Red
a Pretender vignette
by Jill Kirby

You know, every now and then, it's a good thing to write a smut biscuit, especially when you're in the middle of a long talky difficult story and they're all driving you mad, mad, mad. So, here we go: one (nearly) worthless smut biscuit.

This is for Ginger, because she left the masks on just for meeeee. :)

Rating: strong R. Possibly more, but I'm going with a strong R. Timeline: I have no idea. Canon? What canon? Thanks to Mandy for quick, very helpful beta. And to Karen, for liking it.

I love feedback, so please send it to kirbyfest@yahoo.com. However, you don't need to say "Hey, you wrote a worthless smut biscuit!" because I'm painfully aware of that already.

***

She edits the document using a ball point pen. Paper Mate, red, medium tip, the kind of pen you find everywhere. Disposable.

This isn't the pen she uses normally; her assistant orders some expensive European slim-tipped pen by the box and keeps her desk stocked with them. They're grey and silver, and if you press too hard for too long the tip goes to mush. She goes through them quickly. She loses pens, too. Leaves them everywhere; she'll find them in her car, or on Sydney's desk. Once she found one in her silverware drawer, and couldn't figure out how it got there. Still can't.

Tonight, though, she's editing with a cheap American ball point. She's a frequent and none too kind editor, and the ball point is more durable for leaving trails of comments in the margins, between the paragraphs, anywhere she can find space. Her spiky writing is easy to read, but the words are not: half-baked idea. Find a solution that actually works. You can't count on China, haven't you figured that out yet? No. No. Delete this. No.

It is a long proposal, and because her name will be on it she takes her time as she sifts through the words, refining them, making them work. Her brother is not a good business writer, and she cannot let it go out with this language, with the points shallow and unsupported. Every so often, she makes a small noise of disgust, tucking her feet further up under herself as if being more comfortable will make the proposal better, easier to read. It doesn't.

When she reaches the last page, she marks it up with visible relief, decimating the blank bottom half of the sheet with tight, angry notes that take time to write, and end up bleeding over to the back of the page. Unacceptable. The Triumvirate would laugh their asses off at this crap, and she will not risk herself because Lyle thinks he's invincible. Nobody at the Centre is invincible.

Flipping the proposal back to the first page, she clips the pen on the front and tosses everything to the coffee table. It is a relief to be done, to have the rest of the evening free of any reminder of the Centre. Stretching her head back, she rests it on the arm of the sofa, looking up at the firelight dancing on the ceiling, letting her mind go quiet.

When hands touch her hair, she smiles.

"Are you done?" he asks. He combs his fingers through her hair, working through it with long, careful strokes.

She shuts her eyes, enjoying the sensation. "Yes."

"Have you achieved world domination yet?"

"No, but it's only Tuesday."

"I'll be sure to ask again on Friday." His hands move to rubbing her scalp, and she lets out a deep breath, relaxing into the sofa cushions. Mmm.

Gently, rhythmically his hands stroke away the stress of the day, drawing out the nine a.m. meeting, making that conference call go away, removing a thousand slights from a dozen people over the course of another endless day. This is what she waits for. This is why she brings work home these days, rather than staying until midnight. Hoping.

"You put a lot of red on that memo," he murmurs, and his face is close to her hair; she can feel his breath.

"It needed it."

His lips touch her forehead; he must be standing over her. "So you're a perfectionist, then." He kisses her nose.

"Yes."

"Good to know."

He's gone, then, but only for as much time as it takes him to move around to where she's sitting up, arms out to him, and when their lips meet it's an explosion of want and heat and need.

The couch is only comfortable for limited use; kissing and above the clothes activity is fine for a few moments. But they end up on the rug in a jumble of clothes and confusion, and they don't care; all that matters is skin on skin, as quickly as possible.

Goal achieved in record time, she sprawls across his chest. He twirls a lock of her hair with one finger, trying to act nonchalant, but she knows better. She shifts, returning his smile. "Well. Hello there."

"Hello yourself." He slips a hand between them, curving it around her breast, but she pushes his arm away. Hard.

"You." Lifting herself away from his warmth, she moves so that she's crouching over his torso. "Do nothing."

As always, he's terrible at following instructions. He dances his fingers up her thighs, his touch flashing through her body like lightning. "Nothing?"

She slaps his hands, glaring. "Nothing."

Leaning over him, she works her way down his body. Her hair falls around her, gliding over his skin, following in the path of her mouth and hands. She loves how he tastes, loves rediscovering him-- the curve of his shoulder, the softness of the inside of his elbow. His stomach tenses as her lips touch it, and she puffs air into his navel, laughing at his startled jump.

His skin is golden in the firelight. He's already overheated, breath hitching as she explores. He's keeping his hands away from her, but it's clearly an effort; his hands scrabble at the rug and end up as white-knuckled fists.

Sliding her palms down his sides, she stops. There's a new addition to this familiar canvas, and she traces a parallel line next to it with one careful finger. The angry red cut slicing along his side is no more than a few days old. The tiny stitches along most of it were surely made by his own hand, and they are eerily precise.

"What happened?"

She knows he'll downplay it, and he does. "I got in the way of a knife."

Leaning down, she kisses the wound; though her lips are feather-gentle, he flinches. She shuts her eyes. "You need to learn how to stay out of harm's way," she says. Her voice is calm, and just then she is glad that her hair hides her face from him.

He touches the top of her head, just for a moment. "Then I shouldn't be here."

She stares at the injury again. By the next time, it will have faded, and will simply be another addition to the always-changing landscape of his body; it will be something new to explore. Holding on to that possibility, she is able to look up at him again, and all he sees is a serene face with one raised eyebrow. "Are you sure you're feeling up to this?"

His expression answers the question, better than words could. When he reaches for her, she evades his hands. She's not done, and right now focusing on him is the only thing that can make her feel like she has any control, any power over even the smallest piece of her life.

Sliding down, her splayed hands drag over the tops of his hips, to his thighs, and she braces herself there with one hand as she wraps the other around the heat of him, taking him in her mouth.

She can make it better for him, if only for a little while.

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