Untitled schmoopy ficlet
Untitled Schmoopy ficlet
Genre: Het
Length: About 1200
Spoilers: None
Synopsis: Some time ago I wrote this as a birthday gift for the amazing themegalosaurus on Tumblr, since she and I share a love for this particular ship, and for one reason or another I never posted it anywhere else. But now I am.
When he walks into the coffee shop, it takes him a few moments to adjust to the dim light, which gives her plenty of time to drink him in. He really is that tall, and that broad - she had almost convinced herself that she’d imagined those shoulders. His hair is longer, and there are a few new wrinkles around his eyes. But there’s something else different about him, something almost imperceptible, that she can’t really describe. Like he’s lost something - some kind of confidence or faith in himself, and oh crap, she’s really getting carried away, psychoanalyzing the guy who just looks like he’s missing something because he’s scanning the shop looking for the stranger who emailed him.
(A tiny piece of her heart notices his ring finger is still bare. She tells it to shut up.)
He finally looks her way and she watches a split second of confusion flit across his face, followed by recognition, surprise, and that slow smile of realization as he takes a seat across from her.
"So," he says. "Dread-pirate-roberts@wahoo.com is none other than Dr. Cara Roberts."
She can't help smiling. “You remembered."
“You’re kind of unforgettable."
Oh god.
He looks down and his smile deepens, exposing dimples and white, even teeth, and she wonders if she’s blushing as she remembers those teeth nibbling on her, catching her lip. Wonders if he’s remembering the same thing.
“And you’re a hard man to find, Agent Stiles."
“Well, if you found me," he says, raising one perfect eyebrow, “then you know my name isn’t Stiles."
“That’s true." She grasps her cup to ground herself. “It’s funny. You look for a couple of FBI agents named Sam Stiles and Dean Murdock, and you don’t find anything. But you start looking for two guys named Sam and Dean who deal with weird shit, and suddenly there’s a lot more info out there." He frowns, and she starts to reach for his arm, but suddenly doesn’t feel like she has the right to touch him, not just yet. She leaves her hand on the table and quickly says “Don’t worry. I don’t mean info the average civilian can find. Or even law enforcement. I mean, info that’s out there by hunters, for hunters. I’m on your team now."
He looks stricken. “On our team? You’re a hunter?"
Her heart sinks a little bit. “Is that a bad thing? That I’m on your team?"
“No," he says, leaning forward and reaching for her, and when his long fingers rest on the back of her hand, it feels like the first time anyone’s ever touched her there. “It’s just that no one becomes a hunter without a really, really bad reason."
His voice is still that magical combination of soft and strong and deep and she wants to listen to him all day long but, well. “Not a hunter per se. More like a medic for hunters. I’ve got a clinic in Manhattan. I take care of things you don’t want to share with a regular doctor."
His brow is still furrowed, puzzled. “How did you get into something like that?"
She shrugs. “That other agent, or I guess that other fake agent. He showed up as a corpse at my hospital. A not quite human corpse. So I’ve got this weird dead unhuman thing, and two missing FBI agents -"
“Wait," he says. “The corpse? It ended up at the hospital? I thought Bobby burned it?"
She chuckles. “Apparently, there was enough of a commotion at your hotel that the cops showed up pretty quickly after the shit hit the fan, and that’s how the body got to me. If Bobby is a guy in a flannel shirt and a trucker hat, he’s the one who stole it from the hospital later. So yeah, that’s when I started asking questions. And learning what’s out there. And then I decided maybe there was some way I could help."
He leans back a little, but his hand is still resting on top of hers. Probably not intentional. He probably forgot it’s there. He probably has no idea how hard she’s resisting the urge to lace her fingers through his.
“So that email you sent me. That was legit."
“One hundred percent." Not that she’s above lying, just to have an excuse to see him again. “Like I said, I’ve got a guy who had a nasty run-in with a witch. I’ve found a possible treatment, but I need holy oil, and I heard you might have some."
“I do. It’s out in the car." He moves his hand and starts to get up, and she picks up her drink, staring into the coffee to cover her disappointment. “Do you need to, ah, I mean, I guess you need to get back to him soon, right?"
“Actually," she murmurs into her cup, “he won’t even get to my clinic until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest. So I don’t really need to hurry back."
He stands still for a second, and then eases back into his seat. “Okay then. Good. That’s good." She finally looks up, makes her way past the big veiny forearms displayed on the table, past those still extremely distracting lips, and meets his eyes, which are locked on hers. “It’s really good to see you again, Cara."
(I could make it better, if you wanted.)
Dammit. Just say it. Without the privacy of her office and the encouragement of a couple of bolts of whiskey, she can’t look at him right now. Instead she looks down again, at the table, at his big hands, imagining them exploring her body, remembering how strong they are. She runs an index finger along his hand, up his forearm. “So, I happen to know that the bathroom in this place is just one room, no stalls. With a door that locks."
“Cara," he says softly, “I am not at all interested in a bathroom quickie with you."
Fuck. She withdraws her hand, but he reaches out and takes it in his, and when she looks up he’s grinning that million-watt dimpled smile. “Not when there’s a perfectly good hotel just down the block."
~~~~
Afterward, as she lies next to him, resisting the urge to kiss his perfectly sculpted nose, she says, “You know, if you want to do this again sometime…" and tries to convince herself it will be okay if he says no, because she’s already had more than she ever thought she’d get.
He sighs. “I’d love that, Cara, I really would. But Manhattan, shit, that’s so far away. And we don’t get to the East Coast very often. But yes, I would love to see you if I can make it out there, or maybe you’ll find your way to Kansas again, I mean, maybe you’ll need some other stuff we have, or…"
She laughs and shuts him up with a kiss. “Manhattan Kansas, Sam. I’m in Kansas."
“You’re in that Manhattan?" His voice rises so high, it almost squeaks.
“I am. I did my undergrad at K-State and I always liked the place. Seemed like a good central location, you know? So hunters can get to me?"
“That’s only a couple of hours away from Lebanon." He turns over and wraps his arms around her, pulling her on top of him.
“Yes it is," she grins. “So, does that mean you’d like to do this again sometime?"
He buries his hands in her hair and draws her face close to his. “Oh, hell yes. Again and again." And this time she does kiss his nose.
Genre: Het
Length: About 1200
Spoilers: None
Synopsis: Some time ago I wrote this as a birthday gift for the amazing themegalosaurus on Tumblr, since she and I share a love for this particular ship, and for one reason or another I never posted it anywhere else. But now I am.
When he walks into the coffee shop, it takes him a few moments to adjust to the dim light, which gives her plenty of time to drink him in. He really is that tall, and that broad - she had almost convinced herself that she’d imagined those shoulders. His hair is longer, and there are a few new wrinkles around his eyes. But there’s something else different about him, something almost imperceptible, that she can’t really describe. Like he’s lost something - some kind of confidence or faith in himself, and oh crap, she’s really getting carried away, psychoanalyzing the guy who just looks like he’s missing something because he’s scanning the shop looking for the stranger who emailed him.
(A tiny piece of her heart notices his ring finger is still bare. She tells it to shut up.)
He finally looks her way and she watches a split second of confusion flit across his face, followed by recognition, surprise, and that slow smile of realization as he takes a seat across from her.
"So," he says. "Dread-pirate-roberts@wahoo.com is none other than Dr. Cara Roberts."
She can't help smiling. “You remembered."
“You’re kind of unforgettable."
Oh god.
He looks down and his smile deepens, exposing dimples and white, even teeth, and she wonders if she’s blushing as she remembers those teeth nibbling on her, catching her lip. Wonders if he’s remembering the same thing.
“And you’re a hard man to find, Agent Stiles."
“Well, if you found me," he says, raising one perfect eyebrow, “then you know my name isn’t Stiles."
“That’s true." She grasps her cup to ground herself. “It’s funny. You look for a couple of FBI agents named Sam Stiles and Dean Murdock, and you don’t find anything. But you start looking for two guys named Sam and Dean who deal with weird shit, and suddenly there’s a lot more info out there." He frowns, and she starts to reach for his arm, but suddenly doesn’t feel like she has the right to touch him, not just yet. She leaves her hand on the table and quickly says “Don’t worry. I don’t mean info the average civilian can find. Or even law enforcement. I mean, info that’s out there by hunters, for hunters. I’m on your team now."
He looks stricken. “On our team? You’re a hunter?"
Her heart sinks a little bit. “Is that a bad thing? That I’m on your team?"
“No," he says, leaning forward and reaching for her, and when his long fingers rest on the back of her hand, it feels like the first time anyone’s ever touched her there. “It’s just that no one becomes a hunter without a really, really bad reason."
His voice is still that magical combination of soft and strong and deep and she wants to listen to him all day long but, well. “Not a hunter per se. More like a medic for hunters. I’ve got a clinic in Manhattan. I take care of things you don’t want to share with a regular doctor."
His brow is still furrowed, puzzled. “How did you get into something like that?"
She shrugs. “That other agent, or I guess that other fake agent. He showed up as a corpse at my hospital. A not quite human corpse. So I’ve got this weird dead unhuman thing, and two missing FBI agents -"
“Wait," he says. “The corpse? It ended up at the hospital? I thought Bobby burned it?"
She chuckles. “Apparently, there was enough of a commotion at your hotel that the cops showed up pretty quickly after the shit hit the fan, and that’s how the body got to me. If Bobby is a guy in a flannel shirt and a trucker hat, he’s the one who stole it from the hospital later. So yeah, that’s when I started asking questions. And learning what’s out there. And then I decided maybe there was some way I could help."
He leans back a little, but his hand is still resting on top of hers. Probably not intentional. He probably forgot it’s there. He probably has no idea how hard she’s resisting the urge to lace her fingers through his.
“So that email you sent me. That was legit."
“One hundred percent." Not that she’s above lying, just to have an excuse to see him again. “Like I said, I’ve got a guy who had a nasty run-in with a witch. I’ve found a possible treatment, but I need holy oil, and I heard you might have some."
“I do. It’s out in the car." He moves his hand and starts to get up, and she picks up her drink, staring into the coffee to cover her disappointment. “Do you need to, ah, I mean, I guess you need to get back to him soon, right?"
“Actually," she murmurs into her cup, “he won’t even get to my clinic until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest. So I don’t really need to hurry back."
He stands still for a second, and then eases back into his seat. “Okay then. Good. That’s good." She finally looks up, makes her way past the big veiny forearms displayed on the table, past those still extremely distracting lips, and meets his eyes, which are locked on hers. “It’s really good to see you again, Cara."
(I could make it better, if you wanted.)
Dammit. Just say it. Without the privacy of her office and the encouragement of a couple of bolts of whiskey, she can’t look at him right now. Instead she looks down again, at the table, at his big hands, imagining them exploring her body, remembering how strong they are. She runs an index finger along his hand, up his forearm. “So, I happen to know that the bathroom in this place is just one room, no stalls. With a door that locks."
“Cara," he says softly, “I am not at all interested in a bathroom quickie with you."
Fuck. She withdraws her hand, but he reaches out and takes it in his, and when she looks up he’s grinning that million-watt dimpled smile. “Not when there’s a perfectly good hotel just down the block."
~~~~
Afterward, as she lies next to him, resisting the urge to kiss his perfectly sculpted nose, she says, “You know, if you want to do this again sometime…" and tries to convince herself it will be okay if he says no, because she’s already had more than she ever thought she’d get.
He sighs. “I’d love that, Cara, I really would. But Manhattan, shit, that’s so far away. And we don’t get to the East Coast very often. But yes, I would love to see you if I can make it out there, or maybe you’ll find your way to Kansas again, I mean, maybe you’ll need some other stuff we have, or…"
She laughs and shuts him up with a kiss. “Manhattan Kansas, Sam. I’m in Kansas."
“You’re in that Manhattan?" His voice rises so high, it almost squeaks.
“I am. I did my undergrad at K-State and I always liked the place. Seemed like a good central location, you know? So hunters can get to me?"
“That’s only a couple of hours away from Lebanon." He turns over and wraps his arms around her, pulling her on top of him.
“Yes it is," she grins. “So, does that mean you’d like to do this again sometime?"
He buries his hands in her hair and draws her face close to his. “Oh, hell yes. Again and again." And this time she does kiss his nose.