Dark Blue Fic: A Promise And A Warning [Dean/Jaimie]
Title: A Promise and a Warning
Author: siricerasi
Fandom: Dark Blue (TV)
Characters/pairings: Jaimie/Dean
Rating: M
Word count: ~1200
Warnings: suicidal ideation, non-graphic sex, violence
Spoilers: None
Author's Notes: Written for girlsavesboyfic
Summary: The first time she saves his life there’s a gun at the base of his neck and adrenaline pounding through his body, creating a disorienting mess of fear and exhilaration in his brain.
The first time she saves his life there’s a gun at the base of his neck and adrenaline pounding through his body, creating a disorienting mess of fear and exhilaration in his brain. And then there’s a bang, and warm splatter across his back, and when he comprehends that he’s not dead there’s a flash of disappointment.
Jaimie appears in front of him, and he realizes she’s calling his name.
“I’m good,” he mutters. She’s staring at him with terrified eyes and such a guilty, pained expression that it shakes him out of his daze and back into reality. “I’m okay, Jaimie.” She’s still white, mouth pressed in a thin line, and he’s not sure if she’s more upset that she just killed a man or that he’d almost died. As she reaches out a hand to help him up he thinks she’s shaking, but decides it might be him.
She doesn’t say a word as she drives him home, but they get to his place and her hands and mouth do all the talking, roaming across his body like they need to make sure every cell is okay. For a few minutes he’s almost passive, his mind retreating into its apathetic haze, but then he’s grabbing her roughly and slamming her against the wall, clothes on the floor in a tangled heap as he takes what he needs and she gives it freely. He hisses her name as he comes, an accusation and a prayer, and she just kisses him softly and pulls his trembling body close.
It’s almost a good enough reason not to die.
***
The second time she saves his life he’s gearing up for war and the adrenaline is fading, the edges of his sanity beginning to fray. She shows up at his place, eyes blazing with anger and fear and something more, and he can’t help thinking how magnificent she is when she’s furious.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she snarls, after barging through the door with no warning and almost earning herself a bullet in the head.
“Taking the bastard out,” he says shortly. He returns to packing ammo, heart racing uncomfortably again, and he waits for it to stop but it just keeps pounding, pounding, pounding. He knows this is stupid, knows it’s a suicide run at best, an invitation for torture at worst, but somehow he just can’t bring himself to care. He’s tired, so tired, and this seems like as good a way to go out as any.
She’s standing in front of him, shaking with fury and probably fear, and he can’t help backing down a little under her stare. “It’s a fucking suicide mission,” she snaps. He holds her gaze just long enough to see the flicker of recognition there. And the anger drains out of her in an instant, although her voice is still livid, if whispered. “How dare you?”
He shrugs with fake complacency, goes back to cleaning his rifle. When she knocks it violently out of his hands he jumps, more shocked than he should’ve been, realizes he’s more on edge than he’d thought. As it clatters to the floor he stands frozen for an instant, knows that in that single moment he’d lost to her. He’d let her see too much.
Her hands find his, warm fingers wrapping tightly around his cold ones. And her lips are rough against his, his body already hard against her frenzied caresses.
“I need you,” she breathes, backing him away from his arsenal and up against the wall. She jumps him, legs wrapped so tightly around his waist he doesn’t think she means to ever let go. He’s not sure he ever wants her to.
Her mouth meets his again desperately, sucking on his lip so hard he tastes blood. But she doesn’t pull back, just licks away the offending stain like she’s trying to take in his essence, to make him a part of her, to keep even just that one small piece of him alive. When he tastes salt he realizes he’s crying, the metallic mix in his mouth tasting so real it almost pushes the weariness away.
They somehow end up on his bed, a pistol digging into his back where she’d maneuvered herself on top of him. Her mouth is all over him, fiercely possessive, sucking hard enough to leave marks. Claiming him. They come together, hard and angry and real, and she chants, “I need you,” again and again and again.
It’s a good enough reason not to die.
***
The third time she saves his life he’s sitting on the roof in the rain with nothing left, the adrenaline all gone leaving him bone-weary and hopeless.
He watches her approach from the corner of his eye, gaze fixed on the ground so far below. She walks slowly, boots slopping in the wet, and he tries to feel some sort of fear or dread or excitement but it all seems to wash away in the rain.
He flicks his gaze warningly to her when she’s a few feet away and she stops, stands immobile like she’s afraid he’ll jump if he moves. Which, he supposes, she has every right to think.
“What are you doing?” Her voice is quiet, tense with forced calm. He stares back out into the rain.
“I’m so tired,” he whispers. Tired of watching innocent people get screwed or killed. Tired of wearing his tough guy mask, of walking the blurred line between cop and bad guy, a line that seems to push further every day.
Tired of the letdown.
Jaimie takes a hesitant step forward, and he lets her. He doesn’t know what he’s doing here, doesn’t know what he wants. But he’d realized today that the high of the adrenaline rush is no longer worth the devastating low left in its absence. A desolate void he has no idea how to fill.
She murmurs, “I know,” and his mask begins to crack. He lets her take another step, torn between throwing himself at her and throwing himself off the roof. When she whispers, “I am too,” he knows he won’t be able to leave her. Not like this.
She’s close enough to touch him now, reaching out to place a hand gently on his shoulder, and suddenly he desperately wants her to pull him away from the edge. Because he doesn’t think he can. She takes one last step and her arms are around him, clutching his wet, trembling body to her like she’s trying to hold him together. It occurs to him that maybe she is.
She pulls him off the ledge and they collapse onto the ground, her arms still wound tightly around him, and he finds himself sobbing into her shoulder. Her voice soothes its way around him, telling him over and over that it’s going to be okay. Neither of them believe it but for now it’s almost enough.
Her mouth is desperate on his, hands tearing as his clothes as she tries to stitch him back together. She whispers, “I need you,” as she pulls him down, rain coating them until it’s skin on slick skin and he can no longer tell them apart.
As he starts to move inside her, pressed up against her warmth, her voice steals quietly into his ears. It echoes around his brain, sends heated blood pulsing through his veins, and when he devours her it’s a sort of worship.
“I love you,” she declares quietly, a promise and a warning. “I love you.”
It’s a good enough reason to live.
Can't quite believe I'm actually posting. I blame it all on nebakanezer
Author: siricerasi
Fandom: Dark Blue (TV)
Characters/pairings: Jaimie/Dean
Rating: M
Word count: ~1200
Warnings: suicidal ideation, non-graphic sex, violence
Spoilers: None
Author's Notes: Written for girlsavesboyfic
Summary: The first time she saves his life there’s a gun at the base of his neck and adrenaline pounding through his body, creating a disorienting mess of fear and exhilaration in his brain.
The first time she saves his life there’s a gun at the base of his neck and adrenaline pounding through his body, creating a disorienting mess of fear and exhilaration in his brain. And then there’s a bang, and warm splatter across his back, and when he comprehends that he’s not dead there’s a flash of disappointment.
Jaimie appears in front of him, and he realizes she’s calling his name.
“I’m good,” he mutters. She’s staring at him with terrified eyes and such a guilty, pained expression that it shakes him out of his daze and back into reality. “I’m okay, Jaimie.” She’s still white, mouth pressed in a thin line, and he’s not sure if she’s more upset that she just killed a man or that he’d almost died. As she reaches out a hand to help him up he thinks she’s shaking, but decides it might be him.
She doesn’t say a word as she drives him home, but they get to his place and her hands and mouth do all the talking, roaming across his body like they need to make sure every cell is okay. For a few minutes he’s almost passive, his mind retreating into its apathetic haze, but then he’s grabbing her roughly and slamming her against the wall, clothes on the floor in a tangled heap as he takes what he needs and she gives it freely. He hisses her name as he comes, an accusation and a prayer, and she just kisses him softly and pulls his trembling body close.
It’s almost a good enough reason not to die.
***
The second time she saves his life he’s gearing up for war and the adrenaline is fading, the edges of his sanity beginning to fray. She shows up at his place, eyes blazing with anger and fear and something more, and he can’t help thinking how magnificent she is when she’s furious.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she snarls, after barging through the door with no warning and almost earning herself a bullet in the head.
“Taking the bastard out,” he says shortly. He returns to packing ammo, heart racing uncomfortably again, and he waits for it to stop but it just keeps pounding, pounding, pounding. He knows this is stupid, knows it’s a suicide run at best, an invitation for torture at worst, but somehow he just can’t bring himself to care. He’s tired, so tired, and this seems like as good a way to go out as any.
She’s standing in front of him, shaking with fury and probably fear, and he can’t help backing down a little under her stare. “It’s a fucking suicide mission,” she snaps. He holds her gaze just long enough to see the flicker of recognition there. And the anger drains out of her in an instant, although her voice is still livid, if whispered. “How dare you?”
He shrugs with fake complacency, goes back to cleaning his rifle. When she knocks it violently out of his hands he jumps, more shocked than he should’ve been, realizes he’s more on edge than he’d thought. As it clatters to the floor he stands frozen for an instant, knows that in that single moment he’d lost to her. He’d let her see too much.
Her hands find his, warm fingers wrapping tightly around his cold ones. And her lips are rough against his, his body already hard against her frenzied caresses.
“I need you,” she breathes, backing him away from his arsenal and up against the wall. She jumps him, legs wrapped so tightly around his waist he doesn’t think she means to ever let go. He’s not sure he ever wants her to.
Her mouth meets his again desperately, sucking on his lip so hard he tastes blood. But she doesn’t pull back, just licks away the offending stain like she’s trying to take in his essence, to make him a part of her, to keep even just that one small piece of him alive. When he tastes salt he realizes he’s crying, the metallic mix in his mouth tasting so real it almost pushes the weariness away.
They somehow end up on his bed, a pistol digging into his back where she’d maneuvered herself on top of him. Her mouth is all over him, fiercely possessive, sucking hard enough to leave marks. Claiming him. They come together, hard and angry and real, and she chants, “I need you,” again and again and again.
It’s a good enough reason not to die.
***
The third time she saves his life he’s sitting on the roof in the rain with nothing left, the adrenaline all gone leaving him bone-weary and hopeless.
He watches her approach from the corner of his eye, gaze fixed on the ground so far below. She walks slowly, boots slopping in the wet, and he tries to feel some sort of fear or dread or excitement but it all seems to wash away in the rain.
He flicks his gaze warningly to her when she’s a few feet away and she stops, stands immobile like she’s afraid he’ll jump if he moves. Which, he supposes, she has every right to think.
“What are you doing?” Her voice is quiet, tense with forced calm. He stares back out into the rain.
“I’m so tired,” he whispers. Tired of watching innocent people get screwed or killed. Tired of wearing his tough guy mask, of walking the blurred line between cop and bad guy, a line that seems to push further every day.
Tired of the letdown.
Jaimie takes a hesitant step forward, and he lets her. He doesn’t know what he’s doing here, doesn’t know what he wants. But he’d realized today that the high of the adrenaline rush is no longer worth the devastating low left in its absence. A desolate void he has no idea how to fill.
She murmurs, “I know,” and his mask begins to crack. He lets her take another step, torn between throwing himself at her and throwing himself off the roof. When she whispers, “I am too,” he knows he won’t be able to leave her. Not like this.
She’s close enough to touch him now, reaching out to place a hand gently on his shoulder, and suddenly he desperately wants her to pull him away from the edge. Because he doesn’t think he can. She takes one last step and her arms are around him, clutching his wet, trembling body to her like she’s trying to hold him together. It occurs to him that maybe she is.
She pulls him off the ledge and they collapse onto the ground, her arms still wound tightly around him, and he finds himself sobbing into her shoulder. Her voice soothes its way around him, telling him over and over that it’s going to be okay. Neither of them believe it but for now it’s almost enough.
Her mouth is desperate on his, hands tearing as his clothes as she tries to stitch him back together. She whispers, “I need you,” as she pulls him down, rain coating them until it’s skin on slick skin and he can no longer tell them apart.
As he starts to move inside her, pressed up against her warmth, her voice steals quietly into his ears. It echoes around his brain, sends heated blood pulsing through his veins, and when he devours her it’s a sort of worship.
“I love you,” she declares quietly, a promise and a warning. “I love you.”
It’s a good enough reason to live.
Can't quite believe I'm actually posting. I blame it all on nebakanezer