped closer again, raising a hand to her chin and lifting her face back to the light. Back to him.
"You look pretty," he told her. "Very pretty. I almost didn't recognise you."
"Why?" Linka asked tremulously.
"You don't look like yourself. Not like my Linka, at any rate. My Linka doesn't wear lipstick like that."
"You don't like it?" Linka whispered, and Wheeler shook his head.
"Nope," he stepped closer again, and saw a flush build in Linka's cheeks. "Part of me thinks I should just kiss it right off of you. Lick it from your lips."
He watched Linka swallow nervously, but he also saw her shiver, and felt a roar of triumph go through him.
"You cannot kiss me," Linka told him, but she didn't move away when Wheeler stepped forward again, so that there was only an inch or two between them. "The party… my dress… you will get me dirty."
"You like it when I get you dirty," Wheeler replied, ducking his head down to hers. He kissed her, just a soft and gentle press of his lips against hers, and he felt Linka melt a little against him. He kissed her again, deeper this time, his tongue parting her lips and just brushing hers before he stepped back with a regretful sigh.
"Wheeler—" Linka began with a noise of protest, but he shook his head at her.
"You're right. I will make you dirty," he leaned towards her, brushing his lips against her ear. "In fact, I'll fucking ruin you."
He heard Linka inhale sharply, but she didn't move. Wheeler grinned as he kissed her on the cheek, reaching down to release the first few buttons of his jeans. Linka's eyes trailed his movement curiously, and he shrugged at her.
"I gotta go shower. I'm dirty, remember? And you're all clean, all—"
"Pristine," Linka suddenly interrupted him, and her voice was clear. "Everything about me is pristine. Everything," she said, her tone lowering. Now she stepped forwards, her inertia of earlier abruptly forgotten. She stepped forwards again, pressing one hand against his naked chest and pushing him against the wall.
"Babe—" he began, a nervous thrill running through him, but Linka silenced him by kissing him. It was a hard, frantic and searing kiss, and as her teeth tugged on his bottom lip he reached up to grip her face with his hands, pulling her closer to him. At that point she stopped, though she did not remove his hands from her face.
"No," she said, "No, you're not making me dirty today. I am going to make you dirty, Yankee. I am going to ruin you. Throwing crumbs, remember?"
"Babe—" Wheeler said again, almost helplessly, but Linka didn't give him time to finish. She kissed him again, before falling to her knees in front of him, her skirts pooling around her like a dark gossamer cloud.
Wheeler watched her in amazement. Determinedly, with the most Linka-like expression on her face he'd ever seen, she finished the job he'd started earlier, opening the buttons on his fly one by one. Once the last had been released, she paused, before tugging on his underwear, pulling it down just enough to release him.
Her eyelashes fluttered very slightly at the sight of him. He knew he was already aroused — had been, in fact, since the moment Linka had entered his room— and he saw her chew on her lips, taking him in and deliberating on her next move. With one delicate hand, she reached forward, wrapping her hand around his length and running it up and down, as though testing him for strength and weaknesses.
She was his weakness though, and it took all of his strength not thrust up into her hand. He exhaled, a little shakily, and she looked up, staring at him through those dark eyelashes, that meadow green once again playing havoc on his heart.
"You like this, don't you?" she asked softly, though he knew it wasn't really a question. "I know you do, because I've done this before. I think about that night you know. Have made myself come to the memory of that night—"
"Lin—" he uttered warningly, as her deft little fingers continued to stroke him mercilessly.
But she shook her head again. "I had a little taste then," she said, and her eyes met his own once more. They were achingly green and flashing with desire, and Wheeler swore he could see a little defiance in them. She looked almost drunk with power, and it turned him on no end. "Just a little taste. Tonight I would like more."
With that, and without warning, she sucked him into her mouth. He couldn't help the gasp he made, or the moan of pleasure that followed, and he stood, rigidly still, as she worked him with her lips and tongue.
Pleasure rocked through him like waves crashing on a shore, and he closed his eyes, losing himself to the sensations her mouth around him was invoking. He resisted the urge to grasp her hair with his hands, just as he resisted an urge to thrust into her mouth. He would fuck her mouth one day; he wanted to and knew he would. But for now, when she was new to this and still new to him, he wanted this to be entirely on her terms.
She pulled off him with a wet noise, and he opened his eyes, looking down to her questioningly.
"Is it good?" she asked. "Am I good?"
"Yes," he rasped, desperate to have her on him again. "So good."
She smiled, before licking her lips and pulling him into her mouth once more. He curled his fingers into her hair, not pushing or pulling or dominating, but holding, caressing and encouraging. He allowed himself to moan, allowed his breath to come out in ragged gasps, allowed himself to whisper, over and over and over again, so good and more.
He looked down, taking a glance at her, and she was perfect. From here he could see the wisps of her golden hair floating around her face, could see the beautiful lines of her cleavage filling the tight lines of her dress... and her lipstick, smearing off her mouth and onto him.
It was that image, that of her red lipstick against his skin while she worked him with her mouth, which had him reaching the edge.
"Lin," he said, and this time there was a real warning in his voice. "I'm gonna come."
She pulled off him, looking up. "Good," she told him. "In my mouth."
She descended once more, and for a moment Wheeler stood, letting the pleasure wash over him, before a thought — intense and intriguing— crossed his mind. "No," he gasped. "Not in your mouth."
Ruthlessly, he reached down, tugging on the knot of her halter neck dress and setting it free. Linka watched him with wide eyes as he then pulled down the bodice of her gown, exposing her breasts to him, her nipples growing pert in the cool hotel air.
"Wheeler," she whispered, pulling off of him, and it was that, the sound of his name issuing from her damp, lipstick smeared lips which pushed him over the edge. Grasping himself in one hand and Linka's shoulder in the other, he came on her chest, thick strands of creamy white settling across her breasts. When it was over, and he could draw breath again, he released her shoulder and sank to the floor beside her.
"Jesus," he said, exhaling tightly. "Fuck, that was... was something else."
He looked over to Linka, who was still staring at him, one of her hands lightly touching her sticky chest.
"Are you okay?" he asked instantly. "Everything we just did... you were okay with that?"
To his relief, Linka smiled, and then laughed. "You idiot," she said good naturedly. "You got me dirty."
He grinned back at her. "I told you, you like it when I get you dirty."
She smiled again, glancing at her breasts. "Do all men like to do this? This is something you do often?"
At that, his smile faded somewhat. "Actually," he admitted with a dart of concern. "That was the first time I've ever done that. Normally I... well, in the mouth and..." he trailed off, but Linka, rather than looking worried, looked delighted by his confession.
"I like that I was first for this. There is so little I will ever be first for, for you. But this is something."
Wheeler's smile disappeared entirely and as an ache inside his stomach seemed to grow. "I still need to shower," he said. "Kwame will kill me if I'm not ready on time. And you need to clean up. Look, hang your dress up and hop in the shower just for a minute. We can fix your hair and make up and..."
But he watched in amazement as Linka shook her head, coming to a stand and picking up a towel from the bathroom. She wiped it briefly over her chest, cursorily removing the evidence of their activity, but made no move to clean up entirely.
"Linka?" Wheeler asked curiously, and she smiled at him as she pulled her dress back up, coming to his side and indicating for him to tie her halter.
"Tonight, I am not just wearing a fancy dress and make up," she said. She looked over her shoulder at him, eyes twinkling beneath dark lashes once more. "No," she carried on. "Tonight, I am also wearing you, Yankee."
Wheeler's mouth dropped open when his mind, still slow and pleasure sated, processed her words.
"Linka," he exhaled, thoroughly stunned. "Linka."
But she grinned again, looking at herself with satisfaction in the mirror. "No one will know," she said breathily. "It will be our secret, yes?"
"Our secret," Wheeler repeated dumbly, and despite his recent orgasm, he felt himself twitch painfully with arousal.
"Good," Linka agreed, and she leaned down to kiss him on the cheek. "See you at the party. I am glad you are okay. Your bruises though…"
Wheeler shrugged. "I'll throw some ice on 'em later."
"Make sure that you do," Linka said, and he smiled at the tone of her voice. It was his Linka speaking now. Linka, his friend and colleague. Not the sex kitten who had just sucked him off in a hotel room fifteen minutes before an environmental convention.
"I will," he promised, and Linka kissed him once more, softly and sweetly on the lips this time, so that his blood sang happily around his body.
"See you later, Yankee," she whispered, before exiting his room, the door swinging shut softly behind her.
Staggering to his feet, Wheeler set the shower water to hot, letting the bathroom fill with a light steam while he stared at himself in the mirror. He looked, for all the long journey and afternoon ambush that day, quite fresh and energetic. That was down to Linka, Wheeler knew. She'd revived him, just as she always did.
Just as she probably always would.
For a moment, he pondered that realisation. It couldn't be right to be so dependent on another human being, Wheeler thought. Linka, inadvertently, could make or break Wheeler's month, day, minute and second. When he was out of favour with her, his world became dark. But when she smiled at him, the light returned and his world was brighter. Why was that? Why was he so enamoured with one woman?
An answer, buried somewhere deep within him, leapt to the surface momentarily, but Wheeler pushed it down. Staring at himself in the mirror, he ran a hand through his hair, telling himself to get a grip.
He couldn't be in love with Linka. He just couldn't.
But as he stepped under the stream of hot water, the drops hitting him like fine needles, he winced.
He'd come not ten minutes earlier, but now, with unwelcome knowledge sitting upon him like a weighted blanket of worry, he had an uneasy feeling that whatever happened next, he was already well and truly fucked.