foxdvd68

I've been plagiarized!

2007-09-16T03:36:24Z

I'm really seething...
Just found out a so-called other has ripped-off one of my CSI NY stories to post it as her own slash version in the Scrubs fandom.
WTF???
The saddest part is, FF admins don't seem to eager to do anything about it, so I have no way of making her take down that story...

Any ideas as to how to go about fixing this?
Any hit men phone numbers you'd be willign to share?
;)

I made some banners!

2007-09-13T02:44:52Z

I think I'm finally loosing my fear of image manipulation software... I managed to make three banners for my fics!

foxdvd68 @ 2007-08-17T18:26:00

2007-08-17T23:58:17Z

G R E Y S M O K E

AUTHOR: foxdvd
RATING: NC-17
SPOILERS: All 7 Seasons
KEYWORDS: Gentleman!Nick, Sweet!Sofia, BadAss!Nick, Bitchy!Sofia... and watch the sparks flow

DISCLAIMER: Were they mine, you'd see more of this. Alas, they aren't...

SUMMARY: Due to an accident, Nick discovers a part of Sofia's past that she had been trying to keep secret. How will this affect the way he feels about?

They had been driving back from a crime scene when they heard about the accident. Since they were merely three blocks away, they radioed they were driving in to help. The sight that greeted them literally made their blood run cold: a three car pile up that included a sporty convertible, a SUV and a school van. Twisted metal fragments covered all three lanes and the moans of those in pain and their cries of help could be heard everywhere.

Without exchanging more than a glance, they both got out of their own truck and hurried to help. Nick checked on the couple that had been riding the convertible. A quick inspection told them that they were both gone for good, so he moved to the school van. The paramedics that had arrived first were already working on it, and they were quite grateful to have an extra set of arms to take the scared kids away from the scene as fast as possible.

Sofia checked the truck. The driver, an older man, had not been wearing his seatbelt and the unnatural position of his neck told the young woman he was beyond helping. She was going to move away from the vehicle when a bloody hand grabbed her ankle. Crouching down, Sofia met face to face with a middle aged woman, covered in blood but alive, looking at her with fear written all over her face.

“Please… don’t leave me!” she pleaded.

“I won’t.” Sofia assured her, getting on all fours to asses the situation.

The woman hadn’t been wearing her seatbelt either, and was trapped between the front and the back seats. As the truck had flipped over, the roof had collapsed as well, making it virtually impossible to get the woman out without the aid of the rescue units and a set of jaws to cut the vehicle in half.

“Ma’am. Ma’am. Listen to me. I’m going to get help for you. We’ll get you out as soon as we can, but I need to get more help. I’m going to be right back, you hear me?”

“Y-y-yes. Please hurry. Albert must be in a lot of pain, too.”

Sofia gave the woman a reassuring smile, whilst she felt a knot of sympathy in her stomach. “She hasn’t realized he’s no longer with her” Sofia thought, grateful for that for the time being: it would be easier to talk her into keeping still and cooperative if she found out the truth until after the ordeal was done. As a former patrol woman, she had had her share of car accidents in which she had to assist the wounded and the dying. Needless to say, it was one of the things that she least missed of being out on the streets.

She ran off towards the EMTs and explained the situation. Another police car had driven up and the cop promised to radio the request immediately. Sofia turned around to go back to the truck when Nick caught up with her. “What are you planning to do?”

he asked.

“There’s not much I can do given the circumstances, save keep her company until the fire department gets here.”

Nick nodded in understanding and allowed her to go her way. He had, literally, his hands full with a group of third graders, most of them none to bad for the wear, but scared beyond measure, all of them desperate to cling to his arms and chest until they found someone else that made them feel safe, preferably a someone else that went by the name of mommy.

“Ma’am?” she called out, crouching again next to the almost totaled truck, “Can you hear me? I’m back. The fire department will be here in no time at all and we’ll get you out…”

“I’m here…” came the weary answer.

Sofia lay down on her stomach to peer inside the truck. She could see the woman now, and gave her an encouraging smile. “Hi there, ma’am. My name’s Sofia, what’s yours?”

“I’m Agatha… and this stubborn sleepyhead on my right is my husband Albert.”

Sofia kept the smile on, even when it was the last thing she felt like doing. “Nice to meet you Mrs. Agatha… Mr. Albert.” Sofia didn’t’ want to indulge into the idea of Albert being alive, but if thinking he was helped Agatha get out of there alive, then by God, she’s continue making conversation with a dead man and his wife for as long as it was necessary.

She kept the older woman engaged in small talk, asking about where they were from and what had they done in Vegas so far, and answering personal questions as well (no, she wasn’t married and no, she didn’t have any children, and no, there wasn’t a young man who was sweet on her for the time being…) all while wondering what was taking the damn rescuers so long. A stolen glance over her left shoulder told her that Nick had, literally, his hands full for the time being, and she smiled at the sight of the CSI surrounded by a bunch of dirty 8 year olds.

Suddenly, she felt her front get wet. Looking around, she realized the truck’s gas tank had been ruptured and now gasoline was pouring out on the concrete, having reached where she was lying down. She excused herself for a moment, on the pretense of going to see how much longer they’d have to wait, and quickly reached the others to inform them of the potential danger and inquire on the ETA of the rescue unit she had been waiting for, and then she returned to her place next to the overturned truck.

The events of the next fifteen minutes were all hazy to her afterwards. She heard the rescue truck arrive and was also aware that Jim Brass was also now on the scene. Then she heard people shouting and smelled smoke. Her own sense of survival screamed at her to get out of there, but her sense of duty kept her rooted where she was. She remembered Agatha asking what was going on, and her own vacillation between the truth and a reassuring white lie. She also remembered the first explosion and the panicked expression on the trapped woman when she realized what was going to happen next.

Sofia could hear Nick calling out for her as well, unable to run towards her as he still had kids surrounding him, and she also remembered, more hastily but still, Brass’ voice ordering someone to get her out of there ASAP. She remembered looking at Agatha and opening her mouth, but not knowing what to say.

What she did remember clearly, though, and would probably come back to haunt her for months to come, were Agatha’s parting words. “Let me go, Sofia. Albert’s gone; it’s much better this way. Go, young girl… find a guy who’ll be sweet on you.”

After that, she barely recalls a loud deafening noise and a heat wave. Then, nothing but blackness.

Nick saw Sofia been thrown back by the force of the second explosion and he screamed out her name. He put down the two kids he was still carrying and ran towards her, along with an EMT carrying a first aid case. The technician got to her first and began to work fast, assessing the damage and getting her ready for transportation. Nick knelt next to her as soon as he got there, but he stopped cold as soon as he saw her.

Sofia’s blouse had been badly torn and the EMT had opted for ripping if off instead of trying to work around it. AS much as he didn’t want to, Nick’s eyes were glued to her chest, but for all the wrong reasons.

Sofia Curtis’ upper body was almost completely covered in burn scars.

OLD burn scars.

XxX

Nick was shocked beyond words. How? When? He racked his memory trying to find a piece of conversation, a note in a file, a brief sighting during duty… but nothing came to his mind. Nothing that would explain the scarring that seemed to viciously cling and distort every inch of her skin.

“They’re boobs, they come two a set, every woman has them. Now beat it, bozo.”

He looked at the female EMT that was rudely getting him out of the way. He felt his face burn with anger and shame at the same time. If he analyzed his actions coolly, he could understand perfectly why the paramedic had assumed he was ogling a downed coworker in a moment of need. Hell, he’d probably had beaten the shit out of the bastard if he had seen any other male behave as he had towards Sofia. Seething inwardly, he stepped aside and let the EMTs do their work.

“How is she?” he finally asked.

The female paramedic snorted and shook her head in disbelief. “The nerve of this asshole,” she thought, “first he’s visually raping her and then he remembers she’s injured.”

“Not as perky as she was this morning, but not as bad as she’s been before… nothing that a full set of x-rays and an overnight stay at the hospital in order to monitor the concussion she surely has won’t cure.”

As she spoke, she was deftly and quickly settling Sofia on a stretcher and was by then ready to move on towards the ambulance. “You riding with her?”

Before Nick could answer, he heard Jim Brass’ voice cutting in. “No. He’ll ride with me. We’ll be right behind.”

Nick turned around, ready to give Brass a hard time for deciding things for him, but he saw his expression and the way he shook his head and managed to keep his temper on line for the time being. He went on to pick up his case as well as Sofia’s equipment and got into the detective’s vehicle without uttering a single word.

The rest of the ride was no better. Nick’s mind kept going back to the scars he’d seen on her. They weren’t childhood mementos, and from what he could see, it looked as if her face had been the only part of her body that had been spared by the fire. He was also shocked by the way she had behaved back there. God! It had taken him all his will power to walk down the stairs to the underground facility and not turn around and run away. He had barely managed to keep the rising panic attack building inside his chest under control. He was scarred, all right, except his were no longer perceptible to the eye. But Sofia… how had she managed to stay lying next to the car when she knew the fire was coming? By the looks of her scars, her suffering had been long and unmerciful. How could anyone willingly accept to go through the same thing twice?

Brass broke the silence.

“You’re wondering how she does it, aren’t you?”

The young CSI was taken aback and merely nodded.

“I’ve wondered the same thing myself. After all these years, the only logical conclusion I’ve been able to come to is that she’s still brooding over why she didn’t die. And maybe, at some very dark unconscious level, trying to finish the job.”

Nick felt all his emotions reach boiling point. “She’s not suicidal.”

“Oh no, not suicidal, perhaps just… an unfulfilled death wish… or whatever crap gets associated to survivor’s guilt these days.”

“So she didn’t...”

“Torch herself? Good heavens, Nick, no!”

Nick felt relief wash all over him. “Then… how…?”

Brass let out a heavy sigh. This was exactly the kind of conversation he had hoped never to have with any of the CSIs in Vegas, but deep inside he knew he was going to have to do it. A story like that cannot stay a hidden secret for long, and after a year and a half, he was surprised it hadn’t surfaced before. Perhaps Ecklie had some inkling of humanity in him after all and had kept his promise. Fuck, it was the least he could do after the way they had treated Sofia.

“This isn’t really my story to tell, but now that you’ve seen her, I guess it doesn’t really matter who tells it in the end. It was some 6 or 7 years ago. Sofia was still a rookie patrolling the streets of Frisco. I was there at the time trying to save my marriage one more time, and since Capt. Curtis and I had been some kind of close on our youth I kept an eye on her baby girl.”

Brass was keeping his eyes on the road and his tone impersonal, and despite himself, Nick couldn’t help but wonder just how close “some kind” was. But he decided to keep quiet and keep things out of the gutter for the time being.

“The department had been tracking down a pyromaniac for the past 3 or 4 months. Sofia wasn’t even working on the case. She should have never been there in the first place…”

Brass’s voice faded and he got lost in the memories. The radio call. Arriving to the place. Realizing it was Sofia’s car parked outside. The negotiations. Having had to shoot the bastard. Watching his goddaughter go up in flames.

And the smell…

“Brass?”

Nick’s voice brought him back from his reverie.

“Erick Tyler was the detective in charge of the investigation and he had already piled up enough evidence against Hollows to get a warrant. He’d probably served him that morning and gotten him in a holding cell, except that he came down with a nasty cold, running fever and shivers included. Since he was the arresting officer the pick-up was put on hold until the next morning…”

The Texan man riding in the passenger side felt a thud in the pit of his stomach. He had the feeling that he wasn’t going to like what was coming and, for a mere second or two, he was tempted to tell Brass to shut the hell up, that he didn’t want to know, that he didn’t care, that it was none of his business.

But it was, and he did, and he was going to hear the rest of the story, his soul be damned.

“But Hollows got to Tyler first. And by the time we got there… Tyler was dead, Sofia was being held hostage and Hollows had already emptied two cans of gas all over them. We warned him once and opened fire. He got six… seven rounds right on the chest. I thought it was over when I saw the body drop to the floor, but as soon as he hit the ground the whole place lit up.”

“Jim… why was Sofia there?”

“She had dropped by after work with a thermos of chicken soup and some cold medication…”

Jim Brass took a deep breath.

“Nick… Sofia and Tyler were engaged at the time it happened.”

XxX

Nick sat in silence outside Sofia’s hospital room. He was still trying to process all the information Jim Brass had given him, and he couldn’t still quite grasp the enormity of it all.

“She saved herself,” Jim had told him, “even when she was on fire she managed to find the strength to walk out of the house. She even had enough presence of mind to remember to drop and roll, and managed to do so even as the first one of us reacted and hurried to help her.”

Brass had looked ashamed as he confessed. “I was rooted to the ground. I couldn’t run, I couldn’t scream. All I could do was stare open mouthed as that beautiful girl moved surrounded by fire. And the smell. It took me years to go near her without remembering the smell of her burning flesh. I behaved like a coward… I let her down…”

“I’m not sure anyone would have acted differently…” Nick said, trying to sooth the older man’s conscience.

“You don’t get it Nick. I was supposed to look after her. I promised her mother I would take care of her. And when she needed me, when Sofia stretched her hand looking for my support, I couldn’t see her. I couldn’t bring myself to see her. All it took was once glance at her raw boiling skin and I turned around, gagging. I turned my back on her, Nick, and the worst part is, she understood it. And she forgave me.”

Jim Brass had turned silent after that. He dropped Nick off at the hospital and drove away, leaving Nick with too much knowledge and too many unanswered questions.

“I’m Dr. Benson. Are you here for Detective Curtis?”

Nick looked up to see a grey haired man staring at him, clipboard in hand.

“How’s she?”

“Asleep and hopefully resting. She’s going to have a whooping headache when she wakes up, and she might feel dizzy for a day or two. She’s also going to be sore and all shades of black and blue but nothing that will last more than 2 weeks. She was very lucky. None of the skin grasps sustained severe damage and no fractures, either. I want to keep her overnight for observation, concussions can be a nasty thing if left unattended, and I’ll release her tomorrow. She’ll be fine to report to active duty by next week…”

The doctor seemed to hesitate for a moment.

“Are you and Detective Curtis… ah… close?”

Nick was torn for a second between not wanting to pry and dying to help her, so he made a non-committal gesture that could be interpreted either way.

“Look, Detective, Sofia is a young healthy woman. She’s an ideal candidate for reconstructive surgery. Over 70 of the scarring could be removed, which would allow for reconstructive work to be done. If not for the sake of vanity, then maybe for chance at motherhood, but I’d strongly recommend she accepts the procedure. It’s covered by her insurance and her medical records would be finally closed. Do you know why she has refused the treatment? Her medical records show she has turned it down twice already…”

The young CSI tried to hide his surprise. “Well… err… Sofia is a very private woman. It’s kind of hard for her to trust people enough to discuss… this… openly.”

Dr. Benson flipped through her medical file. “I can understand why she’s so reluctant to discuss it. It wasn’t an easy recovery. 14 months of surgeries, 3 life-threatening infections, 1 cardiac arrest… she’s one stubborn lady, to say the least. She refused the morphine drip, the psychological orientation program, the discharge with full pension from the force. She was even adamant on not receiving visitors.”

The doctor’s beeper went off in that moment. He quickly checked it and closed Sofia’s file. “At least, try to get her to think about it please. And it’d be advisable if she wasn’t left on her own for the next couple of days after leaving the hospital, just in case. I’ll check up on her again before leaving. You can go in to see her now.”

Nick thanked the doctor and saw him hurry away to another patient’s room. “Damn!” he thought, “Things are even more complicated than I had assumed.” He went into Sofia’s room. She was apparently asleep, her breathing even, a bandage on her forehead, an I.V. drip on her left arm, and the sound of a heart monitor’s steady beep the only one in the room. He approached her and took a long good look at her. Asleep, Sofia Curtis had an almost childlike appearance. Her fine blond hair lay scattered like a blond aura surrounding her angelic face. Nick Stokes didn’t consider himself a very poetic man. He didn’t even peg himself as a romantic, either. But he had to admit that right then and there she did look like an angel.

He gently lifted a strand of her hair and was surprised by the baby-fine quality of it. It reminded him of his toddler nieces and nephew. The scientist in him knew it was because she had lost al her hair in the accident and it had grown back later on. He estimated it was 6 or 7 years old, thus the “baby” feeling. He wondered if it would smell like baby shampoo did, but his logical side told him that after being drenched in gasoline and blown 15 feet away and dragged through ER the possibilities of that were quite dim.

Letting go of the strand of hair, brushing it away from her face, Nick stood there wondering what to do. He had called Grissom whilst waiting for the doctor, and his supervisor had told him to stay there and update him whenever possible or needed. His stomach grumbled, making him realize they were on their way to grab a bite when they had stopped at the accident. Nick pondered the options. Dr. Benson had told him she’d be asleep for at least another hour. He decides to go downstairs to grab a sandwich and a soda and then quickly return to her bedside.

Nick leaned forward. “I’ll be right back, baby girl.” On an impulse, he brushed his lips against her forehead, surprising himself. He liked Sofia. He actually liked her a lot. Perhaps it was because they were both cops and scientists; perhaps it was because they both had families far away. Or perhaps it was the comfortable, almost flirty, casual banter they shared when the worked cases together. She was smart, she was competent, and she had a wicked sense of humour very much in tune with his own. The fact that she was very easy on the eyes was an extra bonus, and he had to admit to having checked her out in a completely sexual way once or twice… or maybe even thrice.

But it had been something strictly “look but not touch”. He had sometimes debated on whether or not to ask her to go dancing with him, but he had always decided against it. Nick Stokes went dancing when he was feeling horny, and meeting a girl in such places under such circumstances usually lead to a pleasant, no strings attached, one night stand; which was exactly what he was looking for in the first place. And since he wasn’t completely sure he wouldn’t get frisky whilst dancing with Sofia… well, they had shared a couple of coffees and a dinner “date” and that was it. He’d done more socializing with Sara and Cath than he had with Sofia. He’d even gone to the movies with Mandy, who had made clear, as the first trailer began rolling by, that she was not interested in sleeping with him.

So where on earth that “baby girl” and that kiss did had come from? He was worried about her, no doubt about it, but that wasn’t it. And it wasn’t pity, either. If anything, becoming aware of Sofia’s past had made him admire her.

Nick sighed. This wasn’t good. If he had developed a soft spot for Sofia… he didn’t want to think about it. Not then, anyway. He’ll deal with it later, when she was out of the hospital, when he had at least tried to talk to her about getting the reconstructive surgery, when he had at least a chance to ask her out on a real date. Looking at her one last time, he quietly walked out of the room.

Sofia opened her eyes as soon as he was gone.

“I’m not your baby girl, Stokes.” She murmured to the empty room.

“I can’t be your, or anyone else’s, baby girl.”

Xxx

Nick Stokes came back to the room 20 minutes and 12 dollars later. He was appalled at the prices of the vending machines in the lobby. Eight dollars for a measly, stale sandwich! Four dollars for a can of soda! No wonder relatives took turns looking after their loved ones… between the medical bills and the food a family could very well file for bankruptcy after a week in here.

He went into the room and did a double take to check if he had it right. The room in front of him was empty. “What the..?” he thought, and was about to go back to the nurse station to demand an explanation when out of the corner of his eye he saw movement behind a curtain. Cop training kicked in, and he removed his gun from his holster and approached the source of the movement quietly. Keeping his gun trained on whoever might be lurking behind it, he used his left hand to yank the curtain open.

The “Police!” statement that should have followed the yanking died before it even reached his lips. Standing right in front of him was Sofia Curtis… naked. He stared at her open-mouthed and she stared right back at him without flinching. It took him half a minute to realize that he was doing it before he dropped his sight to the floor and his arm to the side.

He noticed then that the hospital robe was pooled around her ankles. He also noticed the graceful curve of her calves. And although he hadn’t meant to, he also noticed that she was a natural blond. He told himself that it was only natural that he took on such details; after all, he was trained to be observant and notice even the smallest of details. What he couldn’t explain, although he was absolutely sure it was also perfectly natural, was the way his embarrassment got quickly replaced by a wave of lust. He felt his cheeks burning and he hoped Sofia would think it was due to embarrassment rather than excitement.

He shifted his gaze and settled it on the I.V. line that was still attached to her arm. Swirling rivulets of blood made their way up to the saline solution bag and Nick was a bit surprised to see that there was a fair amount of blood there as well.

“Perhaps it would be best if you lie down and put that arm up” he said, moving his arms vaguely in the direction of the I.V. Sofia, who had managed to wrap a towel around her, looked at the source of his worries and decided to get rid of the problem by pulling the needle out of her arm.

“Okay. Hold it right there, Curtis. What exactly do you think you are doing?” he asked, more forcefully once he’d realized she was now partially covered up.

“Getting dressed and getting out of this place” was her simple answer. “You’d better consider turning around, the towel is coming off.”

Nick was shocked. He would have expected Sofia to be more modest about her body, given the circumstances and he didn’t know how to react to her brazen attitude. Seeing that he hadn’t moved, Sofia shrugged her shoulders, dropped the towel... and started to get dressed.

Nick decided that two could play the game. In the back of his mind, memories of Kristy flashed by. The whole checking on the nipple discoloration to compare it with the victim had been a ruse. He had just been looking for an excuse to get a good look at her. Ever since he had seen her inside the patrol car he had wanted her. When she had called him again to get help her with the security guard, he had given it a second try. A very lame attempt, that let’s-talk-about-my-work and grab-a-coffee, but a part of him, a very small part of him, kept screaming inside his head that falling for a hooker was, indeed, a very bad idea. The third time they’ve met had proven to be the charm, and he had given her a ride home knowing full well where the whole thing was headed. Murder, however, had not been in his plans, but that’s how the affair had ended.

So he wasn’t that lucky when it came to picking up the right gal. He still cringed at the memory of Det. Joyce Secula, and the ill-fated dinner they had shared some years back. It wasn’t that Joyce wasn’t a nice person. She was. And she wasn’t hard on the eyes, either. But she was a couple of years older than Nick and her biological clock had already started ticking, and she had hinted too hard at wanting a serious relationship and settling down for good and Nick just wasn’t ready for that. Back then, he was still spending his money on new video games and using his job as an excuse to check females out. Granted he had taken the coward way out by not calling her, and after she had pointed it out, he had begged Brass not to pair them together again. Luck had it Jim Brass had made the same “mistake” a few months back and he hadn’t given Nick much hell over the whole issue. The experience, however, had made Nick weary of office flings and he had managed to keep away from temptation.

Until now.

His walk down memory lane had not affected his visual capacity, and he had taken in every inch of Sofia’s naked body whilst she dressed herself. The scars were unsettling, yes, but once you got past them you realized that Sofia was one very good looking woman. Desirable. He had watched as she had put on her bra, and decided that her breasts were just the perfect size to fit in his hands. The sheer material showed her hardened nipples and Nick’s mouth went dry as he realized just how badly he wanted to suck on them. Sofia slid her jeans up her hips, and Nick’s mind pictured his own hands holding unto them whilst he slid in and out of her…

“Seen enough?”

Her voice brought him out of the fantasy word he had slipped into. He realized his erection was perfectly noticeable through his jeans, but he wasn’t ashamed of it in the least. Let Sofia Curtis know just how much he wanted her. Hell, she’d consider herself lucky if she walked out of that room just kissed!

“Not as much as I’d like to see…”

It wasn’t so much what he had said, but rather HOW he had said it what troubled Sofia. The husked voice, the innuendo dripping from every syllable, the feral look on his face, not to mention the bulge on his jeans… if Sofia didn’t know better, she’d have thought Nick has having a very strong sexual response towards her. Which was impossible, as she well knew. Men didn’t look at her that way, not anymore, not after what had happened.

She had mourned Erick for three years, which was time also spent healing and recovering and getting back to “normal”… whatever normal meant for burn victims like herself. After that time, friends and family began gently, but firmly, pushing her towards “moving on with her life” and, for some reason that escaped her own logic, such moving on required the presence of a man in her life.

The first attempt had been a blind date set up by her Aunt Louise with a young doctor. The good old woman had assumed that given his line of work he wouldn’t find her scars too “disturbing” and would be able to see beyond them. Sofia had to give the man points for trying, but whenever they got slightly intimate she could see the look of pity in his eyes, and the whole thing went down in flames after the 5th date.

The lawyer her cousin Emma had hooked her up with had taken one look at her scarred cleavage, asked if there was a chance reconstructive surgery would give her a “normal” appearance, and left before dessert had arrived. Sofia didn’t hold it against him; at least, the man had been honest. He had his sights set on a political career and he needed a trophy wife by his side, one that he could show off in low-cut evening dresses and wouldn’t have a perpetually haunted look in her eyes.

The third and last time, she had managed to get the date on her own. Phillip was a fire fighter who also volunteered at the burned ward in the hospital and she had been straightforward with him since day one. He had seemed fine with it, more than fine, actually, and they had ended date two making out on her living room like a couple of kids. After Phillip left that night, Sofia had cried herself to sleep, tears of joy for feeling whole and normal again after so many years of considering herself damaged goods. It didn’t last long, though. He was ready to settle down and start a family and hadn’t taken too well the news that her chances of carrying out a pregnancy to term were slim to none. Shortly after that conversation they had started drifting apart and before the month was over their relationship was done, as well.

Sofia accepted then and there that she had used up all the chances this lifetime was going to give her, and she had made her peace with it. Sure, she felt lonely, especially late at nights when she craved the feeling of a man’s arms wrapped around her body, but nothing that crying herself to sleep while hugging a pillow didn’t cure by next morning.

So what in the hell, she asked herself, was Nick Stokes doing looking at her like that? Her mind was furious at his condescending attitude, and her heart had missed a beat or two out of exhilaration, and in the end her temper won out. She decided to teach the cocky CSI a lesson, give him a taste of her sharp tongue and walk out of the room without looking back.

Unfortunately, her body saw fit to betray her right then and there.

“Get out of my way Stokes” she commanded, and took two steps forward.

She immediately felt dizzy and swayed against her will. Nick had been watchful of her every move, and as soon as he saw her falter, he was quick to close the distance between them. He slid one arm around her waist and the other one around her shoulders, pulling her close to him for support. The resulting heat wave from their touching bodies was immediate, and Nick felt a flare of lust begin to burn white hot inside of him, fueling his erection as well as his actions. Sofia, on the other hand, cursed her weakness. She wasn’t used to playing damsel in distress and damned if she was going to give Nick the chance to play knight in shining armor. But a longing born out of years of unfulfilled desire was slowly taking over her, and she knew she was going to be powerless against it if she didn’t get away right then and there.

“Let me go” was her weak protest.

“I can’t” he replied in all honesty, drawing her even closer to him.

“Please” her voice trembled, uncertain as to what she was begging for.

For all response, Nick leaned in and captured her mouth with his own.

XxX

Sofia felt a heat wave engulf her as Nick’s lips journeyed all over hers and for a brief instant her ability to think simply vanished. She allowed herself to feel what she had not felt in almost 7 years and realized how much she had been missing out on life. She had been living, but she hadn’t been alive…

Reality came crashing down on her as she felt his tongue eagerly seeking out hers. This wasn’t right. This could not happen. This was… wrong.

She had been burned before. She was not going to allow it to happen again. Not ever again.

Nick knew he was in trouble as soon as his mouth touched hers. Dammit, why couldn’t Sofia taste like any other of those nameless, face-blurred girls he picked up in bars from time to time? Why couldn’t his body just have a normal sexual reaction and be done with it? Nick was certain his life would be far easier if the tingling sensation that ran all over his body just from holding her in his arms simply wasn’t there. But it was, and every passing second his mouth held hers captive it grew stronger and stronger, and Nick was sure Sofia would be the one woman to break his heart beyond repair if he wasn’t careful.

The moment his tongue touched hers he knew he was doomed.

He also knew something had gone wrong. He sensed a change in demeanor in Sofia and slightly pulled away, just to gauge her reaction. And when it came, it was fiercer than what he’ have ever imagined.

Sofia balled up her hands and began punching his chest with all the rage she had kept inside of her for too long. Nick held tight until the sting of her punches began to be too much to bear. He was strong, but so was she and anger was giving her additional strength. He tried holding her wrists but Sofia began batting his hands away in panic, so he did the first thing that came to his mind: wrapping his arms around her, he pushed her up against a wall, trying to pin her there, trying to avoid further injury for either one of them.

A tad too late he remembered her legs were still free and able to move... and kick. He shifted his leg angle barely on time, and although Sofia’s knee missed his crotch, his thigh muscle was screaming bloody murder. His shins weren’t doing any better and Nick cursed whoever had invented pointy-toed boots. And although he hated to do it, Sofia was leaving him with only two choices, and letting her go in her present state of mind was out of the question. That left him only one option: restraining her by means of force.

“Sofia…”

She kicked him again.

“Sofia… listen! Listen goddammit! Stop struggling or I’ll have to choke hold you, and that’s the last thing I want to do…”

She seemed to settle down and Nick cautiously released one wrist. That’s all she needed, and he couldn’t avoid her fist as it connected with his jaw. Acting more out of training and instinct, Nick quickly placed his arm against her windpipe and pressed his whole body against her, trapping her between him and the wall. Sofia began clawing at his arm, desperation etched on her face.

“Let… mmh… go…”

Nick hesitated a second. He hated the idea of hurting her, but he’d learned his lesson well the first time around: trusting her ended up hurting him.

In more ways than one.

He got hold of her wrist with his free arm and pinned it above her head. The he removed his arm from her neck and swiftly grabbed her other and lifted it as well. Sofia had closed her eyes and was panting and Nick felt like a rotten bastard for hurting a fragile woman like her. She had been through so much already, and now he had to shove her back into the grind…

“EXCUSE ME… WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING!?”

They both jumped at the sound of the voice booming from the room’s door. Nick let go of Sofia, whom in turn held herself against the wall in order to avoid falling down. The nurse took three strides forwards, admonishing Nick.

“I don’t know who you are and I don’t care, you insensitive prick. This girl here nearly died and all you can think of is fulfilling one of your perverted sexual fantasies… Get out before I call security. Out! OUT!”

The nurse turned to Sofia, attempting to put a shoulder around her shoulders and lead her back to bed.

“As for you, my dear, we’ll get you back in your jammies in no time and get your IV going as well… I’ll check with the doctor to see if we can give you something to eat and then….”

Sofia pushed the woman away, gently but without giving room to misinterpretations.

“I’m fine. I don’t need any of those things. I’m checking myself out of the hospital right now…”

The nurse was shocked but held her ground. “I’m not sure you can do that, Ms. Curtis, I’ll have to check with Dr. Benson before…”

“Then go call him. Now. And hurry up, cause I won’t be here in 15 minutes.”

The nurse opened her mouth to say something, thought better about it, and closed it. Giving Sofia a stern look, she turned around to leave the room, but not before Nick could see the disgusted expression on her face. The nurse was back five minutes later, with Dr. Benson close behind here.

“Ms. Curtis…”

“Save it Benson. I want to go home and I want to do it now. No meds, no absence of leave, no nothing.”

Nick was a bit surprised at the way Sofia spoke to the doctor. She sounded, weary, bored, and adamant at the same time. He had wondered before how she managed the strength, but now that he had had a glimpse of the internal inferno she had, he was more surprised at her sweet and calm everyday demeanor. His chest and jaw were starting to hurt like hell, and he wouldn’t be surprised if they turned into visible bruises.

“Fine, Sofia. Have it your way. You know which paperwork to sign in order to do it.”

Sofia regaled him with the half-smirk of someone who had been there and done that more times than anyone should in a life time.

“But… as you well know… I have to sign you over to someone. Shall I call Captain Curtis?”

If looks could kill, Dr. Benson would be a rotting corpse by the time the last words left his mouth. And he knew it.

“Okay, I guess that’s a no. Then I’ll sign you over to this gentleman over here…”

“NO!”

Dr. Benson and Nick were surprised, not at the intensity of the denial, but at the fact that the nurse had chimed in as well.

“Captain Curtis, it is, then…”

“Oh, fuck off, Benson. Sign me over to Stokes” growled Sofia through clenched teeth.

Dr. Benson smiled. “Fine, fine. See my dear? It wasn’t so difficult after all. And you can always stay at the hosp…”

“Don’t push your luck, Doc. I’m in a very bad mood as it is.”

The nurse took the chance to interrupt then. “Doctor, are you sure it’s a good idea to leave Ms. Curtis with this… man? I’m not entirely sure it would be advisable…”

“Nurse Cobbs, this… man here, as you put it, is a police officer. I’m sure he’s more than capable of dealing with Ms. Curtis.”

Nick received a printed list of signs and symptoms he should keep an eye on, as well as two bottles of medication and instructions on when and how to administer them.
Dr. Benson was nice enough to give him a prescription for the pain and swelling that was beginning to be noticeable on his jaw, as well.

As he waited for Sofia to complete the paperwork, he could feel Nurse Cobbs disapproving look upon him. And it pissed him off. Not that she was giving him the evil eye, but the fact that, for the second time that day, a perfect stranger had branded him as a sexual predator. And that worried him… a lot.

Nick considered himself to be a sensitive guy and a gentle lover. And although it bothered him sometimes, he had to admit that he did, in fact, live up to the “southern gentleman” label most people associated him with. So how come two women, two women trained to be observant, had reached the conclusion that he was a perv? He tried to picture himself as they had… and was disgusted by what he saw. He had six sisters, and if he had walked into a room and had found one of them being pinned to the wall by a guy who was obviously taking advantage of her weakened condition… he’d had beaten the motherfucker to a pulp with his bare hands.

So what did that make him? A sicko? In all shameful honesty, Nick had to admit that a very small part of him had been turned on by the violence and raw sexuality of the whole thing. As much as he hated to admit it, he was sure that if Nurse Cobbs hadn’t come in when she did, he’d have probably attempted to kiss Sofia once more. And he wasn’t so sure he’d stop at kissing, either.

Nick bit his lip. What the hell was wrong with him anyway? He liked Sofia, maybe more than liked her. He felt that he could end up falling in love with her if he wasn’t careful. And he desired her. Nick couldn’t remember ever wanting a woman as badly as he wanted Sofia Curtis. Perhaps that was the problem? Was he so transparent that his lust was showing through?

The blur of movement that was Sofia on her way out of the hospital brought him back from his reverie, and he sprinted to catch up with her. By the time she reached her, she was already flagging down a cab, which they rode in the most absolute silence. Nick was still wondering what to do about his sexual feelings towards her and Sofia…

Sofia was torn between giving in and allowing someone back inside her heart or putting up a fight and forgetting about humankind for good. Caught in a vicious cycle, one moment she was relishing the feel of Nick’s body next to her, the next she hated him for reminding her of the things she could not have. She adored him and despised him at the same time. She wondered if she had finally lost it. How could her body be both screaming for his touch and shying away from it at the same time?

She rested her head against the cab’s window and closed her eyes, but it was no good. She could still hear his breathing, she could still feel his body heat, she could still smell him… and she was dying to taste him again, even if it was just one last time before her whole life went up in flames and turned to ashes.

She opened her eyes when she felt the absence of movement, just in time to see Nick paying the driver. They got out and walked to her place still in silence.

“Do you have my meds?” she asked quietly once they were inside.

Nick nodded and took them out of one of his vest’s pockets, handing them to her. Sofia took them and set them on the kitchen counter. Taking a deep breath, she turned to him, still unsure as to what to tell him.

“Nick…”

She looked up at him and what she saw in his eyes terrified her. She was certain that if she allowed herself to get lost in those eyes she’ll burn again, and this time the scars would never heal.

“Yes?”

“Get the fuck out of my life.”

XxX

Nick was shocked, but not really surprised. He had had several interesting glimpses at the internal turmoil that afflicted Sofia Curtis and he was aware of how much rage and pain was being held prisoner inside her. It wasn’t a wonder she went running on a regular basis: that’s the only way she was letting off steam and preventing a huge blow up… or a messy meltdown.

Unfortunately, understanding her didn’t equal forgiving her… or abiding to her wishes. If Sofia Curtis thought she was going to kick him out of her life, she had another thing coming. Like a head strong, stubborn and half-way in love Texan. And that was just for starters.

“Didn’t you hear what I said?”

“I did. Loud and clear.”

“Then how come you’re still here?”

“Cause I’m not leaving.”

This time around, Nick had been expecting the outburst and was more than ready when she threw the first punch. Sofia let out a surprised yelp, and found herself pinned face down against the wall, her arms secured on her sides. Nick was standing between her legs, his knees immobilizing her thighs.

But having her safely pinned and having her under control were too entirely different things.

“Let me go, dammit!”

“Not until you’ve calmed down and talk to me.”

“I don’t want to talk to you. There’s nothing to talk about…”

Tired of all the yelling, he moved closer to her. “There’s plenty to talk about and you will talk about it even if it’s the last thing we do together…” he whispered close to her ear.

Too late, Nick realized that leaning so close to her had been a very bad idea. The heat generating between their bodies was starting to be too much to handle and damned his soul if he wasn’t getting turned on again.

Sofia was seething and had sworn to God she’d kick the living crap out of Nick Stokes as soon as she got herself from under him. The man was infuriating, insufferable… and darn too hard to resist. She had been holding on to pure rage in order not to succumb to sheer lust, and she was starting to loose her grip on anger.

As soon as she felt his warm breath on her neck, she knew she’d lost the battle. She gave notice of her surrender by moving her body against his, which he didn’t notice right away, and with a moan that escaped her mouth unnoticed by her, but unsettling to him.

Sofia’s moan rattled Nick, and he closed his eyes against his will. He knew he had to remain strong, he knew he had to be stoic in order to save her… but he also knew he wanted her so badly he couldn’t even see straight. How was he going to be able to lead her down the road to recovery when all he could think of was leading her down the bedroom and have his way with her?

“Nick…?”

Her voice was so soft he wasn’t sure she had spoken in the first place. He moved in closer, knowing full well he was dooming him… them… to whatever wild emotions were laying barely underneath the surface, barely contained… but there, nonetheless.

“Nick…”

The tenderness, the hopelessness, the need… all compressed in one syllable. And Nick was so tired. So tired of fighting his own demons on his own, so tired of being on his own, so tired of having to resort to emotionless anonymous fucks just to remind himself what contact with another human being felt like.

And he surrendered, as well.

He moved forward once more, his lips barely grazing the tender skin of her neck, his hands no longer imprisoning, but supporting.

“Yes, baby girl?” he murmured against her skin.

Maybe it was the heat his lips ignited on her skin. Maybe it was the weight of his body against hers. Maybe it was the tender moniker. Or the unmistakable push of his erection against her ass. Whatever it was, it fueled the urgency inside of her, throwing tenderness to the side, leaving the way open to need.

“Fuck me.”

The words were out of her mouth before she consciously realized she had spoken them.

“What?!”

“You heard me. Fuck me. Here. Now.”

Nick froze. What the hell was he supposed to do? Half his body, his cock included, was all too happy to comply with her request. The other half, where his intellect and manners and code of honour resided, said yes… but not here. Yes, but not now. Yes, but not fuck. Make love. When they finally got together, they were going to make love, not just fuck.

“Sofia… I…”

But she had felt his hesitance, and she knew what it meant. She felt the sting of tears in her eyes, but damned if she was going to cry in front of him. She shifted her body and clearly felt his erection rub against her. You goddamned hypocrite… she thought. She decided that she was going to make Nick Stokes fuck her, whether he wanted to or not… and then she’d kick him out, for good.

She began rubbing herself against him, knowing full well what she was doing, and taunting him at the same time: “What’s the matter, baby boy, don’t you want this? Huh? Huh? I saw the way you were looking at me back at the hospital… and I can feel you right now. We both want it, cowboy, so come and get it…”

Nick closed his eyes, as if shielding from temptation. He was a gentleman, dammit, but first and foremost he was a man. A very aroused man.

And he snapped.

He released her arms and snaked his own around her, one hand grabbing her right breast, the other one making a beeline for her jeans button and zipper, which he undid in a single motion. He latched his mouth to the lower part of her neck, where he felt a pulse, and began suckling in earnest. He knew he was going to leave a mark, heck, he wanted to leave a mark, and he continued sucking as his right hand played mercilessly with her nipples.

Sofia was slumped against his chest, eyes closed, breath hitching, allowing him to do as he pleased with her body. She whimpered whenever he was rougher and moaned hard as she felt his hand slide underneath her panties, spreading her legs to give him better access.

Nick wasn’t surprised to find her wet and willing. What surprised him was the fact that he completely forwent all kinds of foreplay and went straight for the kill, inserting two fingers inside her pussy. And judging from the way she was moaning and bucking her hips, she hadn’t minded one bit. Just as she didn’t seem to mind the way he was shamelessly rubbing himself against her, working them both to frenzy.

It wasn’t long before Sofia fell over the edge. She had been chanting his name, a higher pitch each time she said it, and by the time her orgasm hit, she was almost keening. Rationale having left him a long time ago, Nick felt he was entitled to enjoy that ride as well, so he pushed down her jeans and underwear, and lowered his enough to release his straining erection. Turning her around, he got hold of her right leg and lifted it just enough to gain access to her entrance, and he penetrated her in one swift motion. And he did it again, and again, and again…

He kept on pumping until Sofia screamed his name again, until he emptied himself inside her, until his legs gave under their weight…

Until they both lay, crumpled on the floor, crying.

TBC...

CSI NY FANFICTION

2007-08-17T23:12:13Z

S L I P P E R Y W H E N W E T

AUTHOR: foxdvd
RATING: NC-17
SPOILERS: None
KEYWORDS: Blackout, a somewhat horny Flack and a wet & naked Stella. Nuff said.

DISCLAIMER: Whatcha mean, they're not mine????

If there was something Don Flack Jr. hated, it was getting dirty. Even when it was work related dirt. ESPECIALLY when it was work related dirt. He was known for being a lot less nicer to suspects who were directly responsible for him getting dirty somehow.

Stella Bonasera didn’t mind getting dirty. Much. She was well aware that it came with the professional territory, and she didn’t mind getting dirty every now and then. Much. But Stella Bonasera drew a line at her hair. She absolutely DESPISED getting her hair dirty. It was a huge no-no, perhaps the first of the unwritten lab rules that new techies learned on their first week at work. You wanted to see a seething Stella? Aid her in a lab test that ended up getting her hair dirty. Paint ball testing? Flour explosion? Dumpster diving? If you wanted to avoid permanent maiming, you called in anyone else, Mac included. But you didn’t ask Stella.

So it didn’t really surprise anyone that after the delivery boy mishap, both Flack and Stella had virtually run to the locker room to clean up. Don’s tie, which in all honesty wasn’t as hideous as his usual repertoire, had taken most of the damage, but the fate of his dress shirt was still undecided: if Mr. Fong could work his dry cleaning magic, the shirt might live to see another case. If not, well… the trash can was a good a choice as any.

Stella’s wardrobe barely registered the mishap, but her curls… even the security guard by the elevator cringed when he saw the mess her curls were. Coffee, ketchup, coleslaw, gravy… every single ingredient in 5 different take-out orders seemed to be tangled one way or another into her curls.

Nobody on the floor was really amazed by the fact that Stella beat Flack to the elevator… even when he had a good 12 feet lead on her. And as pissed as he was about his own clothing, Flack knew better than get in the way between Stella and the showers. He wisely chose to wait for the next car up; even if that meant that the possibilities of his tie dripping on his brightly polished shoes grew exponentially. He’d rather take his chance with those odds than ride 8 floors in the same lift as a seething, dripping, smelly Stella.

By the time Flack reached the locker room, the sound of the shower running was perfectly audible. He ripped off the tie and aimed for the trash can. On second thought, he shoved it in an empty plastic evidence bag and stashed it in the duffel bag where he kept his gym clothes. As expensive as the cleaner’s bill was going to be for THAT mess, it was still cheaper than replacing the silk garment. Served him right for wearing his “formal” tie to work. That would hopefully teach him that, no matter how tired he was after shooting some hoops with the guys, Monday nights were THE nights to pick up his clothes from Mr. Fong. The shirt, on the other hand, had seen better days, so he balled it up and threw it towards the bin in the corner. He missed by several inches.

He cursed under his breath. The fuck with it, he’d get it on the way out. Right then, he was more concerned deciding whether he should change his undershirt or not. He opted to go for a clean slate and took it off, letting it fall to the ground. He fleetingly considered showering, but the rumble in his stomach reminded him that his lunch hour was up and running and he nixed the idea.

An in-depth exploration of his locker revealed that: a) he didn’t have a clean undershirt available, b) the only dress shirt in there was going to clash horribly with the suit he was wearing (Note to self: buy only solids from now on), and c) the only tie to be found was wider than a bib and older than his grandma…

He quickly regarded to discarded wife beater on the floor. Just as quickly he decided that he’d go sans undershirt for the rest of the day. Grabbing a spray-on deodorant, he quickly covered his chest with the product, perhaps in a heavier quantity that he’d normally used, but his paranoid sense of smell could swear he still smelled of chicken broth and garlic.

Don grabbed the shirt and was sliding up the second sleeve when the lights went out. He tensed a bit, counting the seconds before the emergency generator kicked in. After a couple of minutes had gone by, he accepted rationally what his gut had been telling him for what seemed like eons: the generator was not going to kick in. He felt his way around his locker shelf until he found a tiny maglite and turned it on. The batteries were not new, and it showed, but at least it worked.

“Goddamn motherfucker! Shit! Shit, shit… shit!”

Don looked up when he heard the string of obscenities. He quickly realized that they came from the showers. Stella! She was still in there, trying to find her way in the dark…

Mr. Nice, Don’s head-strong southern “friend”, beat him to the punch line: a WET and NAKED Stella Bonasera was trying to find her way back to the locker room… and into his arms.

Xxx XXX xxX

Using the half-powered maglite, Flack made his way into the shower stalls. He had been debating what course of action would be wiser: come in calling her name or come in quietly. He was certain she didn’t have her gun with her, but experience had taught him that a pissed off Stella, however unarmed, was a very dangerous thing. And by the sound of the cursing that still echoed in the hallway, “pissed off” was really a way to put it nicely.

“Stell?” he called out carefully, deciding that “better safe than sorry” was an adequate course of action given the circumstances.

“Flack? Is that you?” came the answer.

“Yeah. I have a light with me. Stay where you are and keep talking so I can find you.” He directed.

“Okay. I am in the left row… was on the fourth stall on the left… until I had this bright idea of leaving the stall and bumping my way around the benches… my shins are going to be all black and blue by tomorrow… and I’m guessing it’s going to be sandals for me for a couple of days until my left toe is back to its normal size and…”

Flack smiled despite of himself. Stella usually wasn’t this kind of talkative and it was somehow endearing to realize that underneath the tough, no-nonsense surface, Stella Bonasera was a girly girl. He was now at the beginning of the left row; sure he’ll be able to reach her in no time…

Murphy’s Law, for those who are not familiar with it, states that everything that can go wrong will go wrong. It usually happens when you least expect it, or even worse, when you least need it to happen. But happen it does, as Yoda would say, and NYPD officers are not immune to it.

Especially those caught in the dark in the shower stalls.

And so it happened. Disaster struck them both, less at the same time, give or take a few seconds. In the end, the stereo intonation of a deeply felt “Fuck!” gave each other a pretty good idea of how bad things were on both sides.

The moment Flack got into the stalls aisle his maglite died. It wasn’t exactly unexpected, given the dim light it had been giving, but it couldn’t have happened at the worst time. Flack had been to eager in finding Stella (the naked Stella, chimed in his libido) to notice his immediate surroundings, so when the light gave out he was, well, literally left in the dark, with no idea what lay exactly in front of him… or anywhere else in the area, for that matter.

Stella, on the other hand, had been too distraught by the idea of her precious curls dripping gravy and who knows what else to pay attention to anything else. She had stripped right outside the stall, throwing all her clothes to the floor with enough force to give her a tiny tantrum-like satisfaction and had gotten under the hot water as soon as she could. When the lights had gone out, the water had stopped running as well, leaving her mid-rinse and with an enormous disposition towards cursing every single one of the workers in the maintenance area of the building, plumbers and electricians included.

She had stormed out of the stall, trying to locate a sink where she could finish washing her hair, when she had heard Flack‘s voice. He had a flashlight; therefore, she could find the sink and get over with the whole thing. Now, if she could only find her towel before he got…

Realization hit her even worse than the take-out containers. She had forgotten to bring in a towel. So unless she put back on the clothes she had gleefully kicked around and stomped on, Don Flack Jr. was about to get to know far more intimately than she had ever expected.

When the maglite dies out, Stella gave a small sigh of relief. At least he wasn’t going to be able to see her naked, and she was sure she could talk him into getting her something to cover herself up once they were close enough. It seemed like a feasible idea, and a simple one to carry out as well. What could possible go wrong?

What could possibly go wrong, indeed…?

For starters, she could miscalculate just how far they were from each other. To say she was shocked when they bumped into each other after having taken only 8 steps would have been an understatement. To say that Flack had been expecting it would have also been an understatement. To say that either one of them expected what happened next would have been the biggest understatement of all.

Xxx XXX xxX

I would be fair to say that Flack caught Stella (a NAKED Stella, as his libido gleefully reminded him) out of sheer reflex. He knew she was in there, somewhere, but he hadn’t expected that “somewhere” to be so close. Granted, he had tripped over the bench and then got caught up in God knew what type of clothing that had been left carelessly laying around – he later found out it had been Stella’s messed up clothes, so there went her intentions of getting redressed in them. Good luck with that, sister, after a 6’2” pissed off cop got done kicking them out of his way.

So he caught her whilst tripping and stumbling. That didn’t necessarily mean Stella didn’t end up in the floor. After all, what’s meant to be is meant to be, and fate had decided she would end up on the floor inside the shower stall where she had been showering in the first place. Only difference was, she ended up on top of Don Flack Jr.

Stella hadn’t been expecting the collision, but when it happened, she had expected at least a couple of things. For starters, se had expected her “savior” to keep her out of danger’s reach… or the shower floor, whichever you prefer to call it. Then, as she realized they were loosing their balance, she had expected (or hoped, actually) to be able to gab unto his suit jacket or at the very least, his God-awful tie. Alas, she found none. Instead, her hands grabbed a mix of cotton and polyester, and the ripping sound that followed made her realize that a) Flack had only been wearing his shirt, and b) she had just, quite effectively some may add, ripped it open, and all she could hope was that c) he’d believe her when she blamed gravity for that.

As they hit the floor she tired clawing at the undershirt she had also expected him to be wearing. Instead of that, she found herself clawing at his tender skin, pulling at his fine chest hairs and, quite expectedly, hearing him curse under his breath. Truth to be told, it wasn’t exactly “under his breath” as his hissed curses echoed through the empty shower stalls. Not that she could blame him.

Flack had also his share of expectations. He had expected Stella to be naked (no prompting needed this time), but he hadn’t expected her to be so slippery. He had half-expected, half-hoped her skin to be soft and her whole body to be supple, but nothing prepared him for the real thing. And there was also the logistic of where to put his hands so they wouldn’t slip and touch… what the rest of his body was virtually praying to touch. Reflex made his arms go around her to cushion the fall, and the laws of gravity and fluids dynamics managed to make his hands stop at her hips. Cling would have been a better description, come to think of it.

Too many expectations for only 23 seconds, which was exactly how long the whole incident lasted. 23 seconds later they were both on the floor, him underneath her. Her fingers were still tangled on his chest hair. His hands were still settled on her hips. Her breasts were too close to his face for his comfort, and her crotch was too close to his legs for hers. If Don tried to sit up, or if Stella made an attempt to get off him… well, let’s just say that things would get uncomfortable real fast.

Although others would have said that things would get INTERESTING real fast, neither Stella nor Flack would have agreed just then. He was trying very hard to remember the grizzliest crime scenes he had witnessed in order to keep his erection from getting bigger. She was willing herself to keep her hands perfectly still. She could feel his heartbeat under her palms and her right thumb was grazing his nipple and she knew that she was thinking of Flack as a man, not as her friend or fellow cop, but as a MAN, for crying out loud and a very desirable man, and it had been too long since she last had caressed a man and she was so, so very tempted to throw caution to the wind and just touch him.

So there they were, tangled up on the floor, holding still and keeping perfectly quiet and being grateful for the absence of light. The only audible sound was a dripping faucet somewhere in the room, which was dwarfed by the loud screaming going on inside their heads:

You work with her.

You’re his supervisor in the cases you work together.

She’s still recovering from her ordeal with Frankie.

He’s still recovering from the blast.

Get a hold of yourself, dammit; you’re not a horny 15 year old who fantasizes about bedding his hot teacher.

Get a grip on your hormones, girl, you ain’t Mrs. Robinson.

DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT MOVING YOUR HANDS!

Dear God, I want to taste her so badly.

Good Lord, I need to touch him…

This is so fucked up.

This is so wrong.

And the argument could have gone on and on had it not been for fate. They had both been too worried about making the first move and wondering how they were going to get out of that particular situation with their egos more or less intact and the minimal embarrassment possible. In short, they were so preoccupied about behaving like a man and a woman who just figured out they were lusting after one another that they had forgotten to behave like the sharp investigators they both were. If they hadn’t, one of them was bound to figure out what the dripping sound meant, and maybe, just maybe, they would have gotten out of the stall in time.

Wishful thinking, as my mother likes to point out, is a good way to pass the time but does nothing to change the outcome of things in real life. Truth is neither one of them put two and two together. Neither one of them realized that a dripping sound meant there was water moving in the pipes. Neither one of them remembered that the shower had been going full blast when the blackout took place. And therefore, neither one of them was prepared to get drenched when the emergency generator kicked in and the shower began running again.

Which was exactly what happened right about…

“Christ!!! The water’s fucking cold!!!”

… then.

Xxx XXX xxX

They both scrambled to turn off the shower, but not before they were completely drenched. If Flack had thought it had been hard dealing with a slippery-when-wet Stella, he soon learned it was virtually impossible with a “soapy-slippery-and-wet” one. The end result of the mad dash to stop the water assault was catastrophic.

On second thought…

By the time they were done struggling, twisting and slipping, their bodies had changed the way they had been originally aligned. Stella was, for lack of a better word, straddling him. And Flack had, instinctually I guess, placed his foot on each side of the door to stop their sliding out of the stall. Given his height and the available room inside the stall, his legs were flexed, thus effectively stopping Stella from getting washed out of there…

Which would have been great, except that now Stella was sitting right on top of his erection, and there was no way in Hell she didn’t know what, exactly, was underneath her. And if that wasn’t enough, Flack’s hands were splayed all over her ass, thus keeping her securely stationed… there.

But what closed the deal, as they say, was the fact that her breasts were now straining in front of his face, giving Flack a first-hand view of her nipples, puckered and hardened due to the temperature changes. He was close enough to be able to see the tiny veins tingeing her flesh… and that’s when he realized that the lights were back on.

He slowly lifted his head until his eyes met hers. Stella was still hanging from the water fixtures, which she had grabbed in an attempt to avoid further injury. But after the “danger” had passed, she realized where the real danger lay. Stella was certain that, if she let go of the faucets, she’d be, for all practical matters, dry humping Flack.

Although, given the circumstances, “dry” wasn’t that accurate. But you and her both got the idea, so she kept hanging for dear life, desperately trying to figure out a way to get up ASAP with minimum exposure , which, given the circumstances, was as possible as George Clooney dropping by for some threesome action.

All her thinking, however, evaporated as soon as Flack made eye contact with her. There was something highly erotic about watching those deep blue-green eyes glancing at her from between her breasts, probably because she could picture them looking at her from between her legs, and she had to bite her lower lip to suppress a moan. But not before Flack saw the look of pure lust on her face.

Later, much later, if they felt like rationalizing the whole thing, they would both agree that it was a series of… fortunate? unfortunate? events that were responsible for the whole thing. Flack looking up set Stella’s imagination running. In order to control her imagination, she bit her lips and closed her eyes. Watching Stella biting her lip was one of the sexiest sights Flack had seen. And since he didn’t want to think of Stella “that way”, he averted his gaze. Averting his gaze brought his attention back to her nipples.

And that’s when all got shot to Hell.

If asked under oath, Don Flack Jr. was willing to swear he opened his mouth to say her name. But Stella shifted her hips, oh-so-very-slightly, just then. And that, your Honor, is the reason why my mouth latched itself around her nipple. Not only latched, but sucked on, nibbled, licked… and when I was done with the right one, I subjected the left one to the same treatment…

Stella’s lip biting proved to be insufficient to suppress her moans. She let go of the faucets and placed her hands on his shoulders as he continued to feast on her breasts. She allowed her body to rest fully on top of his, enjoying the contact of his erection against her, and it wasn’t long before she decided that clothing between them both was not an option anymore.

Great minds think alike, and Flack had reached the same conclusion at about the same time. Mentally telling Stella’s breasts that he’ll be back later, as they still had plenty of things to “talk about”, he removed his hands (regretfully as well) from their current location and wrapped his arms them around her. Once he felt he had secured her, he pushed himself upward, to a sitting position.

“Flack? What…?”

Flack cut her question short by crushing his lips to hers. The voice of his conscience, his Jiminy Cricket so to speak, had been adamant he kept proper manners. Where had he learned that you first got acquainted with your lady’s chest and THEN you met her mouth? Flack could swear that somewhere inside his head he could hear his mother tsk-tsking, but since his mother’s voice was the last thing he had wanted to hear just then, he quickly proceeded to make amends. Thus, he began kissing Stella in hopes she wouldn’t mind the change in style.

Not that Stella was complaining, mind you. Quite the opposite, actually.

Stella Bonasera was no stranger to passion. Or sex. Or lust. And although love wasn’t that common on her list, she had managed to meet it once or twice in the past. But nothing she’d lived so far had prepared her for the turmoil of feelings Don Flack’s kisses were provoking inside her. Oh, but the man could kiss! For a fleeting second, she was filled with jealousy. Who had taught him to do that twirly thing his tongue was doing just now?

Stella had always been a very visual person, and she had never found it difficult to picture in her mind how a murder was committed, or how had a victim reacted. Same thing happened when it came to sex. If she saw a man she fancied she had no problem picturing him with her in bed: if he was dancing, she could imagine his hips moving as he thrusts into her; if he was eating, she would imagine how his mouth would work its way around her body.

What she’s having trouble with now is remembering how to breathe: her mind had no problem at all picturing the twirling tongue inside her mouth doing exactly the same thing on her clit… and the visuals are enough to push her to the point of no return. She needs to feel him inside her, she needs to feel him NOW, and Stella Bonasera is not a patient woman when it came to orgasms when she was worked up this badly.

Of course, there were myriad things she wanted to do to Don Flack Jr., and in myriad places far more comfortable than a shower stall badly illuminated by an emergency generator. But right now there was only one thing she wanted. Him. Inside of her.

Her hands left his shoulders and began working on his trousers. Two wrist flicks and the belt buckle was undone, a third one and the button was open. After that, sliding the zipper down was child’s play, and once that was done, her hand was inside his boxers, stroking, tempting, cajoling…

Not that Flack needed any of the abovementioned. He had been aroused since his libido had been kind enough to point out the fact that Stella was naked in the dark. And as Stella was visual, he was oral, and all the attention his mouth had been paying to her thus far had him almost fully erect.

“Lift yourself a bit”, he growled against her ear, and she was quick to comply.

As soon as he felt Stella rise up, he lifted his hips, grabbed both trousers and boxers, and pulled them down to his knees. He toed up his shoes and wiggled the rest of the clothing off. It took him left than a minute to be as naked as Stella, and it took her less than 10 seconds to impale herself on him once his hips were back on the ground.

“Fuck, Stella….”

“My thoughts, precisely...”

And that was the extent of their verbal communication. Their bodies, however, had plenty of things to say and were constantly figuring out new ways to tell them. His hands, mouth and teeth were busy working their magic on her neck, shoulders and nipples. Her nails were adamant on leaving permanent reminders of the things he was making her feel all over his shoulders, his back, his chest…

Their hips were tangled in a dance that, albeit not perfect as they still had to learn each other’s ebbs and flows, was synchronized enough to make the need for each other and for release almost turn into a living thing in its own.

The coupling was messy, rushed and lacked all sorts of finesse. It responded more to need than to love, but, fortunately for them both, they were both beyond the age of romantic notions regarding first-time lovemaking. The tenderness, the painstaking discovery of every inch of skin, of every pulse, of every nerve ending… that was put on hold for a later date. For the time being, they were both satisfied with the melding of mouths, the clumsy groping and the uneven thrusting.

But it worked. Flack felt the telltale signs of his impeding orgasm, and although he tried his best to delay it, he knew his best in this case wouldn’t be enough to allow Stella to catch up with him. He silently cursed his libido for getting the best of him and prepared for the unavoidable, wondering how he’d ever make it up to Stella. She was going to think he was some inexperienced geek, a perennial horny teen… Don Flack might not be the biggest Casanova in the force, but he had been around enough to know that if there was something women hated with a passion was to be left hanging, all worked up, and not getting any sort of release.

He also knew what he could (should?) do in such cases, but he was also weary of trying it out. He had learned the hard way that not every woman liked this kind of help, so he debated a couple of nano-seconds. In the end, he decided to give it a shot. Knowing Stella, the worst that could happen would be trying to live down the embarrassment of her chiding him for doing it. Having made up his mind, Flack allowed his hands to slide downwards…

Maybe it was her scream in his ear. Maybe it was the fact that after deafening him for the rest of the week, she bit down on his shoulder… hard. Maybe it was the way she went feral on him and clawed his sides until he bled. Or maybe it was the way her inner muscles had clamped down on him like a vice. Maybe it was all of the above. Whatever the reason, Flack was sure they had both experienced one hell of an orgasm, worthy of registering on the Richter Scale, one his battered and bruised body (head bump included, as his head had smacked against the wall in the throes of passion) was more than eager to repeat on a regular basis.

It took all of Stella’s strength not to slump down on him afterwards. She was more than used to having a couple of orgasm whenever she indulged in sex (more often by herself than when in company, but she wasn’t one to keep score), but she could not recall having TWO almost simultaneously. As soon as her mind was back to working order, she made up her mind about a couple of things. For starters, she was officially jealous beyond reason of every other woman who had been in Flack’s life. Secondly, there was no way in hell she was NOT going to have a second serving of whatever it was Flack had done to her. And a third. And a … hell, she wanted the recipe AND the cook kept in her own safe under triple lock and 15 laser beams. And lastly… she didn’t want to think of the last one, but she knew it wouldn’t be long before someone came looking for them, and as much as she cherished the idea, it wouldn’t do either their jobs any good to be found naked and still high on sex.

“We have to…”

“Get dressed, I know. I’ll go get us something.”

By the time he returned with them, he was dressed in sweats and was handing her some as well. Flack left the bathroom and Stella was thankful for allowing her some modesty after what had happened and felt something akin to a warm spot in the vicinity of her heart.

The warm spot, however, soon turned to cold dread, as she realized he had left the floor altogether without waiting for her. The rest of the day was spent re-telling her ordeal (the PG version of it) and listening to everybody else’s experiences in the dark. She kept an eye on Flack, but he was doing a great job at keeping as far away as possible. Stella managed to get a few moments to herself in the office, and hid her face in her hands, all the whilst berating herself for allowing something like this happen. “It was a stupid thing to do. Stupid! Now everything is fucked up…”

The rest of the shift dragged on and by the time she was ready to go home, sorrow had found a nice niche inside of her heart. As she walked towards her car in the nearly deserted parking lot she took out her cell phone and debated whether or not to call him. Would it be best to try and clear the air and salvage whatever possible from their friendship and their work relationship? Or would it be better to sweep the whole thing under the rug and never ever bring it up again?

The whole HIV ordeal had taught her something she hadn’t known about herself: she didn’t handle wondering very well. Maybe it was middle age settling in, maybe it was that she was more aware of her own mortality, or maybe it was all a load of bullshit, but Stella didn’t have the patience to deal with uncertainty anymore. She opened her cell and hit speed dial 3. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard a phone go off barely 2 feet behind her. Swiftly turning around, she found herself staring right into Flack’s face. Her heart missed a beat at the memories those eyes of his evoked, and her mouth went dry when she saw the determined look in his face, his jaw set, his hands clenched…

Before Stella had a chance to speak, she was back in his arms again, her face covered in kissed, her hair getting messed by his hands tangling here and there. After what seemed a joyous eternity, he allowed her some breathing room.

“I can’t” he stated simply.

Stella panicked. “C-can’t?” she stammered.

“I can’t stay away. I can’t get you out of my head. I can’t get enough of your kisses. I can’t deny what I feel for you anymore. I can’t stand your not being in my arms. I can’t stand not being inside of you a moment longer. I can’t stand not knowing if you’re going to want me in your bed forever or if you want me out of your life for good. Take your pick. And if you don’t like any of those, there’s a whole lot more where those came from…”

Stella took a step back and carefully studied the man in front of her. It was madness what he was proposing, but she’d rather be mad next to him than live sane without him. Right there in his eyes, those eyes that had driven her crazy, there was the answer she had been looking for, and she wondered why it had taken her so long to reach it. And now that she’d made up her mind, everything just felt so… right.

“Flack… I think you need a shower… at my place…”

The End

foxdvd68 @ 2007-08-14T19:33:00

2007-08-15T00:34:51Z

A S N O T S E E N I N:
T H E S E R I E S

AUTHOR: foxdvd
RATING: PG-15
SPOILERS: Season One
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Fox own them. I just get... creative... with them from time to time.
SUMMARY: 22 drabbles, one for each episode of the first season. What was going on in thier minds as they spoke their lines, some scenes that surely got deleted during editing... the works.

PILOT: ON AUTO-PILOT

“I thought I would find you here.”

Temperance Brennan didn’t turn around at the sound of his voice. In fact, she didn’t give any indication that he had startled her by finding her at the firing range. He was sure she wanted to channel her frustration with the whole damn thing in a way that wouldn’t get either of them in jail or fired, but sneaking out in the middle of an investigation to shoot at some paper dummies just didn’t seem like an acceptable “cool off” technique for a squint.

“You being a god shot and doing martial arts it’s all your way of dealing. Who knows better than you how fragile life can be?”

Seeley Booth saw her shoulders square a bit. So he had hit a nerve after all. Dr.Brennan wasn’t as uncaring as she wanted to make the world believe.

“Maybe an Army Ranger sniper who became an FBI homicide investigator?”

Touche. She was good. He’d give her that much.

“Ah, you looked me up, huh?”

That’s it boy. State the obvious and stall. Let’s see what she comes up with.

“Mm-hmm.”

Damn woman! Looking for a distraction, his sight falls upon the guns set before him and he seizes them as a way out.

“Do you mind?”
“Be my guest.”
“Thank you.”

What is it about this woman, anyway? What exactly about her pisses him off so badly? Her intelligence? Not really, his own mother was a college teacher; most of the times he actually admired smart females. Her looks? Although he’d be one of the first to admit that Brennan was one hot squint, Booth had seduced plenty of women, two models included, so no, he wasn’t taken aback by her looks.

Maybe it was her unnerving and irrational stubborn streak that got him... damn! He had aimed to miss, but he didn’t intend to make such a lousy shot. That woman really got to him, but damn him if he was going to let her know that...

And then he heard her chuckle.

“Were you any good at being a sniper?”

That did it. He swore he was going to make her break. She was an utter shrew and he was going to tame her, even if it was the last thing he did. Bad ass cop attitude oozing sex appeal was his weapon of choice. He turned his body, leaving her trapped between him and the wall partition. Physically, he had the upper hand, and he didn’t plan on loosing it.

“Snipers get to know a little something about killers. Senator Bethlehem, he’s no killer...”
“Oh, and Oliver Laurier is?”

Nice and easy. Get her worked up about the case. Keep it rational...

“The way I read Laurier, he’s unhinged. That makes him dangerous.”
“That’d be your gut telling you that, correct?”

Yeah. And you know what else his gut is telling him right now? That if her gut instinct was any good she’d have realized by now that HE is dangerous to her. But since she seems to believe she got all her facts right...

“You know, homicides, they’re not solved by scientists. They are solved by guys like me asking a thousand questions a thousand times, catching people telling lies every time...”

He places his hand next to her face and leans forward, invading her personal space. He notices her breathing has become slightly more audible, and he licks his lips out of nervousness. The movement caught her attention, and she shifts her gaze from his eyes to his mouth and back again.

And that was all it took. His gut told him to go for it, so in a flash he had leaned forward and captured her lips with his, in a kiss that was more savage than tender, more territory staking than seductive, and hotter and needier than he had meant it to be.

He moved back almost as quickly as he had dived in, slightly panting, his whole body tingling in arousal by the experience.

“You’re great at what you do, Bones, but you don’t solve murders. Cops do.”

He stood there watching her, half-expecting to be slapped pr kicked in the groin for his behaviour. He even put his hand down next to the gun, out of survival instinct and reflex, in case she’d go for it and shoot him. But when she did finally react, it wasn’t what he expected.

“Cleo Ellen was killed on a cement floor sprinkled with diatomaceous earth. Traces of her blood will still be in that cement. One of us is wrong, maybe both of us. But if Betlehem wasn’t a Senator, you’d be right there in his basement looking for that cement floor.”

She took a step forward, coming in contact with his body.

“You’re afraid of him.”

She grabbed on to his tie and pulled him down until they were face to face.

“You’re afraid of me.”

Still holding on to his tie, she softly moved her lips on his.

“Your hypothesis is that squints don’t solve murders and cops do...”

Her tongue was tracing the outline of his lips. Booth felt his self-control slipping.

“Prove it. Be a cop.”

And with that, she released his tie, took a step back and left the firing range.

Booth grabbed the gun in an effort to keep it together, but it was more than he could handle. Turning around, he fired two shots, effectively putting both through the figure’s brain. The darn woman was even better than what he had expected, and she had played him for all he was worth.

Booth acknowledged the fact that Dr.Temperance Brennan could very well crawl under his skin and into his heart before he could do anything to prevent it, and that put him in an awful mood.

Acknowledging was not equal to liking, and he’d better shape up and put his hear on auto-pilot before it was too late.

THE MAN IN THE S.U.V. - POSITING SCENARIOS

“What is so funny?”

Seeley Booth had a sense of humour as good as anyone else; he just didn’t understand what on Earth could Temperance Brennan find so amusing about him.

“I just never figured you’d be in a relationship.”

No why wouldn’t she? He wouldn’t go as far as calling himself the best looking man on this side of the Atlantic, but he certainly wasn’t the long lost twin brother of the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

“Why? Do you think something’s wrong with me?”

Please, please, please. Tell me that you find me somewhat attractive. Tell me that I plague your sex fantasies at least once a week...

“Not wrong. You just have alpha male attributes usually associated with a solitary existence.”

Woo-hoo! Alpha-male, huh? That sounds very macho to me. Wait a second... watcha mean, solitary?

“Me? You’re solitary!”

“No, no. I’m private. It’s different. We weren’t talking about me.”

“Well, I was..”

And I plan on keep this conversation there. On you, I mean. Cause I feel like invading your privacy.

“Look, I’m happy for you. Relationships have anthropological meaning. No society can survive if sexual bonds aren’t forged...”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Oh, I know what the hell you’re talking about. I’m just not going THERE with you. Not yet, anyway. We’ll be talking sex one of these days, I swear, but damned if you’re going to be discussing anthropological mumbo jumble when we do. And society and its bonds can kiss my ass...

Luckily for me, Santana comes in the room demanding answers and I can focus on the case and not in my partner. I’m not out of the wood, though. Far from it. But I’m safe for the time being.

Xxx XXX xxX

“How about this? Sahar wants out of the marriage, Hamid refuses. So Sahar poisons him so she can run off with Ladjavardi.”

Although I wasn’t exactly thrilled with this scenario, it was the only plot I could come up with that involved the widow and sounded pretty plausible.

“It doesn’t make sense”

Then again..

“When someone dies, the first suspect is the spouse”

That was proven statistic, backed up with hard facts and sound research. I wanted to see her weasel her way out of that one!

“Well, what about Hamid’s brother? Did she poison him too?”

Darn Bones! Did she always have to have the last word?

“Why not? You know he’s pushing his nose into the marriage. Suddenly Sahar is facing, you know, a devout Muslim and a fundamentalist Christian, and nobody allows divorce, and she’s pushed to murder”

See? I’m not the only one who knows religions around here. I’m much more than a handsome face and a steady pulse, Bones. I know plenty of things, too. Maybe not too scientific stuff, but enough to get by.

“That eschews logic”

Eschew. Who on Earth uses such word in a normal conversation? Oh, wait. This isn’t a normal conversation. This is Bones I’m talking with. Nothing normal about it. Never.

“Aw, come on, Bones, just work with me here, all right? It’s what we in the law enforcement call positing a scenario. And don’t use the word “eschew”..”

People might not know what it means.

“Ok.. what if Tessa and you were going to break up, but you didn’t want to?”

What the...

“Which I don’t...”

Why do I have to defend my relationship to you, of all people? It’s not like I’m pleased that you found out I’m involved with someone, as you strike me as the type that don’t condone bigamy easily. Call me a dog, if you want, but I would consider going out with you despite Tessa.

“Well, I’m positing a scenario. Tessa wants to break up, and you don’t. So she poisons you...”
“No, no, no...”

Now you’re using my own words against me? And why would Tessa want to break up with me in the first place, let alone poison me? It’s not as if we’re in a committed relationship. Or that she knows I have this disturbing ideas about you...

“And then, just to make sure, she blows you up with a bomb.”

And then steal my remains from your office and make some sort of stew with them?

“Why would Tessa do that?”

Please, explain how this crazy theory of you explains itself? It makes absolutely no sense!

“Exactly. Thank you”

I’ve just been had. By a squint, no less. And she didn’t use one single multisyllabic word to do so. I’m screwed. I’m screwed real bad if I didn’t see this one coming.

“See? Tessa and I, that’s a bad example..”

Back pedal and divert. Get this conversation away from my relationship and pretend she just didn’t drill a hole the size of Texas in your theory and your ego.

“You’re a couple in love, right?”

Is she stubborn or what?

“Why do you keep bringing up Tessa? I mean, why? What’s the big deal? Is it so odd for you that I have someone in my life?”

There. Turned the tables on you. Now you’ll have to ‘fess up to this... unhealthy fixation you seem to have on my love life. Unless, of course, you’re actually interested in me, which would explain many things.

“We were talking about couples, it’s a natural segway..”

Running away, Dr. Brennan?

“All right, you have to quit using the words “segway” and “eschew”, all right? Th-they sound French...”

Actually, they don’t sound French. They sound terribly arousing. They make me want to wipe them off you with my lips. They make my tongue want to delve deep into your mouth looking for them.

“Keep changing the subject. I get it. You’re sensitive about you and Tessa”

“I” am changing the subject? And you bet I’m sensitive about the issue. But you don’t “get” it, Bones. Not by a long shot.

“Why aren’t we talking about you and your boyfriend?”

I’m not being defensive. And, in all fairness, since you are aware of my love life status, the least you could do is level with me and let me know yours.

“I don’t have a boyfriend”

Thank you, God...

“You said that as thought it’s a good thing. And you know what? It’s a very, very sad comment on your personal life.”

Well, maybe it is a good thing. For me, anyway. But it’s still something slightly disturbing that you find such joy at being single. I mean, how bad could your past relationships be that you find singledom actually a joyful state?

“Look, you’re angry again..”

I’m not angry, Bones. I’m just pretending to be angry so we’ll stop having this conversation. Not because I don’t like talking to you. But because I don’t like what talking to you on this particular subject does to me.

I’m not a womanizer. I’m not a cheating lying bastard, either. When I kissed you at the firing range, Tessa was the farthest thing in my mind, and I don’t like that. She doesn’t deserve it. She doesn’t deserve the fact that lately it’s you in my mind and not her when we’re having sex. But I can’t quite bring myself to break it up with her.

So I’ll play dumb for a while and allow her to keep her dignity and tell me to go to hell. And until that happens, I don’t want you and me talking sex, or relationships, or anything else that gives me naughty ideas. At least when you are around.

When I’m by myself I’ll be more than happy to “positing scenarios” about us.

A BOY IN THE TREE - FINDING THE TRUTH

“So let me just get this right. I’m the tactless and insensitive one?”

Bones must think I’m completely nuts, and I’m not entirely sure she’s totally mistaken. This case has been rubbing me the wrong way ever since Cullen shoved it down my throat and my patience is running on a shorter fuse than usual.

“The girl lied to a federal agent during the investigation of the death of the boy whom she said she loves. You know what? These kids, they all lie. That school teaches them that they’re special, that they’re above the rest of us. Well, they’re not.”

Whoa! Easy there. Where is all this crap coming from? I have nothing against private prep schools. A good amount of my friends and coworkers attended one. Even Tessa managed to weasel her way into one. Hell, even I managed to attend one. At least, until the scholarship ran out and the headmaster kicked me out. He had been dying to do it since day one. He wasted no opportunity telling me I didn’t belong there.

And he was right. I wasn’t a spoilt rich kid. I have worked since I was 14, trying to help my parents by becoming a little less dependant, at least economically speaking. School holidays didn’t spell Vail, or St. Thomas or Cancun for me. They spelt long days working at Uncle Ben’s restaurant, or helping out at Dad’s bakery.

All in all, it was for the best. I did another year in the public system and then enrolled in the Army. They never complained about having middle class hard-workers on board. And they made me who I am today.

“You’re the least subjective person I’ve ever met”

Subjective is the opposite of objective, right. Therefore, if I’m the least subjective that means I’m the most objective person she’s ever met. Coming from a scientist, that’s one hell of a compliment.

“Thank you”
“It’s not a compliment”

Then again, maybe not. Why can’t she see that things are all wrong in this picture?

“Aw, come on, Bones, you know something’s wrong here, right? The school, the tapes. Now Sheriff Roach...”

Whom, by the way, should be here any minute now, so we better wrap this up before she gets here and catches us in the middle of an absurd argument.
“All this mess you’re uncovering, it smells, yes, but it doesn’t add up to murder, not logically”

You and your darn logic, Bones! When will you trust my gut instinct? Or develop yours, by the way?

“Maye if you looked for more than the facts, you'd be able to see the big picture”

Like how this case is getting to me, Like how you and the squints make me feel like an inadequate brute half the time. Like how I’m beginning to wonder if we stand a chance of something less professional. Like how you are making me question my relationship with Tessa. All those are part of the big picture, but your fucking logic will never allow you to just FEEL things...

“Maybe if you opened your mind we could find the actual truth”

HA! I doubt it, Bones. I seriously doubt it. To quote my favourite TV Febee, “the truth is out there”. I don’t need to open my mind. I need to follow my gut and then I’ll figure out what the actual truth is.

On the other hand Bones, you don’t want me opening my mind. It just gives me more room to think about you. You want me dealing with facts? Sure! Let’s talk facts: I kissed you and I liked it. I more than liked it. I want to kiss you again. Right now seems like a good time, too...

Damn Karen! You’re half an hour late! Couldn’t you have been late for another 15 minutes? Why the hell did you have to show up just now???

THE MAN IN THE BEAR - CUTTING IN

“Mind if I cut in? I thought you might need a break”

And maybe you didn’t really need it, but I definitively did. There’s a limit for guy’s tolerance of other males circling their girl. And out here in the grand state of Washington, you are MY girl. No way I’m letting a bunch of sex starved idiots anywhere near you.

“What happened to your shirt?

Oh... so... you noticed. That means the old Seeley charm is working op on you, huh? You’re starting to notice the little things...

“Well, we’re in a bar. It’s a look.”

It’s called the “Smooth Booth look”. I won’t wear it for anyone, mind you. It’s reserve for those gals I work with when I want them to think of me outside professional parameters.

“Everybody’s pumping me...”

What the..???

“Sorry?”

Please tell me you didn’t mean it the way you made it sound, please...

“For information on the case.”

Oh... that kind of pumping.

“Bones, they’re only pretending to be interested in the case.”

Like I’m pretending to be fascinated by all that forensic mumble jumble you and the squints spew at light speed.

“Why?”

Why? Why? My god, Bones, you really have no idea, do you? You’re smoking hot and any guy in their right mind would be willing to try anything just for the chance of a date with you. Take me, for example. I’m risking maim and permanent injury every time I invade your personal space, and yet I’m addicted to it.

“They’re hitting on you.”

And they’re this close to getting their asses kicked. The testosterone is so thick we could cut it with a knife. WE all know what we are doing, even if you don’t have a clue. It’s a pissing contest with you as the main prize, and damned if I’m goign to let any of them take you away from me. I’m the male alpha here, whether they like it or not.

“Are you sure?”

That they want to bed you? Yeah. That I want to bed you? Hell, yeah! I’m sure. I’m definitively sure.

“Yeah, I’m sure. You’re the hottest thing this town has seen in a long time.”

Oh shit. I did mean that, but I didn’t mean for it to come out sounding so... blunt. Quick, Seeley, think!

“Check out the competition.”

I dip her backwards so she can take a good look at the vet sitting at the bar, slowly but surely getting trashed. And while you check her out, I’ll check you out. Man I love your cleavage! I could get lost in it...

“Now THAT is someone who wants to eat your heart.”

And if you look to the other side of the bar, you’ll see three guys wanting to eat MY heart out. Well, guess what, jerks? YOU are the ones who are gonna eat your hearts out, cause Bones walking out of this bar and out of this state with me. Take that, morons...

CSI NY FANFICTION

2007-08-14T22:10:00Z

B E S T E A T E N C O L D

AUTHOR: foxdvd
RATING: PG - 15
SPOILERS: All 3 seasons general knowledge
DISCLAIMERS: If they were really mind, you'd seen this last season. Since you didn't, well, that means they don't belong to me, doesn't it?

SUMMARY: It all began when Lindsay and I overheard this bimbo from accounting telling her friends how she was planning to bed Danny after the fund raiser party, and she went on saying how Linds wasn’t any competition whatsoever, so… you see… we HAD to do something about it. Really...

“It all began when Lindsay and I overheard this bimbo from accounting telling her friends how she was planning to bed Danny after the fund raiser party, and she went on saying how Linds wasn’t any competition whatsoever, so… you see… we HAD to do something about it. Really.”

“Really?”

“Honest to God. Why don’t you believe me? Everyone else seems happy with the story and the outcome…”

“Everyone else doesn’t know you as well as I do. So… spill”

She lets out a sigh, defeated. “Oh, all right. If you really want to know. It all began about 4 days ago when Linds and I had stopped at the ladies washroom on the 4th floor right after the budget meeting….”

FOUR DAYS EARLIER:

“So, anyway. I got the dress. I mean, it’s like, totally awesome. Makes me look smokin’ hot. Really. Like, this cute guy that was outside the dressing rooms, like, waiting for his girl, he was so totally checking me out. Like, offering to help me with the zipper and stuff…”

“And did ya like, hook up with him, I mean?”

“Eww, gross. As if! Totally not cool. I got that dress for someone else, like, to get him eating off my hands, really…”

Stella Bonasera almost had it with this “Britney-meets-Paris” dialogue and was about to leave the bathroom stall when she heard a familiar name and decided to endure them a bit longer to find out what they had in mind. It wasn’t gossiping… it was looking out for one of her own.

“So, anyway, about Friday, are you like, really going to the fund raiser. Bo-o-ring.”

“Donnie Flack is going”

“What-ever. He’s like… old. And he doesn’t have a car. And he ain’t that hot”

“You’re so absofuckinglutely outta your mind! And I really, really, like, need you to come with me. I don’t wanna to arrive alone. So please?”

“Yeach… you’ve like, totally lost it. I mean like, totally spaced out. I could get ya coming to nail Donnie, but coming to get Messer? He’s, like, mayor geek.”

“Duh… whatever. He’s got this cute ass and you know how the secretaries down at the precinct say he’s like, hot in bed. Fuckin’ A+ fuck. And he’s so gonna be mine come Friday…”

“Newsflash! He’ll be coming with the other CSI girl, you know, country mouse?”

“Hello? Eww… as if! Once he sees me wearing this dress, she’ll be like… gone. Really. So please? Pretty please? I’ll hook ya up with Donnie so you don’t have to go home alone…”

The rest of the conversation was cut short by the bathroom door closing behind the two girls, who seemingly had the evening all planned out already. Stella felt a mix of sadness and revolt. They couldn’t be older than 25 and they were still behaving like teens, relying solely on their looks and sexuality to get them what they wanted. Stella couldn’t help but shudder. She knew both Danny and Don were beyond those kinds of games already. But, they were also male, young, single, and by the time these girls put the moves on them, they’d probably be drunk enough to go for it.

She heard a bathroom stall open behind her. “Hey, Linds, do you think we should….”

The next words died on her lips when she realized it wasn’t Lindsay, but Emma Lou Stevens, who had come out of the stall and was now at the sinks washing her hands.

“Emma Lou”

“Stella”

Both women took their time getting ready to leave.

“Kids these days”, Emma Lou commented, pleasantly, “But, then again, you and I weren’t so different back in our days, weren’t we?” Stella shrugged her shoulders, noncommittally. “But they’re right, you know. That girl from the country? She’s nice but average. A bit on the blah side, really. And I’m assuming dear Danny boy hasn’t changed a bit. He’s still a tits-n-arse guy, isn’t he? Surely this girl must know she’s aiming too high above her range, right?”

Stella was biting her lips and clutching her briefcase, barely holding her composure. She had already counted to 10 and backwards, both in English and in Greek, and she was loosing the battle with her temper. God knew the last thing she needed was a confrontation with Emma Lou, not after what had happened a couple of years ago, which had kept Stella a household name in the office gossip mill for quite some time. She decided that ignoring Emma Lou was probably the best course of action given the circumstances.

“As for this… Donnie Flack… if he’s half as good looking as his dad once was, he must be a real heartthrob. Oh! I’m so sorry Stell… here I am talking about things that, clearly, you know more about that I do. ” Emma Lou put her lipstick back into her purse and headed for the door, and then added, as if an afterthought, “But, then again, you always liked younger guys. And if Danny hasn’t changed, why should you?”

And with that, she was gone.

Stella threw her briefcase at the mirror and cursed in every language she knew. Emma Lou still knew how to push her buttons, and that made her more angry than the witch’s insinuation. Oh, how she hated her! She wanted nothing more than to be able to wipe that smug grin from Emma Lou’s face…

Then she heard a noise coming form the last stall in the bathroom and she froze. She prayed with all her might that it wasn’t Lt. Tenorio in there. God knew she’d made a fool of herself in front of her boss’s boss more times than she cared to remember… including that little scene with Emma Lou at the Millennia fundraiser.

But the door opened, and she came face to face with a clearly upset Lindsay Monroe, and Stella felt a pinch of pity for the woman in front of her. She wished Lindsay hadn’t had to hear any of the things the damn bitches from the administrative area were saying about the CSIs. But, no such luck.

Lindsay smiled at Stella, not feeling an ounce of it, and headed for the sinks, where she stood contemplating her reflection on the mirror. She turned sideways, tucked her tummy in, and gave her figure a critical once over. “Clearly, not much of a figure there”, she muttered, more to herself than to Stella.

And that was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. Or Stella’s level of bullshit acceptance.

“The way I see it Linds, we got two choices. WE can pretend none of this ever happened, go back to our happy lil CSI’s existence, attend the fund raiser Friday wearing the first thing we find in our closet that resembles formal attire, smile placidly and watch from the sidelines how a couple of bimbos snag our boys form under our noses…”

“Or?”

“Or we could go shopping as soon as we’re done with the budget meeting”

Lindsay’s eyes grew bigger as understanding made a way through her brain.

“And I don’t know about you, honey, but I got a couple of credit cards in dire need of severe retail damage”

TBC...

Mac Taylor could brag about his knowledge in many areas. But he would never, ever, plead to understanding the way females behaved. Or thought. He had learned, the hard way, that it was best not to try and guess what was going on behind a woman’s apparently calm features.

Take Lindsay, for example. She seemed to be going through a whole plethora of emotions right then. She seemed giddy one second and remorseful the next. She smiled as if she had this great secret about to burst form her chest, and then cringe and recoil and avoid all kind of interaction with the rest of them. Then she’d get this… daring… expression on her face, like she was determined to go to the ends of the world to accomplish… whatever it was on her mind, only to be replaced with a pensive look, lower lip gnawed included. And all this in the span of 7 minutes. And the cycle started again…

Stella wasn’t any better. She was always the perfect choice for meeting attendant. She could plaster this Madonna-like beatifical smile on her face, nod warmly to everyone around her, and ask interesting and well-timed questions, no matter how boring the meeting was. Mac had asked her once how she managed to do that, and she claimed the secret of survival was picturing herself in a virginal island in South Pacific with a Clive Owen/Colin Firth clone who would… Mac had gotten the picture. He had even tried it once, but decided neither Brit was his type anyway. But if it worked for Stella…

Which, apparently, wasn’t happening now. She had been taking notes, chewing on the pen top, crossing things out, adding new things, thinking about it, whatever IT was, once more, writing some more… Only when she seemed pleased with her list did she recap the pen. And then the watch watching began. Stella had looked at her watch at least 17 times in the past 25 minutes or so. And she looked impatient, with capital I. Risking a glance downwards, Mac could corroborate his initial suspicions: Stella was tapping her feet, raring to go. But… go where?

“So this brings us to the end of the meeting. I’d like to th…”

“Perfect!”

Stella jumped of her chair, grabbed her purse and Lindsay in one swift move and headed for the elevator as fast as her long legs could propel her. She threw a “we’ll see you tomorrow” at Mac when he stood out of their way to avoid being trampled over by them and was gone without even hearing his reply.

“What was that?” Hawkes asked, standing next to Mac at the doorway.

“Hell if I know.” Said Mac, “But Heaven helps us when we get to find out”

Xxx XXX xxX

Lindsay was too overwhelmed to speak until she found herself sitting next to Stella on a cab.

“Where are we going?” She inquired at last, fearing the answer.

“Shopping.”

“I kinda got that, Stell. The question is… where?”

“Wait till we’re there. You’re going to love Stevie. He’s the best dress designer in all Broadway”

“What?” Lindsay let out a yelp. “Stell, wait… I can’t afford to pay that! Retail, maybe... and that would mean a full fortnight of hotdogs morning, noon and night!”

“Shush, shush, shush. Not another word until you see where we are going. And then we’ll talk budget, k?”

Lindsay agreed. Not that she had other options. So she tried to calm herself by looking out the window. Since she was expecting to arrive to a full attelier, Pairs style, in Upper Manhattan, she was quite shocked to discover their ride pulling into an alley and stopping in front of a back entrance door. Half hoping this was a mistake, reality crashed down when she saw Stella bursting out of the cab and nearly hauling her alongside.

“And... uh.. this is... it?”

Stella looked at the young woman with warmth in her heart. She could still remember her first years at the force, the akwardness, the uncertanty. The not knowing how to go about getting the guy you want to get so badly. Oh yes. Stella remembered all too well. Except that, back then, the only person who could have helped her had actually stabbed her in the back the moment Stella had let her guard down.

Some things never change. The rookie and the senior agent. The office romance. The budget stretching. But Stella was was gonna make damn sure that the betrayal cycle would not be repeated here.

“This, Detective Monroe, is the door covering the entrance to the White Rabbit’s hole.”

And opening the door with a grand gesture, Stella stood aside, extending her inviting arm towards the entrance.

“Shall we?”

TBC...

“So you basically walked out of a budget meeting to go shopping?”

Stella rolled her eyes. “So typically male”, she thought.

“It wasn’t just any shopping. Come one, you saw Lindsay. Do you really think she had that dress hanging in the back of her closet? That wasn’t a dress, that was perfection!”

“Remind me again what colour was it”

“Oh you!” Stella slapped him not-so-playfully, “You’re impossible!”

“You’re asking the wrong man about that dress. Yours, however, I remember perfectly...”

Xxx XXX xxX

Stella Bonasera felt so giddy she was about to burst giggling. And that would probably scare Lindsay. And the last thing she needed right now, was scaring Lindsay off, not when she was about to let the young woman in one of the best kept secrets of the city.

And what a secret Stefen Van Holdestein was! Stella had met him some 10 years ago, while working on a case, and had quickly becomed hooked. Monetarily speaking, she wasn’t his greatest fan, not even close, but she made sure she visited him at least once a month. She was sworn to secrecy, as well, and had only introduced another woman before Linds that day. Stella allowed herself a moment of sorrow to go alongside with the memory of Claire Taylor.

Lindsay, on the other hand, was considering if she ought to take this step or not. Although maybe “step” wasn’t the right choice of word. This was more like a leap of faith. Lindsay felt that, somehow, once she had gone through those silky panels hanging behind the opened door, things would never be the same. SHE would never feel the same.

And suddendly she felt like she was 10 again. 10 years old and spending the week before Christmas with his aunt Mary in Chicago. 10 years old, and standing outside the biggest toy shop she had ever seen in her entire life. The shop was about to open, and she was standing first in line to get inside, and Aunt Mary had promised to get her anything she wanted and...

Lindsay had never been the same after that trip. The change had nothing to do with the stuffed lilac pony she ended up getting, but rather with the notion that she could have more than she had then. Maybe not just “have” but “be” more. She had realized that there was more to life than her comfy life in Montana, and somewhere deep inside, she had made up her mind: she’d someday live in a big city like Chicago.

Or New York, for that matter.

“Lindsay? You coming?”

Stella’s voice seemed to snap her out of her reverie. She lifted her hand and touched the soft fabric which was hiding who knew what secrets behind it. She had a momentary flahsback, finding herself once more in front of the toy shop doors, watching the employees remove the paddles and finally opening them, and that was all it took. She had made up her mind without even noticing she had done so.

And THAT made her feel both thrilled and scared to death. But damned if she was taking a step back!

“After you , Alice.”

TBC...

Behind the gossamer curtains of the entrance, here lay a hall, barely lit, comfortable rather than eerie lighting coming from tiny spots along the hall’s walls. From beyond, music could be heard. Lindsay thought she recognized what was being played, but she couldn’t go beyond telling it was a catchy rhythm… a happy rhythm.

Stella walked past her, opened the door at the end of the hall and ushered them both in. Lindsay wasn’t really sure what she was expecting to find... but it certainly wasn’t what she was looking at.

This wasn’t a shop. At least, not a shop like she knew them. It looked more like a… like a… “toy store” whispered her excited 10 year old self in the back of her mind. And it was probably right. All over the multicolored room were mannequins dressed in different fabrics. Vanity tables, mirrors, sofas, cushioned chairs were scattered here and there. And, above all, dresses. Dresses everywhere. Seemingly tossed about randomly, but carefully positioned so anyone coming through that door could see them all. Not take them all in, for that was impossible. Even the most un-chic geek in New York wouldn’t have been able to feel excited about this store. Lindsay wasn’t an un-chic geek, but the closest she had been to fashion, real fashion, were the spreads at Vogue magazine she liked to leaf through whilst drinking tea at the corner coffee shop.

Only then did she notice the man working on a mannequin at the corner of the room. Tall and broad shouldered, he almost seemed too rough to be doing the delicate labor he was engrossed on when they came in, namely, embroidering. “That man in hand-embroidering a dress”, thought Lindsay in awe, “there’s no way in hell I’m gonna be able to afford this!”

Just then, the man in question decided to turn around and find out who had barged into his domains. His face broke into a huge smile when he saw Stella, bouncing towards him.

“Bebe!” he exclaimed, dropping his sewing to the side and taking three strides to grab her in his arms, loudly kissing both cheeks and hugging her tight.

“Stefie, darling!” was Stella’s equally buoyant response. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything…”

“You, bebe, never interrupt me. I was already wondering when you’ll be showing those bouncy tits of yours in here. And who, pray tell, is this deer-like creature you brought with you?” he asked, glancing towards Lindsay.

Stella promptly made the introductions. “Stef, this is my workmate, fellow CSI Lindsay Monroe. Linds, this is Stefen Van Holdestein, the best designer this side of the Bronx... and the other as well”.

They both shook hands and exchanged pleasantries, carefully eyeing one another. She with nervousness and trepidation, him with critical analysis.

“Well?” asked Stella, as if waiting for the designer to produce a verdict.

“Country girl. Cowgirl, too. She’ll do nicely in stilettos, Manolo’s if her ankles aren’t too thick for a strap, Jimmy’s is she’d rather do pumps… got the perfect fucking pair done in Swarovski somewhere around here. She’s got tits and gravity has been kind to her so far. She’s got arse, too, but Lord knows she hasn’t got a clue as to what to do with them. She probably got these athletic arms, not too defined as to ruin the look, but nice and plump enough as to not worry about sleeves as cover up. Her face will look too harsh if we put her in one of those dramatic tones you so much adore.” Stefen finished his report and looked back at Stella. “Happy now, bebe?”

“Oh Stefie, I KNEW I was right when I decided to bring her here!”

“Excuse me…”

“But you, bebe, should also know better than to barge on me without calling ahead. I’m willing to forgive you this time, but only cause I’m crazy about you”

“Have you decided on what I’ll be getting?”

“Excuse me…”

“That depends. I’m figuring it’s that yearly fund raiser thingy of yours... again. So what are we aiming for this year? Blend with the scenery, we’re so gonna fuck once we get out of here or listen bitch this male is mine?”

“EXCUSE ME!”

Lindsay felt a bit self-conscious when both of them stopped talking and looked at her questioningly. She hadn’t really meant to yell, but she was getting tired of being ignored. Not to mention she was still annoyed over Stefen’s reading on her.

“Yes, bebe, is there anything you’d like to share with us? And before you decide you want to rip my eyes out of my sockets I am, by no means, being patronizing. I have the feeling that my cheeky friend over here brought you to my boudoir without any proper explanation, didn’t she? In that case, bebe, my deepest apologies. I can understand how you feel.”

The designer looked truly remorseful and emphatic, and Lindsay felt her temper starting to drop.

Stefen turned to Stella. “You evil women, you. I ought to punish you and let you go dress-less for being so mean to your friend here.”

Stella raised her hands. “But sweetie, it would have ruined the whole effect if I had told her! Besides,” she added in a conciliatory tone, “you love showing off, don’t you?”

“Details, mere details”. Stefen waived her off and turned to Lindsay. “You see, bebe, I’m a CSI of sorts myself. I can tell plenty about people just by looking at how they are dressed. And once I’ve done that, I can “undress” them, so to speak, in order to find the perfect gown for them.”

Lindsay looked at him questioningly. She wasn’t all together sure she bought the whole theory, and the designer saw that as well, so he was quick to give her a more thorough explanation.

“Country girl… you know how to do the layering thing. And since you always prefer denims to any other kind, you are comfortable wearing them as a second skin. City girls wear them to call the attention, you wear them as a way of life and it shows. Cowboy girl… you should see yourself on those boots, bebe. Again, for you it’s a way of life, not a fashion statement. And you know how to work them, too!”

Lindsay analyzed his answers and came to the conclusion that his explanation was plausible. “But what about the rest? How do you know about… well… uh…?” She gestured toward her body. “The tits and arse thing?”

The man laughed out loud at her embarrassment. “Oh bebe, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel bad! AS I said before, I have a knack for “undressing” people from a distance; just by the way they carry themselves. Even if they are not flaunting their assets, I can always tell. You may be lacking in the height department, which you compensate nicely with those 3-inch you’re wearing by the way, but you definitively got shapes under all those layers. You may be petite, bebe, but you carry mighty assets.”

Lindsay turned towards Stella, who had been browsing about the store and already had a couple of dresses hanging from her arms. “Is he for real?”

“I’m 100 for real, bebe. I may be gay, but I ain’t stupid. You have no idea how to dress to showcase, as you’ve always dressed for working, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have what it takes. Take Stella, for example. She’s tall and slender, with a great upper-lower body proportion…”

Lindsay interrupted like an eager puppy. “Now you’re talking. Stella has a great body!”

Stefen laughed and patted her cheek. “Whatever she’s paying you, it ain’t enough bebe. As I was saying, she has a model body, but she hasn’t got a figure. She doesn’t have full tits, and rest assured J. Lo isn’t loosing any sleep over her. When it comes to junk in a trunk, Stella is more like a pizza delivery bike…”

“I love you too, you know”

“Bebe, if you wanted flattery you’d go someplace else. You come to me for the harsh truth and a way to work it, don’t you? So bugger off and lemme educate your friend here.”

Lindsay couldn’t help but laugh. Stella was pretending to be steaming over the comment, but her smile was broad and a happy one. Lindsay supposed that if Stella could take that kind of heat and not take offense, she might as well give this man a chance.

“But I’ve never walked on stilettos, and I could never ever in a million years afford Manolo Blahnik or Jimmy Choo shoes!”

Stefen looked at Lindsay, surprised, and then regaled her with a huge smile. “Oh, bebe! My country pumpkin has turned to Cinderella and gone to the palace once or twice. That’s wonderful. I don’t’ have to spell things out for you… much”

“Ouch…” Lindsay felt the barb.

Stella walked past her and gave her a reassuring pat on the back. “Tough love, remember? Take it as a CSI and he’ll turn you into a bombshell… guaranteed. He’s fooled everyone making ‘em think I had cleavage, hasn’t he?”

“Well… that he has. I think” Lindsay didn’t want to openly stare at Stella’s cleavage, but she was almost certain that she had some… well, almost being the operative word here.

“Enough chatting, bebes. Let’s get down and dirty here. What are we trying to achieve here?”

Before Linds could even think of how to answer that, Stella beat her to the punch line. “Me, I need a “take that, bitch” with plenty of “and you thought I’d lost it”. Her… I think a “what are you waiting to fuck me” will do, for starters.”

“Stella!!!”

The designer looked at Lindsay’s shocked, outraged expression and at Stella’s smirk, and smiled.

“Bebes, I think I have just what you need. Come this way, please.”

TBC...

Lindsay stared at Stella open mouthed. She couldnt bring herself to believe that she had said... what she had said. Whan on Earth was Stella thinking??? A “fuck me” type of dress? What would the NYPD department think? What would DANNY think, for that matter? And why the hell was she worried about Danny in the first place?

“Stel, I really don’t think...” Lindsay wasn’t really sure how to aproach the issue without making an utter fool of herself.

“Shhh... bebe... no thinking here. This isn’t about logic. It’s about feeling. Feeling good about yourself, feeling confident about how you look, feeling... “appreciated” by that special young man that keeps you awake at night.”

Lindsay opened her mouth and tried to deny everything. She slowly closed it. What was she going to deny? Any woman in her right man wants to look her absolute best and feel great about her accomplishing it. As for feeling appreciated... she refused to go THERE with Stef... specially in front of Stella. Although she was pretty sure Stella knew pretty much everything about her crush on Danny there was to know... and there was a good chance she understood it better than Lindsay herself did.

“Ok, bebes, now that we have that settled, let’s get down to our dirty business. Stel, bebe, I’ll start with you as I already know what’s best for you.” Noticing Lindsay’s slight out, the designer was quick to add, “And that way I’ll have some time to make up my mind as to which of the two dresses I have in mind for you will work best... fear nothing, bebe, he’ll never know what hit him.”

And without so much of a galnce directed her way, Stefen turned, grabbed Stella’s hand, and lead her to the left side of the room, leaving Lindsay open mouthed and shocked for the third time that day. The man was definitively setting some sort of new world record.

Stella looked back at Lindsay with a knowing smile. She had been the target of Stefen’s blunt, albeit charming, barbed darts more often than she cared to remember and she understood perfectly how the young woman was feeling right then and there, and Stella had to repress her motherly intincts and fight the urge to console her. She knew that, in the end. Lindsay would come to thank Stefen for all the pain he was inflicting upon her just then.

“Lindy, bebe, as you seem a really nice girl who can keep really really quiet I’m willing to let you watch. Take that chair over there and learn all you can”

Lindsay Monroe had sworn, some 20 years ago, that if someone ever called her any variation of herself outside Linds that person would face excruciating torture and permanent injury. And yet, here she was obeying a man who had dared call her a country pumpkin, a bebe AND Lindy. And all to get just a mere three square feet piece of fabric that had the power to change lives.

“Ok bebe… let’s get some things straight. You want a “take that bitch” kinda dress, right? Am I right to assume its the same bitch, the same playground, just a different date?” Stefen’s deep blue eyes seemed to pierce Stella, who only managed to nod. “Good, good. Hmmm... I know. The black one with rhinestones and a plunging neckline... No. Wait.” Stefen seemed to take a closer look at Stella, staring deep into her eyes as if he wanted to learn the deepest darkest secrets of her heart.

“I knew it! You wicked witch, when where you planning to tell me? How dare you keep something as juicy as that hidden from me??? Forget the black dress, that’s not good enough now...”

Stefen began moving dresses around in different racks, murmuring to himself, throwing dagger-like galnces at Stella. The later was looking slightly pleased with herself, and yet, she managed to look completely guilty and ashamed at the same time and she kept her eyes fixed on her hands.

Lindsay had watched the exchange with great curiosity. Stella Bonasera had a secret so dark and juicy it changed the whole perspective on her life? Lindsay wasn’t really sure what was goign on, but she bet that it was good gossip material... leverage, too, come to think of it.

“I should not give you this dress, bad woman. But you know I have a real soft spot for you. So in order for me to forgive you, you have to promise to tell me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth or else I’ll make you wear a potato sack! Not that you wouldn’t look kinda cute in one of those... so... spill.”

“There isn’t really much to tell...” Stella began, trying to find a way out of this mess.

“Yeah, right. And Im just a bloody taylor and not a divine designer! You can’t fool me, bebe, you ought to know that. Shall I fill in the blanks for you?”

Stella stared at the man with her eyes wide open, threw a sidelong glance at Lindsay and raised her hands in defeat. She knew she couldn’t keep something like this secret for a long time.

“One of these days, bebe, you’ll finally realize that, no matter what’s happened in the past, you’re every ounce worthy of love. Personally, I find it divine that he’s a younger guy... handsome too, from the twinkle in your eyes. Do you really think you were going to keep it a secret for long? Don’t you ever listen to me? How many times have I told you that there are three things in life you can’t hide?”

“Really?”

The words were out of her mouth before Lindsay realized it, and she childishly clamped her hands over her mouth to show her remorse. “Sorry”, she mumbled thorugh her fingers.

“You can’t hide that you’re in love, you can’t hide that you have or don’t have money and you can’t hide a pregnancy for long, no matter how much you try.”

“And speaking of which...” Stefen grabbed a measuring tape and menacingly approached Stella, “Let’s see how mugh fun you’ve been having with your boy toy, bebe.”

TBC...

It was Stella’s turn to look insulted.

“Stefen! I’m DEFINITIVELY not pregnant! Put that measuring tape away!”

The man looked at her with a mixture of naughtiness and affection. “Bebe! I wasn’t going to measure your tummy!” Stella seemed to relax a bit uppon hearing this. “I was aiming to find out what kind of work out is this young stud of yours giving your tits and arse!”

Lindsay took one look at Stella’s expression and bursted out laughing. She didn’t intend to be rude, but it was somehow funny to see her boss gaping and blushing and generally at a loss for words... or course of action, for that matter. She just hoped Stella would be able to understand that.

“There, there, Bebe... stop the sputtering. Remember a couple of years back when you were having a lovin’ dry spell? You brought me back a couple of mine dresses cause they were starting to fit too loosely... then you were head over heels with the stockbroker and you rounded up in interesting places, ain’t that right? In the past 10 years you’ve been coming here your measurments have never been quite the same as your previous visits.”

Stell seemed to calm down, yet was still showing a deeper hue on her cheeks.

“Your reaction, however, leaves me to wonder why on Earth, Bebe, would you jump to the bambino conclusion so quickly. Someone’s throwing caution to the wind in the throes of passion? Or is time so of the essence on those locker rooms of you that you forgo slapping a rubber on him?”

“Stefen Van Holdestein! How dare you!”

“He’s that good, huh? You lucky bit, you! I have the perfect dress for you, now. We won’t dissapoint Mr. Hard and Furious, Bebe”

And with that, Stefen lost himself amid two huge mounds of clothes. Stella slowly turned around to face Lindsay, who had been shocked into soberdom. The older woman was still trying to figure out how to give Lindsay a plausible explanation and yet save some face when she was interrupted by the younger woman’s stage-like whisper.

“Can he really tell if you’re not getting any just by measuring your curves????”

Not knowing exactly how to answer that, Stella merely nodded.

“Shit... how embarrasing!”

Stella looked at Lindsay and let out a healthy laugh. ‘Only Lindsay’, she thought, ‘would worry over her sex life status when my so-called secret one has been outed so loudly and embarrasingly. Any other woman would take that knowledge and run with it, but not Linds.’

Just then, Stefen came back carrying an iridiscent copper hued fabric in both arms. Without a single word, he spread his arms and let the dress unfold and speak for itself.

Hanging from a silk-covered hanger was a halter sheath, with a high triangled neck that barely hung from two spaghetti straps. The sides dropped so low that they called for double-sided tape in order to avoid too much sideways exposure.

The fabric was tight across the breast and tummy areas, and then gently folded and pooled all the way down to the floor. The skirt flow, however, was deceiving, as it cleverly hid two side slits that reach well above mid-tigh level.

The back was equally revealing, as it plunged to a mere inch above butt level, leaving the upper part od the beasts, the shoulders and the back uncovered quite nicely. The fabric bundled and folded in the arse area, actually creating the illusion of having an arse to begin with. The silky material then gave way to a small tulle train. All in all, it was the perfect mixture between regal and sexy.

“No zippers, no clasps, no bra required. All yoiur young stud has to do is flick his wrist, undo the bow at the back of your neck and voila! Next thing you know the dress will be pooling around your stilettos. All you’ll need then will be your luminicent smile, one of those adorable barely-there über-low thongs you fancy and thigh high stockings.”

As if having a second thought, the designer added: “As for the general public, pull your hair up, add golden chandelier earrings and barely there make up and you’re done. Not that they won’t notice what you’re NOT wearing, but I’d like to see them say that to your face. Think the bitch will go down in flames?”

Stella took one look at the dress, one look a the designer and then porceeded to do a victory happy dance. “Yes, yes, Y E S !!!! Stefan, you brute, I’d fuck you senseless right here, right now if I knew it’d rock your boat...”

“I’m touched, Bebe, and I’m sure plenty of guys would gladly give up their right nut for an offering like that but you ain’t my favourite Greek gyro flavour. On the other hand, is Claire’s marine still in mourning?”

“Not as much as he used to, but he’s still as straight as they come. Sorry about that, babe.”

“It’s okay, Bebe. All the good ones are either married and non-cheaters, or straight and non-flexible. Do you have the trimmmings you need to go with the dress?”

“I could use the earrings...” Stella said, mock hesitance in her voice, “You wouldn’t happen to have copper hued Manolos lying around now, would you?”

Stefan gave Stella a playful swat on her derriere. “Get out of here, you horrible Bebe. You know where to look for them. Go ahead and regale yourself. We’ll talk payment once you’re done.”

And turning towards a still in shock, Lindsay, the designer said: “And now, Bebe, ready to be transformed into a sex goddess?”

TBC...

Lindsay has been struck dumb ever since she had seen Stella’s dress. The amount of flesh the older woman was going to show wearing it was surely illegal in at least 4 states. But if anyone coud pull it off, it was Stella. And Lindsay felt happy for her friend and mentor-of-sorts. She even felt a bit sorry for this young suitor of hers. He’d never, ever know what hit him once he saw Stella.

But now Stefan was looking at her in a predatory way and Lindsay just stood there, like the proverbial deer caught in the headlights. And it suddendly hit her. Stella had requested a “fuck me” dress for her. And if Stella’s dress was the “demure” one, Lindsy didn’t even want to think what the designer had in mind for her.

“Ready, my adorably scared country pumpkin bebe?”

“I, ah, hmm... guess?”

“Oh Bebe, don’t worry! Stella, bless her heart, is a show-off. But you’re not going to show THAT much skin... just enough to get your beau to wonder what the heck has he been waiting for to get you into his bed...”

“But, but, but... there isn’t... I mean.. I don’t have... I mean, he doesn’t...”

“Bebe... as endearing as you look sputtering nonsense, it ain’t going to get you anywhere. So tell me, pumpkin, how do you feel about wine?”

But before Lindsay could even consider how to answer that, Stefan had already grabbed her by the wrist and was dragging her to the back of the room. The young CSI was too busy avoiding stacks of this and that to ask where, exactly, where they headed. She barely had the chance to acknowledge a child-like Stella whom, judging by the elated look on her face, was having a near orgasmic experience courtesy of Manolo anf Jimmy and two dozen different types of high-heeled shoes.

All of sudden, Stefan stopped in front of a mannequin that was half hidden from view behind a japanese partition. The huge man made a grand, yet delicate gesture with his hands towards the dress placed upon it, as if saying “voilá!”. Lindsay took one look at the dress... and lost her ability to speak.

The wine hued dress was a mix of diferent fabrics. It was empire waisted, and the bodice, what little there was of it, was made of crushed velvet. The skirt, in a tight yet flowy mermaid style, was made of shantung silk.

The mannequin was strategically placed to give the full impact of the sleeveless creation, which was a combination of demure and revealing. The front had a square neckline that barely hinted at the top of the breasts, and two wide straps completed the demure appearance.

And then there was the back.

Or, more accurately, there wasn’t the back. The wide straps re-attached themselves right below the armpit, thus creating a loop for each arm, and achieving the illusion that there was nothing holding that dress up, except, perhaps, sheer willpower.

The back decolletage was a slanted, velvet trimmed line that began at the right side of the waist and ended just above the left hip.

All in all, the dress was a force to be reckoned with. Country pumpkin Lindsay was already making up a list of the 6 thousand reasons why she couldn’t wear a dress like that. New York Lindsay was already thanking the powers above for her absence of tan lines.

When she was finally able to talk, all she could muster was a half whispered “Oh... my... God...”

“Yes, my child?”

Stefan’s well-timed, irreverent one-liner seemed to get Lindsay back on the land of the talking... for good.

“I love it... but... red? And can you alter the lenght if it’s too long? What kind of shoes am I going to wear with it? Should I wear my hair up or down? And wait a second... how am I supposed to hide the underwear lines???”

The designer let out a hearty laugh. “Oh, bebe! You’ve been converted! Hallelujah, praise the Lord! It’s not red, it’s wine, and yes, it’s the perfect colour for you... it’ll bring out your rosy skin colour and the copper highlights in your hair. Lenght is fine as it is, you’re wearing stilettos for crying out loud! Hair up, definitively, with soft curls loose here and there, to play up the romantic front. Underwear? What underwear? It’s not like you need tit support, bebe. And I absolutely forbid you to wear any sort of panties!!! Tigh high stockings if you choose to wear pumps, nothing if you go the strappy sandal route. Any other question?”

“No underwear... no underwear?”

“There’s always a first time to go commando, bebe. Now scoot over to the shoe section and knock yourself out finding the right pair for you.”

And with those parting words, Stefan grabbed a still dazed Lindsay by the shoulders and spun her in the right direction, giving her a playful swat in the arse to get her going, which she obediently did.

“Will she live?” asked Stella, approaching the designer with a metallic pair of stilettos in her hands.

“Most definitively. She’ll be back for more before the end of the year. She’ll soon find out for herself that listening to Stefan pays off big time. I just hope that hot detective of hers doesn’t get her too worked up on the dance floor... there’s no way in hell to hide a wet spot in this dress!”

“Stefan!” chided an amused Stella, “Be nice!”

“If I were nice, Bebe, you wouldn’t be here to get a “fuck me” dress now, would you?”

Designer and detective exchanged knowing smiles and settled to watch how the younger woman went about her one-of-a-kind shopping experience.

TBC...

In the days in between their shopping expedition and the actual Fundraiser, both Stella and Lindsay tried to behave as normal as possible. And they almost pulled it off. Almost being the operative word here. Mac Taylor was watching them closely, and, the more he watched, the more he was dreading Friday evening.

He had put two and two together after watching a couple of exchanges between his female CSI’s. Whatever it was, it was related to the Fundraiser, and damned if they weren’t making him nervous.

Wednesday afternoon Lindsay had had some sort of breakdown, as she virtually begged with Stella, claiming that “she just couldn’t do it” to which Stella had calmly stated that “not only she could, but she was going to. End of story”. Lindsay tried changing Stella’s mind for a couple more minutes, until the taller woman got stern and admonished the younger woman for “chickening out after wasting her hard earned money at Stefan’s”.

Hearing the designer’s name, who had been for many years his wife’s adoration, brought a smile to Mac’s face. Having been on the receiving end of Stefan’s creations a couple of times, he could understand Lindsay’s apprehension in wearing whatever it was that she had gotten. He almost felt sorry for Danny. Poor guy would never be the same. On the other hand, high time those two did something about “it”, whatever “it” was.

If knowing that Lindsay was going to put up an Oscar-worthy appearance on Friday was not enough to get Mac a tad worried, the scene he saw Thursday noon sent him running for the hills, or, at least, seriously considering calling a SWAT team on stand-by outside the banquet hall.

Lindsay had nearly ran over Stella on her nervous eagerness to find her at the lab. Barely containing herself, the young woman had dragged her into the nearest office, not really bothering to secure the door behind her. That’s how Mac had found out that Lindsay had been coming back to the lab from her lunch break when she had been intercepted by Emma Lou Stevens who had pumped up Lindsay for info regarding Stella’s dress and date for Friday. Stella kept a noncommittal expression and thanked the younger woman for the info, quickly returning to her work at the lab.

If Mac hadn’t known Stella better, he might have felt as confused as Lindsay probably was feeling at the moment. But he knew Stella almost as well as he had known Claire, and that cool lack of response worried him even more than what a full fledged temper tantrum would have.

And if knowledge wasn’t enough, then there was memory.

And if memory served right, Emma Lou Stevens and Stella Bonasera put together were, indeed, a bad mistake. A VERY bad mistake. He had been there the first time around, and he wasn’t sure his mental health, or his job for that matter, would survive another clash of the female titans. Why on Earth had Stevens actively sought to push Stella’s buttons just now was beyond his understanding, but it clearly explained why his coworker had sought Stefan’s counsel.

And suddenly Mac Taylor began dreading attending the fundraiser. For the briefest of seconds he considered calling Lt. Tenorio and casually mention what was going on. But only for the briefest of moments. Mac knew without a doubt that Stella would never forgive him if he did so. And Emma Lou would certainly be clamoring for his head to the HR department, alleging harassment or something equally career damaging.

Finally, Mac decided to let sleeping dogs lie for the time being. And prayed that the worst wouldn’t happen.

XXX

If Danny Messer were to be asked under oath, pleading to say nothing but the truth, so help him God, he would have willingly committed perjury. He’d much rather do jail time than admit his fondness for checking Lindsay Monroe out. Damn fine woman that she was, and Messer was sure no male jury would convict him for his mostly innocent habit.

At least during working hours. As soon as he was alone at home, “innocent” became the farthest from his mind and his fertile imagination, paired with his investigator skills, examined every lil piece of information his gazing had accumulated to set up different scenarios in which he could let his lust roam free without the actual threat of a sexual harassment suit.

It had been a while since Danny began using bits and pieces of Montana’s imagery to fuel his fantasy sex life. He wasn’t getting any, probably wouldn’t if he had the chance, but the sexual frustration was there and he had to find a way to blow some steam off. Was it really that wrong to masturbate to images of her on an almost nightly basis? That woman drove him crazy, and Danny had the slight impression that, even if they were involved, he’d still masturbate in the shower whilst thinking of her.

He was certain he knew many things about her, and he only wished for a chance to put that knowledge into practice. He knew she was ticklish. He knew that her lower back was an erogenous zone; having placed his own hand there a couple of times whilst leading her to and from a crime scene. Her reaction to his touch had been kept professional, but Danny knew a strong female physical response when he saw/heard one, and Montana’s reaction every time had been loud and clear.

He knew her skin was soft, although her hands were rougher, signaling years of hard work back at the ranch. He knew she favoured citric smells for her bath products and floral-based essences for her perfume. He knew her nipples hardened easily with temperature changes, and that when she blushed, the rosy colouring covered her whole upper body and not just her cheeks. He even knew that her heights were complementary in such way, that they could probably have sex against the wall or on a desk and his knees and lower back wouldn’t be screaming murder the morning after.

On the other hand, there were so many more things he was dying to learn about her. He wondered how her skin would taste like. He wondered if she got aroused quickly or if she took her sweet time getting ready for sex. He wondered if that naughty streak he’d seen a glimpse of now and then translated to her bedroom moves, and, if so, how far was she willing to go. He wondered if she was bossy, a takeover, or of a more passive nature. If she was a screamer or a moaner. If she was adventurous or straight-laced. If she was keen of blowjobs or not, and, if she was, if she was a half-way or an all-or-nothing advocate.

But on top of everything else, Danny Messer wondered what would it feel like to finally make love to someone. Sex he knew. Love was an entirely different ball game, one he was willing to learn for Montana.

XXX

Stella laid in the arms of her lover, wondering how to break the news to him.

“Hey, lover boy, you free on Friday, right?”

“You know I’m not on call and that WE both have to attend the Fundraiser, so don’t start fucking with my mind, hun, please.” He was still coming down form his post-orgasmic high and he would really, really appreciate it if the darn goddess that had gotten him there mere minutes ago would allow him a couple more of perfect bliss before dragging him down to reality.

“You know, I was thinking….” Stella propped herself up a bit, resting her chin on his chest, mass of curls tumbling all over the place. “Perhaps it would be best if we arrived together…”

“Who are you and what have you done to my lover? She’s never in a zillion years agree to make a public entrance… at least with me at her side.”

The pain and recrimination in his voice was not lost to Stella, who was thankful for this man’s understanding, and yet understood herself how he must be feeling by her paranoid sense on secrecy when it came to their relationship.

“I’m right here, lover boy.” And if to make her point even clearer, she swiftly licked his left nipple, making him squirm in delight. “And I think it’s about time we went public.”

Stella bent forward to lick his other nipple, but he grabbed her by the shoulders and forced her to look him in the face. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

Stella nodded. “Are you 100 certain that this is only about us?”

Stella nodded again. “One last chance Stel. Is this really about us or does a certain Stevens bitch have something to do with it?”

Damn. Caught! Stella knew she couldn’t lie to him. “It’s… complicated. It’s about us, but it’s also about her. If you don’t want to do this, I completely understand…. I’d feel used in you place and….”

He quieted her with a kiss. “It’s ok, hun. You want to do this, we’ll do this. I’d feel better knowing I don’t have to hide my feelings for you anymore. And if we get to screw Stevens in the process, well… more power to us, right? Besides, I’m dying to see how THAT”, and he motioned towards the plastic covered dress that hung in the closet, “looks on you. No, scratch that. I want to see THAT falling off of you.”

“You swine!”

“I love it when you go all British prude on me. Now tell me, my precious one, does that fabric wrinkle easily? Cause I’m getting a couple of ideas as to how….”

TBC...

foxdvd68 @ 2007-08-14T16:21:00

2007-08-14T21:28:56Z

CHAMOMILE

AUTHOR: foxdvd
RATING: PG-13
SPOILERS: None
DISCLAIMER: I just borrow them to play for a whilst. Me no money, Fox no sure me, we all happy.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is my July entry for the CBP challenge on bonesonfox : first times

“What… exactly… do you think you are doing?”

Busted! She froze and turned slowly around. The young apprentice took a good look at the kid in front of him. She was all dressed up, but she’ll have nowhere to go if it was up to him. Although he considered for a brief second… he rejected the idea as soon as it had formed inside his head. Those were dangerous thoughts. It could cost him his job. It could cost the brat her life.

But he could see the flame burning in her dark eyes, and he knew… he just KNEW… that she was in love. He couldn’t fault her. He had felt the same need, his calling coming much later in life that hers, but still… he knew the pull, the lure, the mermaid’s song… and how hard it was to resist it.

He looked at the body placed on the table. She had already scrubbed it clean. She had the instrument tray set next to it, every single piece of equipment shiny and bright and exactly in the order Doc Jimmy liked to used them. She had recalibrated the scale and had the tape recorder posed and ready to go. The damn kid had even scrubbed up, for crying out loud!

“You know I can’t, don’t you?” he asked, trying to figure out how to give her a lil help along the way without loosing his job along the way.

“Please? Just this once?” Her big brown eyes shone full of hope, her tone cajoling, her whole face lit up like a friggin’ Christmas tree in the middle of May.

“Sorry, kiddo, no can do. You know better than that… if Doc comes and finds you suited up… no, scratch that… if he walks in here and finds you inside the morgue… you and I both can kiss the hide in our backs goodbye…”

“But Papa won’t be down here any time soon… Aunt Lucille just dropped by with a freshly baked rhubarb pie… and a tiny bottle of that fine whiskey they’ve been aging since before I was born…”

Cajoling. The piggy-tailed brat was trying to cajole into giving in. If what she said was true, Doc would probably come down here… well, if that whiskey was anywhere near good as the whole family claimed it was, he prolly wouldn’t be down here until tomorrow morning…

“Just the tow of us, Mackey, whatcha say? Papa won’t mind if you started out without him… you’re his apprentice and as long as you record everything for him to dictate to mom to type in his report… who’s going to know? Please, Mackey, please!”

Macharius “Mackey” Johnson ought to know better. This was no place for a runt who’d barely finished elementary school. But she was his father’s daughter all right, and probably knew more about anatomy than half the students in their first year at med school. He himself had only managed to finish high school, but he’d been helping Doctor Saroyan at the tiny morgue in Port Sulphur, Louisiana for so long he could now perform an autopsy with is eyes closed and his right hand tied behind his back… well, maybe without the hand tied, but he could easily name every single bone and spot any weird thing in a heart.

But if he was good, the brat was better. She carried it in her blood, like other kids had artistic blood or soldier’s blood…

“Oh, Chamomile, Chamomile…” he used his favorite nickname for her, giving it a dramatic, General Hospital worthy, effect

“Oh, Macacus, Macacus…” she answered back in the same fashion

“On one condition… you don’t touch zip. You lay one of those skinny fingers of yours inside the body and I’ll show you a whoopin’ your Granny’d be proud of…”

The kid squealed in delight, jumping up and down, and ran to grab a stool to stand on the right side of the table. Mackey took one last look at her expecting eyes, wondered if he was completely out of his mind for allowing a 12 year old girl to aid him in an autopsy… and grabbed the scalpel.

“First off, squirt...”

“I know, I know… Y incision with a number 6 blade and taking your time…”

THE END

F A N F I C T I O N

2007-08-14T19:05:23Z

Y I E L D

AUTHOR: foxdvd
RATING: PG-15
DISCLAIMER: None of the possible characters you MIGHT think are the leading ones in this fic are mine... *sigh*
KEYWORDS: romance
NOTES: Choose your own pairing!
SPOILERS: Unless you aren't aware they work together in law enforcement, then, none.

It never ceased to amaze her just how quickly things went from normal peachy to royally fucked up in just a proverbial eye blink. She guessed that given her line of work it shouldn’t surprise her that much, but it still did. She wondered if that’s what kept her human despite everything she witnessed day in and day out.

It started as normal a day as they were used to: average case, average rounding up of a potential suspect, just to bring him in for average questioning. She should know by now that nothing ever is “just average”, especially when working with him, but if thinking things were “just average” kept her romantic notions about her friend and coworker closely under wraps, “just average” was just as fine, as well.

The potential suspect turned out to be a bona fide psychopath, who knocked them and two other officers down on his way out. He ordered her out of the house, and she refused to yield, this was her job as well, and she was damn good at it, whether he appreciated it or not.

The subsequent pursuit didn’t prove to be any more fortunate than the original approach. In the end, she had a laceration running from her left eye to her chin and he was handcuffed to the bars covering the cellar window. To make matters worse, the light bulb had been smashed, leaving them in perfect pitch blackness.

She knew the keys to the cuffs were somewhere on the floor, and was down on all fours looking for them. More like groping around in the darkness, actually. She was so concentrated on the task that she didn’t realize anything was wrong until she felt the floor get wet… and the wetness was starting to get everywhere… and real fast. It was him who put two and two together, realizing the perv had broken the pipes in order to flood the cellar. It was her who alerted the other officers to get help ASAP.

The help arrived when the water was knee-length. By the time it reached their hips it was obvious that they were going to need a welder’s torch to pry him loose. And scuba gear. They realized when water had reached their chests that the rescue team had only one oxygen tank and it was being used by the man trying to torch him to freedom. And when the water began lapping her shoulders, he asked her to leave, which she didn’t. In all honesty, he was hoping she wouldn’t yield, but he had to ask her, all the same.

The next few minutes were crucial, and they both knew it. When she had to start wading in the water and he was standing on tiptoe and raising his head to keep it out of the water, the welder was still trying to get rid of the second section of the bars. He had attempted to simply cut through the handcuff, but the risk of injuring his hand was too great to be worth the risk.

When it was obvious time had run out, she did the only thing she could think of: taking a deep breath, she began a sort of “mouth to mouth” breathing system. Reach the surface, gulp down some air, dive back to him, close mouth around his, breath out into his mouth. And back again. By the time she’d done it a dozen times or so, she was starting to feel the giddiness brought by the lack of oxygen. It was the only explanation to how weary she felt and how she could be thinking that she had finally managed to kiss him. She thought her dating status must be in a really depressing stage if she could consider mouth-to-mouth kissing… but she’d make do with whatever she had at hand.

After a lifetime or two, the welder finally cut through the bar, releasing him. He grabbed her as if she was the last lifesaver in his very own private raft, and she held on tight as well. He crushed her in his embrace, whispering his thanks over and over again, and she held on tight. The EMTs strapped him down a gurney, taking him away from her, and she held on tight to the memory of his arms around her body and the feel of his mouth under hers. Her boss told her to go home, and she held on tight to her composure until she reached her place, where she slid down against the door closing behind her, sobbing and shuddering, thinking how close she had been of loosing him, thinking how she ought to actually tell him how she felt, thinking she wouldn’t in the end.

The last rays of light died alongside her hope of doing something about the way she felt, and she still didn’t move from the door. The shadows began running deep, like the emotional scars that kept her from getting to close to another human being, and still she stayed next to the door. The knocking turned to soft pounding, and she was tempted, very tempted, to let the door go unanswered. She managed to find the strength somehow, and was surprised to find him standing there.

She scolded him for leaving the hospital against better medical judgment, and he simply smiled. She chided him for not going straight home to rest, and he kept on smiling. She finally gave in to curiosity and asked him what he was smiling about, and he took two steps closer to her, reaching for her with his hands.

He murmured something about not wasting second chances and she held her ground, not daring to hope. He mumbled something about thanking her for saving him, and she felt her resolve crack under the pressure of his gratitude. He whispered something about doing things properly and doing what he should have done a long time ago, and she felt her will break as slowly as her eyes closed and her lips parted.

This time it was his mouth closing down on hers, and this time it was she who was drowning. And when his tongue touched hers, she yielded. And when his arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer to him, she wondered how quickly things went from royally fucked up to blissfully perfect in just the blinking of an eye..

Or the yielding for a kiss.

THE END

CSI NY FANFICTION

2007-07-16T03:10:55Z

B A B E L

AUTHOR: foxdvd
RATING: PG-15 (no sex, but angst)
SPOILERS: Between Season 2 and Season 3 (Peyton's back in NYC, but still not dating Mac)
DISCLAIMERS: Not mine. No money in this for me. All the information and translation I got from the net.
SUMMARY: One city, seven heritages, seven sins...

Once upon a time, there existed a place know as “the Gate of God”. And men from around the globe decided that the best way to arrive to that gate would be by building a tower – a magnificent construction that raised high unto the heavens, giving all men and women of worth a chance to reach the gates of heaven.

Many men and women went there, trying to prove themselves worthy of the Lord. To be worthy, you had to have a clean soul, free of sin, the soul of an innocent child. But not all men and women were worthy.

Some of them fell prey to lust. Not only the physical kind, where you are consumed with sexual thoughts, for sex there was plenty among them, but also the lustful need to be recognized by others, and the consuming need for excitement in every area of their lives.

There were those who couldn’t resist the call of gluttony... and were marked by their refusal to share resources and their unreasonable or unnecessary consumption of those available.

Some unfortunate ones committed the sin of greed or avarice, unworthy feelings that include disloyalty, deliberate betrayal, or treason, especially for personal gain, such as a bribe. Scavenging and hoarding of materials or objects, theft and robbery, especially by violence, trickery, or manipulation of authority are all actions that are inspired by greed.

Worse to some were those who presented symptoms of sloth, the spiritual apathy that affected the faithful by discouraging them from their religious work or Sadness, a feeling of dissatisfaction or discontent, which caused unhappiness with their current situation.

There were those who exhibited inappropriate feelings of hatred and anger, no doubt ill-advised by the devil of Wrath. And the one who desired to be more important or attractive than others had listened to the whisperings of Pride.

And last, but not least, were those who commit the sin of Envy and desired something that someone else had.

These were not traits that pleased the Lord, nor were they traits that were useful in building the way towards the gates of Heaven. Or a tower. Thus the Lord got their sins to work against them, and each of them began to speak in a different tongue, so different, in fact, that it didn’t take long for them to stop understanding each other completely, and soon, the idea of building a tower was soon abandoned, and the name of the place for the heavenly gates forgotten.

But nothing remains forgotten forever. Hence Babylon. Or Babel. This became a synonym for a conundrum of languages and misunderstanding.

Modern day Babel, aka New York City, is still fraught with dozen different languages, millions of misunderstandings, and too many sins to keep track of them all. So many, in fact, that it may seem, on the surface, closer in spirit to Sodom and Gomorra than to a place holding the gates of Heaven. But if you listen real carefully, below the surface you’ll hear that, for every cardinal sin, irregardless of which original language it was committed,

There’s always the hope of redemption.

Ave Maria, piena di grazia, il Signore è con te...

Danny Messer feels the rosary beads as he rubs them between his fingers almost absentmindedly, a task performed almost automatically, habit ingrained by years and years of religious upbringing, so closely intertwined with his own family background that it was difficult not no think of some sort of prayer when he thought in Italian.

It was rather peculiar, if he thought about it, that whenever he got in touch with his inner self, with his emotions, he preferred to deal with them in his mother’s tongue. He just couldn’t’ express himself as eloquently in English as he did in Italian. Vocabulary and intention seemed to be somewhat lacking.

Take love, for example. Clichés had it all backwards. French wasn’t the language of love. Italian was. On second thought... perhaps French did sound more romantic. But Italian

was made for love. It had a raw, sexy feel to it. He should know. Most of the notches on his bedpost were acquired after using the carefully selected and perfectly timed Italian phrase. Bellisima was practically fool-proof. Ti desidero molto had gotten him into plenty of underpants. Io ti amo had been whispered in the throes of passion, perhaps truly unfelt and uncalled for... but it had allowed him to get away with things he’d have otherwise never achieved. So what if it wasn’t entirely true?

Danny risked a glance towards the altar and felt a twinge of shame and regret. Hypocrite, he thought to himself. Sitting here feeling pleased with myself, repeating a formula to ask for forgiveness, and yet incapable to admit what I am. Un prigioniero del sesso e dei piaceri della carne. Hard to keep impure thoughts to yourself when your worst enemy lies between your legs...

He looked sideways to his mamma deep in fervent prayer. How many times had she chided him fro having so little control over his passions? How many times have she asked him to settle down, to find una buona donna? Signora Messer was an advocate for marriage, her mantra being “L'unione tutta lo ripara” and had shaken her head in disproval time and time again whenever Danny had come home with yet another girl... and remained single time and time again.

Perhaps he should consider settling down for good. Being less of a Casanova and more of a marito. Perhaps he had sowed his oaths one season too many. Finding the right woman and settling down for good would no doubt please his mother greatly. It may also mean finding a peace he had been lacking more and more. A peace of mind and spirit. A peace of soul.

Forgiveness was possible for those who atoned.

.. , che ho molto peccato in pensieri, parole, opere e omissioni, per mia colpa, mia colpa, mia grandissima colpa. E supplico la beata sempre vergine Maria, gli Angeli, i Santi e voi, fratelli, di pregare per me il Signore Dio nostro. Amen...

Hunger, Notwendigkeit, Verbrauch

Sheldon Hawkes had a very vague notion of German. He knew that several generations back it had been a German settler who had aided his ancestors after they had been set free from slavery. The man’s name had been Falke, which over the course of the years had evolved into what he considered his legitimate surname nowadays.

He was also vaguely familiar with the concept of gluttony. Like most people, he tended to associate the term with food. And he was a doctor. He was well aware of the dangerous effects of over (and under) eating. He was also a man who took good care of his body. Therefore, to call Dr. Hawkes a glutton seemed, for all practical purposes, incongruent.

Had he given the idea more consideration, he would have come to discover that gluttony was a term also referring to those who accumulate knowledge for their own use and were not willing to share with anyone else.

And when it came to wissen Sheldon Hawkes was a true glutton.

He had been considered a genie by his teachers in both high school and college and soon won the admiration and hatred of many of his peers. He pursued his interests with a passion and focus that knew no limit. He was also kind and forgiving, so... who could hold against him the only “fault” he seemed to have?

Classmates and early coworkers soon learned that Sheldon Hawkes would let you eat the food off his plate and wear the shirt off his back... but he’d never, ever share the knowledge he had. The reasoning for such attitude was nearly perfect, in perfect synch with the idea of teaching how to fish instead of giving out the fish. Surely there was no sin in that was there?

But then he became a CSI and had to learn the hard way that withholding knowledge was not only a sin of gluttony, but a kriminell negligent act. Adam had landed in the hospital and could very well not recover the skills needed to work at the lab. No one was pointing fingers at him, it had, after all, been an accident. But deep inside Sheldon knew it was his fault. When Adam had asked if he knew how the substance would react to chlorine acid, he could have very well told him it would become very volatile and the response speed would increase dramatically. But Sheldon thought it’d be best is he allowed Adam to find it out for himself.

The price of knowledge could have very well been death. And Sheldon Hawkes knew he would have been to sole responsible party if that particular push had come to shove.

It was much, much later, after he had left the hospital, after he had checked for the zillionth time that Adam would be fine, that Sheldon Hawkes decided to walk home. He thought the crisp autumn air would do him good and help him clear his head.

So far, he was failing miserably. His head was clear as crystal and yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was lacking some sort of atonement for what he had done, for what could not be considered any less of a sin.

He was a bit surprised when, upon gazing upwards, he found himself standing outside an old Protestant church. Destiny’s ironic twist had wanted him to find solace in his own origins, as it was a German temple.

Not without certain hesitation, he allowed himself to go inside, kneeling at the last row of pews. He heard the rumors of thousands of yesterday’s voices, and it wasn’t long before he joined in, reciting the long-forgotten words of his early childhood, where his mother had thought him how to ask forgiveness:

Das Vaterunser, Vater unser im Himmel. Geheiligt werde dein Name. Dein Reich komme. Dein Wille geschehe, wie im Himmel, so auf Erden...

Greed: saint, mí-ionraic, mídhílis, braith

Peyton Driscoll hated feeling like the new kid in school when she really wasn’t. She had been away for only 2 years, damnaigh! Even the country-monkey girl, Monroe, Munroe, whatever, was acting all condescending towards her.

Peyton wanted her place back. She NEEDED her place back. And not just in the ME’s office. Which reminds her, with what right is that dubh boy running around the streets when he should be holed down in the basement with all the others? SHE should be the one who had gotten promoted.

Peyton knew she was partly at fault. But she’d rather drop dead than admit it to anyone. Even if she’d wanted to scream and yank her hair out and stamp her feet loudly on the ground, all the others would see was a pleasant miongháire and a professional attitude. She was not about to show her true Irish colors to these people.

Peyton had heard from Sid, that graosta old man that called himself a doctor, that they all were a happy lil family, always there for each other. Soooo caring. Sooo sweet. It makes her sick in her stomach. Get a life, people. She wanted nothing to do with any of them after her 8 hour shift was over.

Peyton knew that was a lie. Not all of them. She was very much interested in her leannán, Mac. She’d LOVE to see the expressions in their faces if they only knew! It was bound to even wipe the smug grin that seemed perpetually plastered in that Italian schmuck. She relished the flavour of victory.

Peyton had waited sooo patiently. She had known she wanted him from the moment she had laid eyes on him. But back then she was a married man, and she wasn’t stupid enough to try and play the bean luí role. Then the attacks happened. For a mere fraction of a second, her guilty conscience made her think that perhaps SHE had provoked those by means of her unholy thoughts: she had wanted Mac’s wife so badly out of the picture!

Peyton had to start the waiting game all over again. Mac was now a grieving braintreach and, totally against her own logic, had not been eager to drown his sorrow in the arms of another woman. Namely, her. No, he carried his mourning in solitude and celibacy. And she had tried. Oh, how she had tried. But her subtle attempts had not been noticed and her not so subtle ones had been kindly rejected. She had gotten the “it’s not you, it’s me” speech and the “give me some time” speech and the “I don’t want to use you” speech. And she had grown tired of listening to speeches.

Peyton had literally jumped at the opportunity to work in Washington DC. And not just any work. Head of Forensics for the DC’s PD. One of the first females to hold that position and also one of the youngest. She was virtually drunk with cumhacht. But things didn’t quite work the way she planned. The power she has so relished had very set limits. Her male coworkers were still chauvinistic pigs. And the female coworkers resented her youth... and her attitude. In short, after a year of living hell she got to admit that she wanted to go back to NYC.

Peyton had gotten a sabóideach permit to pursue a new degree. She knew it was just as excuse. She wanted to go back to school as much as she had wanted to stay in DC, but it gave her a dignified way out... and the chance to request getting back to NY. Night after night she carefully reviewed the scenarios of her triumphal comeback. She’d obviously be offered (and granted) the Head of ME’s position. The detectives would seek her knowledge and boast her center of the universe. And Mac... Mac would be ready, waiting for her, accepting he had been a fool all those years back for turning her down and praising all gods above for her coming back. It was simply... perfect.

Peyton had come back only to find her carefully laid plans all blown to pieces. The former head of ME’s had decided to cash in an early retirement (bloody bastard had the nerve to have a heart attack!) and the new boss was a bureaucratic dog who thought all ME’s were created equal. And then there was the issue of the Bonasera cailleach. Now who exactly did she think she was? Acting all chummy around Mac... SHE should be the one laughing in his office, not that lanky horse-face! So what if she was almost killed by her psycho lover? The floozy probably deserved it for sleeping around... if rumor had it right; she was probably doing the blue-eyed kid from the detective squad.

Peyton bit her lip. She was, perhaps, being a tad to harsh towards her workmates. After all, it wasn’t as if they were doing it all just to faltanas her. Actually, they were all being very nice and are trying to find her a place in the “family”. And it’s a place she’ll have to earn on her own, starting from ground level. She can’t quite come back her and expect people to bend backwards for her. And she can’t come in here coveting what the others have.

Peyton knows she’s behaved wrongly. Even if she’s now dating Mac, she can’t but feel a bit of remorse for coming between him and Stella. She feels she has betrayed them and acted dishonestly. She has been greedy and now she fears she’ll loose what she’s got if she doesn’t atone for her wrong doings. “Beware not of those that act impurely, but rather of those who have impure thoughts”, her grandmother used to say. And Peyton’s thoughts have been anything but pure. Or loyal. Or nice.

Peyton sits in the morgue waiting for their latest victim’s body to be picked up and wonders if he had a chance to ask for forgiveness. Probably not. If there’s anything she knows about this world is that death never waits for us to get our stuff straightened out before paying us a visit. So maybe...

Peyton leans back, closing her eyes, and the words so long ago learned come back to her in a whispered prayer: Ár nAthair atá ar neamh, go naofar d’ainm Go dtaga do ríocht Go ndéantar do thoil...

Sloth: sleuth, slep, dolorous

Lindsay Monroe knew that sooner or later, her cheerful facade would start to fracture and ultimately, shatter in thousand pieces. After all, she couldn’t go on forever playing Pollyanna now, could she?

She saw herself as if through a tinted glass... everything in slow motion... fallen prey to apathy and sadness... weekends came, days off came, and all she wanted was to curl in bed and sleep.

For sleep brought peace. And the least she remember, the best it was for all of them. She didn’t want to remember. She didn’t want to feel. Therefore, she pretends.

She pretends to be efficient. She pretends to care. She pretends to find joy in everything and everyone around her. She pretends to be in perpetual movement, a dynamo, a flash of lightning.

In reality, her soul is moving in slow motion, filled with sadness. She’s just so tired. Can people see how she feels? Is she transparent? She wonders, but, in the end, she finds out she doesn’t really care.

She feels so auld. She feels awfy. She is a bampot. She feels like she’s dying, but she’ll never let dab. Eejit!

She stops for a minute to ponder why, when she’s about to fall asleep, she reverts to the old Scots words her grandmother used. She then decides it’s not worth the effort, and allows herself to wallow in sadness and stillness.

Perhaps she’ll have a dreamless sleep. That would be nice. She furrows further into her cocoon. Then she sees it, the carved tablet that’s been in her family for generations, dating back to the days where they did their farming near Munro Tablets, in Scotland. An engraved tablet, meant to be given to her eldest daughter as a birth present.

She lets her fingers trace the engraving, as she mouths the words: Ar n-Athair a tha air nèamh, gu naomhaichear d'ainm.Thigeadh do rìochachd. Dèanar do thoil air an talamh, mar a nìthear air nèamh. Tabhair dhuinn an-diugh ar n-aran làitheil. Agus maith dhuinn ar fiachan, amhail a mhaitheas sinne dar luchd-fiach...

Wrath: colère, haine

Mac Taylor had many reason to be angry at life, with life. Ever since he could recall, life kept testing his resolve, testing his stoicism, testing his integrity. And he was darn near his point d'arrêt.

First it had been his parents’ deaths, mere weeks before he graduated as a Marine. He knew his parents were proud of their son, so willing to fulfill his duty, pour mourir pour son pays. But life had thought it’d be a hoot not to let them see it happen.

So he went overseas to do his duty. And he fought next to fine men. Bons hommes. Men who were even better than him. And he got to watch them die. And it angered him. It angered him because he had survived and they hadn’t, it angered him that he couldn’t do anything to save them.

So he left the Marines and became a detective. One of NY’s finest. And she met a fine woman. One of NY’s finest. And he married her and he was happy for a while and he could almost forget the things that made him angry in the past. And then everything changed in an instant. Two planes came and spread sorrow all over town. Et la mort était dans le ciel. And he was angry again. Hatred enveloped him in a shroud and it took months for him to see and not see wrath around him.

So he moved to another area in the field. And he met new people. And he realized this new people didn’t have to suffer from his anger and his pain. So he began to love more and hate less, all for these new people. Ils étaient ses amis, sa famille. And he began to feel happy again. And he began to live again.

But life was not done yet with Mac Taylor. And since there was little left for it to take away from him, life begun targeting those around him. Un, he had to fire Aiden. Deux, Danny almost lost his job and his brother. Trois, Stella got attacked. Quatre, Aiden gets murdered. Cinq, Flack gets hurt in a bombing. Six, Lindsay almost gets shot. Sept, Hawkes is on the “hit list” of a sadistic serial killer. Huit... Mac wonders what the next blow will be.

In the meantime, he’s mad. Furious. Livid. He had finally decided to take a chance again on love, and now he wasn’t so sure it had been the right choice. Peyton Driscoll could very well be his dernière chance pour l'amour, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to put her at risk of becoming the next casualty in his life.

He’s learned to live with wrath. He’s managed to control it so it won’t cloud his mind when times comes to make decisions and take actions. Once or twice, he had let it come very close to the surface, like when he had argued with Stella over Agent Blue. And he could feel his anger laughing dans son visage.

Mac ponders on this while watching the city as dusk falls. The lab is quiet and he lets his mind wander back in time to childhood memories and memories of war. And he resorts to the words he’s said over and over again to help him keep his anger at bay: Notre Père, Qui es aux Cieux, Que Ton Nom soit sanctifié, Que Ton Règne vienne, Que Ta Volonté soit faite, sur la terre comme au ciel...

Pride: trots, zelfrespect, nietigheid

He was proud of being a cop. And not just any cop. Third generation one. Part of a proud group, proudly named “New York’s finest”. And he was a damn good politieagent, as well.

He was proud of being a New Yorker. He was proud of how the citizens had decided to fight back after having turned into a modern day Sodom. Like a phoenix, they had risen from the ashes, and not even a terrorist attack could bring them down to their knees. They were scarred, but they were survivors. And he was damn proud of that, too.

He was proud of his heritage. Fifth generation Dutchmen. Hardworking people. His forefathers had arrived through Ellis Island and had found a way to make a living. A decent, honest living, unlike many immigrants who had only come to America to continue a life of crime. The Flacks had earned everything they had with honest to God hard work, first by breaking their backs on the docks, then by walking the beats for many, many miles. And he was damn naarstig as well.

He was proud of his looks. He knew he had genetics to be thankful to begin with, but he had also worked hard to keep them up that way. He worked out. He ate more less balanced. He dressed nicely. He might even admit to primping from time to time. There was nothing wrong with coughing up more than 5 bucks to get a good haircut and a close shave every now and then. Metro sexual? Get outtalk my face. Vain? Absolutely. He had no problem whatsoever admitting he was a tad vergeefs. And damn proud he was of it, as well.

But sometimes, late at night, after a hard day at work, he couldn’t help but wonder. Pride was a good thing. Vanity wasn’t as good, but he was only human. Self-absorbed? Snob? Intolerant? Those carried a different tune altogether. And one that he didn’t like. The problem was, is someone ever accused him of being ostentatief he’d either laugh in their face or bash it in, depending on his mood and how much alcohol he had to drink prior to the comment.

Yes, maybe he took his pride of being a cop a bit too far sometimes, specially when meeting his former childhood buddies. He got a weird satisfaction when he realized he had managed to put a good amount of distance between himself and the guys back in Yonkers. He KNEW he was no better nor no worse than any of them and still…

Then there were the days, the really, really bad days at work, where he wondered if maybe he could have had a choice in his future. He had gone into the Academy right after getting his high school diploma, his family reputation preceded him, it was expected of him, and he never questioned it. Except on those nights when he couldn’t sleep cause he couldn’t take off his mind the raw crime scene he had worked that day. Those were the nights when he wondered what his life would be like if he weren’t a cop. The rest of the time, there was no dubben in his mind that this was the life he was meant to lead. But still…

He found himself growing impatient more often when he had to work cases where illegal ijselijk were involved. He considered himself an American with a Dutch ancestry, but not an immigrant anymore. Not after so many years. There was no reason why he should not treat people any different given their last names, and still…

He’d also noticed that as of lately he has been comparing himself to other guys in terms of physical fitness and attractiveness. It got specially acute when he found he couldn’t score with a chick in his nights out or when his flirting caused no effect whatsoever. He knew it was harmless, he knew he was a schoon man, successful with both sexes, albeit only interested in one. He discarded it as a phase all middle aged guys went through sooner or later, but still…

Perhaps his worse crime of pride was related to his co-workers. His female co-workers. He really had nothing against Makka or Angel, he’d be the first to admit they both had earned their detective badges with hard work, and they were both good at what they did. But they were wijfje, after all, and he was an alpha male, and he felt... threatened? Irritated? Possessive?

He sighed and looked back at the crime scene in front of him. It was carnage and it was going to be one of those days where he was going to need more than his pride to carry him through to the end. He really didn’t consider himself a religious man, and still… the words of many generations come back to him with the same ease as being a cop does: Onze Vader in de hemel, uw naam worde geheiligd, uw koninkrijk kome, uw wil geschiede, op aarde zoals in de hemel…

Envy: zilevo, fthono

Stella Bonasera walks towards an empty row and reflects on what she has just done. She knows she hasn’t been entirely honest with either one of them and wonders why she bothered doing it in the first place. Out of habit, probably. The only thing her foster families had in common was this, and thus it grew to become something of a second nature to her. Thriskeia made her believe she belonged.

She sits down and ponders why she feels like the world’s biggest hypocrite. She thought she was a good person overall. She cared for those who were victims, and helped capturing those who did wrong. Granted, she had killed people, a big no-no, but it was part of the job. She wasn’t a dolofonos. And a way of staying alive, a voice whispers inside her head, shivering when she remembers Frankie. All the atonement in the world is going to help dealing with that one. And back in the more mundane world, neither has therapy, but she ain’t telling that to either source.

Deep down she knows why she’s feeling the way she’s feeling. It has to do with the guilt of an unconfesed sin. And the enochi burdens her like nothing she had experienced before.

Stella Bonasera is a bad person. A good person wouldn’t envy those around her. A good person would feel eftychismenos for their accomplishment and their own personal happiness and not envy that it was them and not her.

She is consumed with envy at everything that surrounds her. When she sees a family, she longs for the one she never met. When she sees lovers, she misses the ones she had but had gone away. When she sees mothers with their kids, she mourns for what will never be. She envies the small unimportant things in life, like blue boxes from Tiffany and fur coats and limo drivers and private jets ready to leave for Italy at a moment’s notice.

She envies all the people that will go through their lives without ever having to see even one hundredth of the pain and destruction she sees on a day to day basis. She envies those who had had a peaceful death, unaware of what had happened, for she knows her death will be anything but. She even envies those who work with her.

She envied Flack’s sense of destiny, having never questioned his calling in life, and being damn proud of who he was. She envied his perifania.

She envied Mac’s anger at life’s injustices, and how he worked on making things better and not just wallow in his pain. She envied the way he worked around his timos.

She envied Lindsay’s resilience and the way she moved in such calmed fashion even in the worst situations. She envies her melancolía and how she doesn’t let it get the best of her.

She envies Peyton’s drive. She knew what she wanted and she went for it, she waited for it, she worked for it. She envies her afierosi for the man she loves and the job she adores.

She envies Shel’s hunger for knowledge and justice, and how he’d patiently wait for you to figure things out rather than pointing them in the first place. She envies his peina for the truth.

She envies Danny’s “devil.-may-care” attitude, how he goes for what he wants without hesitation. She envies his pathos for life.

Her list could go on and on, and she’s not sure her papas would even try to understand her. He’d probably tell her she thinks too much about the things that she shouldn’t be thinking about. He’d probably tell her that she is a good person, a good woman, a good cop… a good Orthodox, even. He’d probably listen to her in confession and move his head in disbelief and disagreement and sent her out to do her penance. Atonement for her sins. A new beginning with a clear conscience.

So she settles to do just that. And just before she kneels down on her favourite pew, she reflects on what she heard earlier that day, that maybe envy wasn’t such a bad thing, not when it moves us to be better people every day. And she wonders if she’ll ever be as good as those who surround her. The least she could do was try.

And she could begin right there and then. Simply by asking for guidance and forgiveness like she has done many other times: Pater imon o en dees ouranees, agiatheeto to onoma sou. Eltheto ee vasilia sou, os en ourano, keh epi tees ghees. Ton arton imon ton epioosian dos imeen seemeron...

BONES FANFICTION

2007-07-16T02:20:50Z

INSIDE YOUR HEAD

AUTHOR: foxdvd

RATING: NC-17

SPOILERS: Season One

DISCLAIMER: "The Girl in The Sand" came close... but since we've yet to hear about tantric sex on screen... guess that means they're not mine and I just borrowed them to play for a lil' while. Promise to put them back without a scratch. Smile on thier face? What smile on their face? I know nuthin' about how that smile got in their face!

AUTHOR'S NOTES: I began this story, my first Bones fic, intending it to be a legit case where they had to go undercover and from there move things so they'd end UNDER the covers. Alas, real life threw my family a very unexpected curveball (the type that has you staying a fair share of nights keeping someone company at the hospital and feeling pretty much useless while doing so). Since nights at a hospital do get quite boring (specially since the one you’re taking care of passes out 32 seconds after you drop by) and local TV listings leave a lot to be desired (“I’ll take “Rerun Hell” for 200, Alex”), I’ve started bringing my faithful laptop with me to keep myself busy and at least pretend to be catching up on work.

This is how I came across 3 amazing revelations. First, there IS a limit to the amount of solitaires you can play without reaching a suicidal level. Second, some muses simply don’t take “no” for an answer, cancer or no cancer. And third, it’s virtually impossible to write a masterpiece based on carefully planned internet research when you don’t have internet access to begin with.

Having said that, I’ll have to admit that this was originally meant to be a 7-parter, with each chapter named after a chakra and loads and loads of fact and science tidbits thrown left, right and center. All of that, of course, was a carefully plotted excuse to get B&B to perform the human pretzel, tantric style, without coming across as a sex fiend.

Alas, no such luck.

So we’ll pretend we got ourselves a free ride in the Angelator (Ms. Montenegro was very accommodating once she found out what I wanted it for) and we’ll skip all the mumbo jumbo and get down to the very basics: Booth and Brennan working undercover as a married couple and behaving... uhh.. well... as a married couple?

The story so far:

- Booth managed to talk Brennan into accepting the assignment and still was able to tell the tale.

- They’re now officially Mr. and Mrs. Steven and Tessa Brethen, who’ve been married for 5 years and have lost a bit of yester’s spark in bed, so, on one of Steven’s coworker’s recommendation, they decided to give the seminar a try.

- Upon arrival, they met Michael Dez, enlightenment teacher, who soon diagnosed “unresolved issues and emotional distance” within the couple and suggested a couple of “cleansing therapies” both individually and as a couple. At the beginning, neither of them can complain, cause, who in their right mind opposes being pampered with massages and oils and relaxing music? (cricket sounds in the background) Hmm… thought so.

- Problems begin when they take their first therapy with Dez himself, whose intimate and detailed questioning has both of them stammering responses and faltering in their story-lines. Booth is certain they’ve blown their covers and wants to pull themselves out of the operative. Brennan, on the other hand, after having listened to the masseuses gossiping about a missing girl and a new “mummified statuette” arriving, wants them to go on. For the unobservant onlooker, it looks as a normal fight between a married couple, but Michael Dez is starting to wonder what’s really going on in the Brethen’s lives and decides to take a closer look at their intimacy.

- That night, Booth and Brennan are invited to a private session in Dez’s chambers , and Booth gets an “up-close-and-personal” initiation with yoga and tantric sex, and he doesn’t’ have to put on an act to portray a not-so-flexible, slowly-but-surely-getting-there almost-middle-aged pencil-pusher. He blames lack of exercise on the fact that he couldn’t hold the poses, but, truth to be told, he’s afraid he won’t be able to control the way his body is reacting to having Brennan so close and in such an intimate situation. Still, they both can feel Dez’s suspicions as they leave the session to go into their room.

X x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x X

I had never felt so tired in my entire life. I’ve got muscles aching that I didn’t even know they could ache. Or that they even existed, to begin with. I steal a glance towards Bones and I can tell she looks fresh as a cucumber. I try telling myself that it’s all that estrogen flowing that makes her more flexible than I am, but deep inside I know it’s the martial arts and the yoga which are responsible for it. Guess pumping iron and running track don’t cut it quite as well.

I’m still bothered by the way Dez looks at us. I know he suspects something is going on, but I’m certain he’s yet to figure out exactly what it is. I cant’ wait to get into “our” bedroom so we can talk freely about the whole case. And then drop dead for at least 6 hours. Or drop dead first and talk later. The way I’m feeling, I really wouldn’t mind if we chose the latter over the former.

As soon as I open the door I get the feeling something’s not quite right. All my senses are running on high trying to pinpoint what’s happening. Brennan walks towards the bed and lifts a piece of parchment left on top of one of the pillows.

“Look, babe, Dr. Dez was kind enough to leave us a note”

I can tell by the sarcasm dripping from her voice that she’s not exactly keeping in character. I come closer and warn her to keep quiet with a slight gesture of my hand.

“Why don’t you go brush your teeth while I read what he has to tell us” I tell her as I give her behind a light slap to get her going. By the look in her eyes I know I’m so going to pay for this once the case is over, but it was worth it.

I read the note and feel the hairs at the back of my neck slightly raised. As nonchalantly as possible I gaze around the room. It doesn’t’ take long to discover a couple of cameras hidden in the tapestries and the corner fan. And I’m pretty sure the bed’s headrest is bugged as well. Dez, you sneaky perv I think to myself.

I walk into the bathroom where Bones is busy removing her makeup and brushing her teeth. I make a whole production out of taking off my t-shirt and the wife beater underneath it, but to no avail; if there are more cameras inside the bathroom I can’t find them.

Bones raises an inquiring eyebrow at my actions, and luckily for me, her mouth is filled with toothpaste foam and is not able to ask the question I can see in her eyes. I move swiftly behind her and my arms surround her waist.

I start nipping at her right ear. “Cameras” I whisper in between nibbles, “And mikes” I add as I pretend to kiss my way down her neck. She closes her eyes and I feel, not hear, a single word coming from her. I look up at the mirror just in time to catch the perfectly formed “Fuck” I get as an answer.

Illogically, irrationally, that single action ignites my desire. Maybe it’s having had to spend so much time so close to her. Maybe it’s the certainty that, no matter what I do, she’d have to let me get away with it in order not to blow our covers. Maybe it’s the amount of unresolved sexual tension that’s grown between us. Maybe I’m just plain horny.

Or maybe it’s just the idea of having to perform sexually with Bones whilst Michael Dez and God knows who else is watching that I find such a huge turn on.

I feel (hear?) her swallow hard and stiffen a bit, as if sensing a change in my demeanor. “What did Dr. Dez want, babe?” She looks at me through our reflection in the mirror and her eyes widen as she feels my erection press against her lower back.

“The”… kiss… “good doctor”… nibble… “says that”… nip… “although it’s against regular protocol” … lick… “he thinks in our case”… slight suction… “it’d be beneficial for us”… hands moving up to cup her breasts… “to have sex tonight” …

I hold my breath as I wait for her to either moan or kick my ass into next Friday.

TBC...

I was literally holding my breath awaiting Bones’s reaction. My hands were still cupping her breasts and my left thumb was feeling specially daredevilish, as it was lazily circling her already half-erect nipple. My mouth was still feasting alongside her neck and I ventured a glance at the mirror.

Her reflection is material for many a night filled with wet dreams. Her eyes are closed, her breathing uneven and her lips are partially open, swollen and glistening... I catch a glimpse of her tongue darting between those lips and I’m a goner.

Spinning her around in my arms, I crush my lips to her, my tongue eagerly seeking hers, an overwhelming sense of need fueling my every action. My hands are all over her back and ass, pinning her hard against my body, rubbing my cock against her lower belly. I want her so badly I’d have gladly taken her right then and there, on top of the bathroom sink

But somehow my gentlemanly side overruled my cromagnon self in the last moment, just as I had already taken a step forward. Her response had been nothing but enthusiastic so far but this wasn’t how I’ve envisioned our lovemaking to be. Satisfying my urges in the bathroom would, no doubt, be up there in my top 5 sex-related moments, but it ‘d have been merely fucking.

And I wanted my first time with Temperance Brennan to be a love making experience that I would cherish till the day I died. There’d be plenty of time later, or so I fervently hoped, to break sinks and fuck against tiled walls... I had already picked a spot at the bathroom in her office. But that will be then and not now.

For now, I wanted to make love to her body like no other guy had ever done and like no other guy will ever do. I want to taste every inch of her body and brand her mine. Even if it was the last thing I did in my life, I wanted to hear my name on her lips as she came.

Grabbing her ass in both hands I lifeted her up and began stumbling towards the bed.

“Mhgh.ooth...” Came her protest, as she kept on kissing my shoulders and digging her nails on my back to keep balanced. “Grbh..ameras..”

“Let them watch, babe” I growl as we drop on the bed. But her warning cools me off a bit. Should I risk blowing our covers or should I risk our first time together? Fortunately for me, Bones took matters into her own hands, so to speak, thus making the decision for both of us.

Thank God for small favours.

Bones had somehow gotten from underneath me to above me and was having a ball kissing me all over my face, neck and shoulders. Her hands felt warm and tingling as she began playing with my chest hair and I moaned out loud when her thumbs found my nipples and began caressing them. They were hard in what seemed like seconds and I nearly jumped off the bed when I felt her tongue swirling around them.

My hands flew to her tanktop and took/ripped it off in one motion. Bra proved trickier... man I hate those bloody hooks... but soon enough we were both naked from the waist up and our chests were having a rubbing fest, which soon was joined by our hands and mouths.

All my senses were in overdrive: the texture of her skin underneath my hands, the smell of sweat mixed with desire, the sounds coming from deep within her every time I touched or licked a sensitive spot, the sight of her lost in sensation, a glow I was unable to describe and yet, it gave me a wicked selfish pleasure. “I” was reponsible for that glow, that smell, those sounds...

My sweat pants were beginning to feel unnecesary given the circumstances. And maybe Bones was feeling the same way, as we both reached for our waitbands at more less the same time. I knew better than to hope for that same synchronicity later on in the game, but dreaming is for free, right?

One thing I’ve learned in all these years that there’s no moment as ackward when it comes to sex than the removal of clothes. When you’re in your late teens or early 20’s, either you’re too young and eager to care or too flexible and eager to even notice it. But once you’ve reached your 30’s it’s a whole different tune. You’re not as nimble and quick as Jack used to be. Joints creak, fingers loose ability and lower backs resent the kind of gymnastics involved in disrobing in one swift move.

But nobody seems to be talking about it. At least, no one in the Penthouse Forum letters ever seem to have problems with an unobliging button or an stuck zipper. Or jeans tangling in shoes that you forgot to take off in your haste?

Or sneakers, in this case. I’ve forgotten we were still wearing them fucking sneakers. Gramatical error intended. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

I should have been easy, right? I mean, sweatpants, for crying out loud. What could have been easier? No buttons, no zippers, no tight fighting cuts, no rigid fabrics... all you needed was a lil’ lift from the hips and then it was all as simple as rolling them off and be done with it, right?

Unless, of course, you’ve forgotten to take off your sneakers before hand. Then it takes just one to tangle, and 5 out of 10 times, it’ll take the sizzle out of the tango and by the time you’re done disrobing, sex is the farthest thing from your mind.

Pretty much like what was happening right now.

TBC...

Fuck.

This is such a bloody cliche I don’t know whether to start groaning or to burst laughing. I glance over at Bones, laying next to me in bed, her face buried in a pillow. Her whole body is trembling and I could just shoot myself for making her cry...

But then I realize it’s LAUGHTER what’s coursing through her body. Whether it’s good laughter or bad laughter is a matter still to be settled, but I’m assuming that laughter, either kind, is a lot better than tears at this point... specially since I’ve yet to lay a hand on her below the waist.

“Uhh... hmm... babe?”

I hear Bones hiccuping trying to regain control, but, by the sound of it, it’s a lost battle.

“Are you okay in there, sweetheart?”

She rolls over, laughter cascading from her mouth, hands clutching her belly, messed hair covering her face. “Yo-... you... you got... oh my God... tan...tan.. tangled... (snort) with.. with...”

Ans that’s as far as she goes before succumbing once more to her gayly laughter fit. Luckily for me, I’m a very secure guy. I know what I have to offer and I’ve never failed to deliver the goods. Granted, I may not be Ron Jeremy but I haven’t had complaints, either. A little laughter at my expense is not going to shake my confidence.

Much.

“When you’re done laughing, could you get your lovely ass back here and give me a little hand ?” There. That ought to get her back on track. Or maybe not. She rolls to the other side, still clutching her sides, snorting and blubblering and incapable of any coherent sentence.

“Fine”, I say, whilst trying to kick my sneakers and get myself out of the mess I’ve gotten into. “Keep laughing. You’re so gonna pay for that”. My threats, far from sobering her, send her into another laughing fit.

Cool. Keep it cool. You’re the man, man.

Fucking sneakers.

At least I managed to get the socks out of the way as well. One ackward move per night is all that I can handle right now.

So there I was, naked except for my boxers, cock still halfway rigid. And there she was, naked from the waist up, still wearing them fucking sweatpants and still laughing like this was the funniest thing ever. At least she had managed to kick HER sneakers off.

Hey, I’ve always admitted she’s the smartest one in our partnership.

She rolls a bit on her side, looking at me over her naked shoulder. I’m not sure if it’s nervousness laughing or if she had really never experienced... uh... technical difficulties whilst disrobing, but one look at me sends her into another fit of laughter.

“Ok missy, I’ve had it” I stretch my arms and pull her on her back and managed to roll myself atop of her in one almost swift move. Making sure I’m not crushing her below my weight, I start tickling her sides.

“St...st...stop it! Oh pl..pl...pl... ease, stoooooop it!”

My tickling fingers soon turn to caressing ones, and I can hear her swallow hard when I start tracing circles just below her breasts. I lean forward, resting on my forearms, and start nibbling at her neck again. “You were saying something about stopping?” My tongue is now licking the hollow at the base of her neck and I can’t help but smile when I hear her gasp.

Now I’m tracing her collarbone with the tip of my tongue and I can’t help but marvel at how delicate her whole body is. I’ve always perceived Bones as strong and indepedant, and I guess that preconceived notion had prevented me from seeing how small she really is.

I shift lower and cup her breasts once more. I take my time examining them. The plastic surgeon was right: they are perfect. They’re plump without being too heavy, with a nice natural droop that’s still years away from sagging. Tiny blue veins travel upward as if guiding me to her nipples. I think I could stay here for hours just gazing at them. Not rosy, not strawberry, but a perfect in between. I exhale the breath I’ve been holding and marvel at how those bundles of flesh contract and erect.

If there was ever an invitation to taste them...

Forget hours of contemplation. I’d gladly choke to death sucking on them. I move from the right one to the left one, sucking one and covering the other with my hand, least it gets cold and uncomfortable. While lathering up her left nipple I glance up to see how the rest of Bones is doing. One hand is crumpling the bed spread whilst the other is tugging her hair. She is biting her lower lip and murmuring to herself. Her closed eyes suddenly open in a lazy movement and I’m a goner.

Words can’t really describe how it felt to be seen by her while I’m feeding off her breasts. It hit me hard in my soul, an unneccesary confirmation of how deeply I care for this extraordinary woman. It hit harder down below, a not-so-welcomed reminder of how much I wanted her.

“More”

It took me a couple of seconds to realize it hadn’t been me thinking out loud. It had slipped from between her lips. I looked at her with a troubled expression, trying to figure out what kind of “more” she wanted. Many a times I had wished women came with a set of instructions tatooed next to their belly buttons. Since most women are somewhat vague to what they really want in bed, you can only hope for the best in a trial-and-error uncoreographed dance.

Alas, Bones isn’t like most women.

TBC...

X FILES FANFICTION

2007-07-16T01:27:26Z

R U B Y

AUTHOR: foxdvd
RATING: NC-17
DISCLAIMER: No, not mine. Trust me, you'd remember if you saw something like this on screen!
SPOILERS: Well, I'm assuming you know Mulder is a profiler, right? And you've heard of Tom Colton, right? Then, no spoilers here. Move along, people.

SUMMARY: When your friendly neighbour psychopath starts killing redheads, Scully is requested to go undercover ... as a stripper.

SOMEWHERE IN WASHINGTON D.C.
JULY 31 11:15 P.M.

I had been looking everywhere for her. And I was getting tired of these games she was playing. I had asked her to stop it, to get help, to talk to me about it... but she refused it. I had done everything in my hands to help her get through this... this phase she was going through.

For I am sure it is just a phase. I am sure she is still in love with me, as deeply as in the beginning, more deeply if it was possible. But I know what kind of woman she is. I know she has a tendency to feel restless once in a while. I know she likes to play this weird games with me. But only because she loves me.

But she is getting out of control. I could feel it, I could sense it, I was sure of it. And I had spoken with her. Pleaded. Requested. Begged. And she had promised she would stop. And I believed her.

Until tonight.

Tonight I had gone home, looking for her. The minute I came inside the house, I knew. Like a sixth sense, I knew she was out here,
somewhere, playing this stupid games, ignoring her promise. It was exactly like those many times before, just the same thing. But this time... this time I was taking matters into my own hands.

I began searching for her in the streets and alleys of the city. I almost knew I would find here around here, in the seediest part of town, mingling with scumbags and human had-beens. I could feel anger rising to a boiling point. She had broken her promise, and she should face the consequences. She would face the consequences.

Once or twice I thought I had found her. But they weren't her. The colour was close, but it was fake. I could tell from the way their skin shone, from the absence of freckles, from the lack of spark in their eyes. They were not the real thing.

She was. The real thing. Ruby hair, ivory skin, ocean of freckles, and the unmistakable Irish spark in her eyes. She was one hundred percent Irish, just like my mother had been. Just like myself.

People always thought we were siblings.

People could be so stupid sometimes.

Finally, I found her. She was standing on a corner, leaning slightly forward if a car came by. I don't remember seeing her wearing that black leather miniskirt before. Or the red halter top, for that matter.

But the mid-thigh boots were hers. She had bought them after watching that hooker movie, the Cinderella nonsense about a "pretty woman". And she loved those boots. She even wore them during summer, regardless of the heat. And she always wore them when she was out, playing her games. Always.

She turned around when she heard me approaching. She evaluated me carefully. She continued to play the game, even in this moment.

"Looking for some fun and games, darling?"

I grabbed her shoulder. "Sarah ... I warned you."

The last thing I see are the red traces the knife makes in her white flesh, her pale blue eyes staring lifelessly at me as I plunge in over and over again.

"I warned you, Sarah..."

FBI BUILDING AUGUST 5 4:06 P.M.

I rubbed my eyes, feeling overwhelmly tired. I had spent the last two days working with VCS, doing a profile on a new serial killer. A psycho with a penchant for killing prostitutes and strippers.

His MO was brutal and effective. He slashed their throats with a hunting knife and then stabbed their chest until it was a barely recognisable pulp. He didn't waste time dumping their bodies, for he left them lying in the same spot he had killed them.

The other remarkable characteristic was that the victims, all 14 of them were redheads. Natural redheads.

The DC police was baffled and worried about the mixed feelings this particular case had stirred. The general public couldn't care less for the victims, they were hookers and nude dancers, after all, but was upset with the prospect of finding a savagely mutilated corpse lying on the street.

It hadn't helped that the last person to stumble into a body had been the daughter of a Congressman. That's when the FBI had been called in. The case had been promptly handed to VCS and they had been quick to request a profiler to help them identify the killer.

Skinner had also been quick to drag my ass into his office, demanding I gave my full attention to the matter. That's how Scully ended doing autopsies for two days in a row. The same two days I had spent in this office, surrounded by pictures, evidence found at the sites and forensic reports, trying to get into this psycho's head, trying to figure out what made him tick.

So far, my profile wasn't very precise. My description of the suspect could be applied to one third of the male population in the area.

It was clear that he was killing the same person over and over again.
What I had yet to discover was who this person might be. His mother?
It would explain his need to destroy the victims breasts, and if he viewed his mother as a sexual being, it would also explain why he went after the hookers and the strippers.

Or maybe he was getting even with a former lover, one who had cheated on him. If she had been fooling around he would certainly consider her a tramp. But that wouldn't explain why he was slaying the breasts. It would make perfect sense if he attacked the genital area, but, the breasts?

The third and last option was his wife. Or ex-wife. Someone who had given birth. Someone who had...

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening. I didn't have to turn around to know who had came in. I'd recognise those footsteps anywhere.

"Mulder?"

I turned around to meet my own personal redhead. I knew I was dead wrong on her being mine, but I've come to feel rather territorial about her. She's mine, just as much as I'm hers. If she wanted me,
that is. I've never allowed myself to delve too deeply on our mutual feelings. If that makes me a coward, so be it.

"Yes, Scully?"

She sat down wearily. Dark circles under her eyes, shoulders slumped.
Her hand was massaging her neck. God, she must have been as tired as I was.

"I went over all the reports three times. I couldn't find anything. The fingerprints I found where so smudged that we'll never get more than a 70 match, and that's being very hopeful. No traces of blood other than the victims."

"Any other bodily fluids?" I ask, moving closer. I hold her eyes as she answers.

"Yes. I found semen and saliva on two of the bodies, but the samples tested as coming from three different individuals. There's no way I could tell you if they belong to the killer or to the victims uh.
previous clients," she replies looking down at her hands.

"So the lady had a busy night?" I observe in idle observation.

"The lady had the wrong kind of busy night," Scully replies, looking up with a weary nod. Our eyes meet again for a moment. She looks defeated, bone tired. I lay a hand on her shoulder.

"Mulder, I know the saliva wasn't the victim's too. I just...I can't tell if it was from her murderer though either."

The defeat in her voice is palpable. I decide to get her refocused here so she'll shake it off. A little facetiousness to goad her. It usually works. This time is no exception.

"So, you're saying that even though this guy is so sloppy he's clever enough not to leave a trace?" I ask baiting the verbal hook.

"You could say that. Either that, or he's just very lucky"

"Oh, come on, Scully. What are his chances of being "just lucky" 14 times?" I raise and eyebrow in perfect imitation of her usual sceptical expression. She catches my attempt to bolster her up again.

She smiled. "You want an exact figure or will an estimate do?"

I smiled back. "I didn't know forensic medicine included a statistics course."

"No, but it did taught me never to discard something because it was too obvious."

Scully dived into her pocket and produced a small plastic bag. She lifted it up in the air so I could see what was inside. There, barely visible, was a human hair. A red human hair.

"The victim's?"

"No. It doesn't match the victim's hair. The shade is different, the length doesn't match and the texture is coarser."

"Dye?"

"No, it's not chemically treated. I'll have to wait for the DNA lab results, but I'm pretty sure of why it's different. This is a man's hair."

My eyes grew wide with astonishment. "Are you sure?"

"As I said before, I'll have to wait for the lab results, but I'm 80 sure it is a man's hair."

My mind was running in three different directions at the same time.
If Scully was right, this meant that the killer was a also a redhead,
and that changed things, if not drastically, significantly.

For one, our suspect pool was considerably reduced. There weren't that many redheads out there, and once we had the lab results, the number of suspects would be even less.

Also, the motivation would change. I was eager to digest this new piece of information, so I began shuffling papers around, trying to come up with different ideas in the light of this new element.

"Mulder. I'm going home to shower and change. On my way back I'll pick up the lab results and some Chinese take-out and bring them to you, ok?"

I nodded at her in appreciation and busied myself with the profile.
When I heard the door locked, I looked up. The third thing on my mind had been to kiss Scully. You see, every time she comes up with something that will help our investigation I'm overwhelmed with the need to kiss her. I guess it would be the perfect demonstration of my increasing awe and respect, although I also have the feeling that she wouldn't understand it.

Most of the times I can ignore this kissing urge. I've been close to doing it two or three times in the past. On every single occasion I had been both physically and mentally exhausted, and I had had to really fight this feeling. Today, however, I'm a little beyond exhaustion. I'm also tired of fighting my feelings for her.

It is a really dangerous combination.

I decide to immerse myself in the profile. It is the lesser of the two evils.

Profiling can take away my sanity. Scully has already taken my soul.

A couple of hours later I looked up. Scully still wasn't back. I was beginning to feel restless. I needed to go out for a run, to shoot some baskets, to get fresh air... anything to get me away from the terrible feeling of constrictment that had descended upon me.

I was considering waiting for her outside when the phone rang.

"Mulder."

"Mulder, it's me. I got a call from Skinner requesting a meeting in half an hour..."

"I'll see you there."

"Mulder..." her tone of voice was tentative, "you haven't been requested to attend this meeting."

I felt something similar to shock by this news. "What? Why? What did I do this time?"

Scully was amused. "When will you learn that not everything is about you? I'm having a meeting with Skinner and Stan Carlbadier regarding some undercover work. This doesn't affect you."

But it does, Scully, it does. Everything about you affects me. I was careful to keep this thoughts to myself.

"So you don't want me to meet you there..."

"No. Wait. On second thought, I'll meet you there. That way I won't have to go looking for you to deliver your dinner, and I won't have to go into the meeting smelling like Chop Suey."

I was certain I could hear her smirking over the phone. "Ok. Sounds fair to me. Where are you?"

"Race you to the elevators."

"You're on."

And I hung up. I didn't like the idea of Scully discussing undercover work with Stan Carlbadier, one of the best undercover supervisors VCS has. I had worked with him before and he was a thorough agent, genuinely concerned with his people wellbeing, and an overall nice guy.

When I came out of the elevator Scully was already waiting for me. A bag full of steaming Chinese take-out boxes was standing next to her.
She was holding another bag full of bottles: iced tea and root beers.
"You're late."

I winked at her. "My dominatrix was keeping me busy on the phone."

"No excuses, Mulder. You lost." She handed me the food and the drinks. "Save some Chicken Kung Pao for me, ok?"

With that, she was gone. I looked down at the bags in my hands and sighed. As hungry as I was, I wouldn't start eating until she came back from the meeting. Eating alone was not an exciting prospect compared to eating with her.

I sighed once again and returned to the office.

Forty-five minutes later the door opened again. Scully came in and,
without a word, slumped into a chair. She mechanically reached for the food, barely registering that the bag was still unopened.

I had suspected something was wrong the minute Skinner requested to see Scully alone. I KNEW something was wrong by looking at her face, still focused, after the meeting.

I allowed us to eat in silence before tackling the issue. I noticed Scully was eating half-heartedly, as if her thoughts were some place far away...

"So?" I prompted her.

"So, what?"

"What did Stan Carlbadier wanted you for?"

Scully hesitated before answering. "Nothing much. Just a little undercover work on the sideline..."

" You know Scully, I'd never considered using Stan Carlbadier and a little undercover work in the same sentence." Noticing my humour attempt had gone by unnoticed, I decided to try it again. "Scully,
Stan Carlbadier is like the major leagues... nothing is just a little when you work with him. So, what's the scoop?"

She began shuffling some papers around. "I'm... not supposed to tell you the exact details of the operation..."

"What! I'm your partner, for Christsakes!"

"That's precisely the reason. See, they need you in here to keep working on that profile. If you were to follow me you could jeopardise not only my assignment, but yours as well."

"So I'm supposed to stay chained to this stupid desk while you're out there running around facing God knows what kind of dangers and not worry about it, is that right?"

"Carlbadier said he'll talk to you about this later."

"I'll be sure to remind him of it."

We continued eating in silence. Scully is deep in thought, and I am steaming. How dare those motherfuckers? I hadn't been chained to a desk since my days with Patterson and those days were definitively over.

So I could jeopardise the mission, uh? Sure. Fine. Whatever. If VCS doesn't want to see me around, they won't. That doesn't necessarily mean I'm not going to be around...

If those bastards think I'm going to let them jeopardise Scully's well being in one of their "special" missions they still don't know Fox Mulder very well. I've almost lost her one too many times to let her protection in the hands of those careless slobs.

"Well?", I prompt her once more.

"Well, what?" she replies. I have to hand it to her. She's mastering the art of not answering when she doesn't want to.

"What do our little friends at VCS want you to do?"

" I told you... I can't tell you."

"I know. I know. I can jeopardise the whole mission. At least tell me who are you supposed to play..."

"Mulder..."

"A doctor? Lawyer? Indian chief?"

"Damn it, Mulder."

"All right, what then? A landlady? Some long-lost relative?"

"No," she states flatly.

I can see her shifting uncomfortably on her chair. At least two dozen loud alarm bells are starting to ring in my head.

"They've requested me to go undercover as a dancer..."

I carefully consider this new piece of information before continuing my interrogatory. "I wasn't aware of your artistic background, Scully."

"I took ballet lessons once in a while when I was a kid... and I tried to attend dancing lessons at least once a week while at the university", she answered, defensively

"My mistake, then. So, you're going to be a dancer... why?"

She shook her head. "Can't tell you..."

More negatives. I could see Scully biting her lower lip, like she did when she was worried, puzzled or deeply embarrassed.

"Then tell me where, Scully. Where in the name of God would you go undercover as a dancer?"

My words come out harsher than I expected, but, for some obscure reason, knowing the answer was becoming an obsession.

"At a stripper's night club"

"Why you? I mean, you don't look the part..." I hated being so cold,
but I was getting uneasier by the minute.

"Because they need a redhead ... a natural redhead."

"But why do they need a r..." I interrupted myself. I looked down at the profile I was working on.

All the pieces fell into place. VCS was desperate trying to catch this guy, having exhausted all the usual means to do it. So now VCS was setting him a trap. With Scully as bait.

I felt anger boiling inside my head.

"Oh, no. You're not going, Scully. It's too damn dangerous."

"I know what I'm getting into, Mulder. I know the risks."

"Somehow, I'm not sure you're getting the whole picture, Scully.
This guy is a total wacko, If he lays a hand on you..." I shuddered at the idea, " You'd be dead before your backup arrives!"

"Don't you think I know, Mulder? I did those damn autopsies, in case you have forgotten!"

I was desperately trying to stop her. "Even so, I don't think you have what it takes."

"Goddamit, Mulder! Stop protecting me!"

"I'm not protecting you, it's just that you don't have the necessary experience to work undercover."

Scully was beginning to loose her patience. "I am a trained agent, for Christ's sake!"

"Yeah, and one assigned to ME."

Her eyes grew big and dark. "You're pulling rank on me, Mulder?"

"If it is what it takes to prevent you from taking this assignment,
then the answer is Yes, I'm pulling rank on you, Scully, and you're not going. That's final." I grabbed the phone. "I'm calling Carlbadier and pulling you out of the mission."

Our screaming match had reached such level that neither of us heard the door open until we heard Skinner's voice.

"And as YOUR superior, I'm telling you, Agent Mulder, that Agent Scully IS going to this assignment, whereas YOU are not. Am I making myself clear?"

"But, Sir ..."

"Am I making myself clear, Agent Mulder?"

I looked at Skinner's stone face. I knew it was useless to keep this going on any longer.

"Yes, sir."

"Very well, then. Agent Scully, Agent Carlbadier is waiting for you... he'll take you to meet your contact at the club."

"Yes, Sir." Scully hurriedly collected her purse and jacket and left the office without as much as a glance thrown my way.

I could feel Skinner's glare in the back of my head.

"Would that be all, Sir?" I swear to God I wasn't trying to be sarcastic...

"I'm not trough with you Agent Mulder," replied Skinner, while he turned around and locked the door.

Turning back again, he motioned me to come closer. I did. Years of experience have taught me not to mess with him when he's in this mood.

"Agent Mulder," his voice is low, tense, "I don't like the idea of putting Agent Scully in unnecessary danger any more than you do," he grates out.

I set my jaw and prepare for the lecture. But he surprises me. He gives a world weary sigh. He runs his fingers up under his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. When he removes his hand his eyes are somewhat less dark. But his jaw is still stiff as he continues.

"But look - Mulder. You have to consider how precarious your situation is with the Bureau right now. The only reason you have the X-Files is because you're useful to VCS. Therefore, when they say come you are only allowed to ask when. No more, no less."

I nodded gravely. As much as I despised the rules I still knew some of them... like those who could make the difference between keeping the X-Files and being kicked out of the FBI... and Skinner had appealed to the Golden Rule of All Rules: whether I liked it or not, my ass officially belonged to the VCS.

"However, once your profile is finished, you're allowed to join the other field agents in this killer's manhunt." He paused and gave me a stern look. "Besides, I am not responsible of what you do in your free time."

I gave Skinner one of my patented questioning looks. He gives me back one of his patented unreadable ones.

"You've been working down here for more that 48 hours. That entitles you to a day or two off. Regarding you finished your profile, that is."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Skinner was giving me... well, you could say he was giving me permission to look after Scully.

"Finish that profile, Agent Mulder. That's all I'm requesting." Skinner turned around to leave. When he reached the door he turned around and tossed something my way.

"I believe this is the evidence you need, Agent Mulder."

And with that, he was gone.

I looked at the object Skinner had tossed to me. A matchbook. From a stripper joint.

I sat down and contemplated the evidence and information surrounding me. I checked the lab results Scully had brought and forgotten on her desk. I was beginning to get a clearer picture of this guy...

With a sigh of determination I sat down on my desk, starting to sink deeper and deeper into this guy's psyche. Redhead killing redheads.
Brutal killings, the release of a deep hatred. Payback for a hurtful betrayal...

Somewhere in a lost part of my brain, the image of another redhead was dimming into the background.

I began to type furiously.

I had finished printing the profile when Stan Carlbadier came into the office.

"I was looking for you, Mulder", he simply stated as he sat down.

"That makes two of us, Stan. I was about to go looking for you to give you the profile."

"You done already?" The question held a mixture of admiration and suspicion.

"Yup. I must say that, without Scully's discoveries during the autopsies, I would still be struggling to understand this guy."

Carlbadier began skimming over the written profile. "Are you sure we are looking for a redhead, Mulder?"

"Positive."

"That'll make things a lot easier for us." He sighed and placed the file on top of the desk. "I didn't come looking for you to talk about the profile, though..."

I just sat there, looking at him. I was still angry at their idea of risking Scully's well being, and damned if I was going to help him by making this any easier.

"I'll go straight to the point. I know you don't like us using Scully as bait for this guy. I don't like it either, but we don't have much choice. She's the only available agent at such short notice, and she knows what we are dealing with here."

He paused, waiting for me to say something. But I remained silent.
I couldn't trust myself not to say something I'd later regret.

"Damn it, Mulder, I wouldn't do it if there was another way out of this mess! But it's done and I'm not changing my mind about it. I came down here to tell you that when you finished the profile you were free to go home."

"Go... home..." I muttered, clenching my jaws. "I don't get a chance to go out and play with the other kids, do I?"

"Mulder, you're tired, you're not assigned to the team and you're too emotionally involved to be of any use..."

"I'm what?" The hell with composure, I've never been the ideal FBI agent to begin with.

"You heard me. I don't want you at the stakeout. That's final. You got a problem with that, take it to Skinner. You did your job and now you're officially back in the X-Files..."

"Yeah...go chase some aliens, Spooky and leave everyday criminals to the good guys."

Carlbadier and I turned to the door as one. Standing there, smiling wickedly, was Tom Pain-in-the-Ass Colton. I opened my mouth to reply to his smartass comment, but Stan beat me to it.

"Agent Colton, hand in your badge and gun. You're suspended".

"What! I didn't do anything! I was backing you up in your decision to leave Spooky out of the game..."

"You heard me, Colton." Visibly upset, Colton dropped his gun and badge on top of the desk. "That's be all. I'll have Skinner's secretary call you at home when we're ready to determine your return to this section."

Colton opened his mouth as if to say something, thought better about it, and turned around to leave.

"And, Colton?" Tom turned around, half expecting the whole thing to be a joke. "Next time you address Agent Mulder by any other than his last name, I'll personally kick your ass out of the Bureau."

Carlbadier completely dismissed Colton and turned back to look at me.
"Asshole", he muttered.

I felt somewhat uncomfortable, not being used to have someone else do my battles for me. I wasn't sure if I should thank Stan or just let the whole thing go unmentioned.

"Stan..."

"Go home, Mulder. Get some rest. Come back tomorrow noon. We'll discuss then if you get a chance to play bodyguard for Dr. Scully."

With that, he turned and left.

I grabbed my overcoat and followed suit. I had a redhead to catch.
Two, actually, if things got really bad.

STARDUST NIGHT CLUB AUGUST 9 11:23 P.M.

The Stardust Night Club wasn't what I had expected. Perhaps I had been misled in my assumptions by the image of the Vegas Stardust.
Never been there, mind you, but I had seen "Showgirls" enough times as to feel acquainted with the place.

It's Washington twin was more of a distant cousin. It wasn't ritzy or flashy. No big marquee on the outside, no fancy signs announcing their dancing stars, no red carpet or anxious valet waiting to whisk your car the minute you got out, hoping to earn a juicy tip.

No. The Stardust Night Club in Washington D.C. was a dark and distinguished building, with a classy neon sign at a first-floor level and a very discreet double door entrance. Everything was nice and tasteful, lest anyone think that government employees liked to get down and dirty in their spare time.

Inside, things were a little different. For one, it was brighter.
And the atmosphere went from discreet to outright blatant. The testosterone overload in the air was so thick you could almost taste it. It reminded me of a huge and decadent bachelor party.

Finding Scully's contact wasn't very difficult. It was just a matter of finding the right hand to squeeze with a twenty among the club's staff. Both the bartender and the bouncers had seen Candy, one of the club's employees, arriving earlier that night with a petite redhead.

Doug, one of the bouncers, told me that Candy was the one in charge of the new dancers. He said she had been working in the club for six years and the only employee with more seniority was Oscar, the owner.
It seems this guy Oscar trusted her unconditionally and never questioned her choice of dancers.

He pointed her out to me when she briefly appeared behind the stage's curtains. She filled the "blond bimbo" stereotype up to the nines,
chewing gum included.

"You sure the owner trusts her?" I asked, doubtfully.

Marty laughed. "Don't let appearances deceive you. Underneath that bubbly blond exterior lies the brains of a nuclear scientist and the commercial instincts of a Wall Street broker."

"If you say so"
"Me and everyone else. She's busy right now with the crash course for the new dancer, but she'll be free in an hour, tops. Have a drink,
enjoy the view, and I'll introduce you two on our next break."

"Sure, why not?" I mumbled trying to sound excited at the prospect.

At least, Scully was still around and I could keep an eye on her.

Half an hour later I was deeply in conversation with Mike, the bartender. I told him this is my first time at the Stardust and asked him if the girls are nice. He tells me they are.

"But... how nice?" I kept asking. I wanted to make sure Scully was safe inside as well as outside.

"Well... Oscar, the owner, would throw out any girl, no matter how popular, if he suspected she was doing drugs... and he won't pick up girls from the street just because they're busty. No, no. To work at the Stardust the girls need to audition. We are a decent business".

I tried to look disappointed. "So, no hanky-panky going on?"

A broad smile crossed Mike's face. "No... unless you got enough cash on you and the lady in question finds you slightly attractive".

I raised an eyebrow in my best Scully imitation. "That so?"

"Yup. You see, after a dancer has left the stage, most guys will try to place a wager ... it's like bidding for the chance of getting a private dance. The highest bidder gets the privilege of the dance."

I was both curious and worried. Private dance my ass, I thought.
"And what can you expect from a private dance session?"

"That would depend on the girl... and how much cash you've got on you... 50 dollars to get a lap dance... 500 bucks could get you a night to remember... "

So much for the decency of the club. "Thought you said they were no street girls..."

"No. No street-girls for the Stardust... only top-quality, 5 star escorts and call-girls... most of the ladies here get their kicks out of champagne and caviar, and you better have a limo waiting for them at the door... "

The phone rang and Mike went to answer it. I was feeling uneasy. I looked around to see what kind of guys went to the Stardust for a little fun. Most of them looked like respectable, married men all dressed up pretty much like me. A couple of biker type here and there, but ,mostly, it looked like a respectable place.

Still, the idea of any of these guys laying a hand on Scully made my stomach churn. I sighed. Maybe no one would find her as appealing as the other dancers...

Sure. And maybe Scully would come out dancing with little grey men as a chorus line.

I caught a glimpse of Scully's hair behind the stage's curtain. I moved closer and thought I saw a concerned look on her face. She was biting her lower lip in apprehension while looking at the dancer performing on the stage.

I looked at this girl. Tall, long legs, nice breasts, black, wild hair. A couple of years ago I would have been drooling all over the place for her. But that was before I fell for Scully. Now I can only think in terms of red and blue. What can I say? I'm addicted to her.

But I could see why Scully was feeling uneasy. She's the most modest, private person I've ever met. I couldn't imagine Scully stripping down to barely nothing and keeping a cool facade...

I was sure she'd do it. I mean, she's a professional. She'd get the job done. But I seriously couldn't believe she'd be able to pull this off without blushing from her head to her toes.

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Scully and Candy returning from the backstage. I quickly mingled with the crowd, hoping Scully wouldn't recognise me. I followed them outside just in time to see Scully getting into her car and driving away.

"Remember, 9:30 a.m.!", called the blond after the moving vehicle. I could see Scully waving her hand.

My car was parked behind the club. I got in and drove to Scully's apartment. When I got there, I saw that her car was parked in its appointed slot, and the lights were on inside her place. I grabbed my cell phone and speed dialled her number.

"Scully". To an outsider, her voice would have been crisp and professional. But I know her better. And I know she's deeply annoyed and would have anyone's head for breakfast if provoked.

"It's me." I've never taken the time for niceties like saying hello or goodbye and Scully doesn't seem to mind... at least, not much.

"What is it, Mulder? Weren't the lab reports clear enough for you to understand them? Or are you expecting me to run out to perform another autopsy at 2:00 in the morning?" She's in her sarcastic mood. So maybe we'll change annoyed for a more suitable term. Royally pissed off comes to mind.

"I just wanted to see if you're okay..." Playing it cool seemed like a good strategy at the moment.

"Well, you know I'm home and in one piece, so you might as well drive back to your apartment, cause I'm not in the mood for midnight visits, ok? I'm fine." And, with that, she hung up.

I couldn't believe it. Damn it! She knew I was outside. I wondered if she knew I had been following her. I hoped not. When Scully gets this angry it is advisable to stay out of her way. And of her firing range.

I sighed. At least I knew she was safe at home. And I also knew she was meeting Candy at 9:30. I wasn't expected at the office until noon. That should give me enough time to see what was she going to do and where she would be. It would also give me enough time to figure out how to convince Stan Carlbadier to allow me to keep an eye on her.

Officially, that is.

Sighing, I turned on the ignition and went home. And although I was exhausted both mentally and physically, I was also feeling restless. I was familiar with the sensation. It is the same high I always experience after a profile.

Sleeping was out of the question. So was chatting with Scully to help us both to relax. That left only one thing to do. I plopped down on the couch and sat there watching one of those videos that weren't mine.
I sighed again. If I couldn't unwind enough, the next day was going to be a hard one.

If I had only known what lay in store for me ...

FOX MULDER'S APARTMENT AUGUST 10 6:34 A.M.

I used to have a teacher back at Oxford who said that a psychologist's worst curse and best asset was his capacity for empathy. Your insight on the patient will always be accurate, but you'll walk through hell and back with him on the way to recovery. He also said that I've better consider a career change if I didn't want to end in therapy myself.

I began my profiler career like most other FBI hopefuls: back in Quantico during the basic training. Although a remedial course for some, Profiling Techniques and Behavioral Science is mandatory for everyone who has a psychology or psychiatry background. Needless to say, profiling is such a tough and delicate art they watch us like hawks, trying to find that diamond in the rough that will become the next 'golden boy' of the violent crime unit.

The guys who trained me thought I was that rough diamond. My former teacher asked if I had a death wish when I wrote to tell him I was going into the FBI as a profiler. My younger peers were awed by my skill, and my senior agents were spooked by it.

But I was young and naive then. And I thought I knew better than an old professor living in England. Nowadays I do know better: he was right and the rest of the world was not. I still keep his letter, the only one I ever got from him, and today I decided to look for it.

Not that I need a reminder of its content. I know that by heart. I think I was looking for some sort of affirmation, some mystic, inexplicable connection that would tell me I did the right thing. It strikes me as funny how a letter dated 10 years ago can seem to have been written for my present state of mind.

Professor McAddy had a definitive opinion on my choices in life after graduating for Oxford. He said that as sure as night I'd be in danger of loosing my sanity, even my soul, if I pursued the profiler path I seemed so intent on following. That I'd find it too easy to turn into the killer to catch a killer, to become a monster in order to understand a monster. And that his deepest fear was that one day I wouldn't be able to come back from those dark places I would roam while trying to figure out what made a man turn into a hideous cartoon of humanity.

Today I'm sure that if hadn't left BSU when I did, if I hadn't started obsessing about the X-Files, I would have definitively turned into some kind of sociopath misfit. And I'm not even sure I left quickly enough as to keep my sanity intact. But my soul was just mildly scarred when I met Scully.

Scully. I'm not sure Professor McAddy had a red-headed dynamo in mind when he strongly advised me to keep away from working with female partners. His reasoning makes as much sense today as it did so many years ago. I'm doomed to repeat the loss pattern I experienced when Sam was abducted. Doomed to be overly protective,
unwilling to give them credit as capable individuals, unable to develop any kind of feeling towards them out of fear of lost.

Amazing how the old man could be so damnably right about me. He mapped my emotional sites with such ease it still scares me to think I could be so predictable.

But even a legendary eminence such as the Professor can be wrong.
Not totally wrong, but wrong, nonetheless. For I have developed feelings towards Scully that shouldn't be there. Must not be there.
But the feelings are there. Stronger than any other emotion, deeper than any of my obsessions. And fear had nothing to do with them.

Wrong.

Fear has everything to do with it. It's always been around, like a cloak, like a shroud. Fear of rejection, fear of love itself. But, above all this, fear of loss.

For loosing her is the only thing I could never bear. Not without loosing myself with her.

So I'm willing to make a sacrifice. I'll become the monster one more time, perhaps one last time, in order to save her. It seems like a fair trade: my sanity for my soul. My life for hers.

At the end, that old man from Oxford was right. My emotions override rational thought. My greatest nemesis would be no other one but myself. And time has come for me to face those facts.

So I begin the slow painful journey into the nightmarish hell that I've come to know so well. Slowly, but steadily, I become the killer, feeling his need to stalk and kill. A need for vengeance.

I can only hope that it is love that sees me through this.

SOMEWHERE IN WASHINGTON DC AROUND NOON

I saw Sarah last night. She was coming out of one of those sinful dance places. But she got away before I had a chance to talk to her.
She was hanging around with a blond slut. I don't think I've ever seen that broad before. But I'm sure she must be the one that's been whispering naughty words into Sarah's ear.

I'm pretty sure of it. Sarah would never dream of going to a place like that. She would have never taken her clothes off in front of a group of strangers. Never. So the blond bitch must have talked her into it. I find no other explanation.

Sarah would never do something like that. Other gals would certainly do, but not my Sarah. I know her well, and I know she wouldn't.

But I noticed something different about her last night. The way she was dressed was different. Sarah's a simple gal, but her clothes were fancy, ritzy. Like she was rich or something.

I also noticed she was driving a car. Not the second-hand wreck she could have afforded, but a brand new one. The kind that looks expensive and probably is.

And I wonder where she got the money. Her good-for-nothing brother couldn't have given it to her. She don't buy lotto tickets. So she must have earned it. Or someone gave it to her. And I'm not stupid.
No one gives out fancy cars and elegant clothes for free or out of the goodness of their hearts.

I feel disappointed. Sarah promised she was going to be a good wife.
She promised she wouldn't go back to her old tricks. She promised.
And I believed her. Seems I was a fool to do so.

It also seems like I would have to teach her a lesson. I'll have to teach her once and for all how to keep her promises. By the time I'm through with her she'll be begging my forgiveness and will think twice before even considering to break her promise.

Yes. Sarah and I will have ourselves a little chat.

Tonight.

FOX MULDER'S APARTMENT AUGUST 10 2:52 P.M.

I need a cold shower. And I need it real bad. I don't think I've ever needed one as badly as I need it now.

But today... when I saw Scully back at the Stardust Club today.
and to think what will happen tonight... oh, God... I don't think I'm going to be able to behave in an appropriate fashion.

Just to imagine her wearing those clothes... Christ, I need to take a plunge in the Arctic Ocean. And I'm still not sure that will work, either. Not the way my imagination is running right now.

I don't know how I'm going to be able to look at Scully again without getting a hard-on. I mean, there have been times before when my baser instincts were a little bit stronger than my will power. But,
after what I saw today... I don't think I'd even be able to see her straight in the eyes.

Damn VCS and my profiling expertise. Damn Stan Carlbadier for dragging Scully into this undercover assignment. Damn her, too, for willingly taking the job.

Damn the psycho with a thing for redheads. The redhead psycho who kept exacting his private vendetta on every redhead woman working the streets... or dancing her clothes off, for that matter.

And damn Victoria's Secret, and every other store that catered to women's fancies and tempted male libidos. Places like that reminded me of a giant spider web, where a guy could get tangled and choke to death on silk and lace, and still die a happy fellow.

How am I supposed to concentrate on the case if all I can think of is her? How can I protect her if the killer feels the need to attack tonight at the club? How, indeed?

Dear God... what have I done?

EARLIER THAT DAY

It was barely a few minutes past eight when I parked my car one block away from Scully's apartment. Walked over to see if her car was still there, knowing I had arrived with plenty of time to spare, but checking to make sure all the same.

Having convinced myself that she was at home, I went back to my car and opened the bag that contained the coffee and bagel I had bought on my way here. I've always thought that stakeouts are always done better on a full stomach.

Stakeout. Something I get to do quite often in my line of work. I should be used to it by now, but I'm nervous all the same. I don't think I ever thought I'd be staking out Scully, but that's exactly what I'm doing.

I looked at my cell phone, debating whether or not to give her a call. Last night she was pretty angry and I did not dare to risk upsetting her again, so I decided I'd better not call her. At least,
not yet. So I sipped my cup of coffee and settled down to wait.

Half and hour later I saw Scully leave her building and get in her car. I gave her a couple of minutes of advantage and then I started mine. I followed her, being specially careful not to be seen. She picked up Candy in front of the club and headed for a shopping mall. I had never been in that particular mall before, so I didn't know what to expect.

Scully dropped the blond stripper at the front doors, and went looking for a parking place. I waited until I saw her go inside the mall to park my car and followed her inside.

Candy was waiting for Scully in front of a beauty parlor. I've always hated those places. I remember the last time my mother dragged me inside one. I must have been 10 years old ... the smell of spray and God-knows-what-else was so strong I still get nauseous just thinking about it.

I waited outside for more than 45 minutes. What the hell were those two doing inside? Nothing could take that long, could it? I've never been very fond of all that female war fare. I'm a sucker for the results, mind you, but I'd rather not know how women achieve it.

As casually as possible I strolled outside the door, straining my ears to see if I could hear something that could give me a clue. Luck proved to be on my side, and I got to hear Scully's voice.

She was complaining. "Candy ... is this really necessary? I mean, can't I just do it myself?"

Candy just laughed. "Ruby, dear, Ruby? Was that Scully's undercover name? Ruby? How original can they get? I've been in the business for more than 6 years now, and believe me, darling, I still can't get the waxing right... "

Waxing? What waxing? What is this Candy talking about?

"But... but... "

Scully sputtering? What the hell was going on inside that place?
I've never heard the kind of panic in her voice... not even when facing the mutants we've came across one too many times in the past.
So what could she be facing now?

"Look girlfriend, let's get over with this. Let André do his job. You won't regret it. After all, you want to look nice in your g-string, don't you?"

Oh. Realisation downed on me. That kind of waxing. No wonder why Scully was trying to talk her way out of it... I tried to picture her getting waxed... and I found the thought of it too arousing.

I told myself I'd better not let my imagination go there, as fun and tempting as it looked. I had to remind myself that Scully was my partner, and that I should try to keep things professional, but my libido seemed to have other ideas of its own. My heart seemed to be walking down the same path, which left only my conscience and my intellect to deal with matters in what was considered an appropriate way.

Another 45 minutes went by. I was beginning to get restless. Finally, I saw Candy and Scully leaving the beauty parlor. Scully didn't look very happy. Can't say I blamed her. I had the distinct feeling that Scully was hating every minute of this assignment, and was truly regretting not having refused to do it.

I followed them, expecting to see them go in and out of different stores. To my surprise, they headed straight into a Victoria's Secrets boutique. My libido was somersaulting. That place reminds me of a candy store full of goodies, specifically designed to lure unsuspecting males into the realms of erotic fantasies...

There was no way I could get into the boutique without being noticed, so I waited outside. I tried to think about other things, like how I could protect Scully if the psycho decided to prey on her, but my mind kept wondering back to what kind of ensemble Scully would choose to perform in... I pictured her in something delicate and flowery...

It took almost a minute before I realised what I was doing. I was thinking of Scully not as my partner, but as a woman. And it definitively was a dangerous road to travel. Still, I couldn't help to think how she'd look in a leopard print, or black lace... or soft green silk.

I shook my head trying to clear my thoughts. This was Scully, my partner. My friend. The rational side of our mismatched duo. I could not regard her as a woman. I shouldn't. Too many things were at stake and I could loose everything we had if I let my feeling for her interfere.

And yet still... no one in his right mind would be able to deny that Dana Scully was one hot number.

Scully and Candy were leaving the store with a couple of bags. I hid as quickly as possible, certain that Scully had seen me and was headed my way to demand an explanation.

But she kept on walking next to Candy. She looked... radiant. She was blushing, but in a different way. I'd never seen her like that. I felt a warm tug at my heart and something, definitively warmer, in my groin. Warning signals were flashing in my head, but I chose to ignore them.

You see, I had to find out what Scully had bought. My mental health depended on it. Not that it was too stable to begin with... the porn videothon that lasted well into the early hours of the morning had left my defences weak and my senses... well , heightened.

An heated battle was taking place inside my head. My intellect ordered me to follow them, that I was keeping watch over Scully and would never forgive myself if something happened to her while I was playing hooky.

The rest of me, however, had a different idea. Thorn between duty and desire, I allowed my heart to make the decision. And so I turned around and went into the boutique.

"May I help you?"

I looked at the sales girl and flashed her my most charming smile. She smiled back. It was good knowing that I haven't forgotten how to do it. Scully always seemed immune to my disarming smile and seductive personality... though, if I had to be perfectly honest, her lack of acknowledgement had made our innuendo's game even more thrilling. Not knowing how she'll react made it all more fun, more addictive, more... dangerous.

"You see. I'm... aah... looking for a present for my fiancé. Now, why did I said that? She's a redhead and I'm not really sure what would suit her... I saw a redhead just like her coming out of the store a minute ago and I thought that, maybe, if you showed me what this girl had bought... "

I gave the girl my most innocent and adorable look. And it worked. She must have thought I was the most considerate fiancé a girl could ask for. As if.

"Why, certainly, sir. I helped the lady put together the ensemble she bought. Come this way, please."

I followed the girl around, trying to keep a straight face while surrounded by lace and satin and all kinds of lingerie. Not an easy task, if you should know. I had to remember the flukeman to remain calm. I almost achieved it.

Almost.

The salesgirl came back with the clothes, what little was of them, anyway. I watched them, in shock. Not because I'd never seen anything like it before, mind you, but because I was picturing Scully wearing them.

Push-up satin bra. Lace g-string and matching garter belt. Stockings. And a silk, kimono-like robe.

I held the soft cloth in my trembling fingers, hoping the girl wouldn't notice how badly they were shaking. My senses were going into a lust-like frenzy . I could barely pay attention to what the girl was telling me. The mental images were that overwhelming.

"I'm sorry, sir. But we're out of the robe in red. Would you like to see it in another colour?"

"Excuse me?"

"Red. The lady you saw chose the robe in red. I'm sure you'd like to buy the same colour that she... "

"No, never mind. I'll just bring her and have her choose whatever she likes, ok?"

I gave her a slight smile and almost ran out of the place. My hands were trembling so badly that it took me three tries to open the car's door. Once inside I couldn't stop shaking.

My imagination was on overload, and my forehead was hot. To be perfectly honest, it wasn't the only part of my body that felt hot, but I couldn't allow myself to give into the feeling. I just couldn't allow myself to delve too deeply into the sensations. Knowing I was attracted to Scully was one thing. Knowing she could arouse me like this was something completely different.

"Breathe, breathe... common, damnit, focus. Mulder, you need to focus NOW."

Slowly, very slowly, I recovered my self-control. And I knew I was in for trouble. Big time. If I couldn't control my reactions looking at the clothes, how was I going to control myself when I saw Scully actually wearing them?

What was I going to do when she began stripping?

How was I going to be able to protect her from a hormonal ape, let alone a maniac, if all my attention was focused on just a tiny (well, not really) part of my body? I had to get a grip on myself and start thinking with my upper head, and forget the lower one for the time being...

I let my head come in contact with the steering wheel. Hard. The pain seemedto clear my thoughts. A little anyway. Enough to bring them back to the case. Scully was going to be in danger, a sitting duck target for an extremely vicious killer.

Therefore, I couldn't afford to just sit down and enjoy the view. I've never trusted the VCU protection of undercover agents, and I have a dislocated shoulder to vouch for their neglect. And that time it had been white collar criminals, not a cold-blooded murderer.

So I felt it was up to me to make sure Scully was okay. Irrational?
Yes. A total lunacy? Maybe. But I wouldn't be able to stop feeling restless until this case was over and I knew for sure that Scully was out of danger.

What I had to do now was find Scully and keep and eye on her. I also had to find a way to persuade Stan Carlbadier to let me take part of the stakeout team. And I knew that Agent Carlbadier was a though cookie to bite on. I was going to need an extremely good persuasion technique if I wanted to be on the case.

I checked my watch and noticed it was quarter to twelve. I wouldn't be able to make it to the office in time for the meeting, not with the lunch hour rush a few minutes away. A phone call would have to do.

Problem is... I'm not that good persuading people on the phone. Then again, you can always blame misunderstandings on bad connections and bouts of static...

I dialled Carlbadier's office. Just my luck that he had already left for a meeting. But he had left a message for me. I had earned a couple of days off and should only come to the office if I came up with any other ideas about the killer. Other than that, I was out of the case.

I thanked the secretary and hung up. I was on my own on this one,
which could be a far better fare than if I had to work under the orders of Stan Carlbadier. I could do as I pleased and wouldn't have to account for my actions to anyone.

And considering the way I felt about the whole thing, not being allowed to work due to my "emotional attachment" to the case might just be the best thing that could have happened. I started the car and headed for the club. To be able to keep an eye on Scully, I had to find her first, and I thought this was the most obvious place to start looking for her. My gut was betting 10 to nothing that I would find her there.

Damn my gut, my instincts and my insane need to protect her.

And damn my jeans. I should have brought my sweatpants. Who am I kidding? A circus tent would have proven to be too restricting the way things were going just then. God, talk about tents. No, Mulder - do yourself a favour - don't look down and think about any kind of tent. Oh shit. You see, I did find Scully at the club. And when I found her, I thought that I had died and gone to Heaven. It was only later that I realised that the truth was that I was slowly burning in Hell.

She was rehearsing. Candy was guiding her in a routine guaranteed to blow a few minds away. At least, it was blowing mine quite nicely.

So this is why I was standing in the shadows of the second floor, watching a petite redhead sway her hips in time with some erotic love song, shaking her head, eyes closed in concentration. If you watched real closely you could be able to see her tongue darting over her lips, as her hands slowly and sensuously caressed her thighs...

She was completely dressed. But her dancing was the most erotic thing I'd ever seen. Besides, she's the woman my heart had been aching for, the woman who could question my mind endlessly, the woman my body has lusted after for 5 years.

Maybe that's the reason why I was unwillingly but slowly rubbing myself, trying to relieve some of the pressure building inside my jeans. I was biting my lower lip to stifle my moans. I was fighting really hard to keep my self control.

But then her hands moved to her shirt and she started undoing the buttons. Unknowingly to her, she was also starting to undo my resistance.

I couldn't control my reactions anymore. I reached forward and gripped the railing hard. I opened my jeans and began stroking myself keeping rhythm with the music. Oh man, it felt good too. My breathing was picking up a little more. I was starting to pant, my mouth open.
The shirt came off and underneath I saw the white cotton of a sports bra.

I let out a huffing sigh of relief. I wasn't sure I could handle any other kind of lingerie at the moment. I thought I was safe.

I thought I could get things back under control.

Until she began caressing her breasts.

Jesus...I...I really started to crank myself hard then. Couldn't help it. She has...her nipples were hard little...nubs...and she.
was t-touch...all over...Oh FUCK!

When my mind returned from the O-zone, I still had the railing in a death grip. I'd sunk to my knees, weak as a kitten. Christ, I came hard. I closed my eyes tightly. I didn't dare glance over or down through the railing to see what Scully was doing. It might have killed me.

I needed to get out of there. Fast. Before I made a bigger fool out of myself. Before I decided to throw caution to the wind and confess my feelings for her, before taking her home with me. I fled when I felt desire stepping in again.

Believe me, I fled.

OUTSIDE THE STARDUST NIGHTCLUB AUGUST 10 2:00 P.M.

I know Sarah is inside that place, that house of harlots, tower of sin. My heart bleeds just thinking about it. Her mother would die of shame if she knew, but, God merciful, she's already dead.

A tall guy left in a hurry a while ago. He seems somewhat familiar.
Perhaps he was here last night, I don't know. I can't be sure.

But what I'm sure of is that he was hiding something. He was trying to hide his shameful behaviour. But the Lord sees it as well as I did. He had his sin written all over him. And if it wasn't enough,
the bulge and wet spot in his crotch gave him away.

I know. I'm a God fearing man, but a man after all. And I know lust when I see it. Oh yes, I do. The bastard was inside letting the beast in him roam loose.

And something inside me tells me he was lusting after my Sarah. Using her as an object for his lowly passions. Perhaps he is the one who's been giving her all those fancy gifts.

Heaven help them if I catch them together. I swear to God I'll kill them both if I do. That's a promise.

And I never break my promises.

FOX MULDER'S APARTMENT AUGUST 10 4:54 P.M.

I sat rigidly on my couch, thinking. I got home 2 hours ago and spent almost one under the cold shower I so badly needed. I stayed under the water until I felt I had come to my senses again.

And now I was sitting here. And I was scared shitless. I felt like I'd made the biggest mistake of my life. Like I fucked-up big time. And the scariest part is that I'm such a coward, such a fucking coward, that I can't bring myself to admit why I was feeling like this.

Deep down I know why. Deep down I knew I had just blown my working, no, make that overall, relationship with Dana Scully. I know I'd never be able to look at her again, to talk to her again, without sex raising its ugly head over us. Thinking of her will get me carried away... touching her will, undoubtedly, be a sure-fire way to get an erection.

And I didn't think I was going to be able to live in perpetual arousal without loosing my mind. I'm so in love with her that it is getting to be physically painful. I might go crazy with wanton and lust and unrequited love...

But I'd never be able to tell her.

I'd turn my heart into stone, I'd bury my feelings deep within myself until I was sure they'd be lost forever. I was even willing to loose my soul, what little there was of it, and become a ghost of the human being I once was.

But I'd never tell her.

I couldn't.

Because telling her would open the doors of myself. And once I open those doors I wouldn't be able to close them again. Because once I bare my soul and heart to Scully, I wouldn't be able to have them back. I couldn't have them back.

They'd belong to her. And I love her too much to burden her with them. I didn't want Scully to suffer because of me. I didn't want Scully to accept them out of pity or guilt. And I couldn't bear to hear her say she didn't want them.

I'd rather kill myself first than die at her feet from a broken heart. I still got some pride stored somewhere inside. I was going to have to rely on pride to continue living next to her.

I won't make a fool of myself showing Scully the depths of my desire for her. I won't embarrass her telling her about the ever-consuming force of my love for her. I won't let her pick around my brain. I won't allow her to gaze into my soul. I still got my pride.

And pride could be a very motivating force.

Very motivating, indeed.

I sighed and looked at my watch. It was almost six o'clock. In less than 3 hours Scully was going to start stripping in front of a room full of strangers, each of them a possible stalker, murderer or rapist. In less than 3 hours Scully could be in grave danger.

But she didn't need my protection. She's a trained FBI agent, capable of taking care of herself, capable of kicking butt. The night club will be swarming with undercover FBI agents from VCS ready to kill the first guy who tries to put a hand on her.

No, she didn't need my protection. She didn't need my disabled male ego trying to prove I could protect her. And she definitively didn't need my teenaged, hormonal libido hanging from her garter belt.

What she needed is her peace of mind to concentrate on the task at hand. She needed to know she's doing her job well. She needed to feel she's proving her worth as an agent. She needed someone to tell her she's doing okay.

And while she didn't need a partner looking after her, and while she didn't need a lover making her anxious, she might as well need a friend to help her to her feet should she fall down and to pat her back when she succeeded.

I respect and I trust her unconditionally, the way I'd never will trust a partner again. I lust after her, like the lover I would never become but will always dream to be.
But I love her. Not as a man is capable of loving a woman. My love goes beyond that. I love the woman and I love the partner, but, if I had to choose, I'd rather love the friend.

And I had the feeling that she might need a friend tonight. And because I love Dana Scully, the friend, I was going back to that club. Even if it meant destroying my own heart in the process.

May God have mercy of my soul.

BONES FANFICTION

2007-07-13T21:04:52Z

LOS MOTIVOS DEL LOBO

AUTHOR: foxdvd

RATING: NC-17

DISCLAIMER: Who, me? Make money out of this? Own them? Get real... this is fanfiction!

Author's Notes: “Los Motivos del Lobo” (The Wolf’s Motives”) is a poem by Ruben Darío, in which a Wolf tries to explain to St. Francis of Assisi why he is the way he is. It’s also the title of a play by Sergio Magaña based on true events that took place in Mexico back in the 50’s, when a man decided to lock up his family for 18 years in order to prevent them from getting tainted by modern day society. Hopefully, by the end of the ride you’ll understand why I thought the title was so becoming.

Xxx XXX xxX

Dr. Camille Saroyan was growing impatient. He was never this late, dammit! She felt a bit of an idiot for sitting around waiting for him half naked. She was wearing his favourite barely-there attire in a blatant attempt to have this meeting go the way she wanted it to go. God knows she needed all the conniving possible when dealing with such a seasoned FBI agent.

And dealt she had for the past 10 years….

Fuck... was she really that old?

She had come to DC back in 93, fresh out of college. She had gotten herself a degree in forensics but after a round or two at some local coroner’s offices she knew it wasn’t enough to quench her hunger for power. Reverend Ezekiel Saroyan’s daughter was used to having her way, and having her way right now, and the boring climb through normal channels in any county was simply taking too long for her fancies.

So she had gone where the movers and the shakers were. Where things happened at a pace she found more suitable. And she found out, like many other beautiful 20 something girls with an education that Washington was eager to hear them out as long as they were willing to pay a certain price. Camille figured she that sleeping her way up the politics ladder was a tad more distinguished than sleeping her way to Chief ME in Hicksville, Louisiana. At least the guys were better looking and richer and she was quickly obtaining enough leverage to get her where she really wanted to be.

And she would have probably gotten there sooner or later, had it not been for Senator Joel Franklin, who had the bad timing of dying on her, or rather, in her. Camille realized a tad too late what was going on, and by the time she began performing CPR on him, he was already the LATE Senator Joel Franklin, loving husband and father of 6, a conservative and devout church member who just happened to like spending his evenings with a certain doctor 23 years his junior in the most airtight of secrecies.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, such activities were not as secretive as either one of them had thought. And fortunately for Camille, the man who knew about them had decided to get more photographs that very same night. And it was fortunate that there were “more” photographs, as there was enough evidence in Franklin’s cheque book to convict HIM of blackmail.

So there they were. She as the caught mistress, him as the caught blackmailer, both with everything to loose and both with enough leverage on the other to try and get some profit out of the situation.

Unfortunately for Camille, he could claim undercover work (a fact that he forgot until it was a tad too late to cancel their agreement). Even more unfortunate was the fact the just two months prior to Mr. Franklin’s demise, “Lewinsky” had become a household name and everyone in DC was paying close attention to each and every blue dress that walked the halls of the Capitol.

And thus, their liaison began.

Camille had to admit that it had been a profitable relationship for both of them. He knew more stuff than she would ever get from mere mortals, regardless of how deep into the loop they were. He knew exactly whom to approach, what kind of leverage to obtain and he had the perfect cover for them both.

Indeed, having bumped into FBI Agent Michael Hastings had been, all in all, a stroke of good fortune for Camille Saroyan. He had certainly “raised” enough money to ensure a “comfortable “ retirement and she had seen her professional career advance like she’d never imagined it would. She was already on a first-name basis with several members of the Cabinet and a good chunk of the Senate AND the Congress had her name on the “have to have over” party lists.

Life was good indeed. Michael was a good workmate and even a better bedmate, and soon they got into a comfortable routine that included exchanging information and planning the next hit whilst lying in bed before, during or after sex. Camille thought she had everything she could ever ask for: power, money and sex, and not always necessarily in that order.

But then Hastings had to scratch an itch that most men get when they reach the big 4-0. And he got himself a fancy sports car, way above his paycheck level. Whispers became rumors, rumors became talk, and talk soon enough became an IA investigation. And just in time to bring down the evil corrupted Agent came a hero fresh form the fight, all-around Boy Scout and Captain America wannabe, mister goody two shoes, Seeley Booth.

Camille virtually licked her lips in appreciation when she laid eyes on her latest “job”. Now HIM… he’s do him for free, just for the sheer pleasure of getting her hands on such boy toy. Looking back, she felt a bit ashamed of herself. But just a bit. She didn’t lie to him… much. Her story was almost all true (after all, she was a victim of Michael’s blackmailing, wasn’t she?) and Booth fell for it completely.

She soon discovered two things. The first was the Seeley Booth was the best fuck of her life. Sex just didn’t get better than that. The second was that sweet lover boy had a gambling problem and a pregnant girlfriend. She kept the former knowledge to herself and shared the latter with the “right” kind of people, and soon Booth was off Michael’s back and checking himself into rehab and a desk job.

Neither Michael nor Camille got out of that one unscathed, however. A couple of anonymous tips had the authorities breathing hell down their necks and they had to sell some of their acquaintances in order to avoid jail and a permanent criminal record. Things got ugly with one gang in particular, and the government decided to “reward” their goodwill by relocating them. Hastings was moved to a pencil-pusher desk position in Forgotten Ville, Nebraska, and Dr. Camille Saroyan… well, she was “offered” a coroner’s job in Nowhere, Alabama, where budget wizards firmly believed that the necessary equipment for a forensic unit could be bought at the Home Depot in Mobile.

Thus her years in purgatory slowly crawled by. But it was better than the alternative. Anything was better than death, she reasoned. And dead was precisely how their enemies wanted them to be.

Camille was surprised to receive an e-mail from Michael. She was even more surprised to learn that they were forgiven somehow, and her power-hungry alter ego soon raised its head. The Jeffersonian was “this” close.. so what if they had to do some fellows a couple of favours as payback for having thrown them to the dogs a few years earlier?

So what, indeed.

It had been great to see Michael again. The sex had been great, too. And the sudden cash flow was not something to turn away from, either. It was much later, when she had met with her new “boss” that she decided that maybe, just maybe, purgatory wasn’t such a bad place to be in after all.

So they had sold a band of criminals. Murder, blackmail and robbery were just the icing on the cake for them, and contrary to what others might think, they weren’t an unforgiving gang. Quite the opposite. She was given the Jeffersonian with a mark in mind, her orders clear and precise and so far, she had failed miserably. No matter how hard she tired, she simply couldn’t carry out her orders.

And Camille began to fear for her life. Learning that Vince McVicar had died in prison didn’t do much to alleviate her fears. Quite the contrary, actually. And Camille realized that, at least in her book, there’s not fate worse than death.

So that’s why she’s here now, half naked and waiting in bed for Michael, in “their” apartment, trying to figure out a way out without much of a loss. And, preferably, alive.

She hears footsteps on the hall and lets out a breath she wasn’t aware she was holding. “Took you long enough, didn’t it?” she says, without turning towards the door. Leverage. She has to keep leverage at all costs.

But the chuckle is not Michael’s and suddenly everything goes horribly wrong. She turns around and realizes she made a huge mistake leaving her gun in the bag by the sofa instead of next to the bed. Same goes for her clothes. And she forces herself to look up, defenseless and naked, and she stares into steel blue eyes, so similar to the ones she faces on a daily basis, yet so different at the same time.

Max Keenan smiles and Camille feels a chill run down her back.

“I can see why Mr. Hastings considered you such a valuable asset, Camille. However, I feel that I’m not getting back enough given my… investment”

Camille’s eyes dart form one side to another, trying to find out a possible escape route. There is none. She’ll have to rely on her mind and her tongue to get herself out of there with as minimum harm as possible.

“It’s not exactly easy. You of all people should know. After all, Tem… JOY is your daughter, your flesh and… bone”

She regrets the choice of words almost as soon as they’re out of her mouth and mentally braces herself for Keenan’s reaction. Here was a man who had killed his own wife, he was surely not going to hesitate hurting her.

The hand slapping her face makes a hollow echo in the room. She doesn’t get much chance of recovery, as she’s shoved into bed with no gentleness at all.

“I know who she is. I didn’t spend a good chunk of my savings greasing the hands of the foster system just so I could finish raising her the way I wanted it. She had just too much fucking Ruth in her for it to work out. Kyle was more like me, but he lacked spine”

“And that still doesn’t explain why she’s still looking for me.”

Camille wants to say something, anything, to calm down the man menacing her, but before she gets a chance to speak, his hand flies to her throat and he starts choking her… not hard enough to kill her, but hard enough to make his point loud and clear.

“YOU said Dr. Goodman would rein her in, and he didn’t. YOU recommended Seeley Booth as her partner.. said he’d probably be fucking her into oblivion before the year was over. YOU said it was a good idea to lend her out to investigate so she’ll be busy and forget about us. And then YOU said YOU would keep a tight leash on her. Well, I got news for you, Saroyan. She found time to write a book and mentions me every two pages. Dr. Goodman’s sabbatical was difficult to arrange and it’s even more expensive to keep. You have done nothing but compromise the whole deal. And last time I checked, the only one in their partnership fucking is Booth. So give me just one good reason why I shouldn’t tighten my grip on you right now and be done with it”

And with that, he shakes her a couple times more and drops her to the bed. She holds her throat and gulps in as much air as her damaged windpipe allows. She’s starting to believe she won’t be leaving that room alive, and wonders if there’s a fate worse than death. He seems to sense her fear, and relishes it.

“Oh…don’t worry doc. I’m not gonna kill you. Yet. I still need you on the inside to tell me how much she knows. Unlike your friend Hastings, you still hold some value to me.”

He gives the information a few seconds to sink in. The way her eyes grow and then fill with tears tells him that she’s understood his meaning. Then he sees her lips quiver and he knows he’s caused a reaction.

“You fucking monster”

The words are spat with more less the same force as her saliva. She’s visibly shaking now, a mix of fear and indignation, and Keenan feels almost giddy with excitement. He’s gonna break her, all right. And he’s gonna enjoy it. Such a pity, really, but it’s necessary.

“My contacts tell me you’re one hot lay. One of the best in town, actually”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Oh. I see you don’t fancy the idea. That’s too bad. I had kinda… fantasized about it, if you may. I wonder if fucking her would give me the same pleasure”

And with that, he reaches into the briefcase he had been carrying and throws some photos at Camille. She stares in horror as the smiling face of 11-year-old Shelby Saroyan looks back at her

“How? But… how? Where…? ”

“My dear, dear doctor. Leverage, remember? It’s such a basic rule of survival for people like you and me. Tsk, tsk. Camille, darling, maybe you’re getting too old to be playing this game. Or maybe being around Hastings for so long finally rubbed out on you… and now you’re thinking with your cunt instead of your head”

More photos thrown on the bed. Seeley and her. Shots dating back five years. And five weeks. Tears start streaming down her face.

“All men have a breaking point. Maybe Agent Booth won’t care much for his reputation or his job if these were to be made known. But I’m sure we’ll be able to find something to break him with”

Camille stares in mute horror as a photo of Parker Booth makes its way to the other ones, mingling with theirs having sex, almost too obscene to watch.

And certainly too much to bear. She has reached her breaking point, and he had snapped her in two easily. This was not a battle for her to win, and she’ll certainly won’t see the end of this war alive.

She gathers the photos in her hands lovingly and puts them aside, face down, too ashamed to look at them. Then she positions herself in bed, offering herself to him, a silent sacrifice, acknowledging her defeat. At least, she thinks to herself, she won’t give him the satisfaction of hearing her scream.

“My sources also tell me that you like it rough, my dear, so… I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty of bringing some… toys… along…”

He reaches back into the briefcase and takes out an object. She sees it, her eyes widening in realization. And she screams. And screams. And screams.

And before the night is over, Camille Saroyan finally finds out that there are, indeed, fates worse than death. Much more worse.

And living to remember it is the worse one.

THE END

CSI NY FANFICTION

2007-07-13T20:55:23Z

RETROSPECTIVE

AUTHOR: foxdvd

RATING: PG-15

DISCLAIMER: I just borrowed for some fun and mayhem. Pormise to put them back in the shelf as soon as I'm done playing with them.

SPOILERS: Takes place after “Love Run Cold”

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

I told her I was willing to give it a try, but she said she couldn’t.

I told her I’d be in the lab if she needed anything. Turns out, she needed a lot, but she didn’t come looking for me at the lab, and the need grew too big to be ignored.

I used to call her Montana, and I would have loved to call her mine ever since I saw her at the zoo that first time. Now I never call her Monroe, and I’m hers, for all it’s worth.

I used to think she’d fall for me easily, but I was me who ended up falling hard for her.

I used to think that once I opened up to her, she’d let me in. I did, and she ended up closing up and keeping me at bay.

I pleaded her to give us a chance, and she said she didn’t want to hurt me. Yet hurt was all I got to see in her eyes the day I met her past.

I told myself I’d give my right arm if that would make her happy. I had to give up my left one in order to make her safe.

I told her I was willing to risk it all should she give me a chance. She said she didn’t want to rip my heart out. I thought she was just trying to be nice. Turns out she was telling the truth and my heart did get ripped out by the knife her ex-husband attacked us with.

I said that I would die for her, and that’s just what I did. At least, Hawkes said I died for 3 minutes on the way to the hospital, and I died yet again on the operation table. If she hadn’t made it, I know now I would have died for sure.

She much later confessed she never had had the courage to end things with the ape that gave her the Monroe and a history of black eyes and broken bones. In the end, it was my bones breaking in the hands of her ex that gave her the courage to finally put an end to him.

Internal Affairs took one look at us and said that it was justified use of force. She had to force herself to take one look at me. She later told Stella she could justify everything, except the ease with which she had put four bullets in him.

She knows she drove me crazy by keeping me away. I know now that her ex’s harassment was driving her crazy: he had never gotten over the fact that she’d gotten away, and that made him a crazy, dangerous man.

She survived three years with him and managed to make a fresh start far away. I managed to survive 10 minutes of his homicidal rage. I love Montana to death and I have the fucking scars to prove it.

Now she knows that till death do us apart is more than just a fabricated lie. She knows I mean it. I went to hell and back to rest my case.

And case closed it was. It was Montana’s case. Not Monroe. Never again Monroe.

She’s Lindsay Messer now, wedding band and all, for all the world to see. To me she’ll always be Montana. Forever mine.

THE END

X-FILES FANFICTION

2007-07-13T20:43:17Z

LIVING IN SIN

AUTHOR: foxdvd

RATING: pg-13

DISCLAIMER: Krycek, Mulder, Scully, Marita et al belong to Mr. Carter Nosy Mr. Williams belongs to me and could be blamed on two bottles of white wine.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Another first in my warfare: a Krycek-centred story. Who would have known?

I'm telling you. He was a nice guy. Nice in a 'boy-next-door" charming kinda way. I liked him. Ever since he first came to live here some 5 years ago. I never knew what he did for a living, or his first name. And as it turns out, neither did I know his real last name.

He had always been Mr. Alexander to me. That's the name that showed on the receipt I gave him every month. He was a good pay. Even when he was away I'd get the rent check on the first day of every month. I did notice that the signature of the checks was not always the same one, but I was not one complain for getting paid on time. Nossir. Not me.

Turns out his name was Krycek. Alexander was his first name. Old Mr. Simmons at 4D almost had a seizure when he found out. Wanted to sue me for housing a 'commie'. For all he knew, he said, he could have been a Russian spy. Hell, for all I knew he could have been one, too. Just like the guy in that old tv serial... remember him? But that's another story.

I am telling you, he was a nice guy. I mean, he'd always help me Get the garage door open in the mornings and would help me carry the groceries inside if we arrived home at the same time. Even after his... uh... err... accident... he kept on helping me as much as he could.

You don't know what accident? Hell, neither do I. But I know that the boy left here on Wednesday with his two arms attached and returned 3 months later with a plastic thing... whatchamacallit? pre... pra... prosthesis, damn it, instead of a left arm. I've always wondered what had happened to him. Could have been a car accident. Or he could have had a close encounter with the garbage disposal like my uncle Herbert when he tried to rescue Grandma Williams's sterling silverware from going to hell... but that's another story. Anyway, I don't think Mr.Alexan... Mr. Krycek would be as dumb as my uncle Herbert in the first place. He looked like a smart kid.

Visitors, you ask? Well... he had his share of visitors. He wasn't the party-thrower type like the Davises on 5A (and you should see the number of bottles on the garbage deposit next Monday!) but he wasn't a recluse like Miss Robbins on 2B. She ought to be in a convent, that woman. But that's another story. As I was saying, Mr. Krycek had his share of visitors.

Some came almost weekly, like that distinguished British gentleman. He was old enough to be his father, but there was no family resemblance, so I assumed it was his boss. He stopped coming after last summer, though... I missed seeing him. The limo outside gave the building back some of the splendour of the old days when this was a wealthy neighbourhood.

Ok. The building has seen better days. And the block is certainly not what it used to be. But I've tried to keep the building clean. No drug dealers, no working ladies, no Mafia thugs. Mostly people from good families that hadn't been so lucky in their investments. A couple of newlyweds saving money to move up. And once in a while kids like him, working their way up in DC, spending more money on a pair of 'power suits' to meet the standards than on their rent...

What? Oh yes... Mr. Krycek's visitors. About once a month a human chimney dropped by to see him. I always had the feeling that Krycek was not all too happy to see him. To tell the truth neither was I. He left a trail of cigarette butts everywhere, despite my carefully lettered 'Do Not Smoke' signs... and the smell! Three days later you'd still know the damn man had been here.

A few years ago a Hispanic guy came quite often. So often, in fact, that I thought he was boarding for free. I didn't like him, either. He reminded me of those guys in street gangs. I'm sure I saw him packing a gun once. I was thinking about mentioning it to Alex, but then the guy disappeared. Now that I think about it... I think I saw him come in one day, but I don't remember seeing him leave. And I never saw him again. I could be wrong, you know. Just like the time when I thought the Soaries on 1C were molesting the Lopez kid... but that's another story.

Women, you say? I know nothing about women... Oh please, put that bill away. Who do you think I am? When I say I know nothing about women it's because I don't. I mean, he never introduced any of them to me. Yes, them. For a handicapped guy he certainly was a ladies man. Very popular with the ladies. Must have had a very talented right hand, if you know what I mean.

Of course, if you ask old Miss Kaplan on the 6th floor, she'll tell you that Krycek was living in sin. His soul was already condemned by his lustful ways, she'll say. She says the same thing about the Gamberis on 5D and those kids are married! Granted, you can hear them going at it at all hours of the day or night, but you gotta understand, they're newlyweds. But that's another story.

Women came and went from his apartment in no particular order. But he always kept his... ah... amorous activities to his apartment and his antics weren't particularly noisy. Except for the blond girl.

Yeah. Blond. Model-perfect blond. Tall, blue-eyed, all legs and arms. You know the type. And she was classy. I mean, she dressed as if she had stepped out of one of those clothes catalogues. She smelled expensive. I certainly didn't think Alex was capable of paying the likes of her. Between you and me, I think she was the one doing the paying, if you know what I mean...

But she stopped coming as suddenly as the Hispanic guy. Then there were no more girls for a while, but it didn't last long. Soon enough Mr. Krycek began entertaining female guests. I don't think he had a 'fixed' lover until this last one.

I liked her. Nice, well-mannered (the only one who ever bothered to say 'good morning' to me when she left), she dressed with taste, but much more subdued than the blonde. An over-all nice girl if you know what I mean. I was kinda hoping Alexander would settle down with her...

That's why it was such a shock when it happened.

I know, I was here. I was just pouring myself a coffee when I heard the first shot ring out. Somehow I was certain that it was coming from his apartment. Perhaps that's why I counted them. 9 shots in all. She put 9 bullets through his body in cold blood. I didn't have to look into the bedroom to know that he was dead.

At first glance it looked like a crime of passion. She could have caught him in bed with another gal (I'm sad to say Alex wasn't very faithful to her those last days). But then the police came and it turned out she was a Fed. And the rumours started spreading about him. Seems like she was just doing her job.

But I tell you... I was there first, remember? She wasn't a cop when she fired those shots. She was being every ounce a woman when she killed him. Tears were streaming down her face when I found her and she kept murmuring things about 'double-crossing' and 'treason' and 'payback'. And a wolf. Or maybe it was a fox? I can't remember exactly. It didn't make much sense, anyway.

If you asked me, I'd still say it was a matter of the heart. She had that spark about her. Like she was capable of killing a guy in the name of love. Or maybe I'm just assuming things and falling for the stereotype. You know what they say about the Irish temper...

I did mention she was a redhead, didn't I?

THE END

X-FILES FANFICTION

2007-07-13T20:37:14Z

EMPTY ROAD TO NOWHERE

AUTHOR: foxdvd

RATING: PG-13

DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Never have been, never will be.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: I stole the title from my favourite Roxette song. Extra points if you figure out which is it. No infringement meant.

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

She doesn't live here anymore.

Nice statement. Dana doesn't live here anymore. Scully does. But, then again, there wasn't much Dana to begin with.

When did Dana leave? I'm not really sure. I could always take the easy way out and say she began moving out the day she moved into that basement office. But that wouldn't be totally honest.

Neither Fox Mulder nor the X-Files made her this rational, seemingly unfeeling and uncaring woman. The sharp scientific mind and the no-nonsense attitude were to blame on genetics and a military upbringing.

The need to excel can be awarded to being a middle child striving for her father's approval. The ingrained need for perfection came from years of medicine... one tiny mistake could make the difference between life or death. And the stubborn streak is part-Irish, part tomboy trying to prove her worth among two brothers.

That's what makes up Scully. That's her essence, her true colours.

Dana? Dana was a different story all together.

She was a sweet thing. Daddy's Starbucks. A kinda duckling, a tad insecure regarding her looks: Melissa's the beauty and Dana's the brain; Bill's the muscles and Charlie is the charm... that used to be her parents mantra... when they thought their children weren't hearing them.

But you know how your parents feel about you even if they don't say it out loud. Even in the way they choose your name. I cannot imagine a Dr. Melissa Scully anymore than I can imagine Dana, Homecoming Queen 1980. Put the other way around makes perfect sense, though.

Does this mean that since birth she was destined to be just Scully?
I wonder...

But I was talking about Dana. Dana loved to laugh. She had this wonderful deep laughter, the kind that is at times contagious and irritating at the same time. The kind of laughter that embarrasses your older sister at malls and movie theaters. Her Dad loved to hear her laugh. He said it reminded him of brass bells not quite perfectly polished but shiny nonetheless.

So when did she stopped laughing? Was it when the high school principal told her she sounded like a hyena? When her anatomy counselor mentioned that it was unbecoming of a doctor to laugh like that, specially if she wanted to be taken seriously? When Jack told her that whenever she laughed he was reminded of a bratty mischievous kid and not an FBI agent?

Or perhaps her laughter died alongside Missy and her Dad?

Dana loved reading and talking with her friends. She could stay on the phone with her friends for hours on end gossiping and giggling. She could pack a bag with a moment's notice and be ready to hit the road faster than the speed of light. And she'd wear her heart on her sleeve for all the world to see.

But then Judy Blume and Nancy Drew and even those Harlequin Romances gave way to the Medical Journal and the Expenses reports. The long phone calls were replaced by short informative notes and yes/no curt answers. The friends grew fewer as the number of dead bodies grew higher.

She can still pack a bag in less than 10 minutes flat, but it's not for an impromptu ski trip in Tahoe or 3 days sunning in Catalina. Her bags nowadays carry her DKNY suits and her sensible 3 inch pumps and a couple of ammo clips.

As for her heart... it's no longer worn on the outside. Sometimes I even wonder if there is a heart after all. I know she still has feelings but Scully has shoved them down so hard, she pushed Dana aside.

"Ellen?"

I look up to see the woman I've known for almost 30 years. If I close my eyes I can still picture her in pony tails, all freckles and smiles. But the ponytails are now a stylish do, and the freckles hide under concealer. Smiles are so rare these days I don't even recall the last time I saw her smile.

But I love her dearly. She's been my best friend and confidant for as long as I can remember. I trust her with my life. Heck, I even trusted her with my son's life, should anything happen to me, when I asked her to be his godmother.

I've seen her go from girl to woman, from child to adult, from Dana to Scully. I loved the first two changes. I'm not so sure about how I feel regarding the third.

One of these days I'm going to ask Scully why she won't let Dana out.
I'm going to tell her I miss my childhood friend and that I'd like to see her for a while.

I wonder if she's still around.

THE END

X-FILES FANFICTION

2007-06-22T00:41:27Z

BURSTING BUBBLES

RATING: PG-15
SPOILERS: None, really
KEYWORDS: Scully angst
DISCLAIMER: My name ain't Carter

SUMMARY:

.."I don't know if this is going to burst your bubble or not... but I don't want to see you to end our relationship, because at this moment we don't really have one, do we ? I would like to talk to you about what, if anything, we can do about that, what possibilities are open to us, and what the future is for us. That is why I want to see you in person..."

You can feel the tears stinging in your eyes as you read the paragraph over and over again. Your eyes check, for the fifth time, the date when the e-mail was sent. It still read February 14,
2000.

You bit your lip when you feel that the tears are getting closer to spilling. You don't want to cry in here, in the office. You don't want him to see you cry. You don't want to see the worry in his eyes and you certainly don't feel like explaining to him why you're crying over an e-mail.

You also don't want to see his hurt expression when it dawns on him that you've been 'dating' someone else and that the so-called 'date'
has ripped your heart to pieces on Valentine's day.
Do you really call meeting in chat rooms a date? Well, for all practical purposes you do. You were dating him. You spend all your free hours on-line talking with him. You wrote e-mails back and forth while in the office. You signed such e-mails with words such as 'Love', 'Forever Yours', 'Your beloved'...

He made you feel alive.

He also made you feel like a fool.

You can't believe you were so stupid and naive as to believe you could find 'true love' on a personal ad. It had been Ellen's idea,
and you gave it a shot one Sunday morning when you were bored out of your skull after spending yet another weekend at home.

It's not that you don't cherish being at home, not with the complex life you lead. More often than not it is a blessing to be able to close the door and live in a world where no murderers, psychos, mutants, conspiracies or aliens exist. To be blissfully ignorant and escape form reality one in a while is something you treasure.

The only problem with escaping the big bad world out there is that you had lots of time to explore your big bad world in here. Your Scully world. Or, more accurately, your Dana world. that world that you so fiercely keep hidden form everyone else lest they think you're weak, or, Heaven forbid, that you're a female.

It's the world where you down a pint or two of ice cream once a month when your period blues hit you. Where 'Medical Journal' and 'Pathology Today' leave way for more frivolous readings such as Judith Krantz or Mary Higgins Clark or even a Harlequin romance. Where your chic and severe, dress-for-success power suits are put away for a day or two, allowing the soft textures and pastel tones to make an appearance, even your old baby pink cashmere cardigan that's been with you since forever and you so much love to wrap yourself in when you're feeling down and romantic.

Yes. Romantic. Dana's world is a place where you're allowed to show your romantic side. Where you cry while watching sappy movies, no matter how many times you've seen them. "Love Story" will get to you anytime, even if you've seen it 18 times already. Any Meg Ryan film will do, as well. And if she's paired with Tom Hanks or Andy Garcia or Nicholas Cage you're a goner.

Letting go in Dana's world also means singing and crying alongside your favourite tunes. Dana's world has no room for classical music.
You'll go with your youth favourites, those sappy, bubble-gum love songs of the 80's, where you could get an animal cracker to slit your wrists just for the sheer misery of it. And you belt out like there's no tomorrow while John Waite claims he's not missing you at all (talk about denial) or Pat Benatar firmly declares that you belong.

But music also liberates you and you allow your body to move as it pleases. Your rigid military upbringing jumps out of the window every time you feel the urge to let go. Your body gyrates, shakes, slithers, sways and contorts. You're better than Tom Cruise doing risky business and Elizabeth Shue playing the babysitter. You wonder what Mulder would say if he knew you wax your floors wearing socks and underwear and sliding to the sway of the Backstreet Boys and Shania Twain and Hanson. His eyebrows would probably hit the ceiling and he'd consider opening an x-file on you. Again.

And it hits you. You've said it. The M word. Not marriage or masturbation, but Mulder. The word brings out the best and the worst in you. You start and begin with Mulder. You could thank him and blame him for what your life has become. You both love him and hate him and that would barely start describing what you feel for him. Writing your physics dissertation would be child's play if you ever tried explaining the interaction between the two of you.

But down here in Dana's world his name is a reminder more than anything else. It reminds you of how lonely you feel at nights, when you wake up at 2 am and the bed is big and cold and mostly empty and you've almost forgotten how it feels like to share the bed with someone other than a stuffed bear. It reminds you that you haven't been on a date, a real date, ever since neon colours and bangs that added a couple of inches to your height went out fashion. It reminds you that the only voice besides your mother you hear on the phone is his and that makes you feel lonely as well.

But, worst of all, it reminds you that you're still a woman beneath the FBI agent facade and the doctor facade and the "don't-fuck-with-
me-cause-I'm-fine" facade. A woman with a romance starved soul and a sex starved body. Basically, a woman who was drying up inside for the lack of love.

It's not that you wouldn't love to love him. Part of you already does and probably will do so forever. It's not that you don't find him attractive, you're not blind to see the man is certifiably sexy. And it's not that you don't know that he loves you as well. Deep in your heart you're almost certain you'll end up together one of these days and that that will be enough to last you for a couple of lifetimes.

So why are you sitting here, biting back the tears caused by another man? Why, if you're so certain that him is it for you, did you go trough the trouble of placing a personal ad? Why did you reply to every letter you received and agreed to meet a couple of would-be suitors? Why them and not him?

Is it because not everything is about him? That might have been true a couple of years back, but not anymore. Is it cause you're so ripe for a relationship that you're already rotting? That's something that Mulder would say, and it wouldn't come close to explaining the way you feel. Your restlessness. Your annoyance. Your reluctance to acknowledge publicly what you've acknowledge to yourself so long ago.
You're his and he is yours. Signed, sealed and delivered. No turning back, no warranty expires.

And yet...

The fact remains. Someone other than him has opened a gnash in your heart. Maybe not a huge one, but big enough for it to bleed. And since denial is used just for Mulder, you'll admit your pride is also a bit wounded. More than a bit, actually.

If there's such a thing as heartbreak, is there such a thing as pridebreak? Cause you have the annoying suspicion that, after the initial shock, that's what you're suffering from. You knew from the start it was not going to work. The man was sweet and had a great sense of humour, but no sparks went flying when they had finally met Then you had an argument over work vs. relationship. You thought you had reached an agreement and things were going to remain the same. Apparently he didn't share your views.

Deep inside you knew this was bound to happen. But you kept at it just the same. Maybe you wanted to feel attractive. Maybe you wanted to know guys still find you desirable. Maybe you wanted to prove to yourself you could still do it. How does that song you like so much go? You bleed just to know you're alive? Is that it? You just wanted to feel alive? Loved? Wanted?

You hear him whispering you name and you look up to see the concern in his eyes. You shake your head and smile as reassuringly as possible while a quick flick of your wrist deletes the message. Later tonight when you get home you'll delete your account at the personal ads.

You proved what you needed to prove.

You're the only one who can burst your bubbles. And, at least for today, the only bubbles you feel like bursting are the ones in your bubble bath.

THE END

MORE AUTHOR'S NOTES: Since Scully and I are more less close in age I took the liberty of deciding she might have enjoyed some of the things I did. You'll have to excuse if there's a wee bit more of me than of her in here, but I'm assuming she can't be KickAss!Scully 24/7 and she'll have some 'girlie' moments as well.

BONES FANFICTION: JUST HEAR ME OUT

2007-06-05T02:44:26Z

JUST HEAR ME OUT

WARNING: The reading of this material whilst handling fluids may cause damage to either electrical appliances or important documents. Or maybe not. My 9yrold niece says this is the funniest thing ever, but, then again, “Fairly Odd Parents” gets the same reviews...

KEYWORDS: Bones fanfiction, Humour
RATING: G
DISCLAIMER: Me, no money. Fox, no sue me. WE all happy!

Cruising town for 6 hours waiting to catch a bad guy whilst doing a bad deed can produce large amounts of adrenaline in law-enforcement officers. It can also induce large amounts of boredom in the more scientific oriented minds, like, say, forensic anthropologists.

And as we all know, a largely bored forensic anthropologist is not the best car companion, specially since you, the law enforcement officer, are trying to keep an eye open for possible suspect sightings, all the whilst trying to pretend understanding half of the things the aforementioned anthropologist is drilling you with. Out of boredom, to begin with.

Having come to that, any interruption, no matter how small, becomes greatly appreciated. Even more if it comes in the shape of official radioes crackling to life, spouting important sounding codes that seemingly demand your utmost immediate attention.

“Roger, dispatch. 10-12-93 in pursual. I’m taking a 19-68. Over”

Once the call is done and the mike is hung, you can feel the questioning in her eyes. You look at her and smile reassuringly, being careful that it (the smile) does not quite reach your eyes. You do not want to convey the idea of simplicity here. Nor do you wish to re-engage in conversation.

Your target looms on your right. You make a turn the first chance you get, and head for the main entrance as quickly as possible. Time’s starting to become something of an issue, and you want to imprint that vague feeling of urgency in your partner, something you seem to accomplish quite nicely.

“If we’re in such a hurry, why not turn on the siren?”

“Because we don’t want to scare innocent by-standers and alert perennial peeping toms”

You ease the official vehicle into a parking spot effortlessly and give yourself a mental pat in the back for such a suave and smooth maneuver. Your objective close-by, you get out of the van and check that your gun’s locked and in place.

“Wait here, I’ll...”

“What? Wait? Here? Again? Haven’t we had this argument before?”

“Bones...”

“I thougth you had understood the fact that I’m not one of those helpless unlookers. I thought we had already agreed that I could take care of myself. I thought we had reached an agreement after what happened in the postal warehouse!”

“Bones...”

“I understand the need to excercise your right as an alpha male, dominant and overprotecting. It’s imbeded in your genetical code. It’s so deeply ingrained that you even form a close pack of reproductive capalbe females around you in order to ascertain the continuation of your lineage and warn off potential competitors...”

“BONES!”

“What?!”

“I just stopped to take a leak at the men’s washroom at the park’s entrance, ok?”

For as we all know, large amounts of time spent inside a car during a stake out or vigilant cruising call for large amounts of coffee. And we all know the kind of havoc that 48 ounces of lattes can create.

THE END

CSI NY FANFICTION: ON THE WAY DOWN

2007-06-05T02:12:04Z

ON THE WAY DOWN

SUMMARY: And on the way down, I saw you, and you saved me from myself...
RATING: PG-15 (for some swearing a some hanky-panky)
KEYWORDS: CSI NY fanfic, Fiesta, Romance, Fluff
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, just borrowed them to play a while. Promise to put them back where I found them... perhaps a bit happier than when they left.

It started as a normal case. Well, “normal” considering they had found two bodies bludgeoned to death on the 16th floor of an industrial-lofts building. Stella quickly went over the scene and the ME’s wrapped up the bodies on the stretchers and filled up the whole cargo lift with them. Adam looked at Stella with a worried look on his face.

“It’s okay, Adam. Take my kit with you. Go down with the bodies and send the elevator up as soon s you’re done. I’ll wait here with Flack.”

Adam agreed, feeling somewhat relieved that he wasn’t leaving her all alone and closed the gate. A loud chirring noise could be heard once the elevator began going down, and Flack and Stella exchanges glances.

“This is one of the reasons why I don’t like this yuppie places,” said Flack. “Those elevators are a pain in the neck. I used to date an artist who lived in one of these and I never understood how she managed to get any sleep…”

Stella’s snort made him realize how tongue-in-cheek his comment had been and he decided to correct himself. “I meant when I wasn’t around. The whole building was occupied by weird artists and people came and went at odd hours all day long. There was a photographer who must have been sleeping with half of Brooklyn’s aspiring models, and had the other half over for drinks, cause every night you saw a different girl leaving his place. If the chirring noise wasn’t bad enough, the damn door had to be banged shut…”

“Poor woman. No sleep when you weren’t there, and I’m assuming no sleep when you were… didn’t peg you as a guy who’d flatter himself so blatantly”

“Hey… cut me some slack… this Yonkers stud has never had any complaints…”

Stella’s eyebrow raised in amusement. “Have you ever seen “When Harry met Sally” Don?”

The detective nodded.

“I rest my case, then…”

Stella was interrupted by a horrible metal sound. They both looked at the elevator. Flack walked towards it to inspect it, while Stella took out her cell phone and hit Adam’s number.

“Adam? Are you okay? Yes, we heard. Aha. I see. What?? How are you…? Well, Adam as fascinating as that is…. yes, I understand. No. No we can’t. Okay. I’ll see what can be done. Keep me posted.”

She turned to Flack to deliver the news. “The elevator got stuck between the first and second floors. They managed to open the gates and to get out. The building manager tells them the whole hydraulic thing was shot to hell, so it might be a couple of DAYS before the elevator works again. They are going to try to pull it downwards enough as to get the bodies out.”

“That’s all nice and dandy, Stella, but how are we supposed to get out of here? Last time I checked, neither one of us had grown a set of wings.”

Stella was once more at the phone. She held up her hand in a “hold on” gesture. “Yes, Mac? Oh, you've heard? Louie called Peyton and Peyton was just telling you? Oh. Well, yes. We’re fine, except that we’re 16 floors above street level. What? I’m not sure… let me check…” Removing the cell form her mouth, she called to Flack: “Are there any emergency stairs?” She went back to the phone: “Don’s checking now, hold on.”

Meanwhile, Flack was opening doors at random, until he found the exit to the stairs hidden halfway behind a pantry. “We got stairs here!” he called back.

“Affirmative on the stairs. OK. Will do. Thanks Mac. Bye,”

Putting away the phone, she joined Flack in the kitchen. “Mac is going to call in a favour from the air guys. All we have to do is climb up to the roof… 4 floors only.”

Flack opened the door as wide as it would go and gallantly stepped aside. “After you, milady.”

They were reaching the 17th floor when Flack’s cell chirped to life. “Flack. Yeah. What? No shit. Are you fucking kidding me? And I suppose I have to be the one to do that? Yeah, right. You owe me big time for this one…”

Flack turned to Stella with a somber expression on his face, and she knew there was bad news before he even opened up his mouth.

“Mac says the favour was denied. Thank Gerrard for that one. Seems neither one of us is important enough to grant the use of the department’s resources…”

“Son of a bitch!!! We have to climb down the stairs to get out of here??? Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Flack could understand that Stella didn’t like the news. Hell, even Mac understood that, having cowardly called him instead of her to deliver the bad news. But Flack thought that Stella was perhaps overdoing it a bit…

“Stel… it ain’t so bad… it’s just 16 floors… we’ve done worse…”

In all answer, Stella raised her leg, in a pose more often seen on a Broadway stage than on the streets. “They’re new. I’m breaking them in.”

Understanding dawned on Flack. He grimaced at the thought. He had always wondered how his female coworkers managed to do their jobs on high heels. In fact, he had the uttermost respect for them for doing so. But even his dense male psyche understood that breaking in a set of new 3 inch heel boots whilst climbing down 6 floors of stairs, let alone 16, was going to be a murderous task.

Stella sighed. “The sooner we get over with this, the better. And tell Mac he’d better be waiting with a brand-new pouch of lavender bath salts and some massage oil for weary feet!” Having uttered her threat, Stella began walking down the stairs. Flack followed her, leaving a reasonable safe distance between them. He had once been struck by one of those heels while trying to make an arrest and it wasn’t an experience he looked forward to repeating ever again.

They began their descent in silence, keeping up a good rhythm. But by the time they had reached the 10th floor, Stella was stopping on every landing, moving her feet around the boots, in an attempt to find a comfortable fit. And by the 8th floor, it was obvious from her pained expression that she had blistered her soles, but she remained silent. Flack, however, couldn’t stand the idea of Stella being in any kind of pain or discomfort and decided to do something about it.

“Stop.” He commanded. “Sit.” He pointed towards a step three above where they were standing.

Stella began protesting, as expected. “I’m not tired, I can do this.”

“Shh. Be a good girl now and sit.” Seeing that arguing was not going to get her anywhere, Stella did as told.

Before she had a chance to protest, Flack got hold of her left ankle and slid out the offending boot.

“Don! What on earth…?”

“Shhhh.” He shushed her again, removing the right boot just as quickly. Holding both feet up at the same time, he quickly inspected the damage.

“You got blisters on both feet. The left one is worse than the right one, it broke and it’s bleeding a bit.” Stella grimaced, and he continued with his report. “The hose sock or panty or whatever it was you were wearing is toast. And since this floor was last cleaned during the 80’s from the looks of it, there’s only one solution to our problem.”

He put each boot inside each suit jacket pocket, and he turned his back to her. “Come on,” he said, waving his hands in accompanying gesture, “Hop on.”

“Don! Are you crazy? Do you have any idea when was the last time someone gave me a piggy ride? You’re gonna get us both killed! It’s still 8 floors down.”

“Bonasera, time’s a wasting. When we get down you’re going to treat me to a huge dog and a large iced tea at Manolo’s on Washington Square Park. Now get a-cracking, woman, cause the offer expires in 6…5… 4… “

Stella laughed despite herself. “You’re certified crazy, Don, did you know that?”

“Can’t say that’s a first. Come-on, come-on. The sooner we do this, the sooner we leave this joint.”

Stella stood up cautiously, wincing a bit. It did feel good to be out of those boots, she had to admit. As much as she loved her Nine West anklet babies, she cursed her bargainers soul: she had gotten them marked 60 off cause the fit was uneven. She tried them on, understood the concept of “uneven” but decided it was nothing a pair of cotton balls and a gel in-sole wouldn’t cure and got them. Now, however, she was fighting the urge to throw them out the window at their present location.

She carefully rested herself on top of Don’s back and had to suppress a yelp of surprise when he stood his full height. What she couldn’t suppress, though, was the sharp intake of breath as his hands slid up her thighs. She grabbed unto his shoulders, holding for support whilst attempting to get a grip of herself, but it helped none: her first breathe in was full of him and she suddenly felt dizzy.

“What’s wrong with you?” she chided herself, “this is DON… he’s like your kid brother! You don’t get all worked up over a brother, no matter how…how… MANLY he smells!!!”

“All set to go?” he asked, and she uh-hummed her answer, not trusting the words to come out right. “You can hold tight, just don’t choke me, okay Bonasera?”

Don began walking down the stairs carrying her on his back. By the time he had hit the 6th’s floor landing he was certain of a couple of thing. First, that this was the worst idea he had ever had. Second, that he was certain that somewhere up there God was having a great laugh at his expense. And third, that he was wondering if he was going to ever be able to look at Stella Bonasera in the face without getting a hard-on.

It wasn’t bad enough that he was all too conscious of the way her breasts felt against his back. Or the fact that he was very aware that his hands were mere inches from her rear end… and other adjoining areas. What was actually killing him was her breath on the back of his neck. He had stopped communicating with her cause every word she said hit him right in the nape. He was sure the whole area was covered in goose bumps, and he prayed Stella either thought they were due to the exertion… or that she was kind enough as to pretend not to notice them.

By the 5th floor Flack had to concede that maybe he had taken a bite too big for him to swallow. He could feel the scars from the surgery burning deep in his muscles and he had to stop or else he was sure he was going to bust something somewhere painful.

“Stell… I’m going to set you down on the rail for a moment, okay? Then I’m going to turn around and carry you newlywed style the last 4 floors…”

“Am I hurting you? Are you okay? Put me down. Now! I want to check you…”

“Stella… I don’t see any blood seeping on my shirt, so I’m fine. It’s just not as comfortable as I remember it from being… perhaps cause I never actually piggy rode my sisters down the stairs of a building…”

Stella groaned at the lame joke. On the other hand, if he could joke, maybe he wasn’t hurting that bad. But she was worried. She mentally slapped herself for not remembering. The surgery wasn’t even a year old, dammit, what was she thinking? All the muscles over his ribcage must be screaming bloody murder… Stella kept fit, but she wasn’t a size 0 teen waif by any means. She kept herself a healthy 118 given her age and height. But healthy or not, her 118 were pulling hard on the muscles of a man who had sustained major abdominal surgery less than a year ago.

“Funny, Don. Now stop and put me down.”

“Not to play martyr here, but have you seen the floor? No way in hell I’m setting you down barefoot and with an open blister in there. Mac would kill me if you get blood poisoning for this…”

He backed her carefully unto the handrail, but he hadn’t counted on how unstable the metal structure would be. The moment he let go off Stella, she began slipping backwards. He spun around just in time to grab her by the waist and used the momentum to spun back towards the safety of the wall. Stella threw her arms around his neck and held on for dear life, making an effort not to put her feet down. However, the same momentum that had saved them from a 5 floor fall made Don loose his footing.

They managed to regain their balance 3 steps below. Stella’s weight was supported partly be the wall, where she had her back pressed to. Her arms were still around Flack’s shoulders, and her legs were loosely wrapped around his hips and waist. Don, on the other hand, had one arm tightly wound around her midsection and the other one firmly securing her read end. He had one foot on one step and the other one in the next one, knee flexed, as he was also supporting her body on his right thigh.

She had her head on the crook of his neck, he was resting his forehead against the wall, and they were both trying to catch their breath.

“When we get back to the lab you’re going to have to explain how cracking my skull is acceptable whereas getting my feet soles dirty is… not….”

Stella couldn’t finish the sentence. She had just realized how close they were to one another and, kid brother be damned, it was getting her turned on. She wanted to blame the adrenaline rush. That had to be it, cause the alternative, Don looking at her mouth wantonly whilst licking his dry lips, was not an option. Adrenaline, then, shedecided, was sole responsible for her staring at his mouth in return, and furthermore, for her considering that tasting them was a good idea.

Don was also painfully aware of the situation. Painfully cause it vividly reminded him of one of his best sexual encounters. Painfully cause he was extremely close to Stella’s body (he was cupping her ass, for crying out loud!) and he wanted her, had done so for a some time now. Painfully cause his sweltering erection was getting to a point where it was not only obvious, but pretty uncomfortable.

Painful because he couldn’t stop looking at her mouth.

“Get a grip on yourself, Don. This is Stella, for heaven’s sake, not one of them waitress you pick up at diners… this is such a bad idea in so many levels… think about Mac… think about the bodies you just picked up… don’t think about the way she’s looking at your mouth… don’t… don’t…”

Flack’s resolve was completely blown to pieces when he realized Stella was openly staring at his mouth with a look of pure lust on her face. If he wanted her and she seemed to want him as well… aww, hell, the fuck with it!

He leaned forward the mere couple of inches that separated them, and Stella seemed to have had the same idea, as their lips met midway. It wasn’t the passionate crashing of mouths hungrily devouring each other that Flack had envisioned their first kiss to be. This was more tentative… more cautious… more substantial. Don thought he could spend a lifetime kissing Stella Bonasera and still not get enough of her sweet taste. He felt her mouth opening under his and slowly let his tongue seek refuge inside her, seek her own to exchange all sort of promises they’ve yet to express out loud.

Stella had expected Don’s kiss to be everything but the sweet gentle caress they were sharing, and she was quite pleased to be proven wrong. It was her experience that first kisses could give a pretty good insight as to how a man would behave between the sheets when the moment came. She had even turned down potential suitors based solely on how they had kissed her for the first time. But Flack… dear God, she trembled at the thought of making love with him! The man was an oral virtuoso and his hands… his hands… Stella moaned into the kiss just at the thought of feeling Don’s hands all over her body.

Her moan reverberated all the way down his spine and right into his growing erection. Flack was a patient man when it came to arriving to the point where a comfortable intimacy was reached, but once it was achieved, he wasn’t keen on denying himself. He had wondered about Stella for more than a year now and if that moan was any indicator, he could very well take her right then and there. The Don Flack used to casual flings with cute young things would probably have had both hands under her clothing by now and shifting her body so he could shamelessly rub his erection against her to get her in the right mood. However, the Don Flack that was carefully holding Stella in his arms right now was more than willing to suffer a mild case of blue balls if it meant he’d get a more less permanent position in her arms in the near future…

They finally broke apart and rested their foreheads together, waiting to catch their breaths.

“Don, I…”

“Shhh… it’s okay Stel… later… we’ll talk about this later, I promise.”

They held unto each other for a long time. It wasn’t until they heard voices coming from below calling out their names that they separated.

“Flack? Stella! Where are you?” came Mac’s voice, the worry clear in his tone.

“Up here, Mac! In between 4th and 5th! Stella had a wardrobe malfunction…”

Stella considered slapping him for that one.

“Getting frisky already Flack?”

Danny Messer’s quip got Don a hard slap on the shoulder. He looked at her with a hurt look on his face, pout included, and before she could try it again, he shifted her weight in his arms, raising her high enough in order to slide both arms underneath her knees.

He leaned in to murmur in her ear: “I have tomorrow off. Let me take you out to dinner. We’ll talk then and decide what’s next.”

“What’s next?”

“Yeah, next. My place or yours. Settling things out of court or going through with the sexual harassment trial. Moving in together before or after the wedding. Names of kids. Those kinds of next.” His tone grew serious. “Don’t know about you Ms. Bonasera, but this ain’t just a casual fling for me. Either we do this right or we don’t even try it. You got until tomorrow night to think it over. It’s your call, Stella. I’m all in for trying, but you call the shots.”

He kissed her lips softly one last time. "Tomorrow", he mouthed against her lips. And with that, Don began their way down.

THE END

The muse is feeling both inspired and innovative... now she wants to do companion videos for the fics! Oh well, since I'm old enough to have played Pong when it first came out (and I wasn't exactly in elementary school , either, dears) my vid savvy is barely above ground. AS this is my first attempt ever, it's more of a slide-show than an actual video, but I'm learning! Next time the images will actually *MOVE* LOL:.. In the meantime, enjoy!

CSI FANFICTION - HIGH SCHOOL HELL MUSICAL

2007-06-05T01:57:31Z

HIGH SCHOOL HELL MUSICAL

SUMMARY: It's Nick 20th HS reunion, and a living hell... can Sofia help him in time?
RATING: PG-13
KEYWORDS: CSI fanfiction, Sonic, Humour, Romance, Fluff
DISCLAIMER: Last time I checked, neither one of them was mine...

For the umpteenth time Nick asked himself what in God’s name had possessed him to agree to do this.

The whole concept of “reunions” after such and such amount of years was ludicrous to begin with. So, yeah, they’ve aged. Sexy prom queen was now a matronly woman carrying around 40 extra pounds. Everybody’s favorite jock is now bald and has a beer paunch and a suspicious mania of sniffing too hard. Class’ clown is now an insufferable pompous ass with no sense of humor whatsoever. Geeks were still geeks and stalkers were still stalkers.

And there wasn’t a bigger stalker than Eva Horowitz. Her worst nightmare was not having a date for the next weekend, and the date in question didn’t have to be a repeat number from the week before. If there was something Eva liked back then was variety, and she had the dubious honor of having bedded the geek, the jock, the prom king, the bad guy, the nerd, the teacher’s pet, half the basketball team and the library mouse… all before Christmas Break on her freshman year.

Twenty years had done little to change her, and the fact that her “legal” name now bore 4 last names (hers not included) was more than enough proof of that.

Nick had been more or less enjoying himself until the moment a shrill “Nicky baby!!!” had pierced the conversation and his eardrum as well. After that, it was all downhill, and the looks of “rescue me” he was sending his former buddies were not working at all.

Eva seemed fascinated by the fact that he worked in the police force, although she had never heard of CSIs before. She was also thrilled by the fact that he now lived in Vegas, which in her opinion, was “a great place for a fresh start and a new family” and she was “deeply, deeply thankful” that Sam and Loraine Martin had chosen Vegas for the reunion.

She was quick to comment on his looks (“those wrinkles only add to your charisma”), his fitness level (“Nicky baby, you’ve got muscles!”) and the notorious absence of a ring on his finger (“So no Mrs. Stokes, huh? I’m soooo sad to hear that…”). So when she asked Nicky baby to “be a darling and fetch me something to drink”, he was more than eager to comply if it meant staying away from her for a few minutes or as long as he could stretch it. Eva had already mentioned, oh-so-very-subtly, that he was the one that “got away” as she never got to score with him… and wasn’t that a pity?

When Nick got to the refreshments table he was both surprised and happy to find a familiar face standing next to it.

“I’m sure I’d remember if you had been my classmate…” he said as a greeting.

“I’m sure you would… but I’m afraid I was barely a toddler when you were a senior in high school…”

“Funny, Curtis. Really cute.”

Despite Sofia’s barb, Nick couldn’t help but smile. It was one of his favorite things to look forward to when he found out he was going to be working with her, her sense of humor and how easily she made him smile and even laugh out loud. His other two favorite things could get him slapped with a sexual harassment suit if he wasn’t subtle, but Nick was sure that the judge would take one look at those big baby blue eyes and he’d sympathize with his case…

“You working?”

“Aye. Seems some of your buddies have made it big in politics back home… big enough to request police security at every place he’ll be…”

Sofia motioned towards a dark tall man that seemed to dominate over a small group of followers. Nick wasn’t surprised one bit. Archie Adair had been a great diplomat back in the days… and a great ass-kisser as well. Nick shrugged and turned his attention back to Sofia.

“So… having fun, huh?” she asked, motioning towards the two cups he held in his hands.

“Please don’t remind me. I can’t figure out how to get rid of her without having her follow me back to my place or the lab. The woman is a professional stalker!”

“And why didn’t you avoid her in the first pace if you knew what she’d do?”

“Cause by the time I realized she was around it was already too late…” Nick lamented.

“Speaking of the devil…” Sofia murmured under her breath and took a step back into the semi shadows. It would be fun to see Nick Stokes squirm for a change…

Ten minutes later, Sofia was feeling nauseated. Inasmuch as she enjoyed seeing Nick’s attempts at being a gentleman and send the hag packing, the scene taking place in front of her bordered in cruelty. Soon she decided Nick had suffered enough.

“Hey babe, there you are…”

Both Nick and Eva turned around to see Sofia approach them, huge angelical smile on her face. What neither Nick nor Eva expected was Sofia maneuvering between them two, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him right on the lips. And it wasn’t just a simple peck, either.

“Oh… hi… babe...?” Nick managed to mumble when Sofia allowed them both to come up for air, just in time to notice Sofia’s wink.

“I know I told you I wouldn’t come, but for once my shift ended on time and since yours starts in 4 hours, I thought I drop by to keep you company…” Sofia turned around and pretended to notice Eva for the first time. “Oh, hi! Sorry for interrupting…”

“Sofia, honey, this is Eva, from high school. Eva, this is my… ah…” Nick found himself at a loss of words just then.

“Fiancée. We’ve already set the date but since he hasn’t given me a ring he’s hesitant about calling me that. I tell him it’s either that or “live-in lover” but you know Nick… always a gentleman trying to do things the right way… by the way, nice to meet you, Eva.”

Sofia was talking faster than the speed of sound and was using an afflicted southern accent Nick had never heard before. She still had her arms around his waist, and was chatting up a storm with Eva, whose face, by the way, was priceless. It was obvious from the way her mouth twitched that she had been planning on finally bedding the only guy in her generation before the night was over, but the appearance of as fiancée was an unwelcome change of plans.

“So you and Nick have some dark past I should be aware off?”

Nick almost spit out his drink. What the hell was Sofia doing? Eva was more dangerous than a cobra if given the chance and Sofia had just left the cage’s door open for her. The smile on Eva’s face was both fake and malignant. Having decided a “soon-to-be-fiancée” was not an insurmountable obstacle, she was already plotting how to tell the annoying blond the necessary info for her to get lost… at least for a couple of hours. Eva was sure that all she needed was a moment of close intimate contact with Nick and he’d be hers, and the minor details as having a woman already living with him were not going to stop her…

Just then, the band began playing something that sounded definitively Texan and before Eva could seize the opportunity. Sofia was already pulling Nick towards the dance floor.

“Baby, music! You promised you’d teach me how to do the two-step before the wedding… come on honey!” pushing Nick in front of her, Sofia turned back to an open-mouthed Eva. “See ya, sugar. Nice meeting you!”

Nick led Sofia to the dance floor, still awed by the way she had, for all practical purposes, obliterated Eva Horowitz. He was also delighted to see that Sofia could dance, that she was a fast learner, and that she was good following her partner around the dance floor.

Unfortunately, two-step dances allowed plenty of interaction with the rest of the dancers, and by the end of the first song almost half of his former classmates would swear under oath in any court of law that Sofia and Nick were engaged. Some of them went as far as asking if she had met the rest of the Stokes clan and other personal questions regarding Nick’s tastes, but she managed to work her way around them without much trouble.

The next song to be played was a slow dance, and if Nick remembered correctly from his high school days, that was the cue for the lights to get dimmer and the couples to get friskier, and he was debating whether or not to dance with Sofia. His dilemma was solved when she took 2 steps closer to him and wrapped her arms around his neck. Nick complied by wrapping his around her waist and pulling her as close to his body as he dared given the circumstances.

“Sorry to impose myself like this, but your friends would start to wonder how come you’re not slow dancing with your fiancée…” she apologized.

“No problem. I have yet to thank you for coming to my rescue like that. How did you come up with the idea?”

“Oh... it’s nothing. Back in my high school days my best friend David and I had this pact: if any of us ever needed help getting rid of unwanted attention, the other would come to the rescue playing devoted boy/girl friend. By the end of our junior year we’ve done it so many times that none of our classmates believed there wasn’t anything going on between us…”

“Sounds like David was a good friend…”

The implication was clear on his voice and Sofia lifted her head form her vintage location on his shoulder to look at Nick straight in the eye. “Just friends, Nick. School was conservative enough that hand holding was considered proof enough of a relationship…”

“You mean he never tried…?” Nick was dubious. No way in hell Sofia hadn’t been a looker in high school, therefore, no way in hell this David fellow hadn’t felt like trying something… pretty much like he was feeling right now…

Nick shook his head as if trying to clear his thoughts. Sofia was a good-looking woman, yes, and he loved her wicked sense of humor as well, true. And he would be lying if he said he hadn’t been thoroughly enjoying the whole charade, perhaps more than he should be. And he wasn’t going to deny that he was kind of hoping they’d have to kiss again….

He looked at Sofia’s face and saw her looking at him, pensive look and lip biting included. And before he realized what he was doing, Nick Stokes closed the gap between their mouths in a kiss that wasn’t chaste, wasn’t a charade and had been on the making for almost a year now, ever since he saw those blue eyes of hers for the first time.

It wasn’t long before they stopped dancing all together as their kissing intensified and their hands became more daring.

“Way to go, Nicky!”

“Get a room, Stokes!”

“Hey Nicholas… we shared lunch and notes, mind sharing this as well?”

Nick tried to ignore his classmates’ catcalls, but he couldn’t ignore the growing need inside his body.

“Are you still on duty?” he asked.

Sofia looked over his shoulder to the big clock on the opposite wall. “My shift ended as of 6 minutes ago…” she murmured, unable and unwilling to let go of him.

“Mine starts in 3 hours and 54 minutes. Any ideas on how we can spend that time?”

“Let’s start by keeping you out of Eva’s reach. The rest we’ll work out as it presents itself…”

“I like the way your devious mind works…”

“Shut up and kiss me Stokes, Eva is starting to look at us in a funny way…”

“Let her look, then”

Nick captured her mouth with his once more. As the kiss began breaking up, he swiftly lifted Sofia into his arms, sliding his arm behind her knees and carried her out of the ball room as their lips locked unto each other time and time again.

“How very “Officer and a Gentleman”…”

“Richard Gere was THE man back when I was in high school. I always wanted to do the last scene of that movie and carry away my girl.”

“Any chances of you doing your best “American Gigolo” impersonation?”

Nick kissed her again before settling her down inside his own truck.

“Your wish is my command…”

THE END

CSI NY FANFICTION: "THIRTEEN DAYS OF CHIRSTMAS"

2007-06-04T02:05:21Z

THIRTEEN DAYS OF CHRISTMAS

SUMMARY: Songfic... or is it Carolfic? Nothing like some Danny!Angst to keep the holiday spirit!
RATING: PG-13
KEYWORDS: CSI NY, fanfiction, holiday fic, romance, angst
DISCLAIMER: They belong to other people, I just use them to amuse myself.

Four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves...

“And a bloody corpse rotting next to the Christmas tree”

I know my thoughts aren’t exactly Christmasy, but if there’s something I really hate is having to work on the days prior to the holiday. Specially on bloody corpses where there’s no evident motive or murder weapon. Or suspect, to make matters ever more wonderful. This here Mr. Peter “I lost 4 pints of blood and ruined the Christmas decorations my wife and kids so painstakingly put up last night” Morrisey is definitively ruining the season for all of us involved.

Maybe I’m being cynical. Maybe I’m being un-Christian. Maybe I’m just too friggin’ tired. It is, after all, 11 at night on December 23rd and I’m sitting around the lab waiting for some results to pop up the computer that will magically solve this whole case so I can go home and take my two days off and maybe, just maybe, and for once since I’ve started this job, not ruin the family’s Christmas celebration.

Keep dreaming, Messer. Chances of that happening are as good as Lindsay walking through that door wearing nothing but a luminous smile and ravishing me on top of this desk.

Shit. If things weren’t bad enough as they were I had to top it off with thoughts of her.

Not that everything else was just peachy, to begin with. I’ve had lousy years in my life, but this one is taking the cake. I lost my best friend to a creep, I lost my brother to our past, I lost a promotion to my temper and now I have this nagging suspicion that I’ve lost the right girl to my big mouth. Oh joy.

... eight maids a milking, seven swans a swimming, six geese a laying...

I wonder who was the moron who left that song on loop. I have nothing against Christmas carols, but it is kind of morbid to have them playing non-stop on a crime lab. Besides, where is it written that we ought to celebrate the holidays during twelve days?

The “plink!” from the search engine warning sounds unusually loud in the semi-deserted place, and I approach it with mixed feelings. One the one hand, I’d love it if there were a fingerprint match that would lead us to the culprit and be done with the whole thing. On the other hand... family quality time is not my idea of thrilling fun. I love them to pieces,mind you, but there’s a limit to the amount of time I can spend with a bunch of lively, loud, drunken Italians before I pass out, either from alcohol ingestion, over stuffing myself on my mother’s cooking, or getting overly feisty with some of the fist-happy cousins that seem to pop up everywhere you look. Great fun for a couple of hours, really, but not for a couple of days.

Whaddaya know? No match. I’m really not surprised. If I had a penny for every time things go the way I want, I’d be living in Upper Manhattan and driving an ’07 Land Rover with leather seats. And I would have found the formula to get Montana to marry me.

Now where the hell did that come from? Sure, I adore that darn woman and her charm and wits and smile and intelligence and looks. Sure, that mouth of hers has been driving me crazy for some time now and it has done nothing for my sanity the fact that I know from holding her that our bodies are a perfect match. And sure, all that put together has been hounding my nights and my fantasy life for longer than I’d care to admit...

But marriage? Damn, that’s a first.

Rubbing my face in frustration I realize that the clock is showing 12:15 now. December 24th has arrived and I’m stuck in here with a corpse that’t not talking to me, evidence thats not coming together and “Twelve days of Christmas” running non-stop over the speakers.

Ain’t I one lucky guy?

Overlooking the whole evidence layout I realize that all I can do now is sit and wait for more lab results. That means I can go home and pretend to sleep for 4 hours and then get back here to check them, or I can just stay here and pretend to work while I wait for them. Either way, I’m screwed, and so is the Holiday. At least for Mamma Messer. And maybe one or two of those umpteenth degree cousins thrice removed who were kinda hoping to get me under the mistletoe... and into their underwear. How’s that for family traditions, huh?

I decide to wait out for the results. If I go home I’m sure I won’t be getting much sleep. I’m way too wired to even try it, and not even some “quality” time with myself would work right now.

And the reason it wont work is that it’d unavoidably bring me back to Lindsay. And these days thinking about Montana is more pain than pleasure.

...Twelve drummers drumming, eleven pipers piping, ten lords a leaping...

“Nine times I’ve heard that...”

Twelve presents, and not the useful variety, for my true love. On second thought, the five golden rings might prove useful, but other than that... I wonder what kind of presents would I give Montana if she were my true love?

Okay. It’s official now. I’m royally screwed. I’m in love with a woman who couldn’t care less. Either that or all this caroling has gotten to my head. And if I’m honest with myself, it’s the former rather than the later what’s causing me all this angsty feelings and foul moods and overall pissy attitude.

And pissed I am. What kind of fool falls for a woman without checking first is she’s interested? I haven’t even kissed her, dammit, and here I am thinking true love and marriage! I’m definitively screwed up, my reputation is damned and my soul is a goner, for sure.

I’m such a looney case no wonder she wants nothing to do with me. Even if my reputation didn’t precede me, why on Earth would she want to get involved with a two-time looser like me? “It’s not you, its me”. Yeah, right. As if I hadn’t heard that one before. Hell, I’ve even used it myself a couple of times when the girl didn’t deserve having her feelings hurt over something that wasn’t really worth it. “I have issues I have to work out first”. Yup. Like banging your friend Irene and her cousin instead of trying to work on a monogamous relationship with you.

Been there, done that, Montana, so how about a little honesty for a change? It’s not like I haven’t been shot down before. I don’t break that easily. And I know this song. “I really like you” is just a nice way of saying you don’t have feelings for me or, and this is the ouch part, you don’t find me attractive at all.

So please don’t mess around with my head. If you don’t feel it, you don’t feel it and that’s that. Don’t insult my intelligence with elaborate explanations.

Just go ahead and break my friggin heart once and for all.

I check the clock once more. 3:40 am. My, my, how time flies when you’re having fun. I remove my glasses and pinch my nose’s bridge. I’m hoping I’ll be so tired by the time I do get to bed that I’ll fall asleep instantly. No thinking. No dreams either. That would be nice for a change.

If only it were so easy to get HER out of my head!

... On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me...

Wonder what happens on the thirtheenth day? Does he bill her for the presents? Does she show her appreciation in any way? Do they live happily ever after?

Or does she send him packing?

Maybe this is it. Maybe that’s what’s going on between Montana and me. We´re friggin’ stuck on the thirteenth day of Christmas, and just like the song itself, it’s been playing non-stop for a while now.

Problem is, I’m not sure it’ll move on come January. Or February. Or never, for all I knew. I’d laugh at the notion if it weren’t so close to the truth. I’m so in love with her it’s pathetic, and there isn’t a single thing I can do about it, short of killing myself, and that’s definitively not an option. Is it?

I must have nodded off some time, cause I’m awakened with a startle. A noise. The computer search program is still running, so I rule that one out. The clock ticks at 4:15, so it wasn’t that either. That leaves only... the door.

Spunning around I’m met by a warm pair of eyes and a timid smile. “Whatcha doing here at this time of the morning?” I ask her, fearing, yet yearning her response.

“And here I thought you’d be glad to see me!” She shakes her head in mock shock. “How long have you been here”

“I checked in ... 22 hours and 15 minutes ago... give or take a few seconds.”

“And how much longer are you planning on staying?”

“As long as it takes. You should know me better than that by now, Montana.” At least, Im hoping you would.

She smiles and raises a take out bag I have somehow missed noticing before. “I do. Here. Bagels and coffee. And some of that apple pie you seem so fond of.”

I dunno what made my day better, her smile or her thoughtfuness. Or the apple pie. All that mattered was that she was here. I wondered if that was a sign of sorts.

That’s when I realized what had really awakened me. It was the silence. The song wasn’t playing anymore. I looked up trying to figure out what had happened.

Montana must have noticed the gesture. She then proved once more that she knows me better than I think... or hope.

“Missing the song already? Someone must have hit the “repeat” button by mistake. It’s a wonder you weren’t driven crazy! Stuck on it like that... Lucky for you I came along, huh?”

Montana, you have no idea.

THE END

FANFICTION - THE ULTIMATE SHIPPER EXPERIENCE

2007-06-04T00:06:52Z

SCENE ONE, TAKES 1-7

The following fic was written as an experiment. I wanted to see how far I could get with some OC behaviour by writing a totally impersonal sex one-shot... ans then posting it in SEVEN different fandoms. The responses to it have been so varied, ranging from 102% certainty to e-mailing me demanding to know who they are, that I ended up calling this "The Ultimate Shipper Experience": no matter what ship you root for, youll be able to fit it in here.

SUMMARY: That was the end of her tirade. And the end of his restraint, as well.
RATING: NC-17
KEYWORDS: Angst, drunken diatribes, sex

She knew he was inside her place even before she closed the door. Damn him and his overprotective nature, she thought. Deciding that a good defensive was the best offensive given the circumstances, she decided to confront him head first.

“How did you get into my apartment?” she demanded.

He was a bit taken aback, but damn if he was going to let her get away with murder this time. “I used the spare key YOU gave me.”

“I thought I said you could use it in case of an emergency…” she muttered, more to herself than to him.

“That’s what you said.”

“So what’s the emergency?”

Damn woman. She was going to make him spell it out for her out loud, just to make him squirm. He wasn’t going to give her that satisfaction.

“Well, given the fact that it is,” he checked his watch, “5 in the morning, and that we have to be at work in two hours, and that you haven’t answered any of your phones, I came here to check if you were okay.”

“Funny, I don’t remember appointing you my keeper.”

That did it. He had been trying to play nice, but if she insisted on behaving like a bitch, well, he had no problem treating her like one. “Call it selfish self-preservation. We’re supposed to be partners, and I’d rest more at ease knowing that you’re up to the task of keeping my back.”

He took two steps towards her. His nostrils flared in recognition and jealousy, and the words were out of his mouth before he could think better about it. “But since you reek of booze and sex, I’m not so sure it would be wise to trust you.”

He expected righteous indignation, the sting of her slap, the hasty denial… everything but what he got.

“What is it to you if I’m getting my brains fucked out in the middle of the night? Why is it that you always have to screw up my life?”

She began pacing the living room, seemingly unaware of the effect her words were having on him.

“All I wanted was to get drunk or to get laid, whichever happened first. Is it really too much to ask? I mean, really? Getting away from reality for a couple of hours is that too much to ask?”

He looked at her with his mouth open. He had always admired her strength and wondered more than once how she managed to deal with death day in and day out without loosing it. Now he knew, and he wasn’t sure that knowledge was something he cared to posses.

She kept on talking, not caring if he followed her or not.

“Of course, sex is always better than alcohol. Endorphins and all that shit that makes you feel happy. Plus, no hangover to deal with the next day. On the other hand, you can get a stiff drink in any bar you walk into. No such luck with a stiff cock. Too many questions asked. Too many suspicions aroused.”

She stopped her ramblings long enough to invade his personal space. “I thought you guys craved a no-strings-attached one-night-stand scenario, but no. Damn, it wasn’t so hard back in my college years. All you had to do back then is whisper into someone’s ear “Let’s fuck” and you’d be getting banged in less than 20 minutes…”

She moved back a bit and continued, not waiting to see if he had something to say. He, on the other hand, was still too shocked about seeing this side of her that was rendered speechless. However, the conversation was taking its toll and he could feel his own cock stirring to life. Given the circumstances, he didn’t know if that was a good thing or a very bad one.

“Tonight I thought it was going to be different. I was on my second drink when I saw him. A nice, clean cut looking fellow who seemed to be looking for the same thing I was. I smiled at him, and sure enough, he approached me. Before I finished my drink we had agreed to meet in the alley at the back of the bar…”

She stopped long enough to notice his reaction.

“Don’t you dare judge me! You hypocrite… as if you had never had sex in the back alley or in the back of your car with a perfect stranger. Oh, I forgot. You’re MALE… you’re entitled to do it. I’m female, therefore I’m not supposed to have a sexual identity, is that it? IS THAT IT???”

He grabbed her wrist before she could hit him square in the chest. “What you do with your private life is none of my business.”

Liar.

“If you wanna spend your evenings cruising bars, picking up strangers and fucking your brains out, as you so graphically put it, is of no interest to me. I ain’t gonna screw your choice in an...”

“LIAR!!!”

He was taken aback by the ferocity of her scream, but kept good hold of her wrists.

“Don’t you dare say you don’t mess with my screwing, or screw with my messing around cause you do. You screw up EVERYTHING! Everything! Tonight was perfect! He didn’t ask for my name, he didn’t ask what I do for a living… can you believe that? He didn’t ask about my job! I was in heaven…”

He thought about it for a second. He could sympathize with her predicament. He had had his share of weird looks and girls having to “go powder their noses” to understand just how hard it was to get a date, or get laid, in their line of work. Yeah, he’d probably have felt in heaven, too, had he been in her place…

“He wasn’t a very good lover, truth be told, but you can’t be too picky when you’re picking up guys in a bar now, can you?” Her admission made his own jealousy roar in his ears, but it also made him horny as hell. Damn if he admitted it, but hearing her tell him about her sex-capade was a huge turn on. His cock was twitching and he had to resist the urge to pull her close and devour her mouth.

“Not that I really cared, I was getting fucked and for some precious minutes, death was the farthest thing form my mind. There were no suspects, no bad guys, no pervs, no bodies… all there was was this somewhat acceptable cock pushing in and out of me, making me forget, and I was feeling good…”

“… and then you had to screw everything!”

What the fuck?

“How could I screw everything up if I didn’t even know where you were? You had your cell turned off, so it wasn’t as if I interrupted you mid-fuck…”

“You. It was your fault. It was your name I said out loud while I was fucking another man… needless to say he didn’t take it well….”

He was shocked by the admission. She kept on talking about how fragile men’s egos were and how immature of him to expect otherwise if they had just met 10 minutes ago, but he was stuck on her previous sentence. “It was your name I said out loud”. What did that mean? Did she…? Nah, impossible. But then again…

“You are not listening to a word I’ve said,” she accused him. “See how all this is all your fault? I could be in bed now, still feeling good from the mix of orgasm and alcohol, but no. You had to pop out of my mouth and ruin everything. And then… then you show up here and for what? To scold me cause you think I’m too drunk to be of any use. And you dare call yourself my friend…”

His rationale and his libido were both running towards the entrance of his mind, and he was afraid the later one would win. And then everything would be screwed up for good. His cock was screaming to be let out of his boxers, space having been drastically reduced in the last minutes, and he was painfully aware of her smell (Arousal no. 5) and her wrists still in his hands, and her hands burning holes in his chest and he prayed, oh he prayed for composure. “She’s drunk; she doesn’t mean any of this. She’s drunk, she doesn’t mean any of this, She’s drunk, she doesn’t…” was his mantra, said over and over again in a vain effort to give his rationale a bit of advantage in an otherwise lost battle.

“If you really cared for me you’d be fucking me against this wall instead of just looking at me with this stupid look of lust in your face and a hard cock stuck in your pants!”

That was the end of her tirade.

And the end of his restraint.

Still holding her wrists, he was quick to turn her around, her back against the wall, his body pressing unto hers. He made sure she felt him, all of him, flushed against her.

“Is this what you want? Hmm, is it?” His whisper barely containing the force of his desire, his cock rubbing shamelessly against her. She responded by fiercely attacking his mouth with her own, biting his lower lip, pressing herself hard against him. He grabbed her shoulders hard, harder than he had intended, and separated her from him.

“Answer me, dammit! Is this what you really want? A hard, anonymous fuck against the wall?”

She looked at him with feral intensity… and then she broke down, sobbing, falling into his arms.

He gathered her broken figure, picking her up gently, moving quietly to her room, lying down in her bed still clutching her in his arms.

“Shhh… it’s okay…. It’s okay…. I’m here… everything is going to be okay…” he repeated over and over again, placing gentle kisses on her forehead, her temples, her wet eyelids. She clutched unto him as if her whole life depended on not letting go, her sobs still wrecking her whole body, for once not caring if he thought of her as weak or needy… or human.

His lips gently brushed against her nose bridge, her cheeks and her lips, too soft to be a kiss and too needful to be a caress, but nonetheless, just perfect for what she needed just then. A thousand back alleys could have never given her the peace of mind a single one of his kisses had granted her in a second. He moved away from her face and her whole self shuddered at the lack of contact.

“Please,” she whispered, “please, I need…. I need…”

“Shhh…” he said, placing a finger over her lips to quiet her request. “I know what you need. Let me take care of you…”

He didn’t want anything more right then and there than to rip the clothes off both their bodies and sink his cock deep inside her pussy, thrusting away as if there were no tomorrow, but that was exactly the problem. There was a tomorrow for them, and given her what she wanted was the shortest route to destroy them both. He wasn’t a faceless fuck against a wall. He was a man insanely in love with her, willing to give her the whole world if she asked for it… everything except that fuck right then and there. She needed her release and he’d give it to her, but not in a way that would destroy them both for good. Life was already too damn complicated as it was to be adding another layer of uncertainty, another brick or two on the walls they built around their humanity in order to preserve their sanity, another sheet of steel between them, welded with the million things they wanted to tell each other, but never did.

And probably never would.

Still holding her close, her back to his chest, he moved his right hand to her belly, and gently undid the button and lowered the zipper of her jeans. Her breathing was now hitched, partly due to the exertion of her emotional break down, partly due to the heightened state of sexual tension and frustration she had been harboring for only God knew how long. Gently, as if she were some precious object that would break too easily, he slid his hand underneath her panties and began caressing her curls, edging closer and closer to her clit. She laid slack, unable to move, mustering all her energy in spreading her legs and holding unto his left arm as if it were a life saving device. HER life saving device.

He wasn’t surprised to find her wet and willing, and pushed two fingers inside her effortlessly, whilst his thumb played circles on her clit. He knew she had been waiting for her release for too long, so her orgasm wouldn’t take long. And it would be good, but it wouldn’t be great. Great would be if he went down on her, and drank in her moisture and lapped and nipped his way into her heaven. Even greater would be if he would slid his cock into her pussy before she had come back from her orgasm, making her ride the waves of a second, a third, even a fourth with carefully measured thrusts. The fifth… the fifth would come almost as an afterthought, when he let loose and began thrusting in earnest, searching for his own release…

The image was so clear in his mind he could almost feel it… his cock twitched once more and his fingers moved in deeper. Better not to go there just now, not with her whimpering his name and bucking her hips as her inner walls clenched tighter and tighter around his fingers. He reconsidered his previous appreciation and decided that, given the circumstances, she’d have to make do with just 3 orgasms per session… no way in hell he was gonna last that long with a grip as tight as hers. Maybe, in time, he’d manage to up the ante to four… and that was a long-shot maybe. He had the disquieting feeling she was the kind of woman that can make a man come just by looking at him in a certain way…

When her orgasm hit, he was a tad surprised. He had expected something loud and wild, with lots of screaming and thrashing around and swearing… something downright porno. But she came in an almost ladylike manner: a stiffening of her muscles, eyes opening wide, hands clutching whatever material was available… the only sound that fell from her mouth was his name, pronounced with a devotion worthy of a religious temple. His name, repeated over and over as in prayer, whilst her pussy contracted and swelled around his fingers.

His name.

It was music to his ears, balm to his soul, food for his ego, material for his late-night fantasies. It was all he had longed to hear, and the sweet cruelty of it all was that he might never hear it again. Once was not enough, and once was all he’d have, unless…

She collapsed in his arms and he removed his fingers from her pussy. He allowed himself one brief moment of guilty weakness and quickly sucked on them, closing his eyes, relishing her taste. He could easily become addicted to it and he wouldn’t have minded one bit. Her mumbled words brought him back to his reality, twisted as it was, and he proceeded to hold her and pet her and kiss her forehead until she went completely lax and he was sure she was asleep, with a sated smile on her face.

He thought about it for a moment and he felt some sort of pride. After all, it had been his name on her lips both times, and it was him who had put that smile on her face just now. He wished he could gloat, walk into their workplace and proclaim he had given her an orgasm, that she had pronounced his name during her most intimate moment, and that she had fallen asleep in his arms…

The alarm clock’s shrilling alarm brought them both to reality.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” she muttered under her breath, trying to hide under a pillow, quickly jerking back when she realized she wasn’t alone. Her eyes grew big, realization and doubt hitting on her at the same time.

“What… uh…?”

“Happened? Nothing, What am I still doing here? Nothing, really. What is going to happen? Once again, nothing, not until we’re ready, and that, we both know, might never happen. What are we going to do just now? You are going to get into the shower, I’m going to get your coffee machine started and then I’ll head home.”

He pressed a soft kiss on the top of her head before getting up from the bed. “Move it, sleepy head. I’ll see you in the office in an hour. Don’t be late, okay?”

She nodded in silence and hurried to the bathroom, not wanting to face him, at least, not yet. She hoped the water, the cold shower she was about to take, would help her clear up her mind and decided if she hadn’t fucked up their relationship beyond a salvaging point. She turned around when she heard him call out her name.

“Yes?”

“Just promise me something…”

“Yes?”

“No more back alleys, okay? I don’t want you taking unnecessary risks. Should you need some… should you need anything… just hit the 2 on your speed dial, okay?”

And with that, he was gone.

THE END

BONES FANFICTION - AS COLD AS ICE

2007-06-03T22:09:39Z

AS COLD AS ICE

SUMMARY : She watched them from the window, perfectly aware of what's going on between them.
RATING: PG-15
KEYWORDS: Bones fanfiction, Angst, one-shot, complete
DISCLAIMER: These characters are not mine. The grind I put them through, however, is the muse's choice.

She stares out of the window of her office and she can see them together. Laughing. Talking. They’re being oh so careful not to touch, but you’d have to be blind not to see the tension between them. The flirting. The knowing smiles. The looks full of promises and shared secrets.

It is hurting her. After all the things they had gone through as partners, there was really not much left to say. Just the pain of loosing someone dear, as simple and as plain as that. But she’d much rather not talk about it.

And talk about it she won’t, as much as it pains her. She tenses when he comes into her office to say good-bye for the day. He, of all people, surely should sense just how hard she’s taking it. And he does.

Or at least, she’d like to think that the look in his eyes is an apology. Most probably he just came in to shake her hand. When he turns to leave, she debates on whether or not to play her last ace. She wants to ask him if he misses her somehow. She wants to know how he feels when SHE says his name. Surely, it is a different sensation, isn’t it?

If only she hadn’t been so stubborn and allowed her scientific mind get the best of her. She couldn’t make up her mind if she wanted him as a lover or as a friend, and let destiny make the choice for her. She thought she had time. She had not foreseen what lay in store for both of them.

She had been acting like a fool, playing by the rules. Doctor, they call her. Some doctor she is, she can’t even mend the whole inside of her where she feels he’s been ripped off. Her self-confidence is totally shattered, but spectators of the show she calls her life are none the wiser about it.

But him… she thought of him as home... whatever that may mean. When he was around, she felt there was a protective fence that allowed her to let down her defenses. Allowed herself to feel. But seeing them together makes her think that maybe, just maybe, both the home and the fence were just in her mind but not in his heart.

The sound of her door opening interrupts her train of thought, and she’s both annoyed and grateful for it. There’s a limit to the amount of time she can allow herself to wallow. There had been only one winner, and it clearly hadn’t been her… why should she complain?

The office aide comes with the day’s reports and collects the finished paperwork before leaving. As an afterthought, she turns at the door and looks at the woman sitting behind the desk.

“Would that be all for today, Dr. Saroyan?”

THE END

FANFICTION, ANYONE?

2007-05-28T02:47:49Z

Welcome to my lair!

Come on in, grab your favourite drink, and sit comfortably to browse about. What, exactly, will you find in here?

Fanfic. Bits and pieces of my life. Fanfic. Some photos belonging to the shows I like (and the guys that make my dreams... sweet). And more fanfic.

I began writing X-Files fanfic last century. Sounds ominous, doesn't it? But real life took over and I stopped doing it for almost 5 years.

Then I got hooked on Bones. And I wondered if there were places like the marvelous Gossamer Project, but devoted to Bones fic. And I bumped into Fanfiction Net. So I allowed myself to get lured back. And I began writing Bones fics.

But I also love reading. And soon my curiosity made me wander to another show I liked, CSI NY. And it wasn't long before I dipped my big toe in those gentle waters. And I had fun writing D/L but then I got converted and moved to a darker side: I had found Fiesta! And given my latino roots, I decided to stay there for the time being...

My reading hunger took me to another realm: CSI. And though I enjoyed what I read, my muse wasn't tempted. That is, until I stumbled unto a itsy bitsy ship... so small it's more like a boat. But those of us who love to "Cruise the Sonic" (Nick/Sofia pairings) know it's there. And the muse decided to rock the boat.

The rest, as they say, is history.

A word of caution: most of my stuff deals with mature topics (read: sex, violence, personal loss, cussing, etc) and my muse has a reputation for her psycho moods -- so if you're underage, or are bothered by these topics, mayhaps it'll be best if you went looking for your fic fix somewhere else.

Last, but not least: since my coming of age happened at a time when dinosaurs still roamed the Earth I have absolutely no experience regarding condom etiquette. Therefore, I don't incorporate them in my stories, as I don't feel comfortable writing about something I know nothing about. Since we're talking FICTIONAL ADULT characters here, it doesn't really matter. If you're not fictional (or an adult, in which case you shouldn't be having sex in the first place) then take care of yourself. Be smart. Please practice safe sex.