Happy New Year, lule_bell!
Title: Resolutions
Fandom: L&O, CI
Characters/Pairings: Eames/Wheeler
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Mild femmeslash
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, and make no money off of this.
Eames counted out the fare and tip quite deliberately. It was just a way to procrastinate, she knew, so she steeled herself as she handed the money over and slipped out of the cab. She suddered at the sudden, breathtaking cold as she slammed the door behind her, and hurried onto the sidewalk and over to the old brick apartment complex, drawing her coat tight.
The entryway to the complex was no warmer than the outside, but it was, at least, shielded from the wind. She pressed the appropriate button, her exhalation a fog in front of her.
"Yes?" Wheeler's electronically distorted voice piped from the speaker.
"It's Alex," Eames replied.
"Oh..." Wheeler's voice sounded surprised. "OK, come right up." With a harsh buzz and clunk, the door unlocked, and Eames pulled it open and stepped inside.
The inside of the complex was markedly warmer, and Eames unbuttoned her coat as she walked up the stairs, her steps a dull thud-thud on the thick, old carpet. The rhythm made her mind wander. She wasn't hung over - she knew the importance of hydration, and made sure to drink plenty of water if alcohol would be in the plans - but her head was still not quite in its normal state yet, and was prone to reminisce - for instance, about last night.
The same stairs, a very similar walk. She was dressed a bit less practically, and was balancing on less comfortable shoes. Wheeler had met her at the top of the stairs, grinning, waving her in to a crowd of people, thrusting a glass of champagne into Alex's hand. "Come in!"
The brown wooden door was closed, now, and Eames knocked a staccato beat. "Come in!" Wheeler's voice sounded muffled and distant.
The door was unlocked, and opening it revealed a minor disaster area. Confetti and streamers littered the ground and draped over glasses in various states of fullness and plates with scraps of cheese and crackers; sad, deflated baloons settled among them.
The guests batted the balloons back and forth, laughing; Eames balanced a paper plate in the same hand as she held the wineglass, picking up slivers of vey excellent cheese to nibble at with her free hand. She paused as she saw Goren in the corner, speaking earnestly to a woman with alcohol-glazed eyes. "Burns," he said, raising his voice to be heard over the party's din, waving his arms earnestly. "Robert Burns. The... the Scots bard. Some say he didn't actually, well, write it. But you know, I think... well, if adaptation isn't art, then Shakespeare didn't write Hamlet, either, so..."
"You're so tall," the woman slurred, leaning into him. Goren looked at Eames, pleadingly, and she shrugged and raised her glass with a mischevious smile.
Wheeler stepped gingerly into the room, careful not to tread upon any of the litter strewn about. She had shed the low-cut dress, and was in a halter top that left her long arms bare. Soft cotton pants clung to her slender frame from stomach to knee, flaring out slightly to her ankles. Her feet were bare, and her hair flat on one side and puffed absurdly on the other, the bed-head almost regal. She slid the empty glass bottle in her hand into the garbage basket she was carrying. "Did you forget something last night?" she asked Eames.
"No, I just wanted to come by and help you clean up a bit. It was... quite a party!"
Ross drew on his cigar, puffed out a smoke ring, and added, "But the fellow didn't know at the time we had his brother in the other room..." The two detectives in front of him guffawed, slapping each other on the back. "Eames!" Ross called across to her, grandly, waving his cigar. "Welcome." His demeanor would not have been any more sure if he were welcoming her to his own home, she was certain.
"Oh, you didn't have to do that!" Wheeler grinned. "That's really good of you - it's a little..." She waved her hand at the mess.
Alex smiled. "I've hosted a party or two. I know the aftermath." She brushed a balloon off of a chair, and set her bag and coat on it. "Got a broom and dustpan?"
Wheeler opened a nearby closet, fishing out a broom with a dustpan attached to the top. "Go nuts!" she laughed.
Wheeler was laughing at some joke Eames was too far away to hear. Perhaps it was just the third glass of champagne, but Wheeler seemed almost to glow - her red hair a dancing fire as she moved among her guests, shedding fiery embers that dusted her face as freckles, dipping down to glow over her small, fit breasts, covered by the low-cut dress. "Eames! I thought I had lost you!" she called as she walked between couples to move closer.
"This is amazing!"
"What, the party?"
"No - I mean, yes, but - the floors!" Eames smiled ruefully as Wheeler laughed long and loud. But Eames would not be deterred, and soon they were discussing the merits of various hardwoods, the spackling Wheeler had done before the paint and the decorative glass tile in the bathroom, the hulking stainless-steel gas range.
The hardwood floors were becoming more and more visible as Eames swept the confetti and debris into small, manageable piles, scooped them up with the dustpan, and deposited them into the trash bin. Wheeler collected plates and glasses, rinsed them, and filed them neatly in the dishwasher. "That's one load," she called, walking out of the kitchen with her fist massaging her back. "Want to take a break?"
Eames set the broom against the countertop. "I could do with that." The easy, brainless labor was waking her up and bringing her head back to normal, which was an unexpected benefit. She had only wanted to help out - was that why she had come back?
"Orange juice?"
"Oh... yes." Eames snapped out of the reverie she had just started to step into. Wheeler took two glasses down from the cupboard.
"Five... Four... Three..." The guests, in various states of insobriety, tried to keep to some kind of cadence as they counted down. "Two... One... Happy New Year!" Many threw double handfuls of confetti into the air, and soon the room was full of it. Noisemakers tooted, various half-recalled snatches of Auld Lang Syne floated through the air, and Eames raised her glass to Wheeler. "Happy New Year!" The kiss was a quick one, just a little joke, just a fun New Year's Moment - until it stayed, and it wasn't, and they were...
Eames felt her mouth go dry. Oh, dear, she had, hadn't she? Open-mouthed, tongues twining, full-on kiss with bodies pressed together...
"Alex..." Wheeler asked, holding two glasses of orange juice. She seemed atypically unsure, and the wheels in Eames's head began turning again - meshing in new and interesting ways. "Do you remember last night... well?"
"Well enough," Eames replied, drawing herself up. She let a coy smile tweak her mouth. Wheeler was charming in an entirely different way when she acted shy, Eames was discovering - it was not something Eames saw often, and she found herself enjoying it a little. Or, perhaps, just enjoying the fact that she had brought it about - and more importantly, what she had done to cause it.
The oddly shy look on Wheeler's face turned momentarily to confusion, then to a happy laugh. Well, Eames thought, she was a bit mercurial. But wasn't that one of the appealing things about... a Wheeler who was now lip-to-lip with her, hands on hips, and Eames's hands reciprocating, on Wheeler's back, lips pressed again. Eames felt her heart thud faster, but not from shame - it was only warmth, and soft lips, and excitement; still joyous, in the clean, clear light of the morning after.
Yes. It would be a happy New Year.
Fandom: L&O, CI
Characters/Pairings: Eames/Wheeler
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Mild femmeslash
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, and make no money off of this.
Eames counted out the fare and tip quite deliberately. It was just a way to procrastinate, she knew, so she steeled herself as she handed the money over and slipped out of the cab. She suddered at the sudden, breathtaking cold as she slammed the door behind her, and hurried onto the sidewalk and over to the old brick apartment complex, drawing her coat tight.
The entryway to the complex was no warmer than the outside, but it was, at least, shielded from the wind. She pressed the appropriate button, her exhalation a fog in front of her.
"Yes?" Wheeler's electronically distorted voice piped from the speaker.
"It's Alex," Eames replied.
"Oh..." Wheeler's voice sounded surprised. "OK, come right up." With a harsh buzz and clunk, the door unlocked, and Eames pulled it open and stepped inside.
The inside of the complex was markedly warmer, and Eames unbuttoned her coat as she walked up the stairs, her steps a dull thud-thud on the thick, old carpet. The rhythm made her mind wander. She wasn't hung over - she knew the importance of hydration, and made sure to drink plenty of water if alcohol would be in the plans - but her head was still not quite in its normal state yet, and was prone to reminisce - for instance, about last night.
The same stairs, a very similar walk. She was dressed a bit less practically, and was balancing on less comfortable shoes. Wheeler had met her at the top of the stairs, grinning, waving her in to a crowd of people, thrusting a glass of champagne into Alex's hand. "Come in!"
The brown wooden door was closed, now, and Eames knocked a staccato beat. "Come in!" Wheeler's voice sounded muffled and distant.
The door was unlocked, and opening it revealed a minor disaster area. Confetti and streamers littered the ground and draped over glasses in various states of fullness and plates with scraps of cheese and crackers; sad, deflated baloons settled among them.
The guests batted the balloons back and forth, laughing; Eames balanced a paper plate in the same hand as she held the wineglass, picking up slivers of vey excellent cheese to nibble at with her free hand. She paused as she saw Goren in the corner, speaking earnestly to a woman with alcohol-glazed eyes. "Burns," he said, raising his voice to be heard over the party's din, waving his arms earnestly. "Robert Burns. The... the Scots bard. Some say he didn't actually, well, write it. But you know, I think... well, if adaptation isn't art, then Shakespeare didn't write Hamlet, either, so..."
"You're so tall," the woman slurred, leaning into him. Goren looked at Eames, pleadingly, and she shrugged and raised her glass with a mischevious smile.
Wheeler stepped gingerly into the room, careful not to tread upon any of the litter strewn about. She had shed the low-cut dress, and was in a halter top that left her long arms bare. Soft cotton pants clung to her slender frame from stomach to knee, flaring out slightly to her ankles. Her feet were bare, and her hair flat on one side and puffed absurdly on the other, the bed-head almost regal. She slid the empty glass bottle in her hand into the garbage basket she was carrying. "Did you forget something last night?" she asked Eames.
"No, I just wanted to come by and help you clean up a bit. It was... quite a party!"
Ross drew on his cigar, puffed out a smoke ring, and added, "But the fellow didn't know at the time we had his brother in the other room..." The two detectives in front of him guffawed, slapping each other on the back. "Eames!" Ross called across to her, grandly, waving his cigar. "Welcome." His demeanor would not have been any more sure if he were welcoming her to his own home, she was certain.
"Oh, you didn't have to do that!" Wheeler grinned. "That's really good of you - it's a little..." She waved her hand at the mess.
Alex smiled. "I've hosted a party or two. I know the aftermath." She brushed a balloon off of a chair, and set her bag and coat on it. "Got a broom and dustpan?"
Wheeler opened a nearby closet, fishing out a broom with a dustpan attached to the top. "Go nuts!" she laughed.
Wheeler was laughing at some joke Eames was too far away to hear. Perhaps it was just the third glass of champagne, but Wheeler seemed almost to glow - her red hair a dancing fire as she moved among her guests, shedding fiery embers that dusted her face as freckles, dipping down to glow over her small, fit breasts, covered by the low-cut dress. "Eames! I thought I had lost you!" she called as she walked between couples to move closer.
"This is amazing!"
"What, the party?"
"No - I mean, yes, but - the floors!" Eames smiled ruefully as Wheeler laughed long and loud. But Eames would not be deterred, and soon they were discussing the merits of various hardwoods, the spackling Wheeler had done before the paint and the decorative glass tile in the bathroom, the hulking stainless-steel gas range.
The hardwood floors were becoming more and more visible as Eames swept the confetti and debris into small, manageable piles, scooped them up with the dustpan, and deposited them into the trash bin. Wheeler collected plates and glasses, rinsed them, and filed them neatly in the dishwasher. "That's one load," she called, walking out of the kitchen with her fist massaging her back. "Want to take a break?"
Eames set the broom against the countertop. "I could do with that." The easy, brainless labor was waking her up and bringing her head back to normal, which was an unexpected benefit. She had only wanted to help out - was that why she had come back?
"Orange juice?"
"Oh... yes." Eames snapped out of the reverie she had just started to step into. Wheeler took two glasses down from the cupboard.
"Five... Four... Three..." The guests, in various states of insobriety, tried to keep to some kind of cadence as they counted down. "Two... One... Happy New Year!" Many threw double handfuls of confetti into the air, and soon the room was full of it. Noisemakers tooted, various half-recalled snatches of Auld Lang Syne floated through the air, and Eames raised her glass to Wheeler. "Happy New Year!" The kiss was a quick one, just a little joke, just a fun New Year's Moment - until it stayed, and it wasn't, and they were...
Eames felt her mouth go dry. Oh, dear, she had, hadn't she? Open-mouthed, tongues twining, full-on kiss with bodies pressed together...
"Alex..." Wheeler asked, holding two glasses of orange juice. She seemed atypically unsure, and the wheels in Eames's head began turning again - meshing in new and interesting ways. "Do you remember last night... well?"
"Well enough," Eames replied, drawing herself up. She let a coy smile tweak her mouth. Wheeler was charming in an entirely different way when she acted shy, Eames was discovering - it was not something Eames saw often, and she found herself enjoying it a little. Or, perhaps, just enjoying the fact that she had brought it about - and more importantly, what she had done to cause it.
The oddly shy look on Wheeler's face turned momentarily to confusion, then to a happy laugh. Well, Eames thought, she was a bit mercurial. But wasn't that one of the appealing things about... a Wheeler who was now lip-to-lip with her, hands on hips, and Eames's hands reciprocating, on Wheeler's back, lips pressed again. Eames felt her heart thud faster, but not from shame - it was only warmth, and soft lips, and excitement; still joyous, in the clean, clear light of the morning after.
Yes. It would be a happy New Year.