sorrydontsuitme | (no subject)

(no subject)

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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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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