she might think that I've forgotten her; don't tell her it isn't so

[lostinapapercup]

1. Because I randomized them together, and also because ashavah's very appropriate prompt for Julia was regret.


One thing Mata Hari ain't is a big cuddler.

It's probably about three in the damn morning, and the woman's up, a naked silhouette -- and a damn nice one -- gatherin' her share of the clothes they'd eagerly littered his floor with earlier.

He ain't bothered by it much. No strings, he'd said readily enough. She'd obviously had shit on her mind , and if he's honest he'd say she ain't the only one.

Good thing he's got no problem not openin' up.

He has been honest with her, though. Most of the time. Truthfully he'd kinda thought that being swept away to this place might've helped push Freckles into his arms. Mata Hari ain't Freckles, but he ain't gonna say there's not a time and a place to appreciate that difference.

In the darkness, he watches her step into her silky little panties, clasp her bra behind her back, tug on her blue jeans, and button her shirt over her chest. He knows she's got a few pale smooth scars, but no, her skin's real nice. He likes it under his fingers, and they itch idly to run over her body rather than stay still while he watches her dress.

He knows she's onto him when she tugs her honey-colored hair out of the collar of her shirt and then pauses for a second and finally makes her way over to him. His eyes don't close, and unapologetic, he lets a little smirk curl his lips. She's sharp, Mata Hari; she ain't a woman who misses much.

She is the type of woman, he can't resist thinkin', other men only wish they had moving onto the edge of their bed and hovering over them for one more lingering middle-of-the-night kiss.

One more thing he likes about Mata Hari: she may be mysterious and keep her secrets close, but one-on-one behind a closed door she fucks like she may not have another chance.

It does things to more than a man's ego.

"We're really startin' to make a habit out of this."

She weighs him with her eyes before she lets a hint of amusement creep into her expression. His buttons are already coming undone between her fingers, and she can't help noticing that he doesn't complain about their habits even if he does feel the need to point them out. "I can come by less."

His eyes flash, and his smile, though dazzlingly drippingly sweet, is as much of a challenge as her words were. "Now I don't recall sayin' that was necessary, Blondie. You and me," he goes on, fingers curling in the hem of her shirt and pulling it up and over her head, "we got ourselves a decent arrangement here as is."

As soon as her shirt's draped on the countertop, his hands reach behind her back to make quick work of her bra. It's like they're charged tonight, on fire, the tequila they'd shared buzzing through their veins and the heat of the water spraying in the shower acting as their own private aphrodisiac before they even step in.

He's broad-shouldered, tanned, touchable, and once her jeans are off, he doesn't waste a second before guiding her backward toward the shower. Her hands curve around the back of his neck, and pull him close enough to share her breath. "I think so, too."

She's beautiful, Julia. She's a classic, like you'd see in movies, the blonde-haired blue-eyed femme fatale with the broken heart.

Yeah, he put that one together all on his own. He ain't so slow himself, and it didn't take him long to notice the tension between her at the Outpost's own Bruce Lee, to notice how hard it is to break her out of lookin' like Bobby Dylan's sad-eyed lady whenever she's had a run-in with that guy.

What inspired that kind of feeling in her he don't know, but he don't think the guy's all that. Yeah, he can take care of a bunch of those mafia guys singlehandedly and apparently he's got a thing for the asteroid blondes, but what's so damn special about him? Is it the hair? It's wild and that black-green shade that makes you scratch your head and wonder if that's common to Mars or what.

Little green people his ass. More like skinny green-haired people.

When Mata Hari wakes up, he's already got his eyes open and two fingers twisted in her long hair.

"'Bout that time, ain't it?"

She smiles, and it almost looks reluctant. "Seems like I'm a creature of habit, doesn't it?"

Answerin' his question with one of her own. It's one of his own tricks.

"When you want to be," he answers smoothly enough. "But the way I see it, you don't have to go anywhere you don't want to anytime you don't want to."

Her lips compress. For a second he ain't sure if it's because she's entertained -- he seems to have that effect on her sometimes -- or because she don't like what he has to say about it, so he decides to do something he ain't done once since he and Mata Hari started doin' their thing.

He pushes himself up on his hands and rises over her. "Maybe you didn't know this about me, Mata Hari, but I've been told I'm real convincin'."

Just ask any woman he conned back home. Any woman except Cass, and even then ain't she the one he conned the best despite the fact that his ass landed in the jailhouse after?

Her head leaves the pillow, and her mouth meets his, lips parted, tongue eager as anything. The thing about her is she's not his usual type: rich, pretty, and easy. She's even prettier than his usual type, he has no idea how much money she's got in the bank -- or in her room safe -- and she's only easy enough to sleep with him. Not easy enough to be conned. Not easy enough to have fallen for him after three months of sex that's becoming more and more frequent.

And he's got no reason to want to con her, anyway. He's had no problems with the deal they have, and he likes to tell himself that if he'd made more of an effort to court her like a devoted southern gentleman she'd have fallen for him real hard already.

But no, he respected the deal. Honored it. If this is a business arrangement they got between them, he could probably even go so far as to say it's the only deal he's made that he's tried this hard to honor. And that's funny as hell, because every now and then -- when he's buried in her, fingers caught in that yellow hair, or when they're in those languid slick-skinned moments between sex and sleep, or even when she's sleepin' and it's almost too dark to see but through his window he spies that little light over at the climate control center -- he allows himself a second or two to think about that thing he told her she seemed to like and wonder how much it'd cost her to stay until morning, when that artificial morning light could peek between the curtains and kiss them awake.

Freckles, she'd have probably stared at him like he'd grown two heads if he'd said that to her. Mata Hari seemed a little surprised herself, but he hadn't spent so long makin' the same impression on her that he knows he did on Freckles when they first met.

At first the idea of havin' no strings attached put him right over the damn moon. Not every guy gets a pretty blonde visitin' his room after hours once or twice a week, agreein' from the beginning that she's okay with him doin' whatever the hell he wants on his own time.

Now there's a string, only she don't know it: if sayin' no strings is what it takes to keep her coming back, he'll keep on sayin' it.

Her head nestles easily against his chest; she presses a kiss against against the pulse in his neck.

"How long is this deal good for, Julie?" She can feel every word against the side of her face, and his voice is thick and sated.

She risks a glance at his face, only to find his eyes already angled down at her. "Why do you ask?"

"Plain old curiosity." Slowly, his fingers coast up and down her spine. "Most deals this good come with expiration dates, you know."

A low laugh pushes past her lips. "Are you comparing me to supermarket produce?"

His laughter rumbles against her ear. "Darlin', it's like you want me to sink to the lowest common denominator on this one."

It hadn't been her intention, but she can't deny the set-up was good. And Sawyer, as she's come to discover, can hardly resist a good set-up. It can be both one of his best and one of his worst qualities.

"But if you'd like me to start waxin' poetic about your melons, I'm happy to. All you gotta do is ask."

She smiles wryly to herself. "You know what I meant."

"I do," he admits without hesitation, and the arm he has wrapped around her lowers so the pads of his fingers can tap gently against the underside of her breast. "But you can see why I can't help myself."

In spite of herself, she lets out another laugh, but she makes no move to answer his original question, instead fingering the ends of his shaggy hair.

"I'm serious."

"I think it's good as long as we both want it to be." It's a safe answer, but there's nothing dishonest about it. And she has no better answer to give.

"Three and a half months of this kind of thing is enough to give a guy ideas." His tone is only mildly suggestive, almost wondering, and she's impressed by the effort. Had she gotten a little less jaded by this point, she'd be less immune to his more purposeful charms. "Now I won't say I'm gettin' any that go against the nature of our arrangement, but I am curious."

Her hand creeps over to rest in the center of his chest. "About what?"

"You say you left the Dragons and you've traveled a lot ever since."

Barely, she nods against him. "That's right."

"Is this what you've done all that time? No strings deals like this one?" There isn't anything incriminating in his voice, and that, she thinks, in genuine. "He must really be something."

She feels like she's unraveling between his fingers, but she doesn't tense up. It's not even entirely unpleasant.

But it doesn't take her a word to shut his mouth. All it takes is a kiss.

He takes the hint.

"Let's play a little game, sweetheart."

Tonight he's got her. There's no way around it.

"A game?"

"You heard me right. Truth or Dare. You ever played that when you were a teenager?" He almost won't believe it if she says no. Some things are just timeless.

"You've got me."

He crosses one leg over the other. "Oh, I know I do, Blondie." He can feel a huge smirk take over his face, and he pats the bed beside him. "Pull up a pillow."

"And what if I don't want to play?"

"Then we don't play," he answers easily, hands spread in front of him in that universal gesture of matter-of-fact helpless innocence. "But wouldn't you like to? It could be worth your while." He can feel himself dimple up.

Finally, she lowers herself onto the bed next to him, leaning back on the available pillow. "All right. You first."

He had a feeling she'd say that. "I'll pick truth," he tells her, leaning sideways until their shoulders touch.

After a moment's thought, she smiles slightly. "You've charmed countless women into turning over money to you, haven't you?"

Fair's fair, and he was ready for this. "I like the way you put it, Julie. I like it so much maybe I'll start referrin' to it that way myself."

"That's a yes," she adds, but it's only half a question.

"That's a yes, Miss Marple," he confirms dryly, for the record. "Now you."

"Dare."

Some women pick truth because they don't want to be told to do something they don't like. Julie, she picks dare because, as he sees it, she's capable of doing just about anything. Except revealin' all her secrets. "So that's how we're playin'?" It's a good-natured tease, buyin' himself a second to think of an appropriate dare for this early point in the game. "I dare you to pick truth the next two turns in a row."

Her lips curve in a ghost of a smile, but she raises her eyebrows. "Does that even count?"

"You tryin' to get out of it?"

Though she looks at him sharply, he can see evidence of her smile better than he could a second ago. "Deal. Your turn."

The look he gives her is nothing short of appreciative despite his quick laugh. "Why don't I go with dare this time?"

"I dare you," she starts, and out of her mouth the words sound so silky he can hardly stand it, "to get my jeans off with your teeth."

He grins, toothy, dimpled, a wolf who smells blood on the wind. "My pleasure." He moves onto the edge of the bed. "If you'll stand right here," he tells her, and jabs the air in front of him with his finger, "I'll get right to work."

Obligingly, she rises and moves around the bed until she can come to a stop right in front of him. His arm snakes around her, his hand lifting the hem of her shirt enough that he can easily get to the button and zipper of her jeans and do his duty. His teeth close on the denim flap there under her navel, and he tugs it until he yanks it free of the button and then catches the zipper between his teeth for the same treatment. It's harder to pull her pants down around her hips enough that gravity can help him out, but he gives it a good go and enjoys himself along the way.

When she's satisfied, she backs up and finishes stepping out of the legs of her jeans on her own. "My turn, right?" She idly drapes them over the back of the chair by the window before she sits on the bed beside him again. "And I think my choice has been made for me."

He don't need the reminder one bit. "You and Vicious had a thing going way back when, didn't you?"

There's still a trace of a smile on her face, but the sparkle of amusement fades from her eyes. "We did."

The answer comes so simply that he feels a pang of something -- not regret -- along with his satisfaction at getting his suspicions confirmed. "I'll take truth, too."

She hesitates, but not by much. "You've wanted your friend Kate since before you even got here."

The way he so quickly meets her eyes would be dangerous in any other set of circumstances. "I wanted her."

He's suddenly not so sure what business he has makin' it past tense -- he's pursued Freckles as long as he's known her, and Julie's got his number -- but it ain't been as urgent for a while. He stopped making bets with himself about it weeks ago.

Instead he's been making bets about Blondie here, and that realization takes him by surprise.

Grudgingly, he nods. "Before we even got here." Her eyes say she's satisfied that he's on the level, so he goes right ahead. "Did you break both of their hearts?"

She doesn't flinch, but her eyes soften. "Usually the question is who broke your heart?"

"Ain't the right question, though, is it, sweetheart?" He points two fingers and touches the tips of them to her cheeks, just below her pretty blue eyes. "That's not just plain old heartbreak in those baby blues. You weren't just a victim of circumstance. You did something you regret." His voice is almost (but not exactly) gentle when he goes on. "So how about it?"

Her lips compress, and after studyin' his face, she averts her eyes for the first time. "Just one. When Vicious discovered Spike and I were seeing each other behind his back, it was more like adding insult to injury than breaking his heart." She hesitates. "I'm not sure how much heart was left to break."

"So how did--"

Cutting him off, she presses a fingertip to his lips. "I've told my truth."

He almost smirks against her finger. "Fine. You can hit me with another truth."

"Why are you so interested in my past?"

She didn't say it but it has nothing to do with you is all but spoken, and he's forced to search himself for an answer he'd like to give. "Because you've been payin' midnight visits to my bed for so long now."

Now she opens her mouth, but he raises one hand and shakes his head to coax it shut again. "Now now, sweetheart. That was nothin' but the truth you asked for. Go on."

She folds her arms over her chest. "Dare."

"Well, look at you. Breakin' the pattern." He laughs at the withering look in her eyes and how it contrasts with the tiny little smile on her lips. "I've got a dare for you. I dare you to turn on the radio and dance yourself down to your birthday suit."

Her eyes widen in surprise, but she's a tough girl to shock, his Julie. Even better, he's pretty sure there ain't much she's not capable of doing. A little one-on-one striptease in the comfort of his room behind a closed door is barely gonna register on her scale, he figures.

Sure enough, not to one to back away shy, she gets up on her hands and knees -- hell, just that's almost enough of a show right there -- and crawls to the head of the bed to click on his futuristic clock radio. It looks like she's been listenin' to the radio herself because she zeroes in on a station straight away, catches the final little bit of At Last.

It ain't your typical striptease music.

But she ain't nowhere near your typical stripper, either -- too much class -- and his eyes follow every damn one of her movements, from the roll of her lace-clad hips to the slow unbuttoning of her shirt and the coy way her bra straps slip first off one shoulder and then the other. She knows the song -- he can hear her hum it under her breath -- and her body sways in slow seduction to it like she should've been a dancer, a singer, something other than what he knows she's been.

Then again, that's sort of like sayin' he should've been a private eye.

She could've told him she'd been any number of things, though, and he'd probably have believed her. All he knows is her sense of timing ain't nothin' to sneeze at. As the song dies away, the only thing left on her is her panties, and they're down around only the ankle of the foot she's got propped on his thigh.

He does the only damn thing he can. He frees that foot, then pulls her down toward him.