FICLET: Requiem
For inlovewithnight:
Requiem
John’s drunker than he should be, and he knows it, which means he shouldn’t be here, but he is, and getting home seems like too much of an effort right now. Not that home is better, given that Kevin’s not there. Kevin’s off on a case, doing something for someone that John’s arbitrarily decided to hate, just because he’s taken Kevin away. John doesn’t want to think about that or about what today is, but it’s all he’s done all day, which is why he’s here and why he’s drunk and why he’s rubbing his neck like he just got rear-ended.
“Hi.”
He looks up, surprised, and then blinks a few times. Carolyn’s been Kevin’s law partner for about six months now, and John’s still not used to the sight of her, or of her being something close to human. He’s used to the scary, aggressive Carolyn he hears about, but every time he’s met her since they created their own firm, she’s seemed nice, almost friendly. It’s actually scarier than the way she was before, but John wouldn’t dream of telling her that, even now when he’s on his lips and seven or eight sheets to the wind. “Hi.”
“You mind if I join you?”
He doesn’t mind, even though he probably should, so he pats the stool next to him. She slips onto it and waves the bartender over and orders him a whiskey for each of them. She clinks his shot glass against his and downs her shot then leans back, looking at him with appraising eyes. “What?”
“I’d ask you what a nice guy like you is doing in a place like this, but I don’t think you really are a nice guy.” She glances around at the clientele and then back at him. “This doesn’t seem like it’d be your usual crowd though.”
“Dane and I come here sometimes.” He shrugs. He likes this place because no one bothers him, because he’s anonymous. None of the guys or girls in this bar have heard of Damien or any of his music, and so there’s no chance of the damn song coming over the speakers. Here it’s George Jones and Hank Williams and Patsy Cline, and John would rather listen to other people’s problems than focus on his own. It dawns him halfway through his whiskey that this isn’t her sort of bar. “What are you doing here?”
She rests an elbow on the bar and crosses her legs, the pointy toe of her black high-heeled shoe taps against his jeans and he can hear the whisper of her nylons. She traces the rim of her shot glass with a finger then sucks it clean. “Drinking.”
“It doesn’t seem your typical venue either.” She’s all class and wines that cost more by the glass than most people earn in a year.
“So you’re actually asking me what a nice girl like me is doing in a place like this.” She smiles and John laughs and finishes his whiskey. She leans in and she smells like whiskey and perfume and woman. “I’m drinking.”
“I know. Whiskey.” He gestures to the bartender for a refill, knowing he shouldn’t have any more. He’s out on a dangerous night in dangerous territory, but this is familiar in ways he thought he’d forgotten. “Why here?”
“Why not? Good music. Good company.” She waits until the bartender refills her glass then downs the shot again. John follows suit after watching her swallow. She slides off her stool and runs a finger along his thigh. “You want to dance?”
There are more answers to that than he can give, all of which are variations of no, but he stands up and follows her out to the floor. There’s something slow and sultry on and John hums the tune along with the slide guitar and steel pedal, shivering when Carolyn starts singing along. Music hits him in places nothing else touches and tonight of all nights, it’s gut deep and painful. He turns his head and shuts her up with a kiss, mouth fitting over hers so there’s nothing there but what’s outside his head.
She opens her mouth under his and slides one hand down his back, the other hot against the nape of his neck. He groans and thrusts his tongue against hers, his own hands tightening on the slope of her ass as she captures it and sucks it deep in her mouth. She tastes like whiskey and wine and she smells like law books and honeysuckle. She breaks the kiss and shifts closer, smiling as his body reacts to her closeness. “Let’s go.”
“Where?” The song has changed to something he doesn’t recognize and the back of his neck is throbbing, one of his headaches building right behind his eyes. “Go where?”
Carolyn traces his lower lip with her finger and kisses him again. This time he can taste everything else - betrayal and blackmail, desperation and desire. He feels sick to his stomach and lonely. “Home.”
“Yeah.” John nods and takes a step back. “I need to go home.”
“I meant with me.”
"Yeah. I know." He nods again and then shakes his head, walking away and leaving her standing where she is on the dance floor. “I didn’t.”
Requiem
John’s drunker than he should be, and he knows it, which means he shouldn’t be here, but he is, and getting home seems like too much of an effort right now. Not that home is better, given that Kevin’s not there. Kevin’s off on a case, doing something for someone that John’s arbitrarily decided to hate, just because he’s taken Kevin away. John doesn’t want to think about that or about what today is, but it’s all he’s done all day, which is why he’s here and why he’s drunk and why he’s rubbing his neck like he just got rear-ended.
“Hi.”
He looks up, surprised, and then blinks a few times. Carolyn’s been Kevin’s law partner for about six months now, and John’s still not used to the sight of her, or of her being something close to human. He’s used to the scary, aggressive Carolyn he hears about, but every time he’s met her since they created their own firm, she’s seemed nice, almost friendly. It’s actually scarier than the way she was before, but John wouldn’t dream of telling her that, even now when he’s on his lips and seven or eight sheets to the wind. “Hi.”
“You mind if I join you?”
He doesn’t mind, even though he probably should, so he pats the stool next to him. She slips onto it and waves the bartender over and orders him a whiskey for each of them. She clinks his shot glass against his and downs her shot then leans back, looking at him with appraising eyes. “What?”
“I’d ask you what a nice guy like you is doing in a place like this, but I don’t think you really are a nice guy.” She glances around at the clientele and then back at him. “This doesn’t seem like it’d be your usual crowd though.”
“Dane and I come here sometimes.” He shrugs. He likes this place because no one bothers him, because he’s anonymous. None of the guys or girls in this bar have heard of Damien or any of his music, and so there’s no chance of the damn song coming over the speakers. Here it’s George Jones and Hank Williams and Patsy Cline, and John would rather listen to other people’s problems than focus on his own. It dawns him halfway through his whiskey that this isn’t her sort of bar. “What are you doing here?”
She rests an elbow on the bar and crosses her legs, the pointy toe of her black high-heeled shoe taps against his jeans and he can hear the whisper of her nylons. She traces the rim of her shot glass with a finger then sucks it clean. “Drinking.”
“It doesn’t seem your typical venue either.” She’s all class and wines that cost more by the glass than most people earn in a year.
“So you’re actually asking me what a nice girl like me is doing in a place like this.” She smiles and John laughs and finishes his whiskey. She leans in and she smells like whiskey and perfume and woman. “I’m drinking.”
“I know. Whiskey.” He gestures to the bartender for a refill, knowing he shouldn’t have any more. He’s out on a dangerous night in dangerous territory, but this is familiar in ways he thought he’d forgotten. “Why here?”
“Why not? Good music. Good company.” She waits until the bartender refills her glass then downs the shot again. John follows suit after watching her swallow. She slides off her stool and runs a finger along his thigh. “You want to dance?”
There are more answers to that than he can give, all of which are variations of no, but he stands up and follows her out to the floor. There’s something slow and sultry on and John hums the tune along with the slide guitar and steel pedal, shivering when Carolyn starts singing along. Music hits him in places nothing else touches and tonight of all nights, it’s gut deep and painful. He turns his head and shuts her up with a kiss, mouth fitting over hers so there’s nothing there but what’s outside his head.
She opens her mouth under his and slides one hand down his back, the other hot against the nape of his neck. He groans and thrusts his tongue against hers, his own hands tightening on the slope of her ass as she captures it and sucks it deep in her mouth. She tastes like whiskey and wine and she smells like law books and honeysuckle. She breaks the kiss and shifts closer, smiling as his body reacts to her closeness. “Let’s go.”
“Where?” The song has changed to something he doesn’t recognize and the back of his neck is throbbing, one of his headaches building right behind his eyes. “Go where?”
Carolyn traces his lower lip with her finger and kisses him again. This time he can taste everything else - betrayal and blackmail, desperation and desire. He feels sick to his stomach and lonely. “Home.”
“Yeah.” John nods and takes a step back. “I need to go home.”
“I meant with me.”
"Yeah. I know." He nods again and then shakes his head, walking away and leaving her standing where she is on the dance floor. “I didn’t.”