"Shower of Sparks," Alex/Locke, PG-13
Title - Shower of Sparks
Rating - PG-13
Pairing - Alex/Locke
For - fading_spark and pretty_stickers challenge
Spoilers/Warnings - Spoilers through 3.15 "Left Behind," minor/adult
Summary - She knows, in an existential, sixth-sense kind of way, if she turns, something will happen
Disclaimer - I don't own "Lost;" I'm just borrowing them.
Sharp blue eyes follow her as she flits about the room, and she tries hard to ignore the magnetism of his stare. They have been cooped up together for nearly twenty hours; her father not trusting him to see whatever it was they had to see and not trusting that she would be safe with them. Now she waits for them to return with a gun lodged securely in the small of her back.
The small outpost only has a facet, sink, a table and three chairs, and she is busy refilling water bottles and trying to keep from squirming as he gazes relentlessly at her small form.
She does not know what to make of John Locke. He held her hostage the first night they met, but she still feels empathy for him. Empathy and something less clean and pure, something that she cannot quite name, but every time she thinks of it she remembers the feeling of his hands on her back and arms and all that power beneath the lonely and hard exterior.
"Alex." His voice a low, raspy whisper when he breaks the silence, and she jumps, spilling the water bottle in her hands. She knows, in an existential, sixth-sense kind of way, if she turns, something will happen; he will explode or she will and everything will end in a shower of sparks.
She turns anyway, and the first glimpse of him makes her want to run forward and cradle him in her arms. Never before has she seen a man look more like a small, helpless puppy, and she moves four steps forward before she thinks that he might have planned that all along and stops short.
"I won't hurt you," he says, voice calm and even, but his eyes are alight with something she does not recognize: madness, greatness or something else, she is not sure, but it rushes from him as clearly as a beacon flashing in the night.
"What do you want?" she asks, deflecting the rising sense she had lost control about thirty seconds ago, and for the life of her, she cannot figure out how that happened.
"Some water, please." She regards him silently for a moment before turning and fetching one of the full water bottles.
She walks over to him, holding the water bottle before her like a peace offering, and he takes it with his left hand as he right hand goes around her, pressing the gun to her back, and her into him, her body from her bust line down pressed against his muscled chest, and she struggles to free herself.
"Did they honestly think one gun would protect you?" he asked her, his face level with her shoulder as she stares down at him in rising panic.
He pushes the gun more firmly into her back, the cool metal pressing into skin that is now raging with tension, terror and something she can only identify as lust. She gasps at the applied pressure, unsure if it is the gun's pressure or that of his body that causes her reaction. "The gun was a precaution," she grits out, staring carefully at the wall behind his back. "My father thought I would be fine, and I can handle myself."
"Which is why you were left behind as I was," he says dismissively, and the pain in his voice shoots through Alex but she also feels rising anger at his calm dismissal of her.
She wiggles some more in his grip, and he shifts, the hand on the small of her back rising up as he stands, and she takes her chances when one of her arms is freed and swings at him. He catches her wrist and pulls the other one behind her back until she is millimeters away from his chest and held at his mercy, and his eyes stare down into her defiant brown ones with the same look she could not explain earlier.
She thinks she knows his weakness; she listens to her father talk to the others in the group, and she knows that he is right. "I'm not the only one here, you know. They left you too; they left you behind with a teenaged girl, and they didn't even give you the gun. Have you ever thought of that? Ever thought that --"
"Enough!" He lets her go, and she stumbles back. And for a long moment, she just stares at the man she reduced to a failing mess of a man. He sits down, and silence prevails in the room before he erupts into silent tears.
Tears fall from those crystalline eyes and standing only a hairs breath away, she leans forward; chin to forehead and daring nimble fingers to brush away the tears.
He catches her hand, and for a moment, she swears her hearts stops pounding in her chest.
She leans downs and gently presses her lips to his (she does not know why, but she knows that she has to do this), and she pulls away, afraid she may have scared him away.
He pauses to look at her, a moment that stretches out for an eternity, before he pulls back, and there is nothing gentle and sweet about John Locke's kisses.
They are just as broken and desperate as he, and she cannot resist as he pulls her down into him, large, strong arms clasp her close, and her young lips cannot keep up.
When the floor become their home (his precarious perch on the end of the chair failing) stars dance before her eyes and she find twisted validity to all of this.
Nothing good came of it, and it all ended in a shower of sparks.
Feeback is love!
Rating - PG-13
Pairing - Alex/Locke
For - fading_spark and pretty_stickers challenge
Spoilers/Warnings - Spoilers through 3.15 "Left Behind," minor/adult
Summary - She knows, in an existential, sixth-sense kind of way, if she turns, something will happen
Disclaimer - I don't own "Lost;" I'm just borrowing them.
Sharp blue eyes follow her as she flits about the room, and she tries hard to ignore the magnetism of his stare. They have been cooped up together for nearly twenty hours; her father not trusting him to see whatever it was they had to see and not trusting that she would be safe with them. Now she waits for them to return with a gun lodged securely in the small of her back.
The small outpost only has a facet, sink, a table and three chairs, and she is busy refilling water bottles and trying to keep from squirming as he gazes relentlessly at her small form.
She does not know what to make of John Locke. He held her hostage the first night they met, but she still feels empathy for him. Empathy and something less clean and pure, something that she cannot quite name, but every time she thinks of it she remembers the feeling of his hands on her back and arms and all that power beneath the lonely and hard exterior.
"Alex." His voice a low, raspy whisper when he breaks the silence, and she jumps, spilling the water bottle in her hands. She knows, in an existential, sixth-sense kind of way, if she turns, something will happen; he will explode or she will and everything will end in a shower of sparks.
She turns anyway, and the first glimpse of him makes her want to run forward and cradle him in her arms. Never before has she seen a man look more like a small, helpless puppy, and she moves four steps forward before she thinks that he might have planned that all along and stops short.
"I won't hurt you," he says, voice calm and even, but his eyes are alight with something she does not recognize: madness, greatness or something else, she is not sure, but it rushes from him as clearly as a beacon flashing in the night.
"What do you want?" she asks, deflecting the rising sense she had lost control about thirty seconds ago, and for the life of her, she cannot figure out how that happened.
"Some water, please." She regards him silently for a moment before turning and fetching one of the full water bottles.
She walks over to him, holding the water bottle before her like a peace offering, and he takes it with his left hand as he right hand goes around her, pressing the gun to her back, and her into him, her body from her bust line down pressed against his muscled chest, and she struggles to free herself.
"Did they honestly think one gun would protect you?" he asked her, his face level with her shoulder as she stares down at him in rising panic.
He pushes the gun more firmly into her back, the cool metal pressing into skin that is now raging with tension, terror and something she can only identify as lust. She gasps at the applied pressure, unsure if it is the gun's pressure or that of his body that causes her reaction. "The gun was a precaution," she grits out, staring carefully at the wall behind his back. "My father thought I would be fine, and I can handle myself."
"Which is why you were left behind as I was," he says dismissively, and the pain in his voice shoots through Alex but she also feels rising anger at his calm dismissal of her.
She wiggles some more in his grip, and he shifts, the hand on the small of her back rising up as he stands, and she takes her chances when one of her arms is freed and swings at him. He catches her wrist and pulls the other one behind her back until she is millimeters away from his chest and held at his mercy, and his eyes stare down into her defiant brown ones with the same look she could not explain earlier.
She thinks she knows his weakness; she listens to her father talk to the others in the group, and she knows that he is right. "I'm not the only one here, you know. They left you too; they left you behind with a teenaged girl, and they didn't even give you the gun. Have you ever thought of that? Ever thought that --"
"Enough!" He lets her go, and she stumbles back. And for a long moment, she just stares at the man she reduced to a failing mess of a man. He sits down, and silence prevails in the room before he erupts into silent tears.
Tears fall from those crystalline eyes and standing only a hairs breath away, she leans forward; chin to forehead and daring nimble fingers to brush away the tears.
He catches her hand, and for a moment, she swears her hearts stops pounding in her chest.
She leans downs and gently presses her lips to his (she does not know why, but she knows that she has to do this), and she pulls away, afraid she may have scared him away.
He pauses to look at her, a moment that stretches out for an eternity, before he pulls back, and there is nothing gentle and sweet about John Locke's kisses.
They are just as broken and desperate as he, and she cannot resist as he pulls her down into him, large, strong arms clasp her close, and her young lips cannot keep up.
When the floor become their home (his precarious perch on the end of the chair failing) stars dance before her eyes and she find twisted validity to all of this.
Nothing good came of it, and it all ended in a shower of sparks.
Feeback is love!