Out of Sight fic: Find a darkened corner
Happy birthday to innie_darling, who is a wonderful friend, in and out of fandom, and a talented writer to boot. <3 (Thank you for the prompt -- I never would've thought of this, and I had a great time writing it).
Find a darkened corner
Jack Foley/Karen Sisco * PG-13 * 1,100 words * set during and post-movie
a/n: Written for innie_darling's birthday -- she asked me to fill the prompt "body: thighs" on my kissbingo table with Jack/Karen from Out of Sight. Beta is by the fabulous musesfool. Title is by Johnny Cash.
Someone's been in her apartment. Karen can tell from a scent that isn't hers and the indentations in the carpet where the bamboo chair's been moved. It's too late for this crap -- she's been up nineteen hours straight, and the night is too thick and hot.
The thing is, the only kind of thief who would make the mistakes this one's making is either incredibly stupid, or doing it on purpose. Karen pulls out her gun to be on the safe side. She toes off her shoes, leaves them inside the door and goes barefoot down the hall, the Sig gripped low in front of her with both hands. The door to her bedroom's open a crack, where she'd left it closed.
She raises the gun, kicks the door so it bangs against the wall, and then keeps the gun aimed even though Foley's grinning up her, sprawled in her bed in the half-darkness, the sheets outlining his body.
"I thought so." Just to fuck with his head, Karen doesn't bother lowering the gun. "You think you're very funny, don't you."
"You knew it was me."
"No, I didn't."
"Yeah." He grins wider, folds his arms behind his head. "You did."
"No," she lies. "I thought it was a really dumb thief after my Chanel suit."
She lowers the gun as Foley starts to fidget with the curves of the headboard, fingers tracing along the wood. He looks almost uncertain for a moment, gaze fixed on her.
"You could call first, like a normal person," she says.
"I didn't have any quarters."
She slips her gun into the box on the bureau and crawls onto the bed, lowering herself over Jack's body, breathing in the smell of him, too much aftershave -- so she would catch his scent when she walked in, the cocky bastard -- and deodorant and sweat. She kisses him, then lets him peel her out of her pencil skirt, leans back with his hands and then his mouth warm on the inside of her thigh. He puts three kisses there, each higher than the last, his thumb smoothing over the skin on her other thigh. Karen bites down on her lower lip as he tugs down her cotton panties, puts his lips and tongue against her, tries not to moan too loud, not because she's worried what her neighbors would think, but she's not going to give too much away if she can help it.
The snow waltzes down in large clumps, and Karen remembers someone (her father, probably) telling her that meant it would stop soon. The lights of Detroit mix with the reflection of the lights of the hotel room. It's like they're in the snowglobe her dad bought her on their trip to Vermont when she was a teenager. As if this isn't real.
"I'm hungry," Foley says, head resting on her stomach. She's wrapped up in one of the hotel bathrobes. "Let's get room service."
It seems strange to be talking about ordering room service. He should be gone by now.
"Yeah, okay," she says.
"French toast." His fingers slide down the curve of her face. He pushes back her hair.
"French toast?"
"And bacon." His hand drops away from her face, leaving her skin feeling cooler. He moves on the bed. "Maybe they have real maple syrup." Foley manages to make that sound suggestive. "Like from Vermont." He pushes her robe open a little and kisses the inside of her thigh.
She pushes her fingers into his hair as he grins up at her, his stubble scratching against the sensitive skin at the bend of her knee.
"See, the way I see it, you're Cary Grant." Foley has his bare feet up on her coffee table, knobs of his ankles showing just below the cuffs of his jeans.
"How am I Cary Grant?" Karen's wearing gym shorts and a loose Miami Dolphins t-shirt, no make-up, her hair up in a ponytail, her bare legs across Foley's lap. She feels about as glamorous as a bowl of cheerios.
"Because you know you shouldn't but you've fallen for this person you feel has questionable morals who's helping you catch bad guys."
"That makes you Ingrid Bergman."
"I'm pretty enough to be Ingrid Bergman." Foley starts playing with her ponytail, fingers threading through her hair.
"Nah, you're more Humphrey Bogart."
"Humphrey Bogart was kind of homely."
"The term you want is ugly-hot." She laughs.
"I'm ugly? Like Bogart?"
Foley's actually far too pretty to be Bogart, but she's enjoying his indignation.
"Now I'm sorry there's no movie where Ingrid Bergman played a bank robber," Foley says. "She'd be a pretty hot bank robber."
"Or a Fed."
"She'd be an even hotter Fed."
"I don't know if Ingrid Bergman ever played a Fed." Karen presses her toes into the couch cushion as Foley's hand slides down to rest on the back of her neck.
When she gets up to go get more soda, Jack's fingers catch at the hem of her shorts, holding her there for a moment, his other hand on her hip. He stares up at her.
"What?" She says flatly.
He pulls her closer, his lips pressing warm against her thigh as the flush rises into her face. Karen clears her throat and pulls away, turns so he can't see how he undoes her so easily.
In the trunk of her car, Foley's hand stays on her thigh, where it doesn't need to be. There are plenty of other places his hand could go.
Her elbow jerks back and up, catching him in the chin.
She turns to face him, slams the palm of her hand into his nose, cartilage snapping.
Karen feels around on the sticky carpeting until she finds a Bic pen, and jabs Foley's hand with it.
In the trunk of her car, Foley's hand stays on her thigh, where it doesn't need to be. Karen wonders why she's letting him do that.
Collins escorts Hijirah Henry out of the back of the van while Karen climbs in, gloves and jacket long since discarded. At the start of the trip, it had been cold enough back there it radiated through the partition; now it was too hot, doubly so without the AC running.
"I have to take that thing back now." Karen sits on the spot Henry occupied, holding out her hand, palm flat.
Foley's expression goes quiet, almost serene. He snaps his fingers, lighting the lighter. Again. Click. Click.
Then he places it, closed, in her hand and folds her fingers around it. The metal's cold and his skin is warm. His thumb brushes her knuckles before he releases her and she pulls her hand away quickly.
As she turns, his palm ghosts over her thigh. She feels it like she's not wearing thick slacks.
She's still feeling it two weeks later, with Foley locked away in Glades.
Karen has a lot of work to get done.
She'll keep the lighter until she can give it back to him.
~end
Find a darkened corner
Jack Foley/Karen Sisco * PG-13 * 1,100 words * set during and post-movie
a/n: Written for innie_darling's birthday -- she asked me to fill the prompt "body: thighs" on my kissbingo table with Jack/Karen from Out of Sight. Beta is by the fabulous musesfool. Title is by Johnny Cash.
Someone's been in her apartment. Karen can tell from a scent that isn't hers and the indentations in the carpet where the bamboo chair's been moved. It's too late for this crap -- she's been up nineteen hours straight, and the night is too thick and hot.
The thing is, the only kind of thief who would make the mistakes this one's making is either incredibly stupid, or doing it on purpose. Karen pulls out her gun to be on the safe side. She toes off her shoes, leaves them inside the door and goes barefoot down the hall, the Sig gripped low in front of her with both hands. The door to her bedroom's open a crack, where she'd left it closed.
She raises the gun, kicks the door so it bangs against the wall, and then keeps the gun aimed even though Foley's grinning up her, sprawled in her bed in the half-darkness, the sheets outlining his body.
"I thought so." Just to fuck with his head, Karen doesn't bother lowering the gun. "You think you're very funny, don't you."
"You knew it was me."
"No, I didn't."
"Yeah." He grins wider, folds his arms behind his head. "You did."
"No," she lies. "I thought it was a really dumb thief after my Chanel suit."
She lowers the gun as Foley starts to fidget with the curves of the headboard, fingers tracing along the wood. He looks almost uncertain for a moment, gaze fixed on her.
"You could call first, like a normal person," she says.
"I didn't have any quarters."
She slips her gun into the box on the bureau and crawls onto the bed, lowering herself over Jack's body, breathing in the smell of him, too much aftershave -- so she would catch his scent when she walked in, the cocky bastard -- and deodorant and sweat. She kisses him, then lets him peel her out of her pencil skirt, leans back with his hands and then his mouth warm on the inside of her thigh. He puts three kisses there, each higher than the last, his thumb smoothing over the skin on her other thigh. Karen bites down on her lower lip as he tugs down her cotton panties, puts his lips and tongue against her, tries not to moan too loud, not because she's worried what her neighbors would think, but she's not going to give too much away if she can help it.
The snow waltzes down in large clumps, and Karen remembers someone (her father, probably) telling her that meant it would stop soon. The lights of Detroit mix with the reflection of the lights of the hotel room. It's like they're in the snowglobe her dad bought her on their trip to Vermont when she was a teenager. As if this isn't real.
"I'm hungry," Foley says, head resting on her stomach. She's wrapped up in one of the hotel bathrobes. "Let's get room service."
It seems strange to be talking about ordering room service. He should be gone by now.
"Yeah, okay," she says.
"French toast." His fingers slide down the curve of her face. He pushes back her hair.
"French toast?"
"And bacon." His hand drops away from her face, leaving her skin feeling cooler. He moves on the bed. "Maybe they have real maple syrup." Foley manages to make that sound suggestive. "Like from Vermont." He pushes her robe open a little and kisses the inside of her thigh.
She pushes her fingers into his hair as he grins up at her, his stubble scratching against the sensitive skin at the bend of her knee.
"See, the way I see it, you're Cary Grant." Foley has his bare feet up on her coffee table, knobs of his ankles showing just below the cuffs of his jeans.
"How am I Cary Grant?" Karen's wearing gym shorts and a loose Miami Dolphins t-shirt, no make-up, her hair up in a ponytail, her bare legs across Foley's lap. She feels about as glamorous as a bowl of cheerios.
"Because you know you shouldn't but you've fallen for this person you feel has questionable morals who's helping you catch bad guys."
"That makes you Ingrid Bergman."
"I'm pretty enough to be Ingrid Bergman." Foley starts playing with her ponytail, fingers threading through her hair.
"Nah, you're more Humphrey Bogart."
"Humphrey Bogart was kind of homely."
"The term you want is ugly-hot." She laughs.
"I'm ugly? Like Bogart?"
Foley's actually far too pretty to be Bogart, but she's enjoying his indignation.
"Now I'm sorry there's no movie where Ingrid Bergman played a bank robber," Foley says. "She'd be a pretty hot bank robber."
"Or a Fed."
"She'd be an even hotter Fed."
"I don't know if Ingrid Bergman ever played a Fed." Karen presses her toes into the couch cushion as Foley's hand slides down to rest on the back of her neck.
When she gets up to go get more soda, Jack's fingers catch at the hem of her shorts, holding her there for a moment, his other hand on her hip. He stares up at her.
"What?" She says flatly.
He pulls her closer, his lips pressing warm against her thigh as the flush rises into her face. Karen clears her throat and pulls away, turns so he can't see how he undoes her so easily.
In the trunk of her car, Foley's hand stays on her thigh, where it doesn't need to be. There are plenty of other places his hand could go.
Her elbow jerks back and up, catching him in the chin.
She turns to face him, slams the palm of her hand into his nose, cartilage snapping.
Karen feels around on the sticky carpeting until she finds a Bic pen, and jabs Foley's hand with it.
In the trunk of her car, Foley's hand stays on her thigh, where it doesn't need to be. Karen wonders why she's letting him do that.
Collins escorts Hijirah Henry out of the back of the van while Karen climbs in, gloves and jacket long since discarded. At the start of the trip, it had been cold enough back there it radiated through the partition; now it was too hot, doubly so without the AC running.
"I have to take that thing back now." Karen sits on the spot Henry occupied, holding out her hand, palm flat.
Foley's expression goes quiet, almost serene. He snaps his fingers, lighting the lighter. Again. Click. Click.
Then he places it, closed, in her hand and folds her fingers around it. The metal's cold and his skin is warm. His thumb brushes her knuckles before he releases her and she pulls her hand away quickly.
As she turns, his palm ghosts over her thigh. She feels it like she's not wearing thick slacks.
She's still feeling it two weeks later, with Foley locked away in Glades.
Karen has a lot of work to get done.
She'll keep the lighter until she can give it back to him.
~end