(no subject)
Elaine had (yet again) spent the night out of the office, on the streets of the city with the pack of werewolves she began following a month ago.
John never really worried about her. She was smart, she could take care of herself when she wasn't busy drowning in self-pity, and he knew she didn't want to mess this up.
It's good thing she knew that, too.
"If she fucks this up," John had said, in confidence, to Glen, "she's gone."
Glen never understood why John was always so hard on her.
John didn't bother to waste his breath explaining that he was hard on everyone except Glen, because he was the only one lucky enough to be out of the line of fire.
Much to Glen's relief, Elaine didn't fuck up. She was always back to the office on time, always had new information, was always careful.
This is why John can't figure out why Elaine's not back yet. Their shifts are almost over, the sun's been up for an hour and a half, and there's been no sign of her. No phone call, nothing.
This is also why John's found himself on Elaine's doorstep.
"Elaine?" he calls, knocking on her door. He doesn't sound very worried, but he doesn't sound exactly calm, either.
A few moments pass, and there's no answer, no sound from behind the door. So he knocks again, louder.
That's when the door opens.
"What are you doing here?"
"Why didn't you come back to the office?" John asks, looking her up and down, checking for any sign of injury. She looks exhausted, but isn't in pain - he frowns, brows knitting. She might not be in pain, but she's definitely distressed. "What happened?"
"Nothing," she responds, trying for her usual sharp defensiveness.
It doesn't quite work.
"I didn't come all the way out here to be lied to."
"Then what did you come out here for?"
"To make sure you weren't dead."
Oh, like you care, is what she wants to say. "Well, I'm not," is what she does say.
"I see that."
"Listen, John, I appreciate your concern, but I'm really tired - "
"Have a rough night?"
"Yes. Okay? Yes. I did." She runs a hand over her face, then through her hair, and sighs. "It was rough. And no, I don't want to talk about it."
John studies her expression, carefully.
Then, in a moment of what they both recognize as totally uncharacteristic tenderness, he lifts a hand (his right) and cups her chin with it.
"I'm glad you're all right."
Her eyes slip closed for a second, and in that second, she leans forward and presses her lips against his.
She meant to pull away immediately, really, she did, but now that he's got that same hand that was just on her chin hand resting on the back of her neck, well... she doesn't really want to pull away.
So, she doesn't.
He does, though.
"I'll see you later."
"... yeah."
"Get some rest."
Before she can nod, he's already walking away, fishing a cigarette out of his pocket.
John never really worried about her. She was smart, she could take care of herself when she wasn't busy drowning in self-pity, and he knew she didn't want to mess this up.
It's good thing she knew that, too.
"If she fucks this up," John had said, in confidence, to Glen, "she's gone."
Glen never understood why John was always so hard on her.
John didn't bother to waste his breath explaining that he was hard on everyone except Glen, because he was the only one lucky enough to be out of the line of fire.
Much to Glen's relief, Elaine didn't fuck up. She was always back to the office on time, always had new information, was always careful.
This is why John can't figure out why Elaine's not back yet. Their shifts are almost over, the sun's been up for an hour and a half, and there's been no sign of her. No phone call, nothing.
This is also why John's found himself on Elaine's doorstep.
"Elaine?" he calls, knocking on her door. He doesn't sound very worried, but he doesn't sound exactly calm, either.
A few moments pass, and there's no answer, no sound from behind the door. So he knocks again, louder.
That's when the door opens.
"What are you doing here?"
"Why didn't you come back to the office?" John asks, looking her up and down, checking for any sign of injury. She looks exhausted, but isn't in pain - he frowns, brows knitting. She might not be in pain, but she's definitely distressed. "What happened?"
"Nothing," she responds, trying for her usual sharp defensiveness.
It doesn't quite work.
"I didn't come all the way out here to be lied to."
"Then what did you come out here for?"
"To make sure you weren't dead."
Oh, like you care, is what she wants to say. "Well, I'm not," is what she does say.
"I see that."
"Listen, John, I appreciate your concern, but I'm really tired - "
"Have a rough night?"
"Yes. Okay? Yes. I did." She runs a hand over her face, then through her hair, and sighs. "It was rough. And no, I don't want to talk about it."
John studies her expression, carefully.
Then, in a moment of what they both recognize as totally uncharacteristic tenderness, he lifts a hand (his right) and cups her chin with it.
"I'm glad you're all right."
Her eyes slip closed for a second, and in that second, she leans forward and presses her lips against his.
She meant to pull away immediately, really, she did, but now that he's got that same hand that was just on her chin hand resting on the back of her neck, well... she doesn't really want to pull away.
So, she doesn't.
He does, though.
"I'll see you later."
"... yeah."
"Get some rest."
Before she can nod, he's already walking away, fishing a cigarette out of his pocket.