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leigh57Title: What If You Catch Me, Where Would We Land
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
leigh57
Pairing: Jack Bauer/Renee Walker
Word Count: 33,600 total – approximately 9000 for this chapter
Rating/Warnings: R; sex, violence, language, references to physical and sexual abuse, spoilers for the entire series
Summary: But every once in a while when the guards were down, he’d click off the filters and let himself have her back, only for a minute. Light of her smile, smell of the skin on her neck, brush of her hand on his chest, checking for wounds. Rich stereo soundtrack of her voice.
Author's notes: With Chapter One
Chapter 4: If my heart was a house (you’d be home)
Maybe I’m still trying to decide whether or not to kill you.
When did you last communicate with him?
Jack, you son of a bitch.
Her voice. Alive. Not a nightmare or a memory or a dream.
Her words swirled in his head, colliding off one another like the balls in those damn Lotto drawings. He knew he had about half a second to make a decision, because Renee didn’t throw down unless she meant it and she would be out on the street identifying his position in less than a minute if he didn’t stop her.
He tried to say something but coughed, eyes stinging. Finally he cleared his throat and spoke quietly into his comm unit. “Tell her to stay at the bar for another half an hour. No less. Then take a cab and meet me at Cygnet House in Greenwich. I’ll be checked in under Luke Jensen.”
“Are you crazy?” Jack could hear the irritation in Ben’s voice even over the comm static and bar buzz. “If she’s followed, she could bring someone right to you.”
“She knows how to spot a fucking tail. Just tell her.”
“Fine.”
“And Ben?”
“What?”
Jack paused, working to corral the automatic terror that came from trusting something like this to anyone but Chloe, Renee, or Kim. “Thank you. I know this isn’t what I asked you to do, but-“ A burst of interference hurt his ear. “A plane ticket back to Shanghai is waiting for you at the airport.”
“Dammit, Jack. I owed you.”
“Take the ticket and shut up. Tell her.”
Jack watched, sweaty free hand on the butt of his gun, as Ben looked back at Renee.
“Listen carefully. Wait here for no less than a half hour. A minute more might be better. Then take a cab to Cygnet House. It’s a bed and breakfast in Greenwich. He’ll be checked in there under the name Luke Jensen.” Ben picked up his coat. “And for fuck’s sake don’t let anybody follow you.”
Jack could see Renee’s lip trembling, but she answered evenly, “I know when I’m being followed.”
Ben laughed, pushing himself off the barstool. “That’s what he said.” He touched her hand and gave her a casual grin. Although he knew it was all part of the performance, Jack released his gun and flattened his hand into his jeans. He heard Ben whisper, “I’ll tell you the truth. I didn’t think anything could make him cave. Good luck.”
Jack kept his eyes on Renee while the loud commotion of the bar was replaced by the comparative quiet of the night street in his ears. He heard Ben say, “I’ll smash this comm unit and dump it in one of the trash cans on my way to grab a cab. Unless you need something else.”
“No, get rid of it,” Jack replied, his eyes still mapping Renee’s face (soft pink lipstick, deep purple circles under her eyes, the freckles on her cheekbone he remembered kissing). “I’ve already gotten you in deeper than I wanted to.”
“Forget it, Jack. As far as I’m concerned we’re still not even. Get in touch if you need help.”
“Thanks, Ben.”
Jack heard the static of Ben removing the comm, then a smash and nothing. He took off his own comm and stowed it in the bag next to him, shifting a bit to stretch his cramping muscles.
Across the street, he could see Renee’s knee bouncing up and down on the bar stool, her fingers nervously twisting the edges of a cocktail napkin. She said something to bartender and a second later he put a tall glass in front of her. Jack didn’t have to hear to know it was soda.
He knew he needed to leave, to put away the binoculars and get the hell to the hotel so he could make sure everything was safe before she arrived. But for another few minutes he just watched her (her whole body jumpy and anxious, ceaseless motion, wiggling her feet and fiddling with her straw), still not quite sure how to believe any of this, joy and relief pummeling him over and over until he felt sure his system couldn’t handle another hit.
When he was about to force himself to stand and get the hell out of there, Renee looked directly at him. It was all in his head – he knew that – because she couldn’t see past the window of the bar. But she could guess his general location and for a suspended moment she gazed right there, her eyes shiny, small smile at the edges of her mouth.
It was wrong, all of it. He never should have come. But when she turned back to sip her drink (enabling him to get up), the only thing left in his mind was that in less than an hour, he’d be able to touch her skin, smell her hair, and hear her voice.
_________________________
First, he pulled the heavy blackout curtains over the windows, small screech of friction as he drew the cord. Once that was done, he checked everything – opening and closing drawers, lifting the box spring to look at the impressively clean carpet under the bed, and flipping on the light in the bathroom to glance in the shower and behind the door.
Even when he was finished he couldn’t stay still, so he put his gun on the corner of the bed (center of the room so he was never too far away from it) and paced back and forth between the door and the window, the repetitive sound of his shoes muffled by the carpet’s thick padding.
He looked at the digital display on the clock each time he passed it.
Wondering if time actually could stand still, he waited.
_________________________
Renee walked into the small lobby of Cygnet House, squinting as her eyes adjusted to the warm lamps after the relative darkness of the street. Normally she would have taken a moment to admire the understated elegance of her surroundings, cozy and inviting with overstuffed leather chairs in clusters around two small wooden tables. Instead, she cased the room quickly to be sure that nothing set off warning signals and then shifted her focus to the woman at the desk.
“May I help you?”
Renee swallowed, trying not to worry about how her voice was likely to sound. “Yes, thank you. I’m looking for Luke Jensen.”
The woman smiled, flipping over the page of the book in front of her. “Of course. He said he was expecting someone. He’s in Room 5. Would you like me to call and have him come down?”
“No, I’ll go up.” Renee felt a bead of sweat slide down her back. She had her hands folded in front of her so the clerk wouldn’t see them shaking.
“It’s on the fourth floor. Take these stairs-“ The woman nodded at a door to her left. “And his room will be down the hall on your right.”
Renee was moving before the woman finished speaking, but she remembered to say, “Thank you so much” over her shoulder as she reached for the handle of the door.
Once she was in the stairwell, she abandoned any pretense of patience. Pulling off her boots so that the small heel wouldn’t slow her down, she took the stairs two at a time, hoping she didn’t run into anyone who might wonder why the hell she was in such a hurry to get to her room in the middle of the night. When she reached the fourth floor, she slipped the boots back on before opening the door to the hallway and glancing down the empty corridor. She wanted to keep running, but she held herself back, fifteen or twenty quick paces until she found herself standing in front of Room 5.
Her heart hammered so hard that it hurt, but she lifted her hand and knocked softly, three times, cool tap of painted wood against her knuckles. She heard light footsteps and the metallic zing of the chain being unfastened. Her eyes followed the silver handle as it moved down. The door opened, but before she could process the fact that Jack was standing in front of her, his hand closed over hers and he pulled her inside, glancing both ways down the burgundy-carpeted hallway before he pulled the door shut, flipping both locks and sliding the chain back into place.
When he turned to face her, his eyes were glassy and panicked. For a suspended minute, they stared at each other, their eyes instantly deep into the conversation they couldn’t yet figure out how to have in words. Then, without knowing quite what she was doing, she let her bag slide to the floor and walked directly into him, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her face into his shirt. After a second of hesitation during which it shouldn’t have been possible to feel as uncertain as she did, he drew her even closer, his arms locked and holding on so tightly that she couldn’t expand her chest enough to take a full breath.
She didn’t care.
He was shaking, and Renee could feel him swallowing reflexively, the movement of his jaw against her face. She’d imagined this moment countless different ways since she’d made the decision to contact him, but even the most lifelike of those daydreams seemed like a poorly shot movie in comparison to this, to the harshness of his breathing and the softness of his hair, the rough scrape of stubble against her skin. She thought about flowered sheets and safety, about a house so quiet she could hear the floorboards creak as she stared at the ceiling wide awake in her bed, about a job so tedious she had to invent new tricks every day to prevent herself from looking at the clock every thirty seconds.
She was terrified, uncertain, and apparently unable to speak, but now that he was here (still holding her with enough force that she had to take small frequent breaths), all of that seemed irrelevant.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice so tired and raspy she could barely hear him. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have sent Ben. I couldn’t stand the thought-” He cleared his throat. “Of anything happening. Of them finding you again because of me.”
“It’s okay.” She started to draw back, but his grip didn’t loosen so she relaxed into his arms. “I would have killed you if you hadn’t changed your mind.” She shut her eyes and breathed in, aftershave and sweat, her mind floating back to that morning and the magic half an hour when they’d both been stupid enough to believe they could run. “But you did, so forget it.” She rubbed her thumb over the hard line of his jaw, stubble and bone. “God, you’re shaking.”
“So are you.” His words still came out with effort, a strained whisper.
She paused, realizing he was right. So much adrenaline had flooded her system over the past couple days that she wondered how she was standing at all. “I missed my Clif bar this morning,” she replied, trying to relax him a little. She’d been prepared for him to be almost anywhere on the emotional spectrum, but his agitation didn’t seem to be dissipating.
“Are you hungry?” She hadn’t figured out how to answer him when he plowed forward, quick nervous talking as if that might settle him down. “Because I stopped on the way here and got some burgers. This place is really good, but I wasn’t sure what you’d like.” He paused only long enough to breathe. “If you want something else, there are lots of takeout places-”
“Jack.”
“Yeah?”
“I love cheeseburgers.”
“Really?” For the first time since she’d walked into the room, she watched his shoulders relax, and his eyes stopped darting everywhere at once. “Because that’s what I brought you.”
_________________________
“Kim wound up on the news for a charity benefit she organized at Stephen’s hospital. The minute I turned off the TV, I couldn’t deal with it anymore, so I figured out how to get in touch with Chloe. I knew she’d be able to contact you even if she didn’t know where you were.” Renee stuffed the last bite of her burger into her mouth and took a long swallow of soda before putting the cup on the floor next to the couch. She was stretched out and halfway reclined, her feet resting on Jack’s thigh. She noticed that he’d eaten his entire meal with one hand. The other he’d placed on her right ankle when they settled down with the food, and he hadn’t moved it since. Now he was rubbing his thumb over the top of her foot, and the sensation was so soothing she could feel the exhaustion that had been hovering around the perimeter of her body moving in, threatening to take over.
“How long were you in Flagstaff?” Jack reached over to steal one of her fries but paused before he picked it up. “You’re not gonna eat this, right? Because if you’re still hungry-”
“No. I can’t eat another bite.” She grinned as he swirled the fry in her ketchup. “I was there for a little over six months. I stayed in the hospital at Covington for almost three months because it took quite a while before they trusted I could . . . “ She trailed off because Jack had swallowed hard, and he was staring at her, his face pale and tired. “I’m sorry. I know-” She shifted down, pressing her feet more firmly into his leg. “You remember all of it, and I don’t. I know you think that what happened is your fault, but Jack, goddammit, you know that’s crazy. You couldn’t have done anything.” She paused, reluctant to stop talking because words seemed to be keeping the tears away. “I’m the one who should have been smarter, called Chloe as soon as I recognized that guy.”
“Tokarev.” Jack’s fingers closed over the arch of her foot.
“I know. They let me see the file once I was off the Vicodin.”
“So you know what I did to him.” Jack didn’t look at her.
“Yes.”
“And to Dana Walsh. The Russians.”
“Yeah.”
“That doesn’t bother you?” He looked up then, and the pain in his eyes made her want to launch herself across the couch into his lap, kiss him, make him understand how well she knew, now, that everybody has a breaking point.
Right now he needed the logical part of her answer, so she said quietly, “It bothers me because you’ll never see Kim and Teri again. I feel responsible for that. I hate it. Every day.”
“But that’s it?”
“Yeah. That’s it.”
“I need you to tell me you’ll stop feeling responsible. Nothing I did that day was your fault.” His voice cracked. “I made some shitty choices, but they were all mine.” He squeezed her foot. “You’re the reason I stopped, actually.”
“What?”
“Chloe told me not to dishonor your memory.” The words sounded thicker in his throat as he spoke. “That you wouldn’t want me to start a war in your name.”
“She was right. But I’m not angry with you.”
He rubbed his finger over the stitched seam of his jeans. “How did Kim look?”
“Great. Beautiful.” Renee took another swallow of her soda. “Sad.” There was no point in lying; he knew.
Jack went silent, his hand still clutching her foot. Something in the ceiling made a crack and he glanced up, eyes darting back and forth, but it must have been the building settling. Now that she was full and the adrenaline assault she’d been living off of for almost 48 hours was receding, Renee was so tired that her eyes were starting to slip shut even when she fought to force them open.
“Hey.” Jack’s voice sounded further away than the other end of the couch. “You’re exhausted. Why don’t you go to sleep for a few hours?”
“I forgot my toothbrush.”
Jack smiled; she felt the pad of his thumb trace the arch of her foot. “I asked for an extra one when I checked in,” he said, and she watched the flush rise into his cheeks. “Because I thought you might-” He stood up abruptly and glanced at the door, jittery and unsettled. “Do you want to go back to your hotel?”
“No.” Are you insane? she thought, but she didn’t add that. She pushed herself off the couch. “But you could get me that toothbrush.”
The relief that transformed his expression made her chest hurt, and she wondered again about all the things she didn’t know, all the shit life had done to him that made him think she’d even consider walking away now. “It’s on the bathroom sink,” he said. “And I think there’s stuff to wash your face with, if you want it.”
“Thanks.” When she reached the bathroom doorway she looked back at him. He hadn’t moved. He was still watching her with his hands curled into fists, his eyes alive with vibrating energy despite the exhaustion evident in his posture.
_________________________
When she came out of the bathroom, her mouth filled with a cool mint chill and her face tight from the hotel soap, Jack was standing by the window, the curtain pulled back no more than an inch, looking into the darkness below.
“When was the last time you slept?” Renee asked, rubbing the painful knot that ran down her neck into her shoulders.
“Good question. I tried to sleep last night, but I kept thinking about-” He’d turned around, and suddenly he was looking at her with an expression she couldn’t identify.
“Do I have toothpaste on my chin?” Her hand went automatically to her face.
He shook his head but didn’t say anything, his eyes locked on hers.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. You took out your contacts,” he answered quietly, and he walked the four paces that closed the space between them, reaching out to cup her face, his thumb on her cheekbone.
“I hate them,” she whispered.
He put his other hand on her face, holding her still for a few seconds. He was so close she could feel him breathing, smell the cinnamon mints he must have been munching when she was in the bathroom. She could see the edge of his lips in her peripheral vision but she kept her eyes on his, because she knew what he was doing. Just as she was thinking that if she didn’t step back within five seconds, she’d have her mouth all over him, he dropped his hands and said, “I’m sorry. I don’t know-” He walked over to the window again, then halfway back to her, relentless motion like he didn’t have the control to stand still. “I should let you sleep.”
“Aren’t you going to sleep, too? You look like hell.” Which was a lie, because at this moment (despite the pallor and the jitters and the t-shirt that smelled like sweat and bar smoke) he looked like everything she had ever wanted in this life, and then some.
“Thanks. I just don’t think-” He sighed, rubbing his face. “I don’t think I can sleep right now.”
“Well I’m not getting in this bed unless you’re getting in with me.”
“Renee.”
Renee.
Her name. The real one. The room wavered in her vision, arcs of light and shifting curtains.
“Jack, for Christ’s sake. You don’t have to sleep. Will you just get in bed?” She moved sideways until the edge of her leg hit the cool comforter, something solid. “You can’t just . . . stay awake forever.”
“I can try.”
She wanted to cry, to scream or to throw things, to tell him that this wasn’t how it was supposed to work. She’d bottled up months of ideas, thoughts, feelings, things she wanted to tell him, and now they were in the same room, wasting time. But she was too goddamn tired to put her frustration into words. She yanked up the hem of her shirt, fingers going for the button of her jeans. “Fine.” She pulled the zipper, shoving the jeans down her thighs, standing on one empty cuff so she could step out of the other. When she’d managed to get them off, she looked up to find Jack’s back to her. Some minuscule fraction of her wished he wasn’t always so goddamn polite. She pulled back the covers, shivering when the cool sheets hit her bare legs.
The room was silent for a long weighted moment. Renee lay studying the mahogany wood of the bedside table, eyes stinging, trying to breathe, so tired she could barely think. Then she heard a zipper, Jack shuffling, his jeans hitting the floor. Another long pause and with a click, the room went dark. The bed bounced a touch as he crawled in, sliding his body over until his arm covered her stomach.
“I’m sorry.” He kissed her temple and she bit her lip to keep the tears back, determined not to do anything that might make him move. “I feel like-” In the dark, his fingers stroked down her arm until they found her hand, closing over her freezing palm. “If I keep my eyes open, I know what’s coming.”
She rolled over, trying to see his face as she adjusted to the dark. “Thank you,” she whispered. Her eyes slid shut. Apparently her body had decided to stop listening to commands.
“For what?” He pulled her closer, one hand warm and firm in the middle of her back.
“For not leaving.” She slipped a hand under his t-shirt, expecting him to startle or pull away, but his only reaction was to kiss her hair again.
“I should have.” His fingers moved up to the base of her neck, rubbed relaxing ovals in her hair. She felt his mouth on her ear. “I missed you. I just-” He was shaking again, and her arms tightened around him even though she was barely awake. “Missed you.”
“Me, too,” she managed. The smallest movement made her dizzy now, and she knew she’d hit that place where nothing she thought or said would make sense. “I can’t stay awake,” she mumbled.
“Stop trying.” His breath lifted her hair.
“Mmkay.” She felt the warm pull, the soft sinking that made her body relax and her thoughts scatter. Jack’s hand kept a cadence in her hair, and his heart thudded, a vibration on her fingertips.
Images flashed past her as she drifted.
Jack’s face as the stretcher rolled away from her, her own disbelief and denial, refusal to accept the inescapable fact of his death.
Metallic cold of the razor blade in her hand, burn of whiskey coating her mouth, her throat, her stomach. The red rush once she’d done it, her own surprise when there was no pain at all, only the deepening silence as the color leeched out of the room.
Jack’s fingers stroking the inside of her wrist, the awakening inside her, how determined she’d been to fight him as he effortlessly made it happen.
His smile when he’d kissed her in his bed, thumb on her shoulder. You okay?
Fury in Covington. Curling into a ball in her hospital bed (as much as should could with a hole in her chest and tubes everywhere) the night after she woke up, tears until she couldn’t breathe. Denial again, because it couldn’t happen twice, could it?
She’d never had the chance to fall asleep with him.
She startled awake just enough to realize this before she shut her eyes again, Jack’s whispered, ”It’s okay” playing in her head.
_________________________
Jack lay very still, gritty eyes focused on the strip of light from the hallway. It snuck under the door, unbroken by shadows. Renee was asleep, her head on his chest, arm over his ribs, her knee tucked between his thighs. She’d wiggled closer as she drifted off, as if the more parts of him she touched the less likely he’d be to disappear. Her body jerked occasionally (as his did when he was overtired), but she didn’t wake up. As the minutes passed, her breathing slowed down and the jerking stopped, until she was calm and quiet in his arms.
He was so tired.
Confused. Terrified.
Cold sweat pricked over his back despite the heat of Renee’s body. Even though he could feel the lift of her chest each time she took a breath, he couldn’t help wrapping his fingers around the wrist that draped over his torso and pressing until he could detect her pulse, slow and even.
His heart slammed, and he forced himself to take long deep breaths. Fuck if he was going to freak out and wake her up when he’d finally convinced her to sleep. He let himself stop looking at the strip of light under the door for a minute and turned his eyes to her. He’d adjusted enough to the darkness that he could see the shiny walnut brown of her hair. Her skin was so pale, freckles blending as he squinted to focus.
He thought about himself out on the fishing boat (blind determination and laser focus on nothing but the task at hand, hauling nets or securing rigging), or in his tiny apartment in Portugal, Ramen in the microwave and one library book at a time, living each five minutes because the thought of anything beyond that took his mind to places that frightened even him.
Once he’d woken up in the middle of the night after a dream about Teri, pulled the gun out from under his pillow, clicked the safety off, and put the muzzle in his mouth. He couldn’t remember how long he’d sat there, simultaneously disgusted by his inability to pull the trigger and by the fact that he had the gun in his mouth at all.
He shouldn’t have come.
But he watched her – face smushed into his chest, foot sneaking out of the sheet he’d pulled over her – and wondered how the hell she got him to break all his own rules without saying a word, just by raising her eyebrow or shooting him a look.
She mumbled something incomprehensible in her sleep and scooted closer, shampoo and salt and all the closed doors flying open. One hand on her back, he gingerly felt under the pillow beside him for the gun he’d placed there. He ran his thumb over the cool metal.
You can’t just stay awake forever.
He wrapped the other arm around her and shut his eyes, determined to sleep for the briefest amount of time that would let him continue to function.
_________________________
She was used to waking up to what she had come to think of as the easiest three seconds of her day – that suspended moment when she wasn’t yet conscious enough to remember everything about her circumstances, so she’d lay there in a haze until her eyes drifted open and reality snapped shut and trapped her.
This time, she woke up to the heat of Jack’s knee between her thighs, the soft rhythmic brush of air where he exhaled into her neck, and the smell of his skin on the sheet he must have pulled over her.
She lay very still, watching light from the street lamps hit the wall when the heater moved the curtains. Watching Jack’s fingers where they wrapped around the inside of her wrist.
It took her a solid minute to convince herself she wasn’t dreaming again.
When she did, the only clear thought left in her mind was that she wanted to touch him, hands on his skin, lips on his mouth.
everywhere. closer.
She rolled over in his arms; her nose bumped his as he opened his eyes.
“Hey.” That improbable mixture of gravel and velvet that would have knocked out all her higher-order processing, had there been any left in operation. “What’s wrong? Can’t sleep?” He ran his hand up her arm before rubbing at the edge of his eye, sleepy and half-smiling.
“Now I can’t.” She leaned in and kissed him, soft for maybe half a second before he surprised her by opening his mouth, rush of his tongue touching hers, and oh Jesus Christ this was the only thing she’d wanted for so goddamn long . . .
He pulled back, his breathing choppy and his voice strained. “Renee, I think-”
She cut him off with her thumb over his lip before she kissed him again. She let herself drift, almost dizzy with how good it felt to have his mouth on her, but after a second she pulled back just far enough to see his eyes. “I know. You have a thousand reasons why we shouldn’t, starting with the part where you never meant to be here in the first place.” Her words escaped in small jumbled rushes. “You’re gonna try to stop me.” She inhaled, trying to steady herself, and despite the near-darkness she could watch the heat rise into his face. “Jack, please. Just don’t. Don’t stop me.”
She left the final decision to him, holding his gaze while she tried to control the slamming of her heart and her need to interpret the fifty different things she could watch happening in his eyes as he scanned her face and circled his thumb over the inside of her elbow.
After another thirty seconds (during which she realized she was holding her breath) he wrapped his fingers softly around the back of her neck and drew her towards him. A tiny grin flickering at the edge of his mouth, he whispered, “When have I ever been able to stop you from doing anything?”
_________________________
She’d never had sex that felt so much like healing.
His hands and his mouth were like sutures everywhere they landed, stitching the broken places inside, erasing the hurt that had been there for so long she’d forgotten what it was like to feel anything else.
With her shirt pushed up, Jack’s hands holding her hips, and his tongue in her navel, she remembered.
God, she remembered.
She grabbed the hem of her t-shirt, intending to yank it off, but his hands closed over hers and he shook his head. “Let me?”
She nodded and released the cotton, unable to resist the mischief in his eyes – underneath the serious layers, a playfulness flickering there that she’d never been lucky enough to glimpse before.
He kissed his way up her body a couple inches behind the fabric, circles with his tongue, every now and then a little hum against her skin that made her arch into his hands and shiver with the realization of how much she wanted him to never stop.
It must have taken them ten minutes to get their clothes off, and they were hardly wearing any.
She memorized as she went, noticing everything.
The way he sucked in a sharp breath when she slid her mouth over the hollow of his throat and across the length of his collarbone.
The Jesus Christ, Renee, when she pulled down his boxers, stroking her hands all over him (playful) before she tossed them aside.
The way that licking him just below his left ear resulted in a frustrated growl and landed her on her back, hands held above her head (gently) as he repeated the move on her.
The first time – that morning in his apartment that would forever exist as her ultimate moment of cognitive dissonance – it had been all about frantic rushing, desperation, frenzied comfort and the need to forget.
This time, Jack seemed determined to discover everything about her body all at once, his hands and mouth skimming, touching, tasting. His voice (sound she’d missed with such force it threatened to close her throat even now, when her body was so hot and achy that she couldn’t keep still) a rumble that traveled across her ear and down her neck.
Tell me what feels good.
Please.
I wanna hear you tell me.
So she told him, let him play, until it was too hard to talk because she had to concentrate on breathing, until she knew what it was like (incredible) to feel his mouth on the inside of her knee or his tongue learning each indentation of her spine, until (finally) he was inside her, hands on her face, the irresistible heat of his body pressing her into the bed.
She realized she was trembling all over.
You okay? His body went very still.
She nodded.
Jack didn’t take his eyes off her face for a second as he rocked into her (soft and rhythmic in a way that kept the entire length of his body flush with hers) and murmured, Did I mention how much I missed you?
Jack, she heard herself saying, and then everything faded out when he pushed her down one more time.
She shut her eyes, heat everywhere like a match flare as she gave in and let it happen.
And it was everything all at once, the forbidden wishes and dreams she’d wrestled into some barricaded corner of her mind. It was Jack’s skin warm and sweaty against hers, the sound of his voice saying her name (the real one) as his arms pulled her tight into his chest. It was him touching her, inside and out, when she’d gone without human contact for so long she’d almost forgotten how fiercely she needed it.
Wanted it.
Wanted him.
For a few more seconds she kept her eyes closed, lightheaded and out of breath, letting herself revel in every tiny detail of that moment. She could feel the rapid smack of Jack’s heart against her chest, and his fingers clutched her shoulders so tightly it almost hurt. She was thinking how warm he felt all over her (a million times better than the fanciest blanket she’d ever owned), when she heard him whisper into her hair, “Please tell me you don’t have to get out of this bed for . . . a week.”
“How about a month?” she mumbled on the skin of his shoulder, teasing, but when she opened her eyes he was watching her face, focused and anxious. His eyes had gone wide and shiny, and everything in the room felt very, very quiet.
She almost spoke to break the silence, but something in the way he held himself above her, the tension in his muscles, and the panic that flickered in his eyes (as if she might disappear if he blinked or looked away) kept her quiet.
He smoothed his thumb over her cheekbone, back and forth, and she could see his jaw working with the effort to maintain control.
Another minute ticked by before he said, voice achy and strained, “I never thought-” He cleared his throat, steadier. “I’d get to touch you again.” He inhaled. “Hear you.”
She lifted her head to brush her lips over his. “I know. I’m sorry. Maybe I should have contacted Chloe earlier.” All the things she hadn’t done branched out in her mind like one of those color-coded maps on the subway. “I thought I could handle it. That you’d be safer. And for a while I figured out how to power through. But I just-”
“I know.” He tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and she shivered, her body’s response to his hands apparently beyond her control. “It’s why I couldn’t leave, even though I should have. I should have.” He rolled off of her; her skin went cold everywhere he’d been touching.
She turned to face him and reached for his chin, her fingers mapping the outline of his face. He was staring at the off-white sheet bunched between them. “Jack. Look at me.” It took a second, but he finally lifted his eyes and let them lock with hers. “Do you have any idea how happy I am, right here, right now?”
And she got what she wanted, because he smiled – not the one-sided gallows humor quirk she’d seen once or twice during some of their worst moments together, but a full-out grin that reached his eyes and radiated outward. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” The single syllable was all conviction.
“Me, too.”
She felt her stomach do that funny swirling dropping thing it had the tendency to do in his presence. She scooted closer, knees knocking into his, fingers on his ribcage. She could feel each bone, sharp. “Hey. How much weight have you lost?”
He shrugged, and he looked so uncomfortable that she instantly regretted the question. “I don’t have a scale. I always tried to keep working, because then I wouldn’t have time to think about-” He flipped her hand over, placing his palm on hers, linking their fingers. “I know it doesn’t look good.”
“You are full of shit,” she announced, pushing him over and pinning him to the bed. She kissed him, lightly, but with just enough enthusiasm to distract him until she felt his hands sliding up her thighs. Then she pulled back. “I’ve lost weight, too. Is it bothering you?”
“Uh, no.” He raised an eyebrow, all flirty mischief and teasing and that expression that made it hard for her to form linear thoughts. “But I think we should order more takeout and help you gain it back.”
She nestled her face into his neck. “I thought you were gonna help me work the takeout off.”
He chuffed. “We’ll get a lot of takeout.” His voice dropped even lower, a rumble that felt like gift-wrapped joy where it vibrated her chest. “A lot.”
“Okay.” She stretched out and wiggled her toes until they were touching his feet. “Can we do that in a minute? Right now I’d rather stay here.” She closed her eyes again.
Jack’s fingers stroked lightly up the naked skin of her back. “We can stay here as long as you want,” he murmured, moving her hair aside so he could reach her neck. “Just tell me when you want to move.”
Never, she thought, listening to his heart under her cheek. Never is good.
_________________________
“This stuff smells like lilacs mixed with limeade. Not a good combo.” Renee made a face as she lathered the hotel shampoo into her hair, white bubbles sliding down her face and neck.
Jack wiped water out of his eyes. “I think I have a little bottle of something else in my bag. Want me to get it?”
“I don’t want you to go anywhere.” She paused and took her soapy fingers out of her hair, grabbing his face and kissing him, again and again, laughing when the soap dripped into their mouths. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He rubbed the washcloth over the back of his neck, enjoying feeling clean for the first time in days even if she was right and the crap did smell kind of weird.
Renee reached for his shoulders and deftly relocated him so that she could rinse her hair. While she leaned back into the spray, eyes closed, Jack let his gaze drift down below her left breast. The raised white scar went in and out of focus as suds slipped over it, and he snapped his head up a second later, worried she’d catch him looking. Squeezing water from her hair, she opened her eyes. “What?”
“Nothing. Are you done with the shampoo?”
“Yeah.” She handed it to him.
He squirted way too much from the small bottle and didn’t meet her eyes.
“Jack.”
“What?”
“Just look at it. Touch it. Stop pretending-” She sighed. “That you’re not thinking about it.”
Renee reached for his hand and placed it on her ribs; his knuckles brushed the curve of her breast. All the time he’d spent not remembering those ten minutes cascaded back to punish him now – crash and thud and her feet motionless on the floor, Jack, blood pouring from her mouth, soaking the sheet and his shirt, weight of her body in his arms, her ghost-white face on his in the taxi and the promise he’d made.
The one he’d spent nine months convinced he’d failed to keep.
He moved his thumb lightly across the raised round scar, circling it several times while his throat burned and his head pounded. He was back in the taxi (choked gurgle of her lungs searching for air they couldn’t find), in the hospital (hands behind his head, double doors swinging shut while he held his breath), in the room with her sheet-draped body (pain so intense and unrelenting that he’d had to force his brain in another direction in order to stay standing).
He let his hand drop to her hip and leaned forward, closing his eyes and resting his forehead on hers. “I thought I could get you there in time. I thought-” He choked on the words and the water he’d inhaled.
“And you did what you promised.” She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him closer, and pressed her face into his neck.
“You remember?” he asked. His body had gone shaky like he was having a blood sugar crash.
“It fades out after that,” she admitted. He could feel her smiling. “You know what else I remember?”
“What?”
“Thinking you were insane.”
“When?”
“When you said we’d make it.” She paused, and he could tell she wasn’t smiling any more. “I couldn’t breathe. Everything was turning grey. I could hear you talking and-” Her fingers dug into the muscles of his shoulder. “I wanted to believe you.”
His mouth filled with saliva as nausea caught him off guard. He swallowed and reached for the grey metal fixture, turning the water colder. “Can we talk about something else for a minute?”
She nodded, her cheek wet on his shoulder. “Sure.”
“Tell me about the hospital.” His words sounded jagged, even to him.
She lifted her head, hands braced on his arms. “That’s something else?”
“Maybe not,” he answered, quiet. “But I want to know.”
She backed away completely and leaned against the off-white tile, palms pressed until her knuckles whitened, as if she needed girder beams to talk about this, and when she finally began to speak her voice went flat, one-key monotone with no rise or fall. “It hurt. Everything. I didn’t know it could hurt that much to breathe or swallow or try to move myself an inch sideways in the damn bed with the prison rails. Even when Vladimir cracked two of my-” She paused. She wasn’t looking at his eyes. “Anyway, I didn’t take much of the medication they kept trying to shove down me.”
“Why?” He knew, but he wanted to hear her say it.
“The more I could focus on the pain, the less time I had to think about anything else.”
“I know.” For months after Nina killed Teri, at least once a week he’d jumped into his truck and driven toward the mountains, roads quieter and quieter as he got further away from the scattered explosion of multicolored electricity that was L.A. He’d had a favorite spot, a secluded area of the woods where he could park his truck and walk a little way in, gun tucked into the waist of his jeans (not that he would have cared much if someone had wanted to kill him). Then he’d found his favorite tree, the Sequoia so tall that trying to see its tip gave him a neck ache. Hands balled up with rage and terror that had no place else to go, knuckles bare, he’d hit the rough surface of the trunk.
Bark scraping off skin, splinters working through flesh, blood trickling off his knuckles until his palms were damp and sticky.
After Renee, on the boat, it had been pushups. Hundreds and hundreds of them until it hurt to use a fork, to reach for a washcloth, to pull the covers up when he forced himself to crawl into the tiny bed.
“Hey.” She stepped forward and put her hands on his chest; he covered her fingers with his. “Where’d you go?”
“Sorry. Just thinking. I wish-” He studied her eyes, the crazy concentrated focus that flickered there when she looked at him. Despite all his coping strategies, this is what he’d missed, the way that words only had to do half the work with her, if that. She filled in the blanks, natural and effortless. He squeezed her hands. “I wish you hadn’t been alone.”
“And now I’m not.” She bounced up on the balls of her feet and touched her lips to his, smirking. “But you know what? If you don’t get out of here, I’m never going to actually finish my shower.”
He snuck an arm around her waist and pulled her closer, kissing her until her mouth opened and she made that noise he loved (one of them, anyway). Then he released her and smiled. “You’re probably right. I’m going.”
He closed the bathroom door behind him, rubbing a towel over his damp hair. He stood there, silent, listening to the rush of water and the muffled thud of Renee dropping the soap or something, and realized that the room already smelled like all his memories of her, the ones he’d systematically barricaded for so long that setting them free felt terrifying and yet . . . so fucking good.
By the bed, their discarded clothes lay in a chaotic intertwined heap.
The water swished off. He heard the staccato clicks of the shower curtain sliding open, and then Renee’s amused voice. “Did you take all the towels on purpose?”
And with a deep breath, he decided to stop thinking about the shitstorm that awaited them in the future, the heart-wrenching conversation there was no way to avoid, and allow himself to enjoy the hell out of this moment, in which Renee was waiting for him in the steam-clouded bathroom, naked, laughter in her voice.
“Maybe?” He grabbed a dry towel and opened the door.
_________________________
“What happened to your leg?” She squishes water out of the tips of her hair and drops the towel on the back of the chair.
“What?” He’s thinking he should put a shirt on, because even though the scars don’t seem to bother her, it feels . . . strange not to cover them up. He glances to where she’s staring at his leg. “Oh. Just a cut. Caught the edge of a gutting knife.”
“Well you need a new bandage. That one’s soaking. Do you have some in your bag?” She’s already moving toward his duffel. He watches the towel brush the top of her thighs. Swallows.
“Yeah, but you don’t need to-”
“I want to. Sit down on the couch. One sec.” She rummages in the bag until she finds what she’s looking for and then walks over to kneel in front of him.
He’s touched and appreciative and god help him, turned on, which is so ridiculous because all she’s doing is rubbing a thin layer of antibiotic ointment into the cut. But her fingers on his skin create a sensation clipped directly from every last fantasy he’s been suppressing for months, a shaken soda exploding in his nervous system.
“Does that hurt?” She’s squeezing more ointment onto her finger, pressing softly at the edges of the pain.
“No. Not at all.”
She rips the bandage open with her teeth and pulls out the tan rectangle before glancing up at him, eyes sparkling. “What?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
The tip of her finger covers the full perimeter of the plastic, sending quivers of heated current up the inside of his leg.
She stands up, surveying him. “You have a look.”
And for fuck’s sake she’s wearing nothing but an off-white towel, the damp dark tips of her hair a contrast where they meet the pale skin of her shoulders.
“That felt-” He can feel the flush in his face. “Good.”
She can’t master the quirk at the edge of her mouth, although he can tell she tries. “Like, good good?”
“Yeah.”
“Really.” But it’s a statement, not a question. She takes two strides forward and straddles him on the couch, the haphazardly tucked towel loosening with each movement of her body. The only thing between his skin and hers is the thin barrier of his boxers. She rocks forward, and he can’t stop the sound that slips out.
Renee reaches for his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. She leans in, freckles and tang of toothpaste, and he thinks (hopes) she’s going to kiss him. But she stops maybe two inches away from his face, eyes serious. “I wish I’d been there. After.”
He wraps his fingers around her wrists. “So do I.”
_________________________
She dips a tortilla chip into the giant bowl of queso they’re sharing and stuffs it into her mouth – chilies, smooth cheese, and crunchy salt. Jack licks dip off his thumb and plays without looking at his cards, the seven of spades she’s needed for the past two turns. She snaps it up and fans her cards on the table. “Gin.”
“That’s three in a row.” He reaches for the soda between them and takes several long swallows. “You’re kicking my ass.”
“Here’s a tip. Looking at your cards helps.” Under the table, she strokes the arch of her bare foot against his ankle.
“I can’t concentrate when you’re doing that.”
She smirks. “That’s the first time I’ve touched you since we started playing. Want me to stop?” Her foot climbs higher.
“Hell, no.” He throws down his cards and takes her wrist, flipping it over, calloused thumb brushing her skin. She has instant goosebumps, and okay, it’s only Jack, but she still flushes. He makes her so fucking easy.
“That feel good?” he murmurs in that voice that reminds her of smoke and honey, of everything that makes her body alive, of the word, ‘euphoria.’ And she’s fully intending to hit him with some flirty comeback, no question, but without warning she sees his eyes, the way he’s watching her, like she could sit there and eat queso all night and that would be fine with him.
Her throat tight, she whispers, “God, I missed you. Do you have any-” She stops, because her chest is funny now and it feels weird to breathe, like something’s pushing on her lungs.
“Yeah, I do.” One of his hands slides down to close over hers, and with the other he pulls her leg into his lap.
For a few minutes she sits there, trying not to let herself consider what’s coming. Because the thing is, she knows how he thinks. She always has. Which means that the smackdown in which he tries to send her back to Witness Protection is a question of “when,” not “if.”
Still, at the moment he’s holding a queso-coated chip toward her mouth, giving her that unfiltered grin she can feel from the inside out, shivery jitters that spark in her hair. She nabs it in one bite, sucking cheese off the end of his thumb in the process.
He eats another one himself and says, “You wanna play again?”
“Are you planning to look at your cards?”
“Maybe.” As he deals, he takes a deep breath and then says (quiet), “I did pushups. Thousands of them.” The cards click onto the table. “Or shots of whiskey. Not thousands.” He puts down the deck. “What about you?”
She doesn’t understand it, but he knows how to untie the knots she didn’t realize were there. “Running,” she replies, wishing he could keep his hand on her leg forever. “Miles and miles of running.”
_________________________
He watches her trace her finger around the rim of the mug, grabbing the occasional marshmallow and sticking it in her mouth. She licks the chocolaty froth off the end of her finger and sinks deeper into the water, her feet on his stomach. Her toes tickle, warm, and no matter how ferociously he tries to think of nothing but this moment, soap and chocolate and way he’d forgotten how it felt to laugh, to fall asleep with the heated jut of a shoulder blade on his chest, he can’t stop himself from wondering if he’ll be sorry.
She tips the cup all the way up, obscuring her face for a second before she lowers it. She has a chocolate mustache, and when she catches his eye, she grins and raises an eyebrow. “What are you thinking?”
That I’ve never had a fucking ounce of self-preservation.
“You have chocolate all over your face.” He grabs her ankles and yanks her toward him, her legs sliding over his.
“Hey!” The mug slips into the tub with a splash.
She’s laughing.
He touches the bruise on her forehead (unfortunate encounter with her cupboard one morning when she’d run out of coffee, she’d explained when he asked) before he kisses her. He tastes suds and marshmallows, and when her hands graze his throat, it stings from the inside.
Previous Chapter
Next Chapter
Author:
leigh57Pairing: Jack Bauer/Renee Walker
Word Count: 33,600 total – approximately 9000 for this chapter
Rating/Warnings: R; sex, violence, language, references to physical and sexual abuse, spoilers for the entire series
Summary: But every once in a while when the guards were down, he’d click off the filters and let himself have her back, only for a minute. Light of her smile, smell of the skin on her neck, brush of her hand on his chest, checking for wounds. Rich stereo soundtrack of her voice.
Author's notes: With Chapter One
Chapter 4: If my heart was a house (you’d be home)
Maybe I’m still trying to decide whether or not to kill you.
When did you last communicate with him?
Jack, you son of a bitch.
Her voice. Alive. Not a nightmare or a memory or a dream.
Her words swirled in his head, colliding off one another like the balls in those damn Lotto drawings. He knew he had about half a second to make a decision, because Renee didn’t throw down unless she meant it and she would be out on the street identifying his position in less than a minute if he didn’t stop her.
He tried to say something but coughed, eyes stinging. Finally he cleared his throat and spoke quietly into his comm unit. “Tell her to stay at the bar for another half an hour. No less. Then take a cab and meet me at Cygnet House in Greenwich. I’ll be checked in under Luke Jensen.”
“Are you crazy?” Jack could hear the irritation in Ben’s voice even over the comm static and bar buzz. “If she’s followed, she could bring someone right to you.”
“She knows how to spot a fucking tail. Just tell her.”
“Fine.”
“And Ben?”
“What?”
Jack paused, working to corral the automatic terror that came from trusting something like this to anyone but Chloe, Renee, or Kim. “Thank you. I know this isn’t what I asked you to do, but-“ A burst of interference hurt his ear. “A plane ticket back to Shanghai is waiting for you at the airport.”
“Dammit, Jack. I owed you.”
“Take the ticket and shut up. Tell her.”
Jack watched, sweaty free hand on the butt of his gun, as Ben looked back at Renee.
“Listen carefully. Wait here for no less than a half hour. A minute more might be better. Then take a cab to Cygnet House. It’s a bed and breakfast in Greenwich. He’ll be checked in there under the name Luke Jensen.” Ben picked up his coat. “And for fuck’s sake don’t let anybody follow you.”
Jack could see Renee’s lip trembling, but she answered evenly, “I know when I’m being followed.”
Ben laughed, pushing himself off the barstool. “That’s what he said.” He touched her hand and gave her a casual grin. Although he knew it was all part of the performance, Jack released his gun and flattened his hand into his jeans. He heard Ben whisper, “I’ll tell you the truth. I didn’t think anything could make him cave. Good luck.”
Jack kept his eyes on Renee while the loud commotion of the bar was replaced by the comparative quiet of the night street in his ears. He heard Ben say, “I’ll smash this comm unit and dump it in one of the trash cans on my way to grab a cab. Unless you need something else.”
“No, get rid of it,” Jack replied, his eyes still mapping Renee’s face (soft pink lipstick, deep purple circles under her eyes, the freckles on her cheekbone he remembered kissing). “I’ve already gotten you in deeper than I wanted to.”
“Forget it, Jack. As far as I’m concerned we’re still not even. Get in touch if you need help.”
“Thanks, Ben.”
Jack heard the static of Ben removing the comm, then a smash and nothing. He took off his own comm and stowed it in the bag next to him, shifting a bit to stretch his cramping muscles.
Across the street, he could see Renee’s knee bouncing up and down on the bar stool, her fingers nervously twisting the edges of a cocktail napkin. She said something to bartender and a second later he put a tall glass in front of her. Jack didn’t have to hear to know it was soda.
He knew he needed to leave, to put away the binoculars and get the hell to the hotel so he could make sure everything was safe before she arrived. But for another few minutes he just watched her (her whole body jumpy and anxious, ceaseless motion, wiggling her feet and fiddling with her straw), still not quite sure how to believe any of this, joy and relief pummeling him over and over until he felt sure his system couldn’t handle another hit.
When he was about to force himself to stand and get the hell out of there, Renee looked directly at him. It was all in his head – he knew that – because she couldn’t see past the window of the bar. But she could guess his general location and for a suspended moment she gazed right there, her eyes shiny, small smile at the edges of her mouth.
It was wrong, all of it. He never should have come. But when she turned back to sip her drink (enabling him to get up), the only thing left in his mind was that in less than an hour, he’d be able to touch her skin, smell her hair, and hear her voice.
_________________________
First, he pulled the heavy blackout curtains over the windows, small screech of friction as he drew the cord. Once that was done, he checked everything – opening and closing drawers, lifting the box spring to look at the impressively clean carpet under the bed, and flipping on the light in the bathroom to glance in the shower and behind the door.
Even when he was finished he couldn’t stay still, so he put his gun on the corner of the bed (center of the room so he was never too far away from it) and paced back and forth between the door and the window, the repetitive sound of his shoes muffled by the carpet’s thick padding.
He looked at the digital display on the clock each time he passed it.
Wondering if time actually could stand still, he waited.
_________________________
Renee walked into the small lobby of Cygnet House, squinting as her eyes adjusted to the warm lamps after the relative darkness of the street. Normally she would have taken a moment to admire the understated elegance of her surroundings, cozy and inviting with overstuffed leather chairs in clusters around two small wooden tables. Instead, she cased the room quickly to be sure that nothing set off warning signals and then shifted her focus to the woman at the desk.
“May I help you?”
Renee swallowed, trying not to worry about how her voice was likely to sound. “Yes, thank you. I’m looking for Luke Jensen.”
The woman smiled, flipping over the page of the book in front of her. “Of course. He said he was expecting someone. He’s in Room 5. Would you like me to call and have him come down?”
“No, I’ll go up.” Renee felt a bead of sweat slide down her back. She had her hands folded in front of her so the clerk wouldn’t see them shaking.
“It’s on the fourth floor. Take these stairs-“ The woman nodded at a door to her left. “And his room will be down the hall on your right.”
Renee was moving before the woman finished speaking, but she remembered to say, “Thank you so much” over her shoulder as she reached for the handle of the door.
Once she was in the stairwell, she abandoned any pretense of patience. Pulling off her boots so that the small heel wouldn’t slow her down, she took the stairs two at a time, hoping she didn’t run into anyone who might wonder why the hell she was in such a hurry to get to her room in the middle of the night. When she reached the fourth floor, she slipped the boots back on before opening the door to the hallway and glancing down the empty corridor. She wanted to keep running, but she held herself back, fifteen or twenty quick paces until she found herself standing in front of Room 5.
Her heart hammered so hard that it hurt, but she lifted her hand and knocked softly, three times, cool tap of painted wood against her knuckles. She heard light footsteps and the metallic zing of the chain being unfastened. Her eyes followed the silver handle as it moved down. The door opened, but before she could process the fact that Jack was standing in front of her, his hand closed over hers and he pulled her inside, glancing both ways down the burgundy-carpeted hallway before he pulled the door shut, flipping both locks and sliding the chain back into place.
When he turned to face her, his eyes were glassy and panicked. For a suspended minute, they stared at each other, their eyes instantly deep into the conversation they couldn’t yet figure out how to have in words. Then, without knowing quite what she was doing, she let her bag slide to the floor and walked directly into him, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her face into his shirt. After a second of hesitation during which it shouldn’t have been possible to feel as uncertain as she did, he drew her even closer, his arms locked and holding on so tightly that she couldn’t expand her chest enough to take a full breath.
She didn’t care.
He was shaking, and Renee could feel him swallowing reflexively, the movement of his jaw against her face. She’d imagined this moment countless different ways since she’d made the decision to contact him, but even the most lifelike of those daydreams seemed like a poorly shot movie in comparison to this, to the harshness of his breathing and the softness of his hair, the rough scrape of stubble against her skin. She thought about flowered sheets and safety, about a house so quiet she could hear the floorboards creak as she stared at the ceiling wide awake in her bed, about a job so tedious she had to invent new tricks every day to prevent herself from looking at the clock every thirty seconds.
She was terrified, uncertain, and apparently unable to speak, but now that he was here (still holding her with enough force that she had to take small frequent breaths), all of that seemed irrelevant.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice so tired and raspy she could barely hear him. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have sent Ben. I couldn’t stand the thought-” He cleared his throat. “Of anything happening. Of them finding you again because of me.”
“It’s okay.” She started to draw back, but his grip didn’t loosen so she relaxed into his arms. “I would have killed you if you hadn’t changed your mind.” She shut her eyes and breathed in, aftershave and sweat, her mind floating back to that morning and the magic half an hour when they’d both been stupid enough to believe they could run. “But you did, so forget it.” She rubbed her thumb over the hard line of his jaw, stubble and bone. “God, you’re shaking.”
“So are you.” His words still came out with effort, a strained whisper.
She paused, realizing he was right. So much adrenaline had flooded her system over the past couple days that she wondered how she was standing at all. “I missed my Clif bar this morning,” she replied, trying to relax him a little. She’d been prepared for him to be almost anywhere on the emotional spectrum, but his agitation didn’t seem to be dissipating.
“Are you hungry?” She hadn’t figured out how to answer him when he plowed forward, quick nervous talking as if that might settle him down. “Because I stopped on the way here and got some burgers. This place is really good, but I wasn’t sure what you’d like.” He paused only long enough to breathe. “If you want something else, there are lots of takeout places-”
“Jack.”
“Yeah?”
“I love cheeseburgers.”
“Really?” For the first time since she’d walked into the room, she watched his shoulders relax, and his eyes stopped darting everywhere at once. “Because that’s what I brought you.”
_________________________
“Kim wound up on the news for a charity benefit she organized at Stephen’s hospital. The minute I turned off the TV, I couldn’t deal with it anymore, so I figured out how to get in touch with Chloe. I knew she’d be able to contact you even if she didn’t know where you were.” Renee stuffed the last bite of her burger into her mouth and took a long swallow of soda before putting the cup on the floor next to the couch. She was stretched out and halfway reclined, her feet resting on Jack’s thigh. She noticed that he’d eaten his entire meal with one hand. The other he’d placed on her right ankle when they settled down with the food, and he hadn’t moved it since. Now he was rubbing his thumb over the top of her foot, and the sensation was so soothing she could feel the exhaustion that had been hovering around the perimeter of her body moving in, threatening to take over.
“How long were you in Flagstaff?” Jack reached over to steal one of her fries but paused before he picked it up. “You’re not gonna eat this, right? Because if you’re still hungry-”
“No. I can’t eat another bite.” She grinned as he swirled the fry in her ketchup. “I was there for a little over six months. I stayed in the hospital at Covington for almost three months because it took quite a while before they trusted I could . . . “ She trailed off because Jack had swallowed hard, and he was staring at her, his face pale and tired. “I’m sorry. I know-” She shifted down, pressing her feet more firmly into his leg. “You remember all of it, and I don’t. I know you think that what happened is your fault, but Jack, goddammit, you know that’s crazy. You couldn’t have done anything.” She paused, reluctant to stop talking because words seemed to be keeping the tears away. “I’m the one who should have been smarter, called Chloe as soon as I recognized that guy.”
“Tokarev.” Jack’s fingers closed over the arch of her foot.
“I know. They let me see the file once I was off the Vicodin.”
“So you know what I did to him.” Jack didn’t look at her.
“Yes.”
“And to Dana Walsh. The Russians.”
“Yeah.”
“That doesn’t bother you?” He looked up then, and the pain in his eyes made her want to launch herself across the couch into his lap, kiss him, make him understand how well she knew, now, that everybody has a breaking point.
Right now he needed the logical part of her answer, so she said quietly, “It bothers me because you’ll never see Kim and Teri again. I feel responsible for that. I hate it. Every day.”
“But that’s it?”
“Yeah. That’s it.”
“I need you to tell me you’ll stop feeling responsible. Nothing I did that day was your fault.” His voice cracked. “I made some shitty choices, but they were all mine.” He squeezed her foot. “You’re the reason I stopped, actually.”
“What?”
“Chloe told me not to dishonor your memory.” The words sounded thicker in his throat as he spoke. “That you wouldn’t want me to start a war in your name.”
“She was right. But I’m not angry with you.”
He rubbed his finger over the stitched seam of his jeans. “How did Kim look?”
“Great. Beautiful.” Renee took another swallow of her soda. “Sad.” There was no point in lying; he knew.
Jack went silent, his hand still clutching her foot. Something in the ceiling made a crack and he glanced up, eyes darting back and forth, but it must have been the building settling. Now that she was full and the adrenaline assault she’d been living off of for almost 48 hours was receding, Renee was so tired that her eyes were starting to slip shut even when she fought to force them open.
“Hey.” Jack’s voice sounded further away than the other end of the couch. “You’re exhausted. Why don’t you go to sleep for a few hours?”
“I forgot my toothbrush.”
Jack smiled; she felt the pad of his thumb trace the arch of her foot. “I asked for an extra one when I checked in,” he said, and she watched the flush rise into his cheeks. “Because I thought you might-” He stood up abruptly and glanced at the door, jittery and unsettled. “Do you want to go back to your hotel?”
“No.” Are you insane? she thought, but she didn’t add that. She pushed herself off the couch. “But you could get me that toothbrush.”
The relief that transformed his expression made her chest hurt, and she wondered again about all the things she didn’t know, all the shit life had done to him that made him think she’d even consider walking away now. “It’s on the bathroom sink,” he said. “And I think there’s stuff to wash your face with, if you want it.”
“Thanks.” When she reached the bathroom doorway she looked back at him. He hadn’t moved. He was still watching her with his hands curled into fists, his eyes alive with vibrating energy despite the exhaustion evident in his posture.
_________________________
When she came out of the bathroom, her mouth filled with a cool mint chill and her face tight from the hotel soap, Jack was standing by the window, the curtain pulled back no more than an inch, looking into the darkness below.
“When was the last time you slept?” Renee asked, rubbing the painful knot that ran down her neck into her shoulders.
“Good question. I tried to sleep last night, but I kept thinking about-” He’d turned around, and suddenly he was looking at her with an expression she couldn’t identify.
“Do I have toothpaste on my chin?” Her hand went automatically to her face.
He shook his head but didn’t say anything, his eyes locked on hers.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. You took out your contacts,” he answered quietly, and he walked the four paces that closed the space between them, reaching out to cup her face, his thumb on her cheekbone.
“I hate them,” she whispered.
He put his other hand on her face, holding her still for a few seconds. He was so close she could feel him breathing, smell the cinnamon mints he must have been munching when she was in the bathroom. She could see the edge of his lips in her peripheral vision but she kept her eyes on his, because she knew what he was doing. Just as she was thinking that if she didn’t step back within five seconds, she’d have her mouth all over him, he dropped his hands and said, “I’m sorry. I don’t know-” He walked over to the window again, then halfway back to her, relentless motion like he didn’t have the control to stand still. “I should let you sleep.”
“Aren’t you going to sleep, too? You look like hell.” Which was a lie, because at this moment (despite the pallor and the jitters and the t-shirt that smelled like sweat and bar smoke) he looked like everything she had ever wanted in this life, and then some.
“Thanks. I just don’t think-” He sighed, rubbing his face. “I don’t think I can sleep right now.”
“Well I’m not getting in this bed unless you’re getting in with me.”
“Renee.”
Renee.
Her name. The real one. The room wavered in her vision, arcs of light and shifting curtains.
“Jack, for Christ’s sake. You don’t have to sleep. Will you just get in bed?” She moved sideways until the edge of her leg hit the cool comforter, something solid. “You can’t just . . . stay awake forever.”
“I can try.”
She wanted to cry, to scream or to throw things, to tell him that this wasn’t how it was supposed to work. She’d bottled up months of ideas, thoughts, feelings, things she wanted to tell him, and now they were in the same room, wasting time. But she was too goddamn tired to put her frustration into words. She yanked up the hem of her shirt, fingers going for the button of her jeans. “Fine.” She pulled the zipper, shoving the jeans down her thighs, standing on one empty cuff so she could step out of the other. When she’d managed to get them off, she looked up to find Jack’s back to her. Some minuscule fraction of her wished he wasn’t always so goddamn polite. She pulled back the covers, shivering when the cool sheets hit her bare legs.
The room was silent for a long weighted moment. Renee lay studying the mahogany wood of the bedside table, eyes stinging, trying to breathe, so tired she could barely think. Then she heard a zipper, Jack shuffling, his jeans hitting the floor. Another long pause and with a click, the room went dark. The bed bounced a touch as he crawled in, sliding his body over until his arm covered her stomach.
“I’m sorry.” He kissed her temple and she bit her lip to keep the tears back, determined not to do anything that might make him move. “I feel like-” In the dark, his fingers stroked down her arm until they found her hand, closing over her freezing palm. “If I keep my eyes open, I know what’s coming.”
She rolled over, trying to see his face as she adjusted to the dark. “Thank you,” she whispered. Her eyes slid shut. Apparently her body had decided to stop listening to commands.
“For what?” He pulled her closer, one hand warm and firm in the middle of her back.
“For not leaving.” She slipped a hand under his t-shirt, expecting him to startle or pull away, but his only reaction was to kiss her hair again.
“I should have.” His fingers moved up to the base of her neck, rubbed relaxing ovals in her hair. She felt his mouth on her ear. “I missed you. I just-” He was shaking again, and her arms tightened around him even though she was barely awake. “Missed you.”
“Me, too,” she managed. The smallest movement made her dizzy now, and she knew she’d hit that place where nothing she thought or said would make sense. “I can’t stay awake,” she mumbled.
“Stop trying.” His breath lifted her hair.
“Mmkay.” She felt the warm pull, the soft sinking that made her body relax and her thoughts scatter. Jack’s hand kept a cadence in her hair, and his heart thudded, a vibration on her fingertips.
Images flashed past her as she drifted.
Jack’s face as the stretcher rolled away from her, her own disbelief and denial, refusal to accept the inescapable fact of his death.
Metallic cold of the razor blade in her hand, burn of whiskey coating her mouth, her throat, her stomach. The red rush once she’d done it, her own surprise when there was no pain at all, only the deepening silence as the color leeched out of the room.
Jack’s fingers stroking the inside of her wrist, the awakening inside her, how determined she’d been to fight him as he effortlessly made it happen.
His smile when he’d kissed her in his bed, thumb on her shoulder. You okay?
Fury in Covington. Curling into a ball in her hospital bed (as much as should could with a hole in her chest and tubes everywhere) the night after she woke up, tears until she couldn’t breathe. Denial again, because it couldn’t happen twice, could it?
She’d never had the chance to fall asleep with him.
She startled awake just enough to realize this before she shut her eyes again, Jack’s whispered, ”It’s okay” playing in her head.
_________________________
Jack lay very still, gritty eyes focused on the strip of light from the hallway. It snuck under the door, unbroken by shadows. Renee was asleep, her head on his chest, arm over his ribs, her knee tucked between his thighs. She’d wiggled closer as she drifted off, as if the more parts of him she touched the less likely he’d be to disappear. Her body jerked occasionally (as his did when he was overtired), but she didn’t wake up. As the minutes passed, her breathing slowed down and the jerking stopped, until she was calm and quiet in his arms.
He was so tired.
Confused. Terrified.
Cold sweat pricked over his back despite the heat of Renee’s body. Even though he could feel the lift of her chest each time she took a breath, he couldn’t help wrapping his fingers around the wrist that draped over his torso and pressing until he could detect her pulse, slow and even.
His heart slammed, and he forced himself to take long deep breaths. Fuck if he was going to freak out and wake her up when he’d finally convinced her to sleep. He let himself stop looking at the strip of light under the door for a minute and turned his eyes to her. He’d adjusted enough to the darkness that he could see the shiny walnut brown of her hair. Her skin was so pale, freckles blending as he squinted to focus.
He thought about himself out on the fishing boat (blind determination and laser focus on nothing but the task at hand, hauling nets or securing rigging), or in his tiny apartment in Portugal, Ramen in the microwave and one library book at a time, living each five minutes because the thought of anything beyond that took his mind to places that frightened even him.
Once he’d woken up in the middle of the night after a dream about Teri, pulled the gun out from under his pillow, clicked the safety off, and put the muzzle in his mouth. He couldn’t remember how long he’d sat there, simultaneously disgusted by his inability to pull the trigger and by the fact that he had the gun in his mouth at all.
He shouldn’t have come.
But he watched her – face smushed into his chest, foot sneaking out of the sheet he’d pulled over her – and wondered how the hell she got him to break all his own rules without saying a word, just by raising her eyebrow or shooting him a look.
She mumbled something incomprehensible in her sleep and scooted closer, shampoo and salt and all the closed doors flying open. One hand on her back, he gingerly felt under the pillow beside him for the gun he’d placed there. He ran his thumb over the cool metal.
You can’t just stay awake forever.
He wrapped the other arm around her and shut his eyes, determined to sleep for the briefest amount of time that would let him continue to function.
_________________________
She was used to waking up to what she had come to think of as the easiest three seconds of her day – that suspended moment when she wasn’t yet conscious enough to remember everything about her circumstances, so she’d lay there in a haze until her eyes drifted open and reality snapped shut and trapped her.
This time, she woke up to the heat of Jack’s knee between her thighs, the soft rhythmic brush of air where he exhaled into her neck, and the smell of his skin on the sheet he must have pulled over her.
She lay very still, watching light from the street lamps hit the wall when the heater moved the curtains. Watching Jack’s fingers where they wrapped around the inside of her wrist.
It took her a solid minute to convince herself she wasn’t dreaming again.
When she did, the only clear thought left in her mind was that she wanted to touch him, hands on his skin, lips on his mouth.
everywhere. closer.
She rolled over in his arms; her nose bumped his as he opened his eyes.
“Hey.” That improbable mixture of gravel and velvet that would have knocked out all her higher-order processing, had there been any left in operation. “What’s wrong? Can’t sleep?” He ran his hand up her arm before rubbing at the edge of his eye, sleepy and half-smiling.
“Now I can’t.” She leaned in and kissed him, soft for maybe half a second before he surprised her by opening his mouth, rush of his tongue touching hers, and oh Jesus Christ this was the only thing she’d wanted for so goddamn long . . .
He pulled back, his breathing choppy and his voice strained. “Renee, I think-”
She cut him off with her thumb over his lip before she kissed him again. She let herself drift, almost dizzy with how good it felt to have his mouth on her, but after a second she pulled back just far enough to see his eyes. “I know. You have a thousand reasons why we shouldn’t, starting with the part where you never meant to be here in the first place.” Her words escaped in small jumbled rushes. “You’re gonna try to stop me.” She inhaled, trying to steady herself, and despite the near-darkness she could watch the heat rise into his face. “Jack, please. Just don’t. Don’t stop me.”
She left the final decision to him, holding his gaze while she tried to control the slamming of her heart and her need to interpret the fifty different things she could watch happening in his eyes as he scanned her face and circled his thumb over the inside of her elbow.
After another thirty seconds (during which she realized she was holding her breath) he wrapped his fingers softly around the back of her neck and drew her towards him. A tiny grin flickering at the edge of his mouth, he whispered, “When have I ever been able to stop you from doing anything?”
_________________________
She’d never had sex that felt so much like healing.
His hands and his mouth were like sutures everywhere they landed, stitching the broken places inside, erasing the hurt that had been there for so long she’d forgotten what it was like to feel anything else.
With her shirt pushed up, Jack’s hands holding her hips, and his tongue in her navel, she remembered.
God, she remembered.
She grabbed the hem of her t-shirt, intending to yank it off, but his hands closed over hers and he shook his head. “Let me?”
She nodded and released the cotton, unable to resist the mischief in his eyes – underneath the serious layers, a playfulness flickering there that she’d never been lucky enough to glimpse before.
He kissed his way up her body a couple inches behind the fabric, circles with his tongue, every now and then a little hum against her skin that made her arch into his hands and shiver with the realization of how much she wanted him to never stop.
It must have taken them ten minutes to get their clothes off, and they were hardly wearing any.
She memorized as she went, noticing everything.
The way he sucked in a sharp breath when she slid her mouth over the hollow of his throat and across the length of his collarbone.
The Jesus Christ, Renee, when she pulled down his boxers, stroking her hands all over him (playful) before she tossed them aside.
The way that licking him just below his left ear resulted in a frustrated growl and landed her on her back, hands held above her head (gently) as he repeated the move on her.
The first time – that morning in his apartment that would forever exist as her ultimate moment of cognitive dissonance – it had been all about frantic rushing, desperation, frenzied comfort and the need to forget.
This time, Jack seemed determined to discover everything about her body all at once, his hands and mouth skimming, touching, tasting. His voice (sound she’d missed with such force it threatened to close her throat even now, when her body was so hot and achy that she couldn’t keep still) a rumble that traveled across her ear and down her neck.
Tell me what feels good.
Please.
I wanna hear you tell me.
So she told him, let him play, until it was too hard to talk because she had to concentrate on breathing, until she knew what it was like (incredible) to feel his mouth on the inside of her knee or his tongue learning each indentation of her spine, until (finally) he was inside her, hands on her face, the irresistible heat of his body pressing her into the bed.
She realized she was trembling all over.
You okay? His body went very still.
She nodded.
Jack didn’t take his eyes off her face for a second as he rocked into her (soft and rhythmic in a way that kept the entire length of his body flush with hers) and murmured, Did I mention how much I missed you?
Jack, she heard herself saying, and then everything faded out when he pushed her down one more time.
She shut her eyes, heat everywhere like a match flare as she gave in and let it happen.
And it was everything all at once, the forbidden wishes and dreams she’d wrestled into some barricaded corner of her mind. It was Jack’s skin warm and sweaty against hers, the sound of his voice saying her name (the real one) as his arms pulled her tight into his chest. It was him touching her, inside and out, when she’d gone without human contact for so long she’d almost forgotten how fiercely she needed it.
Wanted it.
Wanted him.
For a few more seconds she kept her eyes closed, lightheaded and out of breath, letting herself revel in every tiny detail of that moment. She could feel the rapid smack of Jack’s heart against her chest, and his fingers clutched her shoulders so tightly it almost hurt. She was thinking how warm he felt all over her (a million times better than the fanciest blanket she’d ever owned), when she heard him whisper into her hair, “Please tell me you don’t have to get out of this bed for . . . a week.”
“How about a month?” she mumbled on the skin of his shoulder, teasing, but when she opened her eyes he was watching her face, focused and anxious. His eyes had gone wide and shiny, and everything in the room felt very, very quiet.
She almost spoke to break the silence, but something in the way he held himself above her, the tension in his muscles, and the panic that flickered in his eyes (as if she might disappear if he blinked or looked away) kept her quiet.
He smoothed his thumb over her cheekbone, back and forth, and she could see his jaw working with the effort to maintain control.
Another minute ticked by before he said, voice achy and strained, “I never thought-” He cleared his throat, steadier. “I’d get to touch you again.” He inhaled. “Hear you.”
She lifted her head to brush her lips over his. “I know. I’m sorry. Maybe I should have contacted Chloe earlier.” All the things she hadn’t done branched out in her mind like one of those color-coded maps on the subway. “I thought I could handle it. That you’d be safer. And for a while I figured out how to power through. But I just-”
“I know.” He tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and she shivered, her body’s response to his hands apparently beyond her control. “It’s why I couldn’t leave, even though I should have. I should have.” He rolled off of her; her skin went cold everywhere he’d been touching.
She turned to face him and reached for his chin, her fingers mapping the outline of his face. He was staring at the off-white sheet bunched between them. “Jack. Look at me.” It took a second, but he finally lifted his eyes and let them lock with hers. “Do you have any idea how happy I am, right here, right now?”
And she got what she wanted, because he smiled – not the one-sided gallows humor quirk she’d seen once or twice during some of their worst moments together, but a full-out grin that reached his eyes and radiated outward. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” The single syllable was all conviction.
“Me, too.”
She felt her stomach do that funny swirling dropping thing it had the tendency to do in his presence. She scooted closer, knees knocking into his, fingers on his ribcage. She could feel each bone, sharp. “Hey. How much weight have you lost?”
He shrugged, and he looked so uncomfortable that she instantly regretted the question. “I don’t have a scale. I always tried to keep working, because then I wouldn’t have time to think about-” He flipped her hand over, placing his palm on hers, linking their fingers. “I know it doesn’t look good.”
“You are full of shit,” she announced, pushing him over and pinning him to the bed. She kissed him, lightly, but with just enough enthusiasm to distract him until she felt his hands sliding up her thighs. Then she pulled back. “I’ve lost weight, too. Is it bothering you?”
“Uh, no.” He raised an eyebrow, all flirty mischief and teasing and that expression that made it hard for her to form linear thoughts. “But I think we should order more takeout and help you gain it back.”
She nestled her face into his neck. “I thought you were gonna help me work the takeout off.”
He chuffed. “We’ll get a lot of takeout.” His voice dropped even lower, a rumble that felt like gift-wrapped joy where it vibrated her chest. “A lot.”
“Okay.” She stretched out and wiggled her toes until they were touching his feet. “Can we do that in a minute? Right now I’d rather stay here.” She closed her eyes again.
Jack’s fingers stroked lightly up the naked skin of her back. “We can stay here as long as you want,” he murmured, moving her hair aside so he could reach her neck. “Just tell me when you want to move.”
Never, she thought, listening to his heart under her cheek. Never is good.
_________________________
“This stuff smells like lilacs mixed with limeade. Not a good combo.” Renee made a face as she lathered the hotel shampoo into her hair, white bubbles sliding down her face and neck.
Jack wiped water out of his eyes. “I think I have a little bottle of something else in my bag. Want me to get it?”
“I don’t want you to go anywhere.” She paused and took her soapy fingers out of her hair, grabbing his face and kissing him, again and again, laughing when the soap dripped into their mouths. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He rubbed the washcloth over the back of his neck, enjoying feeling clean for the first time in days even if she was right and the crap did smell kind of weird.
Renee reached for his shoulders and deftly relocated him so that she could rinse her hair. While she leaned back into the spray, eyes closed, Jack let his gaze drift down below her left breast. The raised white scar went in and out of focus as suds slipped over it, and he snapped his head up a second later, worried she’d catch him looking. Squeezing water from her hair, she opened her eyes. “What?”
“Nothing. Are you done with the shampoo?”
“Yeah.” She handed it to him.
He squirted way too much from the small bottle and didn’t meet her eyes.
“Jack.”
“What?”
“Just look at it. Touch it. Stop pretending-” She sighed. “That you’re not thinking about it.”
Renee reached for his hand and placed it on her ribs; his knuckles brushed the curve of her breast. All the time he’d spent not remembering those ten minutes cascaded back to punish him now – crash and thud and her feet motionless on the floor, Jack, blood pouring from her mouth, soaking the sheet and his shirt, weight of her body in his arms, her ghost-white face on his in the taxi and the promise he’d made.
The one he’d spent nine months convinced he’d failed to keep.
He moved his thumb lightly across the raised round scar, circling it several times while his throat burned and his head pounded. He was back in the taxi (choked gurgle of her lungs searching for air they couldn’t find), in the hospital (hands behind his head, double doors swinging shut while he held his breath), in the room with her sheet-draped body (pain so intense and unrelenting that he’d had to force his brain in another direction in order to stay standing).
He let his hand drop to her hip and leaned forward, closing his eyes and resting his forehead on hers. “I thought I could get you there in time. I thought-” He choked on the words and the water he’d inhaled.
“And you did what you promised.” She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him closer, and pressed her face into his neck.
“You remember?” he asked. His body had gone shaky like he was having a blood sugar crash.
“It fades out after that,” she admitted. He could feel her smiling. “You know what else I remember?”
“What?”
“Thinking you were insane.”
“When?”
“When you said we’d make it.” She paused, and he could tell she wasn’t smiling any more. “I couldn’t breathe. Everything was turning grey. I could hear you talking and-” Her fingers dug into the muscles of his shoulder. “I wanted to believe you.”
His mouth filled with saliva as nausea caught him off guard. He swallowed and reached for the grey metal fixture, turning the water colder. “Can we talk about something else for a minute?”
She nodded, her cheek wet on his shoulder. “Sure.”
“Tell me about the hospital.” His words sounded jagged, even to him.
She lifted her head, hands braced on his arms. “That’s something else?”
“Maybe not,” he answered, quiet. “But I want to know.”
She backed away completely and leaned against the off-white tile, palms pressed until her knuckles whitened, as if she needed girder beams to talk about this, and when she finally began to speak her voice went flat, one-key monotone with no rise or fall. “It hurt. Everything. I didn’t know it could hurt that much to breathe or swallow or try to move myself an inch sideways in the damn bed with the prison rails. Even when Vladimir cracked two of my-” She paused. She wasn’t looking at his eyes. “Anyway, I didn’t take much of the medication they kept trying to shove down me.”
“Why?” He knew, but he wanted to hear her say it.
“The more I could focus on the pain, the less time I had to think about anything else.”
“I know.” For months after Nina killed Teri, at least once a week he’d jumped into his truck and driven toward the mountains, roads quieter and quieter as he got further away from the scattered explosion of multicolored electricity that was L.A. He’d had a favorite spot, a secluded area of the woods where he could park his truck and walk a little way in, gun tucked into the waist of his jeans (not that he would have cared much if someone had wanted to kill him). Then he’d found his favorite tree, the Sequoia so tall that trying to see its tip gave him a neck ache. Hands balled up with rage and terror that had no place else to go, knuckles bare, he’d hit the rough surface of the trunk.
Bark scraping off skin, splinters working through flesh, blood trickling off his knuckles until his palms were damp and sticky.
After Renee, on the boat, it had been pushups. Hundreds and hundreds of them until it hurt to use a fork, to reach for a washcloth, to pull the covers up when he forced himself to crawl into the tiny bed.
“Hey.” She stepped forward and put her hands on his chest; he covered her fingers with his. “Where’d you go?”
“Sorry. Just thinking. I wish-” He studied her eyes, the crazy concentrated focus that flickered there when she looked at him. Despite all his coping strategies, this is what he’d missed, the way that words only had to do half the work with her, if that. She filled in the blanks, natural and effortless. He squeezed her hands. “I wish you hadn’t been alone.”
“And now I’m not.” She bounced up on the balls of her feet and touched her lips to his, smirking. “But you know what? If you don’t get out of here, I’m never going to actually finish my shower.”
He snuck an arm around her waist and pulled her closer, kissing her until her mouth opened and she made that noise he loved (one of them, anyway). Then he released her and smiled. “You’re probably right. I’m going.”
He closed the bathroom door behind him, rubbing a towel over his damp hair. He stood there, silent, listening to the rush of water and the muffled thud of Renee dropping the soap or something, and realized that the room already smelled like all his memories of her, the ones he’d systematically barricaded for so long that setting them free felt terrifying and yet . . . so fucking good.
By the bed, their discarded clothes lay in a chaotic intertwined heap.
The water swished off. He heard the staccato clicks of the shower curtain sliding open, and then Renee’s amused voice. “Did you take all the towels on purpose?”
And with a deep breath, he decided to stop thinking about the shitstorm that awaited them in the future, the heart-wrenching conversation there was no way to avoid, and allow himself to enjoy the hell out of this moment, in which Renee was waiting for him in the steam-clouded bathroom, naked, laughter in her voice.
“Maybe?” He grabbed a dry towel and opened the door.
_________________________
“What happened to your leg?” She squishes water out of the tips of her hair and drops the towel on the back of the chair.
“What?” He’s thinking he should put a shirt on, because even though the scars don’t seem to bother her, it feels . . . strange not to cover them up. He glances to where she’s staring at his leg. “Oh. Just a cut. Caught the edge of a gutting knife.”
“Well you need a new bandage. That one’s soaking. Do you have some in your bag?” She’s already moving toward his duffel. He watches the towel brush the top of her thighs. Swallows.
“Yeah, but you don’t need to-”
“I want to. Sit down on the couch. One sec.” She rummages in the bag until she finds what she’s looking for and then walks over to kneel in front of him.
He’s touched and appreciative and god help him, turned on, which is so ridiculous because all she’s doing is rubbing a thin layer of antibiotic ointment into the cut. But her fingers on his skin create a sensation clipped directly from every last fantasy he’s been suppressing for months, a shaken soda exploding in his nervous system.
“Does that hurt?” She’s squeezing more ointment onto her finger, pressing softly at the edges of the pain.
“No. Not at all.”
She rips the bandage open with her teeth and pulls out the tan rectangle before glancing up at him, eyes sparkling. “What?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
The tip of her finger covers the full perimeter of the plastic, sending quivers of heated current up the inside of his leg.
She stands up, surveying him. “You have a look.”
And for fuck’s sake she’s wearing nothing but an off-white towel, the damp dark tips of her hair a contrast where they meet the pale skin of her shoulders.
“That felt-” He can feel the flush in his face. “Good.”
She can’t master the quirk at the edge of her mouth, although he can tell she tries. “Like, good good?”
“Yeah.”
“Really.” But it’s a statement, not a question. She takes two strides forward and straddles him on the couch, the haphazardly tucked towel loosening with each movement of her body. The only thing between his skin and hers is the thin barrier of his boxers. She rocks forward, and he can’t stop the sound that slips out.
Renee reaches for his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. She leans in, freckles and tang of toothpaste, and he thinks (hopes) she’s going to kiss him. But she stops maybe two inches away from his face, eyes serious. “I wish I’d been there. After.”
He wraps his fingers around her wrists. “So do I.”
_________________________
She dips a tortilla chip into the giant bowl of queso they’re sharing and stuffs it into her mouth – chilies, smooth cheese, and crunchy salt. Jack licks dip off his thumb and plays without looking at his cards, the seven of spades she’s needed for the past two turns. She snaps it up and fans her cards on the table. “Gin.”
“That’s three in a row.” He reaches for the soda between them and takes several long swallows. “You’re kicking my ass.”
“Here’s a tip. Looking at your cards helps.” Under the table, she strokes the arch of her bare foot against his ankle.
“I can’t concentrate when you’re doing that.”
She smirks. “That’s the first time I’ve touched you since we started playing. Want me to stop?” Her foot climbs higher.
“Hell, no.” He throws down his cards and takes her wrist, flipping it over, calloused thumb brushing her skin. She has instant goosebumps, and okay, it’s only Jack, but she still flushes. He makes her so fucking easy.
“That feel good?” he murmurs in that voice that reminds her of smoke and honey, of everything that makes her body alive, of the word, ‘euphoria.’ And she’s fully intending to hit him with some flirty comeback, no question, but without warning she sees his eyes, the way he’s watching her, like she could sit there and eat queso all night and that would be fine with him.
Her throat tight, she whispers, “God, I missed you. Do you have any-” She stops, because her chest is funny now and it feels weird to breathe, like something’s pushing on her lungs.
“Yeah, I do.” One of his hands slides down to close over hers, and with the other he pulls her leg into his lap.
For a few minutes she sits there, trying not to let herself consider what’s coming. Because the thing is, she knows how he thinks. She always has. Which means that the smackdown in which he tries to send her back to Witness Protection is a question of “when,” not “if.”
Still, at the moment he’s holding a queso-coated chip toward her mouth, giving her that unfiltered grin she can feel from the inside out, shivery jitters that spark in her hair. She nabs it in one bite, sucking cheese off the end of his thumb in the process.
He eats another one himself and says, “You wanna play again?”
“Are you planning to look at your cards?”
“Maybe.” As he deals, he takes a deep breath and then says (quiet), “I did pushups. Thousands of them.” The cards click onto the table. “Or shots of whiskey. Not thousands.” He puts down the deck. “What about you?”
She doesn’t understand it, but he knows how to untie the knots she didn’t realize were there. “Running,” she replies, wishing he could keep his hand on her leg forever. “Miles and miles of running.”
_________________________
He watches her trace her finger around the rim of the mug, grabbing the occasional marshmallow and sticking it in her mouth. She licks the chocolaty froth off the end of her finger and sinks deeper into the water, her feet on his stomach. Her toes tickle, warm, and no matter how ferociously he tries to think of nothing but this moment, soap and chocolate and way he’d forgotten how it felt to laugh, to fall asleep with the heated jut of a shoulder blade on his chest, he can’t stop himself from wondering if he’ll be sorry.
She tips the cup all the way up, obscuring her face for a second before she lowers it. She has a chocolate mustache, and when she catches his eye, she grins and raises an eyebrow. “What are you thinking?”
That I’ve never had a fucking ounce of self-preservation.
“You have chocolate all over your face.” He grabs her ankles and yanks her toward him, her legs sliding over his.
“Hey!” The mug slips into the tub with a splash.
She’s laughing.
He touches the bruise on her forehead (unfortunate encounter with her cupboard one morning when she’d run out of coffee, she’d explained when he asked) before he kisses her. He tastes suds and marshmallows, and when her hands graze his throat, it stings from the inside.
Next Chapter
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Date: 2011-10-11 06:22 pm (UTC)I'm hoping to have the next chapter up by tomorrow night -- a touch of editing required. I appreciate the comment:)