sorrydontsuitme | (no subject)

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Ain't no such thing as butterflies in his stomach or his heart skippin' beats. None of that Wuthering Heights fated-to-be-in-love crap; he ain't no stalker like that damn Heathcliff son of a bitch and Freckles ain't no mournful mooning Cathy.

He never liked that book.

Over the years he's been with a lot of women. From the time he was sixteen, he's romanced 'em. Wined 'em, dined 'em, fooled around with 'em, conned 'em. He hasn't conned every woman he's slept with and he hasn't slept with every woman he's conned. But he hasn't had very many bedtime partners where he didn't have some kind of ulterior motive and he ain't ashamed to admit it: it's what he does. Reminds him of a long-ago conversation he had with Freckles when she wanted something from him. I've got a lot more of everything, but you ain't got carte blanche yet.

Whether or not she knows it, she's got it now.

So he can't help but wonder: what is it she wants right now? Right here, today, when all the stuff they want is just a phone call away and they got a whole damn asteroid at their disposal? If he was the introspective type he might wonder why him: out of all the guys here, why'd she choose him? Damn good thing he ain't never given introspection a second glance; he don't have time for that shit. So he's only a little bit surprised when he finds himself outside the door to her room, like he was drawn there by somethin' inevitable. Fate? He's a damn opportunist. He goes where his libido takes him.

If only that was always true, he wouldn't ever get into so much trouble like he does. If only he could shut it all up, all those damn little voices inside telling him what's right and what's wrong. Mostly he ignores 'em, always has. And then he woke up this morning going... hey there, Freckles. Only she wasn't there. It's a damn good thing he knows how to remedy that.

He ain't got no cards, no flowers, no pretty poems, no backpack full of mangoes. This time all he's got is himself. One of these days, that'll be enough.

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Aw, hell, Freckles. I'd pick you. The words almost leave his lips but they get stuck right back there behind his teeth and won't come out. Damn, baby, he ain't been tongue-tied with a woman since he was maybe sixteen. Funny how that happens.

"Cupcake, you got carte blanche, remember. You can pick dessert any old time you want."

I never cared about having carte blanche because I just wanted to spend some time with the only other person on this island that just don't belong. In some ways, he could make the same claim about this asteroid: him and Freckles, they're still two peas in a pod, two of a kind. Maybe what happened between 'em yesterday was always gonna be inevitable. Hell, ain't most everyone here an outlaw in one way or another? Maybe they are, maybe they ain't. But in either case, he stands by his thought: him and Freckles are more alike than any two other people here, there, anywhere.

Carte blanche. On the island, it referred to his stash. Here, he thinks she's got carte blanche to his heart. Funny how that just sort of fell into place, and he won't be givin' it up about it in so many words. But if she just so happens to figure it out, he might not even deny it.

Her hesitation is just short enough not to be awkward.

Probably.

"That carte blanche arrangement only counts on the island, I think."

There's a completely different stash hidden away in his hotel room, but she doesn't need anything from it. He doesn't owe her anything here.

"But if it makes you feel any better," she adds after a second, still smiling, "I'll make sure that won't stop me from picking dessert whenever I want."

He don't care about dessert and he don't care about carte blanche and whether it only counts on the island or not. What he does care about is havin' those pretty eyes of hers look him up and down as hungry as they did back there in the mall. He cares about her hands bein' on him like they were yesterday, and about holdin' her close after, his fingers knotted in her hair like they never want to let go. She's got carte blanche for that any old time she wants.

All she's got to do is ask.

"Well. If you don't want it to count here, then we can restrict it to back there. Sure. Or you could stake a claim and have it count here too." It might be one of the few times in his life he's made an open offer like this one. Hell, he lived with Cass six months and didn't never make her the same kind of offer. What the hell's gotten into him?

He ain't sure, but he likes it. He won't look at Freckles all goo-goo ga-ga or nothin'; he ain't no lovesick schoolboy. No, he just likes how it feels when they're together.

Fifteen, she said: might as well act it. He plucks the straw out of his just-about-empty Coca-Cola and flicks it in her direction. Droplets of melted ice mixed with Coke syrup spray across the table at her. Not enough to get her all sticky or nothin', but enough to be fun.

"Gotcha."

She holds up her hand, fingers splayed, to avoid those little drops of Coke.

"You should be careful," she tells him behind her hand, almost laughing. "I know where you sleep at night."

What's gotten into him? She can't believe he was just being so agreeable about the terms of her carte blanche. Is he just taking that attitude because of yesterday?

What if it never happened again?

On the island, he'd never have said that.

She's just reaching for her own nearly empty glass and contemplating some equally unnecessary revenge with it when their robot waiter glides over with a plate for each of them, each topped with a warm slice of apple pie and a sizable scoop of ice cream.

It smells delicious.

"Definitely worth the wait."

Imagine if they had food like this on the island. The others would probably be a hell of a lot nicer, for one thing. It ain't easy to be all pissed off and annoyed all the time when you got a big old slice of hot apple pie and vanilla ice cream.

"Bottoms up, Freckles." It's usually what they say to a shot of whiskey, but it works just as good with pie, and damn, baby, that pie's good. Seems a shame to have wasted it yesterday, but they got themselves a second chance, and this do-over's workin' out just fine. After this he might have to undo his hypothetical belt and rest a bit.

He wonders what Freckles is gonna be up to, even though it ain't really no more his business today than it was the day before yesterday. But the memory of Freckles lyin' against him in his bed is a powerful good one, and he sure hopes they get a second chance at that.

Time will tell. Just 'cause a man wants somethin' doesn't mean he always gets it, but last he checked, dreamin' was free. Does she really have carte blanche? No, and the both of 'em know it. No one does. But at the moment, he's inclined to be a lot nicer about it than he has been.

But just for her. With anyone else, the deal's off. 'Course, it was never on with no one but her anyhow.

Seems to her he's spent a lot of this afternoon dimpling up at her. Grinning, she sort of salutes him with her fork before she digs in.

And it's good. Warm with a touch of cinnamon, and she makes sure to get a little ice cream smeared on each bite of pie. "Not bad, right?"

Definitely not bad, and she's kind of pleased she suggested it. Even if it was yesterday and that pie went to waste.

The alternative to pie wasn't bad, either. No matter how tight-lipped she'll probably have to be about it.

"They've got a pretty good chocolate cheesecake, too."

Their key lime pie isn't as good as Keith's Diner's, though.

"Chocolate cheesecake. Freckles, you been livin' the high life."

Like he never ate apple pie with ice cream before, he makes pretty damn short work of his. He eats it like he's makin' up for lost time and in a way he is, even though he's been here longer than they were on the island. But it ain't just the island: he's got more'n that to make up for. There's that time he did for connin' Cass: wasn't no apple pie in prison. There's the time in Australia: all he remembers about that is drink and death and that's why the Sox will never will the series. Imagine that, runnin' into the doc's daddy in that bar of all places, and takin' his advice just 'cause he seemed wise.

Just goes to show.

A sudden stab of pain grabs at his leg. "Son of a..." As unobtrusive as possible, he stretches and flexes his leg, rubs its surface real light. Much as he hates to admit it, it's probably time for him to take care of it. Take a damn aspirin or have a damn beer at least.

And she'll either come with him or she won't. He sure ain't expecting 'em to move in together or nothin' just 'cause of yesterday.

She was just putting her fork down on her empty plate, but immediately she raises her eyebrows in concern. "You all right?"

Between the walk to the store and sitting here for a while with his leg bent under a table, he's probably had about enough.

"You need to go upstairs and get propped up?"

He could take off those jeans (which she only thinks about a second or two longer than she needs to), clean the wound, and kick back for a while. And she'd take the opportunity to break away and finish getting her things together.

Once she sees him to his room.

"Depends on your definition of gettin' propped up, Freckles." Hell, she was just askin' for that one; he raises an eyebrow and gives her a little grin, but a damn shooting pain -- no pun intended -- in his leg wipes that off his face pretty fast. Must be more'n obvious. "But yeah, I guess I do."

Like usual, no one asks to get paid, so he don't offer. It'll come back around, right? One of these days. He knows enough to know ain't nothin' free on this or any other planet, moon, or asteroid, and he ain't exactly known for not overdoin' it when he has the opportunity. But he'll still worry about the future sometime in the future. Not now, not today, not here.

"Thanks for comin' with and havin' lunch together, Freckles." When he pushes back the chair and stands, his leg's a little wobbly. Guess that's all right; he did just get shot in it a couple days ago. A man can only tough his way through so much in so many situations before somethin's got to give.

She arches one eyebrow at him. "Think we know what definition I mean."

But neither her pointedness nor her matter-of-fact smile keep her from getting to her feet and maneuvering around the table to his side.

"And isn't this on your tab officially?"

Face tilted up so she can look him in the eye, she goes ahead and grins. She's not sure how much it matters whose tab they agree this is on; after so long without getting billed once on the resort grounds, it's probably safe to say they'd both be more surprised to actually get charged at this point.

That doesn't mean she can't appreciate it if he's feeling generous, though. Even if he does have ulterior motives.

"Come on." It's a hazard of intimacy: she's about twice as aware of his proximity at a time like this now that she's caved once -- twice -- but her arm still curves around his back. Call her crazy, but she's sure that little wobble wasn't just for her benefit. "I've got you."

Runnin' his hand through his hair, he shakes his head a little and smiles down at her. "Yes, Freckles, this one's on my tab. Asked you to go with me, didn't I?"

She still keepin' tabs on tabs? Hell, he gave that up a long time ago here. It's like he decided way back when, he didn't ask to be here so they -- whoever they are -- got no business askin' him to pay. And that's the argument he'll use if he's got to... whenever that happens. For now, he's perfectly content to rest his arm around her shoulders, lean on her for a little bit of support.

Of the physical variety.

"And I'm glad you did. We ought to do it again sometime." It's old habit, settin' up the next thing before the first one's over. He can't help it if it only makes sense. But first, to get up to his room and stop messin' around. Next time, he goes with the magic healing option. He don't much cotton to that whole no pain, no gain philosophy.

"Just saying I'm surprised you'd thank me for coming along when it's all on your hypothetical tab anyway."

Her right hand covers his at her shoulder, and she sets their pace -- wouldn't it be nice to be able to all the time? -- as they leave the restaurant and walk through the casino in the direction of the lobby.

And in spite of herself, she keeps right on smiling. "You mean sometime besides when we go to the movies?"

It's dangerous, she can't help thinking again. Like seeing each other more often is treacherous ground to walk on (and it is, as they've just proven to her) and actually planning it makes things even more complicated.

He's torn between a dammit, Freckles, of course I'm thankin' you for comin' along when it's all on my hypothetical tab anyway and just lettin' it slide off his shoulders. She gets under his skin, Freckles does, both in the good and the bad ways, so he phrases his answer real careful. "Sometime after when we go to the movies, maybe."

There. That's a calculated yes; so far he ain't conning her and she ain't running, but he's got the feeling if he pushes too hard, she'll run far and fast and he don't want that. Ain't no real good reason to not want it except he likes her, and spendin' time with her's more fun than spendin' it alone or with most other people. He did the whole hot tub thing with Blondie and spent those couple nights with Mata Hari and took the Card Lady out a couple times, but they all kinda pale in comparison to yesterday.

It's real nice, gettin' something he's wanted for a long time and finding out it's mutual, more or less. No, not more or less, just plain mutual, and no agenda. The whir and click and ding-ding-ding sounds of the slot machines is like a whole damn chorus of some background noise he don't never pay much mind, but tonight he's noticin' damn near everything.

Including the dull ache spreading from where he got shot and the different kind of dull ache in the pit of his stomach when her arm tightens inadvertently around his waist so they can fit through the door together.

"Unless you want to do it before." They leave the casino behind and step into the lobby.

He really is being agreeable, isn't he? They haven't even made any deals, other than the promise of a movie in general.

"Now you're just trying to get me to say I want to spend more time with you."

And she's already seen more of him than she would've been willing to count on just a few days ago. The memory of breath rasping out between his lips and his hands staking a proprietary claim on her skin is enough to remind her that she wouldn't really mind spending a little extra time with him at all, and the idea stick there in the back of her mind and needles her.

When they reach the elevator, she reaches out to press the up button.

He'll just have to feel smug about her checking in on him.

After she gets back.

"I ain't tryin' to do nothin', Freckles. I'm just hitchin' a ride back up to my room." Those are the words that come out of his mouth, but the ones he don't say are a little more honest. Those are the ones that go so what's so bad about spending more time with me? I know, it's the scruff, right? Well, I ain't gonna shave much 'cause what if we get sent back to the island? How am I gonna explain that to Broken Nose Man? Ask him if his damn polar bears ever figured out about shavin' their faces, see how he likes that. They go on from there, and a lot of the thoughts get more complicated now. For instance, as they step into the elevator, he remembers her askin' if he was lookin' at her ass and of course he was, and he is now, too, and if he had the right strength in both his legs he might just grab that nice-lookin' ass and lift her up and let her wrap her legs around him. He'd like that.

She'd probably like that too, but he ain't gonna do it.

Not today. Automatically, he pushes the buttons for both the third and the fourth floor. What if he'd only pushed to go to the fourth floor? Would she have thought maybe he was tryin' to tell her somethin'?

Damn dangerous relationship business. When there's no angle except the honest one and no con in mind, how the hell's a man supposed to know where thingss are gonna go?

Yeah, he epitomizes innocence.

But it does surprise her a little when he presses the buttons for both of their floors without so much as being prompted. And she almost feels a little rueful about it.

She can't believe she almost feels rueful about it.

She's got packing to finish and a shuttle to catch, and yeah, they had sex (I've never had a one-night stand) but he's still not her type (I've never been in love).

He says we have a connection.

Do you?

Please.

She's not sorry she's going.

She glances up at the little red numbers above the doors -- as if the trip up to the third and fourth floors is long enough to warrant it -- then chances a look his way again. "Guess I'll give you call sometime then."

Damn it, why can't they have rooms on the 20th floor? It's hardly a long enough trip from the lobby and the number 2 flashes by in an instant, and hell, it's a calculated risk but then again, ain't all risks calculated?

His hand moves quickly to press the STOP button; the elevator grinds to a sudden halt between floors. He looks from the numbers to Freckles, swallows hard, and kisses her.

And then he does it again just 'cause they're both in the elevator together, and he sure don't want it to stop there. It might well. It could be that's all she wrote, that's all there is to give, but he has to try. If he doesn't, he'll never forgive his sorry ass for it. Like her hair's made of steel and his fingers are infused with magnets, they tangle in those brown strands, possessive and demanding and unapologetic, and for a fraction of a moment he holds her real close. When he speaks, his voice ain't much more'n a murmur.

"Guess I ain't cut out to behave, Freckles." His heart pounds; he can feel it better than he could since that day with the fake pacemaker.

Anxiety attack his ass. Must've been the scent of her shampoo set him off.

She's caught off guard.

Her scalp prickles under the fingers he lets play in her hair, and she's close enough that she could rub her cheek against his rough one, kiss a direct route from the corner of his mouth to his earlobe.

(Hell, it's only first base. Lucky for you I ain't greedy.)

"Never known you to before."

Her eyes follow his jawline, kind of riveted to him, and she stops herself and squeezes them shut for a second.

(She has over an hour left, she's sure.)

A palpably awkward moment passes even after his hold on her loosens, and part of her is convinced that he can hear her heart betray her over and over and over again.

(Is it still a one-night stand if it happens over the course of two afternoons?)

Blindly, she reaches for the elevator buttons without turning away from him. "We should get you off that leg."

While he's sure the look he gives her is a pretty discerning one, he ain't payin' that no never mind. All he knows is one thing, and that one thing is she said we. It ain't just him that needs to get himself lyin' down: she's gonna help. She said we should get you off that leg. He guesses that's what he's been hopin' for since the second he knocked at her (his) door earlier, and he still ain't sure what's gonna happen next but he'll hedge his bets and be hopeful.

For once, he'll be hopeful.

"All right, Freckles. Let's do it." Here, in the privacy of the elevator (and they got what, all of two more floors to go), he lets his hand find hers, lets their fingers intertwine. He ain't held a girl's hand like this in a long time. Not since Cass, but it didn't mean nothin' then.

Now, it does.

And here he was thinkin' they'd already had their dessert. That still might be the case, but hope's a damn powerful thing.

Lucky thing his (her) room ain't too far from the elevator. He ain't never seduced a woman when he was injured before... except Freckles. First time when he was tied to a tree after bein' tortured, and then after he got back from that little raft trip where his shoulder was all shot up. They, whoever they are, say third time's a charm and so far he likes time #3 the best. He sure hopes -- there's that word again -- ain't no one gets in his way this time. He gives her hand a little squeeze (what are you, five?) and glances up at the numbers above the door as the elevator lurches back into action.

She's not sure what the look he gives her means, but she knows that when his hand winds up by her own and his fingers start tangling with hers as insistently as they did in her hair just moments ago... he's just rated getting a look back.

Not a bad look -- at least she kind of hopes it doesn't come across as a bad look -- but he does stop her in her tracks, surprise her, make her uncertain.

(Is he sure they're not sixteen?)

The doors open on the third floor first, and looking away as if he can't see her smile if she's not looking at him, she presses the close doors button.

She's seeing him up to his room. (It'll be easier to slink out of his room in an hour than it would be to ask him to leave hers.) His room that's in her name.

The elevator starts ascending again, and she still has his taste on her lips.

Well, well, well. How do, Freckles. He's tryin' real hard not to let how smug he is show right now, but she's smilin' so ain't no reason he can't be too. And now he's glad they ain't way up there on the 20th floor. It's just the blink of an eye until the elevator stops again; he holds that open door button for her.

Man's got to practice bein' a gentleman every now and again, don't he? Takin' a step out of the elevator, he tries real, real hard not to show just how much his leg's buggin' him. He ain't gunnin' for the sympathy vote here; he can make it to his room just fine.

It's just down the hall a little.

Key's just in his back pocket.

All he has to do is get it out and slide it into the right slot, and bingo, he's in. The key, that is. In the door lock. So he does, and he gives Freckles one of those little smiles he don't give to no one else.

"You comin' in, Nurse Nancy?" It ain't changing bandages he needs help with now; his thumb slides across her lower lip in open invitation. He sure hopes she says yes.

Her eyes lower, watching his hand as it nears her face, and then rise again.

"You sure you're up--"

As soon as it's left her mouth, she's sure she's in for more teasing innuendo. Attempting not to smile, she purposefully blinks and leans her shoulder against the door frame.

"--for company?"

There's only been one time he's ever told her to get away from him, and she doesn't see him doing that now.

Get in here, woman. If he could manipulate things by sheer force of thought, she'd be in here already with the door locked behind her. Looks like he's gonna have to take matters into his own hands. "Come on in, Freckles. I'm sure I'm up for your company." She can make whatever she wants out of that statement and he don't care, so long as she's here with him.

Right now, he's got an achin' in his gut that ain't got nothin' to do with the bullet hole in his leg. A fire, a thirst, and she's the one who could quench it. The second she's in he locks the door and gives her a look so heavy and full there can't be no mistakin' the intention.

It ain't like he gives her time to mistake it either: his arms go around her and he holds her and holds her. Like he ain't never held no one before, like they ain't got no time to waste, like he never wants to let her go. He may be a lot of things, like a liar and a cheat and a con-man, but sometimes -- every once in a while -- he's more'n that.

Right now, he's way more. Right now, he's a guy who, like millions of guys before him, would give anything for a kiss from the woman who tickles his fancy.

That heavy-lidded look he gives her says now about that kiss loud and clear, and she can feel herself starting to smile all over again when her arms snake over his shoulders and around his neck.

It's you asked for it mingled with I can't believe what we're doing and a little we had our chance to get out of this, so this is it, and she kisses him until it's hard to breathe, until her conscience gets the better of her and she defers to his leg, the reason -- she chooses to think -- he got up from their table in the restaurant when he did in the first place.

There's no reluctance when his hands tug at the hem of her shirt, no hesitation to kiss a line straight down his chest and stomach. She's got an hour, and she better get her fill for a while.

When the time is right, she eyes the slow mellow movement of his chest as he breathes until she's willing to believe he's either asleep or content to let her think he is. Taking no chances, she's quiet and careful as she slips out from between the sheets and starts putting her clothes back on.

She casts a backward look his way, her hand on her pocket to feel her key still safely tucked inside, before she moves to the door to let herself out.

It's no closer to nighttime than it was yesterday when she crept out of here, but he basically told her he didn't have a problem with her doing what she needed to do.

And she's going to do exactly that.

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