fais2688 (fais2688) wrote,
fais2688
fais2688

Momentary (1/1)

Fandom: Dig, 1x01
Pairing: Peter Connelly/Lynn Monahan
Rating: PG-13/R
Summary: They were not in the sort of relationship where they held one another for comfort.

Author's Note: To be quite honest, I didn't even finish the pilot (I got kind of bored after twenty minutes), but I just really liked their scene(s) together, and the unconventionality of their relationship. So, here's a blind shot in the dark with barely any character or plot information. Enjoy!






"Think we'll ever do this without our clothes on?"

.  .  .


"I have to go."

The line was a familiar one--he heard it at least two or three times a week from her after they had sex--but tonight it was slow coming out of her mouth, and quieter than usual. That wasn't exactly strange, considering what had happened today. Nonetheless, he glanced over his shoulder when he heard her speak, expecting to see her already sitting up and putting on her shoes, but was surprised to find her still lying in his bed.

She was resting on her side, curled up with her right arm acting as a pillow under her head and her knees bent almost to her chest, and he was grateful that she was facing the door, so she couldn't see him staring. He had never seen her like this before, never seen her look so little or vulnerable in his presence, not in all the years they'd known each other. It took him a few seconds to gather himself, to offer a quick "Sure, night, Lynn," as he usually did when she announced her departure, and he was worried she would notice his hesitation and call him out on it. But she didn't even look over, let alone did she get up, when he spoke. He waited--ten seconds, twenty, thirty--but by then, he knew what a minute ago he would never have believed: she didn't want to leave his room.

He had spent over a year now, training himself not to miss her when she was gone, not to care when she rolled off him the second they'd finished and immediately went about putting on her shoes and coat. He'd trained himself so well that it was second nature to him now, to be without her even when he was with her, and to see her refuse to leave when she said she would--it was unprecedented. It was completely unheard of.

In all of their nights together (or their afternoons together, or mornings in the elevator together), he had never witnessed her fail to walk away from him immediately, clothes back in place, hair done up, acting for all the world could see as if nothing unprofessional had even happened between them.

He tried to speak, tried to ask what was going on, but his voice was trapped in his throat, incapable of even the most innocent of questions, because he knew. He hadn't been there, but he had heard.

He knew why she didn't want to leave, he knew why she was curled up on his bed like that, and he knew why she'd come to him this evening as desperate and demanding as she had.

It had been over twelve hours since the shooting, but he knew better than most that time didn't do away with the shock or the memories of witnessing something so violent in person. As head of their US liaison here in Jerusalem, she rarely went into the field anymore, and so of course it would be an especially traumatic shock for her to see someone die right in front of her eyes and not just on paper. She was trained for it, of course, but she hadn't experienced it first-hand in years. It didn't helped matters, of course, that the body they'd had to pick up from the ground in front of her hadn't been more than four feet tall nor older than nine years of age.

Accidental death, was what had been filed in the report. Hit by a stray bullet during an altercation between city police and two robbery suspects fleeing the scene.

That was the cruelest bit about the whole situation, really: Lynn wasn't even supposed to have been there. The case wasn't involving any Americans, and, strictly speaking, she hadn't even been on call at the moment to deal with it even if it had. It had been 12:09 PM and she'd been taking her lunch hour--just walking a few streets down from the office to get a quick meal.

She'd been halfway to her usual restaurant when that boy had been shot not a meter away from her, falling right at her feet, and she'd been lucky--he had thought this many times after he'd heard what had happened, but never once had he said it aloud to her--she'd been lucky that that's where the bullet had stopped.

He looked over at her now, still curled up on that bed, and he wondered if she ever thought about that possibility. Was she only focused on the unnecessary death of that little boy; could she even step far enough away to comprehend the fact that she could've died today? He doubted it. He had seen her face just after it had happened--they'd all been called back in, not certain yet if it had been a deliberate attack on an American official or not--and the shock he had seen on her face had not been in relation to her own near-death experience.

He could see a similar look in her eyes now, as he quietly made his way over to the side of the bed she was occupying. That faraway look, telling him she was not here right now in this place with him; she was not even in this time. He waited for her to say something, to acknowledge his presence or to get up off the bed as he neared, but she just stared off into space, lost and alone.

"Do you need something else from me before you go?"

She jerked up at the sound of his voice, apologizing already for zoning out and starting to get up before he placed a gentle hand on her arm and stilled her. "Lynn," he murmured.

She blinked at him, slowing in her movements and sitting back down on the bed as she stared at him standing before her. "What?"

"I asked you a question," he replied. He watched her for a moment--wondering if she really had been that far gone--and her blank look told him all he needed to know. "I said," he began quietly, as bent down to kneel before her, "Do you need anything else from me before you go?"

The blank look stayed for a moment longer, until he positioned himself directly in front of her knees and reached out to place his hand gently on her left leg.

"What--?" Her eyes widened when she realized what he was about to do. "God, Peter! No--" she laughed for a second, and for that second, he almost smiled "--I'm fine, I swear. I'm just tired; I'm sorry. I don't need you to--"

"Of course you need," he cut in quietly, his dark eyes trained on hers as he looked up at her from the floor. He caressed the outer curves of her thighs with gentle hands that hovered above the black fabric of her pencil skirt, relishing in the warmth of her beneath him. "You always need something, don't you?"

She opened her mouth to reply--likely to contradict him, judging from the look in her eyes--but ended up only staring down at him wordlessly. He could see in her eyes what she didn't want to say, what she had convinced herself she wasn't allowed to say. He bowed his head in front of her, and pressed a light kiss to each of her knees. He didn't feel like he could say it, either.

"It'll only take a few minutes," he murmured. "It'll just be a few minutes more and then you can go," he said, brushing his cheek against either side of her knees, secretly relishing in the bareness of her skin against his. It was pathetic, he reflected, how even just her bare knees could turn him on. Pathetic and fucked-up.

When he finally pulled himself away from her and looked up to meet her eyes again, she was staring down at him with an intensity he'd never seen before. He'd seen her determined and he'd seen her furious and he'd seen her nearly murderous, but this was a different kind of look. He was staring up at her, half-frightened of what she was going to say, when he caught a reflection of light in her eyes. He stared at it, confused by its presence in this darkened room. He started to wonder if it could be a tear, finally recognizing that pained look in her eyes for what it was, but then she blinked, and the tear--if it even ever had been there--was gone and she was nodding to his suggestion.

"Sure, if you really want to, Peter," she allowed, her dismissive tone of voice acting as a shrug, as protection, leaving the decision, as always, up to him. One day she would be able to look back on all they'd done together at an internal affairs hearing and be able to say truthfully, I never pressured my subordinate into anything. He was always at liberty to say no.

He nodded back, and held her legs together beneath his lips for a second more before letting go. She spread them as much as she could, which wasn't much considering how tight that skirt was, but he worked with what she gave him. She didn't unzipper it and he didn't ask her to. In fact, he didn't even want her to, not tonight. He had spent so long craving the sight of her fully naked body, longing to feel of all of her bare skin against all of his, but right now, in this moment, he could not think of a single thing he desired less. He knew bad things--worse things--would happen if they came together like that--so vulnerable and naked and unprotected--and he did not want to chance it. He did not want to find out what she looked like when she allowed herself to cry.

They had not gone easy on each other, earlier in the night when she'd first arrived, and though she'd given it as hard as she'd taken it, he knew she was still exhausted and maybe a bit sore. He tried to go as slowly as possible now, taking his time as his mouth neared her center, pausing every second or two to kiss the inside of her thighs to make sure she was ready. She didn't ask him to hurry up, and for that, he was grateful. He didn't want to end up hurting her or making her uncomfortable just because she wanted to save face in front of him.

"Oh..." She whimpered when he first teased her with his tongue, her body shifting restlessly against the still-made bed they'd just fucked each other on. Removing his hands from her hips, he reached down to take her calves and put them over his shoulders to give himself better access, and her something to brace herself against. She crossed them over his back immediately, and pulled him closer, and when she dug her heels into his weary back, he did not complain. He focused himself on her, on what he was doing, on how he could make her feel as good as possible in this moment. On how he could make her forget what had happened today.

"Jesus, Peter," she moaned, throwing her torso back to give him more of herself as she yanked him closer with her legs, causing both him and the old bed beneath them to let out weak groans of protest. She didn't seem to notice, and only tugged on him harder, so he followed her lead, pushing deeper into her center, taking in all that she was willing to give him.

She whispered his name again, releasing him suddenly as she laid back against the bedspread and clutched at it, wriggling beneath his tongue and pleading for more, chanting his name like some kind of pagan prayer.

Peter, Peter, Peter.

He pulled her closer and closer as she lay back atop the bed. Unable to spread her legs wider in her skirt, and unable to move his head close enough to give her the deepest pleasure, he tried to make up for it all by moving nearer and nearer, his hands reaching for her hips, her stomach, caressing her breasts...

"Peter..." Through both their panting breaths, he could hear a different cadence in her voice now, a change in what she was begging for. The sound was strange, unknown to him. "Peter, please..." Before he could even start to understand what she was asking him for, she was sitting up, and pulling him up with her, taking his face in her hands and lifting him up to meet her. "Peter, look at me, please, I--"

"Don't." Too shocked by her contact, by the frightened look in her eyes, he pulled away at once, removing her hands with his and then--seeing the hurt flash through her surprised eyes--he let them go immediately. Trying to salvage something--and he wasn't even sure what it was anymore--he took her hands and put them gently back on the bed where they belonged, where she could clutch the bedspread close instead of him, because they were not and never had been in the sort of relationship where they held one another for comfort.

"Just... relax," he told her, his own breathing still fast. "You don't need to hold... Just let me...help you relax, Lynn..." He found he was panting, missing breath, and he took a second to close his eyes and pull himself together. When he opened them again, she was not looking at him. She's turned her head from him, and even her legs had slackened around his shoulders. He had to say her name twice to bring her around.

The look in her blue eyes was baleful as she turned to look at him, and he knew he deserved it. He should not have pushed her away; he should have been kinder. They were friends apart from all these messes they got into late at night, weren't they? Or at the very least, they were close work associates, right? He should have at least asked her how she was doing, how she was coping. Even a polite acquaintance would have done so by now.

He opened his mouth to try to do so, but the look in her eyes--now accompanied by a scowl on her face--told him what would happen if he even attempted to salvage the situation at this point. He closed his mouth again and waited, not knowing anymore what the safe thing was to do.

Silence hung between them for a long minute, until she finally laid back on the bed, heaved a sigh, and hiked her skirt up a little higher so it freed her legs from confinement and allowed him enough space to fit his head comfortably between her thighs.

"Are you going to finish me off or not?" she demanded, glaring at him down the length of her body and somehow managing to make it menacing even with her bare crotch in his face. "You said it would only take a few minutes, Peter. It's nearly three in the morning and you know I have to be up at six."

"I know." He nodded. He looked down at her, down her legs, towards the space that was waiting for him, longing for him even though she refused to say it... He swallowed, forcing himself to look back up at her face. It was no use apologizing to her pussy, not if he ever wanted to see her again outside of work. "Lynn, I'm sorry," he began. "I shouldn't have--"

"It's fine," she interrupted, turning her head pointedly away from him before reaching down and fastening a couple of the buttons on her blouse that had come loose earlier. "Just finish, please, so I can go home and go to bed."

He stared at her for a moment longer, struggling to find something to say that she would accept, but only ended up keeping his mouth shut instead. He knew pushing her away before had been a stupid, thoughtless move, but it had been a reflex. He couldn't help it. He knew he could've been kinder about it, yes. He could've been kinder this whole night.

He could've asked her how she was when she'd arrived, and maybe if she'd cried, he could've held her and told her everything was going to be okay. There would be nightmares, yes, but they usually went away after a couple months. She might have flashbacks in the streets, too, but it would be fine; in time, they would pass, too.

But that wasn't how they operated, that wasn't how this part of their relationship worked, and so he didn't say anything. He just bent his head between her thighs once more and did his best to distract her. It was the only way he'd ever learned to deal with grief, after all.



.  .  .



Author's Note: Thank you for reading! Reviews would be appreciated if you have any thoughts!
Tags: category: smut, character: lynn monahan, pairing: peter connelly/lynn monahan
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