wrap me in your trauma 1/1
title: wrap me in your trauma
pairing: sara, wilson/sara [house/prison break crossover]
rating: r
summary: She realised he didn’t know who she was, which meant two things: he didn’t have any hidden agendas, and he was from out of town. Both oddly… comforting.
note: birthday fic for
everybody__lies. meant to be sometime pre-house and pre-prison break.
--
When someone handed her a glass of champagne, she immediately wished for something stronger.
She wore a little black dress, just a little too tight around the waist and earning a few lingering glances at her cleavage, and nodded politely when a few men recognised her as Governor Tancredi’s daughter. He had suggested she attend the seminar despite knowing she had no interest in becoming an oncologist. She suspected he thought the appearance would make him look good. Everything was always a political ploy.
She sipped from her glass, gazing inattentively out at the jumble of people.
“Mind if I use your corner?”
She turned her head, slowly, taking note of the man who had just appeared beside her. He was young, early thirties maybe, with a neat black suit and a bright blue tie which he had loosened at the neck just slightly. She assumed he was trying to come onto her, but shrugged. “Sure.”
He leant against the wall, folding his arms casually over his chest. He actually looked about as bored as she felt. “Are you as socially avoidant as I am, or are you just avoiding one person in particular?” she couldn’t help asking.
He glanced at her, faint, involuntary smile pulling at his mouth. “What makes you think I’m avoiding anyone?”
“You’re in my corner.”
“Ah. Right. Well let’s just call it a breather. There’s something about these things that can be very -”
“Redundant?” she suggested mildly.
His smile was more noticeable now, and he turned to regard her. “You don’t exactly look like a seasoned professional.”
She realised he didn’t know who she was, which meant two things: he didn’t have any hidden agendas, and he was from out of town. Both oddly… comforting.
“I’ve had enough similar experiences,” she said, sliding a finger over the moisture on the side of her glass.
He tilted an eyebrow. “You’re still in medical school?”
She thought she concealed her age oddly well, but obviously not well enough. “I just started my internship,” she conceded.
He nodded, he didn’t ask any more than that. She appreciated it. “Jim,” he offered, holding out a hand.
She exchanged her champagne glass for the other hand, accepting his handshake. “Sara,” she replied. No Dr. This or Dr. That, and she could almost pretend they were somewhere else. Two random people meeting in a bar, instead of one of her father's strategic social functions.
“You’re not from around here,” she said, gracing him with another smile. Glass lingering at her lips.
She felt his gaze on her, and she could sense his growing interest. It was flattering. There was something about picking up a random doctor from an evening her father had nudged her into that was uncomfortably appealing. She could feel the warm alcohol swimming through her bloodstream, loosening her up.
“No,” he answered. “New Jersey.”
He retrieved a glass of amber liquid from the passing steward, and she noticed the glint of gold on his finger.
“Married?” she asked idly, because there was nothing like asking a stranger those simple, seemingly innocent personal questions.
His eyes trailed down, and a hint of sheepishness, and something else, something like sorrow, flitted across his features. He concealed it well, hiding behind another charming smile. She was starting to think he was a little too good at them. Only someone self-trained in the same mannerisms could recognise such a forced trait in others.
“Divorced,” he supplied, in that voice people have when they speak of a discarded marriage, the only one people want to hear. So they didn’t have to deal with awkward, messy emotions. “I keep forgetting to take it off.”
He might have been lying, but his face was so earnest and polite, she found it hard to believe him capable of outright deceit. She merely nodded, and didn’t offer an apology. She had never seen the point in apologising for other people’s misfortunes.
She finished her champagne, and then came the next suggestion. As if on cue. All perfectly cliché and predictable.
“Can I get you another drink?”
This would be the moment a good little girl would politely decline, and step away from the innocent flirtation. Make the rounds and pose for the photographs - act serene, act natural, never like they were annoyances- all the implicit duties her father would have wanted from her.
She gave him her glass. “Sure. Thank you.”
--
The tie slipped off through her nimble fingers, and his jacket creased on the floor. He was all lines and appearances downstairs, but that personage slipped away when he slid his tongue in her mouth. His hotel room overlooked the Chicago River, and the lights cast from the surrounding city glittered in the shadowy room.
The sheets were soft along her knees, and her dress gathered and clung as he pulled it up her body and over her head. He gazed straight ahead, eyes focused on her body, her smooth, pale skin, and maybe he was thinking of someone else. Maybe he was thinking about his wife. It didn’t really matter to her. She slid her hands over his shoulders, balancing herself on top of him as his warm, calloused palms traced her waist and her abdomen. His mouth slipped over the dip in her shoulder, tongue mapping patterns over flesh. She shifted and exhaled and tilted her head to the side, so long red tresses ticked her arm.
He kissed her when he slipped inside her, but she was already lost in the feeling. She didn’t want to think.
--
There was no sudden realisation when she woke up in the morning, though there was the vague notion that she should call her father. Tell him she would be late for brunch. He would probably cancel first anyway. They had rescheduled at least four times that month.
He was lying on his side, hair tussled from his pillow, and glanced at her when she unfolded her legs. Untangling them from the sheets. “Morning,” he offered softly.
She met his gaze. She thought maybe, if she could pay attention long enough, he might actually be a decent guy. Maybe. “Morning.”
There was a pause. Like he was deliberating his next move. Careful. Slow. “You want some coffee?”
Again, this was a moment. This time she was supposed to say yes, because a normal, well-adjusted person could do the polite morning after ritual. Maybe he would even call her from New Jersey.
She pulled the sheet over her chest, rustling as she sat. “I have to go.”
Back to her life. And not dealing with that.
Her mind was already on other things by the time she reached the elevator.
--
/end