CSI:NY (Flack/Lindsay); Prompt #27: Catharsis
Title: One of These Days
Summary: And she believes that one of these days, she’ll find a way to stay with him - even if it means walking through the night.
Prompt: for pair_icons_fics: #031. Sunrise
for psych_30: #27, Catharsis
Disclaimer: The names of all characters contained herein are the property of Anthony Zuiker, Jerry Bruckheimer Television, CBS and Alliance Atlantis. No infringements of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission.
Word Count: 1, 616
Rating: FRAO
Content Warning: Explicit sexual content, language.
Spoilers: From "Run Silent, Run Deep" through the end of S2.
A/N: Thanks to shadow_diva for the beta. Crossposted; flack_monroe, csi_ny_fic. Written for psych_30 and pair_icons_fics. Sorry if this spams your flist.
“One of these days
I won't be afraid of staying with you
I hope and I pray
Waiting to find a way back to you
Cause that's where I'm home”
-Michelle Branch
The night is cool and the streets glisten with earlier rainfall. The cracks in the sidewalks are filling with water, not fixing but maybe just healing. That’s an analogy for so many things in her life but she doesn’t want to think about it. Not right now, when she’s walking to his apartment for the first time in weeks. There isn’t much to see - if it was the country there would be stars out right now but it’s the city so maybe they’re just satellites.
Before the bombing, the whole relationship with her and Don was a bit shaky anyway. She knew that she was using him, in her own way. He hated her a little bit each day for that but he never let on because that wasn’t the kind of man he was, which was why she loves him now. Afterwards, however, they pushed each other away. Don didn’t want her around because he knew she wouldn’t stay - and she didn’t - and Lindsay didn’t want to be around because she knew if she were, she’d want to stay with him.
She wouldn’t want to leave.
- - - - -
When she enters the apartment, it’s easy to tell that Don’s on leave. He hates being away from the job, being off the streets. Lindsay knows that just as being a country girl’s in her blood (breathing the open air, walking in the fields) being a city boy is in his - the street smarts of the boroughs and the family tradition of being NYPD blue. She knows she shouldn’t be thinking of this but when Flack was brought out on the ambulance those many weeks ago, she remembers being surprised that he didn’t bleed blue.
Right now, though, she’s thinking that his apartment is a mess - old takeout boxes all over the place, newspapers scattered on a table. The light filters through the curtains on his windows into the living room. Don’s standing by the mantle, peering at a few pictures. From his position she knows that he’s looking at the only picture of them together.
- - - - -
When she gets close enough Lindsay can tell that there’s something wrong, and she hates that she can tell just by observing minute details. The way Flack’s head lowers, the way tension fairly flows across his shoulders, the frown set on his mouth, the steely blue his eyes have become.
She reaches out a hand to his shoulder, and pulls back hurriedly when he throws the picture across the room suddenly, shattering the frame.
Lindsay knows that Don never tells anyone what he’s feeling - he always has to be there for everyone else. Always. But maybe this time he’s just had enough of holding everything in and she hopes that it wasn’t her that caused it.
“Don, are you-”
“Fuck if I know, Lindsay.”
- - - - -
Flack tells himself that he’s not a revenge fuck and that it’s not even comfort sex. And when he tries pinpointing who would be revenged or who’d be comforted, he can’t even tell anymore.
- - - - -
He turns to face her, hands clenching at his sides in an anger he doesn’t really feel. It’s all just pent up frustration and things he should’ve said a long time ago. It’s mostly Danny and the fuck doesn’t even know how to treat women - why is Lindsay so hung up on him anyway?
His voice had an edge to it, just the right note of danger to let Lindsay know that this was not his day.
“I’m not some cheap fuck that you can come to when Danny blows ya off, okay, Lindsay? I’m so fucking sick of waiting-”
Lindsay interrupts angrily. “That’s not fair, Don.”
“Fair?” he replies. “What’s fair gotta do with it? Aiden’s gone and that’s not fair - Mac shoulda known somethin’ was up with that case and now she’s fucking dead. Danny’s brother is in a fucking coma for trying to protect him and how is that fair? Stella killed her boyfriend and nearly died herself - Stella, Linds.”
Flack takes a deep breath and looks away from Lindsay. He’s been holding this all in for so long and he’s so sick of taking care of everyone, he needs someone to hold him for once. Someone to tell him everything will be okay.
He continues with, “And all that fucked up shit with the bombing. I nearly died. How the fuck is that fair, when the last thing I remember is thinking, please let me live so I can see Lindsay’s face again? I love ya and I know that ya don’t wanna stay with me. Just…just fuck, Lindsay.”
Any sharp retorts Lindsay had are lost in the aftermath of Flack’s confession. Maybe it’s not a confession, exactly - more of an emotional release.
(and that’s how it got started - he kissed her then, twisting her head back and crushing his mouth to hers. his teeth bit hard enough at her lower lip to draw blood. the mild coppery taste of her blood reaches his tongue and he thinks, mine.)
- - - - -
Flack spins them around so Lindsay’s back is firm against the wall, his hand resting on her hip, the other still tangled hopelessly in her hair. He presses his hand tightly against the small of her back, rumpling the fabric of her shirt beneath his fingers as he runs them upwards, tracing the curve of her spine until the rough scrape of plaster stopped him at her shoulders. He finds it fascinating, the slope of her back, the curve of her neck, the dip of her collarbone where it meets her shoulder.
He’s distracted again by Lindsay’s lips on his. Flack deepens the kiss, feeling her hands in his hair, and he eases his thigh between her legs, one hand cupping her breast through her clothes, not gentle at all. He goes on teasing until he feels her legs tensing around his own, trying to pull him closer.
And even if she wants him to stop, which she doesn’t, she wouldn’t ask him to because she knows that he needs this and at this point she’d do anything for him.
Lindsay is dimly aware of Flack’s hand running up her thigh, pushing up her skirt as he goes. He touches her gently through her panties, already wet. She gasps as he slowly drags a finger backwards and forwards over her, using the friction of the material to turn her on even further.
He eases the material to one side, and she feels the coolness of his finger circling over the bundle of nerves. She’s vaguely aware of a moan, realizing it must’ve come from her. She feels somehow betrayed, knowing that when she came over here she’d never intended this to happen but now that it’s actually happening she doesn’t want it to stop.
She’s barely aware of him removing the rest of her clothes and his own, of the hand that steers her towards the bedroom. But she’s very aware of the finger that had traced around her opening, promising to enter soon, not yet, but soon. Suddenly they’re lying on his bed and his hand is easing between her legs, Lindsay’s hips involuntarily thrusting into Flack’s palm as his fingers move arrhythmically inside her, his thumb rubbing her clit. Lindsay’s hands clutch at the fabric of the sheets beneath her, arching her back as she comes, finally falling back breathless to the bed.
“Yeah,” Flack says breathily. “Thought you’d like that.”
- - - - -
His hands mesh with hers as he pushes inside her, letting his head drop to the crook of her neck to whisper sweet nothings. Only they’re really not sweet nothings (he can hardly take it anymore, how long has it fucking been since they’ve been together like this, oh god he’s missed it) Flack’s really asking her, do you like it like this baby - yeah, oh god, feels so good.
Lindsay reaches one arm around his waist, and the other around his shoulders as he kisses her. She lifts her hips, rolling them a bit so he gets the idea - and finally. He heightens the pace of their lovemaking (although this, this Lindsay would call fucking because this is all need and nothing else, except for perhaps lust) and he says in her ear, “Say it, Lindsay.”
“Don…”
“Say you’ll stay.”
She doesn’t answer him, just pulls him closer as they near oblivion. She mumbles entreaties against his skin (only really, it’s more along the lines of “oh fuck, Don, please right there, don’t stop now, oh god”) and when they do come it’s together, in sync, like they’ve been doing this all their lives.
- - - - -
(she never asked for this, never asked to fall in love with a roguish cop who doesn’t ask anything of her, only that she’ll stay with him - forever, for always -)
- - - - -
A few hours later it’s almost dawn and they both have been lying awake the whole time, not knowing what to say. But Don supposes the only thing that matters is that she did stay, and that’s all that he’s ever wanted.
“Do you suppose sins can be forgiven, Don?” she asks.
The sun is coming up. It’s a new day. That’s a metaphor for so many things in life, but as the sun comes peeking through his curtains, creating new light wherever it touches, he thinks maybe it’s very appropriate for this moment.
“I don’t know, Lindsay. I’ve never tried.”
“I think,” she says, “that I’m going to try.”
finis.
Summary: And she believes that one of these days, she’ll find a way to stay with him - even if it means walking through the night.
Prompt: for pair_icons_fics: #031. Sunrise
for psych_30: #27, Catharsis
Disclaimer: The names of all characters contained herein are the property of Anthony Zuiker, Jerry Bruckheimer Television, CBS and Alliance Atlantis. No infringements of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission.
Word Count: 1, 616
Rating: FRAO
Content Warning: Explicit sexual content, language.
Spoilers: From "Run Silent, Run Deep" through the end of S2.
A/N: Thanks to shadow_diva for the beta. Crossposted; flack_monroe, csi_ny_fic. Written for psych_30 and pair_icons_fics. Sorry if this spams your flist.
“One of these days
I won't be afraid of staying with you
I hope and I pray
Waiting to find a way back to you
Cause that's where I'm home”
-Michelle Branch
The night is cool and the streets glisten with earlier rainfall. The cracks in the sidewalks are filling with water, not fixing but maybe just healing. That’s an analogy for so many things in her life but she doesn’t want to think about it. Not right now, when she’s walking to his apartment for the first time in weeks. There isn’t much to see - if it was the country there would be stars out right now but it’s the city so maybe they’re just satellites.
Before the bombing, the whole relationship with her and Don was a bit shaky anyway. She knew that she was using him, in her own way. He hated her a little bit each day for that but he never let on because that wasn’t the kind of man he was, which was why she loves him now. Afterwards, however, they pushed each other away. Don didn’t want her around because he knew she wouldn’t stay - and she didn’t - and Lindsay didn’t want to be around because she knew if she were, she’d want to stay with him.
She wouldn’t want to leave.
- - - - -
When she enters the apartment, it’s easy to tell that Don’s on leave. He hates being away from the job, being off the streets. Lindsay knows that just as being a country girl’s in her blood (breathing the open air, walking in the fields) being a city boy is in his - the street smarts of the boroughs and the family tradition of being NYPD blue. She knows she shouldn’t be thinking of this but when Flack was brought out on the ambulance those many weeks ago, she remembers being surprised that he didn’t bleed blue.
Right now, though, she’s thinking that his apartment is a mess - old takeout boxes all over the place, newspapers scattered on a table. The light filters through the curtains on his windows into the living room. Don’s standing by the mantle, peering at a few pictures. From his position she knows that he’s looking at the only picture of them together.
- - - - -
When she gets close enough Lindsay can tell that there’s something wrong, and she hates that she can tell just by observing minute details. The way Flack’s head lowers, the way tension fairly flows across his shoulders, the frown set on his mouth, the steely blue his eyes have become.
She reaches out a hand to his shoulder, and pulls back hurriedly when he throws the picture across the room suddenly, shattering the frame.
Lindsay knows that Don never tells anyone what he’s feeling - he always has to be there for everyone else. Always. But maybe this time he’s just had enough of holding everything in and she hopes that it wasn’t her that caused it.
“Don, are you-”
“Fuck if I know, Lindsay.”
- - - - -
Flack tells himself that he’s not a revenge fuck and that it’s not even comfort sex. And when he tries pinpointing who would be revenged or who’d be comforted, he can’t even tell anymore.
- - - - -
He turns to face her, hands clenching at his sides in an anger he doesn’t really feel. It’s all just pent up frustration and things he should’ve said a long time ago. It’s mostly Danny and the fuck doesn’t even know how to treat women - why is Lindsay so hung up on him anyway?
His voice had an edge to it, just the right note of danger to let Lindsay know that this was not his day.
“I’m not some cheap fuck that you can come to when Danny blows ya off, okay, Lindsay? I’m so fucking sick of waiting-”
Lindsay interrupts angrily. “That’s not fair, Don.”
“Fair?” he replies. “What’s fair gotta do with it? Aiden’s gone and that’s not fair - Mac shoulda known somethin’ was up with that case and now she’s fucking dead. Danny’s brother is in a fucking coma for trying to protect him and how is that fair? Stella killed her boyfriend and nearly died herself - Stella, Linds.”
Flack takes a deep breath and looks away from Lindsay. He’s been holding this all in for so long and he’s so sick of taking care of everyone, he needs someone to hold him for once. Someone to tell him everything will be okay.
He continues with, “And all that fucked up shit with the bombing. I nearly died. How the fuck is that fair, when the last thing I remember is thinking, please let me live so I can see Lindsay’s face again? I love ya and I know that ya don’t wanna stay with me. Just…just fuck, Lindsay.”
Any sharp retorts Lindsay had are lost in the aftermath of Flack’s confession. Maybe it’s not a confession, exactly - more of an emotional release.
(and that’s how it got started - he kissed her then, twisting her head back and crushing his mouth to hers. his teeth bit hard enough at her lower lip to draw blood. the mild coppery taste of her blood reaches his tongue and he thinks, mine.)
- - - - -
Flack spins them around so Lindsay’s back is firm against the wall, his hand resting on her hip, the other still tangled hopelessly in her hair. He presses his hand tightly against the small of her back, rumpling the fabric of her shirt beneath his fingers as he runs them upwards, tracing the curve of her spine until the rough scrape of plaster stopped him at her shoulders. He finds it fascinating, the slope of her back, the curve of her neck, the dip of her collarbone where it meets her shoulder.
He’s distracted again by Lindsay’s lips on his. Flack deepens the kiss, feeling her hands in his hair, and he eases his thigh between her legs, one hand cupping her breast through her clothes, not gentle at all. He goes on teasing until he feels her legs tensing around his own, trying to pull him closer.
And even if she wants him to stop, which she doesn’t, she wouldn’t ask him to because she knows that he needs this and at this point she’d do anything for him.
Lindsay is dimly aware of Flack’s hand running up her thigh, pushing up her skirt as he goes. He touches her gently through her panties, already wet. She gasps as he slowly drags a finger backwards and forwards over her, using the friction of the material to turn her on even further.
He eases the material to one side, and she feels the coolness of his finger circling over the bundle of nerves. She’s vaguely aware of a moan, realizing it must’ve come from her. She feels somehow betrayed, knowing that when she came over here she’d never intended this to happen but now that it’s actually happening she doesn’t want it to stop.
She’s barely aware of him removing the rest of her clothes and his own, of the hand that steers her towards the bedroom. But she’s very aware of the finger that had traced around her opening, promising to enter soon, not yet, but soon. Suddenly they’re lying on his bed and his hand is easing between her legs, Lindsay’s hips involuntarily thrusting into Flack’s palm as his fingers move arrhythmically inside her, his thumb rubbing her clit. Lindsay’s hands clutch at the fabric of the sheets beneath her, arching her back as she comes, finally falling back breathless to the bed.
“Yeah,” Flack says breathily. “Thought you’d like that.”
- - - - -
His hands mesh with hers as he pushes inside her, letting his head drop to the crook of her neck to whisper sweet nothings. Only they’re really not sweet nothings (he can hardly take it anymore, how long has it fucking been since they’ve been together like this, oh god he’s missed it) Flack’s really asking her, do you like it like this baby - yeah, oh god, feels so good.
Lindsay reaches one arm around his waist, and the other around his shoulders as he kisses her. She lifts her hips, rolling them a bit so he gets the idea - and finally. He heightens the pace of their lovemaking (although this, this Lindsay would call fucking because this is all need and nothing else, except for perhaps lust) and he says in her ear, “Say it, Lindsay.”
“Don…”
“Say you’ll stay.”
She doesn’t answer him, just pulls him closer as they near oblivion. She mumbles entreaties against his skin (only really, it’s more along the lines of “oh fuck, Don, please right there, don’t stop now, oh god”) and when they do come it’s together, in sync, like they’ve been doing this all their lives.
- - - - -
(she never asked for this, never asked to fall in love with a roguish cop who doesn’t ask anything of her, only that she’ll stay with him - forever, for always -)
- - - - -
A few hours later it’s almost dawn and they both have been lying awake the whole time, not knowing what to say. But Don supposes the only thing that matters is that she did stay, and that’s all that he’s ever wanted.
“Do you suppose sins can be forgiven, Don?” she asks.
The sun is coming up. It’s a new day. That’s a metaphor for so many things in life, but as the sun comes peeking through his curtains, creating new light wherever it touches, he thinks maybe it’s very appropriate for this moment.
“I don’t know, Lindsay. I’ve never tried.”
“I think,” she says, “that I’m going to try.”
finis.