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: 2011-01-17 11:15 pm (UTC)Also, while reading this, I missed the part about you ignoring the sniper and making him go poof, so at the end, I had this mental image of him sitting at the window, dying of boredom. You know, hours of having him pace around the room waiting, throwing pencils at the ceiling, doing a rubix cube, flipping through the newspaper, sitting in unusual positions in his chair- you know, regular stakeout stuff that he wouldn't be expecting to do because he didn't anticipate having to wait for Renee and Jack to sleep it off. And that's not taking into account if they go for round 2 when they wake up, which in my head happens, and then Tokarev groans because he's all, REALLY? AGAIN? GEEZ. I'M SO HUNGRY, I WANT A SANDWICH. CAN THEY PLEASE GET OUT OF THE ROOM ALREADY?
And of course, he misses the one time Renee steps out of the room because he finally couldn't hold it anymore and went to the bathroom only to catch a glimpse of her slipping back into the room when he got back.
I don't know why, but suddenly it all turned into a comedy in my head. LOL.
no subject
Date: 2011-01-18 01:27 am (UTC)*snorffles more*
The mental picture you create for me here is so fabulous that I kind of want to watch it filmed, not only what I wrote, but exactly what you just wrote about Tokarev. I'm falling out thinking about him groaning when they get busy again (because duh, of course they're going for round two after their nap!) and then missing the one time she leaves the room because he has to pee like Mulder in "Arcadia." Hee! You are too frakking funny. (I just say 'frakking' all the time now, because I watch too much BSG like that.)
24 could use a
metric fucktonlittle more comedy. But yes, I did have to get him out of the picture in order to be able to write this at all, so that's how it worked in my head anyway;)I'm glad you loved it! I'm practicing Katie's advice, wherein I sit down and do nothing (no email, LJ, wtfever) but stare at the cursor for twenty minutes every day. It's amazing how writing always comes from this, because it turns out blinking cursors are really boring.
no subject
Date: 2011-01-19 10:32 am (UTC)Onto the actual feedback:
1) I love the flirting. It's so perfectly light and a nice counterpoint to the heavy undercurrent regarding the insanity of the day that is evident in the story. It's a wonderful way of showing rather than telling how good these two are at deflection.
2) I love the way you write Jack. The altruism, the way he thinks about her and treats her in a way that is caring without being patronizing. Instead it comes across as bashful and endearing.
3) As usual, you nail the physical details. I don't know what exactly it is about it, but when I read your scenes, it really feels like I am transported there and I can see it in my head. You do a wonderful job using the parentheses to give the sense of flashes of memories/intense emotion and it's funny how something as simple as that can be so effective.
Finally I have to give you snaps for a) writing again and b) continuing to explore AUs and exploring these characters. I know how much you struggle with it, and hey, if Katie's advice works, then stick to it. I look forward to your London AU. :)
no subject
Date: 2011-01-19 09:41 pm (UTC)1. I'm glad you liked the flirting! I kinda struggled with balanced in this fic, because I wanted it to feel like a genuine break, but I also didn't want to write as if they were tiptoeing through the tulips and I was discounting the massive sucktasm everybody had just been through. But yeah, they're the masters of deflection, so hee.
2. A true story. I'm still terrified to write Jack. I see him in such a specific way and in my head it's all supported by canon, but people have such different ways of reading the character, so. I never get over how hilariously adorable Jack is with women he loves.
3. Just, squee! Augh, that's one of the highest compliments ever, because to me that means I might have succeeded a little and moar squee.
Thank you for the kickass comments:) London is going to happen. I have to switch gears, because what I was doing isn't working for me at all, so I'm starting all over (don't worry -- not throwing the old stuff out). That's fine with me -- I never thought this would be easy. I figure I just have to get it done before a certain important date, because after that you'll never have beta time again!
no subject
Date: 2011-01-18 04:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-18 01:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-19 10:33 am (UTC)