Fic: Talk Down My Walls
Jan. 16th, 2011 11:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
leigh57Title: Talk Down My Walls
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
leigh57
Characters: Jack, Renee
Word count: 767
Summary: 8x17 AU written for Rewriting History: A commentfic meme. The prompt is "What if Renee didn't answer the phone when Chloe called in 8x17?" To that I decided to add the idea that Tokarev isn't even there, because I'm the author, dammit, and that's how I roll.
Disclaimer: They’re not mine. Suck.
A/N: Thanks tolowriseflare for beta when she didn't feel well, and to adrenalin211 for putting up with all my bitching as always and listening to me bash my head into a wall while I tried to cut this down to comment length. For those of you who prefer angst to smush, a little angst is next in the queue. Promise.
The title is taken from Brooke Fraser's "The Thief." It's such a beautiful song:)
*********************************************************
“Jack, your cell’s ringing.”
“Don’t worry about it. Let it go.”
Renee looked at the phone on the floor, torn between curiosity and the desire to relax into the pillow and wait. She heard Jack in the kitchen – water running, glasses clinking; he was moving quickly, rushing like he did through everything.
Well. Almost everything.
The ringing stopped. Her head throbbed (stress, dehydration, no food for almost a day – she didn’t know), her cheek stung, and the muscles in her thighs and shoulders ached.
Yet beneath all that, a warm sleepy hum skipped along her nerve endings and spread out over her skin.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt better.
Jack walked back into the room holding two glasses of water. He sat on the edge of the bed, incongruously shy and formal when he’d spent the last half hour with his hands and his mouth all over her – stroking, licking, teasing. (Out of breath yet laughing, thumbs on the curve of her ribs and his mouth against her neck, he’d said, You gotta stop making that noise. I can’t concentrate on anything else. She’d lifted his face and kissed him, lost for a minute before she mumbled, smiling against the distraction of his lips, Then stop doing that with your tongue.)
He held out her glass. “It’s tap. I’m sorry. I didn’t buy more bottled because-”
“Jack.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s fine. It’s-“ She stopped. “Why aren’t you drinking yours? You said you were thirsty.”
“I am. I guess I was-” He gave up that tiny smile, the one she hadn’t been able to resist since the first time she saw it (cutting through her insides, full force sucker-punch, because that first day, he hadn’t smiled once until he discovered he was dying). “Waiting for you.”
She pushed herself up and drained the glass. “There. Better?”
“Yeah.” He emptied his own glass and set it on the bedside table. He wasn’t looking at her.
“Hey,” she said. She tugged at the hem of his shirt, and when the sheet slid down she didn’t grab for it. “Why don’t you take this off and get back in here with me?”
“You sure?”
“Really sure.”
“Okay.” Renee watched, quiet, as he undid the buttons. Her eyes mapped his scars, traveling from the ones he’d had so long they almost blended with his skin to the blotches of blood spreading into the bandages that covered the latest additions. Everything she needed to say (apologies, explanations, confessions) swirled and collided, fluttering moths in the back of her mind. She knew half an hour of happiness, giving because it felt good and taking because that felt good too, didn’t erase the last day, the last year, the last . . . whatever. The baggage (slice in her wrist, Vladimir, the cold fact that when she told him to pull the trigger, she’d meant it) would be waiting when she reluctantly climbed out of this bed, left the comforting shell of this warm sunlit room.
She didn’t care.
What she cared about was that Jack had slowed down, stopped moving as if someone were chasing him. He threw his pants on the floor (the casual carelessness of the gesture made her even warmer) and crawled in beside her, pushing back the hair that had fallen over her shoulder. “You sure you’re okay? I didn’t mean-”
She inched closer. “You didn’t? Felt like you did.” God, it was so nice to relax, have fun with him. Ridiculous, how she couldn’t stop smiling.
He grinned, resting his forehead on her shoulder. “Okay, I did. But -” He pulled back, his eyes suddenly serious. “You sounded like you thought I didn’t mean it.” He kissed her neck. “I did. Mean it.”
“I know. This day . . .”
“You wanna tell me?”
“Later. Now I want to curl up and never move.”
“Okay.” He stretched out on the bed and reached for her; she put her head on his chest (careful not to press the bandage on his stomach) and felt for his fingertips under the covers.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” he whispered into her hair as he began to rub her back, circular motion and rhythm so calming she was drifting within moments, sunlight and color fading as the weight of everything dragged and pulled. It was ludicrous, she thought, him saying that to her.
She forced her eyes open. “D’you need to get up? I don’t wanna fall asleep on you if . . . “
She felt the lift of his chest under her cheek. “I don’t need anything.”
Author:
leigh57Characters: Jack, Renee
Word count: 767
Summary: 8x17 AU written for Rewriting History: A commentfic meme. The prompt is "What if Renee didn't answer the phone when Chloe called in 8x17?" To that I decided to add the idea that Tokarev isn't even there, because I'm the author, dammit, and that's how I roll.
Disclaimer: They’re not mine. Suck.
A/N: Thanks to
lowriseflare for beta when she didn't feel well, and to adrenalin211 for putting up with all my bitching as always and listening to me bash my head into a wall while I tried to cut this down to comment length. For those of you who prefer angst to smush, a little angst is next in the queue. Promise.The title is taken from Brooke Fraser's "The Thief." It's such a beautiful song:)
*********************************************************
“Jack, your cell’s ringing.”
“Don’t worry about it. Let it go.”
Renee looked at the phone on the floor, torn between curiosity and the desire to relax into the pillow and wait. She heard Jack in the kitchen – water running, glasses clinking; he was moving quickly, rushing like he did through everything.
Well. Almost everything.
The ringing stopped. Her head throbbed (stress, dehydration, no food for almost a day – she didn’t know), her cheek stung, and the muscles in her thighs and shoulders ached.
Yet beneath all that, a warm sleepy hum skipped along her nerve endings and spread out over her skin.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt better.
Jack walked back into the room holding two glasses of water. He sat on the edge of the bed, incongruously shy and formal when he’d spent the last half hour with his hands and his mouth all over her – stroking, licking, teasing. (Out of breath yet laughing, thumbs on the curve of her ribs and his mouth against her neck, he’d said, You gotta stop making that noise. I can’t concentrate on anything else. She’d lifted his face and kissed him, lost for a minute before she mumbled, smiling against the distraction of his lips, Then stop doing that with your tongue.)
He held out her glass. “It’s tap. I’m sorry. I didn’t buy more bottled because-”
“Jack.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s fine. It’s-“ She stopped. “Why aren’t you drinking yours? You said you were thirsty.”
“I am. I guess I was-” He gave up that tiny smile, the one she hadn’t been able to resist since the first time she saw it (cutting through her insides, full force sucker-punch, because that first day, he hadn’t smiled once until he discovered he was dying). “Waiting for you.”
She pushed herself up and drained the glass. “There. Better?”
“Yeah.” He emptied his own glass and set it on the bedside table. He wasn’t looking at her.
“Hey,” she said. She tugged at the hem of his shirt, and when the sheet slid down she didn’t grab for it. “Why don’t you take this off and get back in here with me?”
“You sure?”
“Really sure.”
“Okay.” Renee watched, quiet, as he undid the buttons. Her eyes mapped his scars, traveling from the ones he’d had so long they almost blended with his skin to the blotches of blood spreading into the bandages that covered the latest additions. Everything she needed to say (apologies, explanations, confessions) swirled and collided, fluttering moths in the back of her mind. She knew half an hour of happiness, giving because it felt good and taking because that felt good too, didn’t erase the last day, the last year, the last . . . whatever. The baggage (slice in her wrist, Vladimir, the cold fact that when she told him to pull the trigger, she’d meant it) would be waiting when she reluctantly climbed out of this bed, left the comforting shell of this warm sunlit room.
She didn’t care.
What she cared about was that Jack had slowed down, stopped moving as if someone were chasing him. He threw his pants on the floor (the casual carelessness of the gesture made her even warmer) and crawled in beside her, pushing back the hair that had fallen over her shoulder. “You sure you’re okay? I didn’t mean-”
She inched closer. “You didn’t? Felt like you did.” God, it was so nice to relax, have fun with him. Ridiculous, how she couldn’t stop smiling.
He grinned, resting his forehead on her shoulder. “Okay, I did. But -” He pulled back, his eyes suddenly serious. “You sounded like you thought I didn’t mean it.” He kissed her neck. “I did. Mean it.”
“I know. This day . . .”
“You wanna tell me?”
“Later. Now I want to curl up and never move.”
“Okay.” He stretched out on the bed and reached for her; she put her head on his chest (careful not to press the bandage on his stomach) and felt for his fingertips under the covers.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” he whispered into her hair as he began to rub her back, circular motion and rhythm so calming she was drifting within moments, sunlight and color fading as the weight of everything dragged and pulled. It was ludicrous, she thought, him saying that to her.
She forced her eyes open. “D’you need to get up? I don’t wanna fall asleep on you if . . . “
She felt the lift of his chest under her cheek. “I don’t need anything.”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-01-16 09:21 pm (UTC)he was moving quickly, rushing like he did through everything.
Well. Almost everything. -- Again, I love how the only reason he’s rushing is to get back to HER. I mean, how telling is that? Yet later she observes that he’s slowed down (when he's next to her with water). And I just love the way you show but don’t tell that. Meaning is packed into that subtle description.
a warm sleepy hum skipped along her nerve endings and spread out over her skin -- I WISH I WROTE THAT! I’m not sure how this is possible, but it’s almost like I can visualize it.
“(Out of breath yet laughing, thumbs on the curve of her ribs and his mouth against her neck, he’d said, You gotta stop making that noise. I can’t concentrate on anything else.)”—AHEM. Who can’t concentrate on anything else? THAT WOULD BE ME! JACK’S VOICE AND THAT DIALOGUE COMBINED. *drymouth*
(cutting through her insides, full force sucker-punch, because that first day, he hadn’t smiled once until he discovered he was dying) -- That is so JACK. And it’s so like her to remember it that way. And be that effected by his smile. Oh, god. This makes my stomach do happy dances of joy. The idea of them just smiling at each other. GAH!! *pictures it*
“You sure?”
“Really sure.” -- This dialogue is really really THEM. And I think it’s a perfect echo of the actual scene where she counters his concern by using even stronger language. (“You okay?” “Perfect”.) GAH!!! It’s so perfectly THEM.
AND BECAUSE I’M A TOOL I’M JUST GONNA GO AHEAD AND PASTE THIS: Her eyes mapped his scars, traveling from the ones he’d had so long they almost blended with his skin to the blotches of blood spreading into the bandages that covered the latest additions. Everything she needed to say (apologies, explanations, confessions) swirled and collided, fluttering moths in the back of her mind. She knew half an hour of happiness, giving because it felt good and taking because that felt good too, didn’t erase the last day, the last year, the last . . . whatever. The baggage (slice in her wrist, Vladimir, the cold fact that when she told him to pull the trigger, she’d meant it) would be waiting when she reluctantly climbed out of this bed, left the comforting shell of this warm sunlit room. -- BECAUSE IT IS HANDS-DOWN THE BEST PARAGRAPH YOU HAVE EVER WRITTEN. The description! “swirled and collided”! Moths in the back of her mind. Giving felt good and taking felt good too! Everything you say about baggage and meaning it when she said to pull the trigger. Ending it with “the comforting shell of this warm sunlit room”. Like… this whole paragraph manages to do fifty things at once. It’s worded so beautifully. You manage to capture the past, present and future all in a few sentences and combine Renee’s thoughts into them, without being too dark, without being too light, but striking an impossibly accurate balance for this specific scene and what she'd be feeling. It’s so fucking perfect. I just want to sit here and read this paragraph all fucking day.
GOD! Now she’s feeling for his fingertips under the covers and you’re melting my heart and writing things like “sunlight and color fading as the weight of everything dragged and pulled”. Honestly this whole fic makes me feels so soothed and comforted.
It was ludicrous, she thought, him saying that to her. Yeah. That might be my favorite line out of all of this. It’s so what she’d be thinking. All this time away from him, wondering. Gorgeous.
And the last bit of dialogue is INSANELY inspired. I love it to death. Him saying he doesn't need anything. Just! That is so HIM and so fitting
Thank you for writing this! I really needed to read this SO BADLY. You are my hero. &hearts
no subject
Date: 2011-01-16 09:56 pm (UTC)It thrills me that the combo of awkwardness and weird openness translated. This is exactly how I see them in post sudden sex land. We caught a tiny moment of it, and it's totally how they were, but I wasn't sure I had it right at all.
As for his movement,
we'll just skip the part where I ramble for 200 years about how pretty much, everything he did in S8 for her and I could die of shippy joy if it hadn't ended in such sucktastic suckiness;)honestly? I didn't think about the fact that he'd stopped for her. He just seemed to slow down once they got into bed. Ahahaha. I am lame.Jack's voice. Ahem. Ahem. Ahem. Moving on.
As for the paragraph you quoted, wow I'm so glad you like it that much. It's one of those things where I wind up glad I waited a bit and screwed around with wording when I could have left it, because even though of course I never wind up loving things I write, I do think I got closer to the original idea of what I was trying to do there.
I love him to death, too. Oh, augh, oh my gods, DO I EVER? Yes.
THANK YOU. Now on to angsty message fic. If I can uh, figure out the other messages! <3