Fic: Until the war comes (Lost/V crossover; James Ford/Erica Evans)
Title: Until the war comes
Fandoms/Pairing: V/Lost crossover; Erica Evans/James Ford
Rating: R
Words: 3,540
Summary: Erica arrives in L.A. on a sunny winter afternoon in late February.
A/N: General spoilers through "Devil in a Blue Dress" (02.09) for V, though nothing super-specific. No real spoilers for Lost.
*
After the attacks in New York stop, the Fifth Column suicide bombers start to target L.A.
Because Erica’s the agent in charge of what’s still the only government-run Fifth Column anti-terrorism group in the country, the FBI sends her out there after the third bombing to investigate and organize a west coast task force.
*
Erica arrives in L.A. on a sunny winter afternoon in late February. Before she left New York, she and Tyler had another fight, one that ended with him storming out of the house. Again.
She spends the whole trip out to California worrying about Tyler and texting Hobbes about the plan she set up in Manhattan before she left.
Hobbes and Jack are supposed to do some recon on one of the blue energy sites, but Hobbes is worried Jack's going to punk out on them before they can actually get any useful information. Which means that Erica spends both flights worrying about how things are going back east without her and her layover in Denver reassuring Hobbes about Jack's usefulness and convincing him to stick with the plan.
By the time the plane lands at LAX, her phone's dead and Erica's got the worst headache of her life.
When she gets out to the baggage claim, there’s a guy in a somber black suit standing stoically by the doors.
“Agent Evans?” he asks, sounding just as bureaucratic as he looks.
Yes," she says, wondering why the Bureau sent an agent out here to meet her at the airport.
“There’s been another attack,” the guy says, and Erica sighs.
He waits while she grabs her bag and then Erica follows him outside, blinking into the bright winter sunlight.
*
When they get to the scene, the place is complete chaos, smoldering rubble and bloody victims and the usual assortment of rubberneckers pressed up against crime scene tape and police barriers.
There are at least a half dozen LAPD cruisers on the scene, lights flashing and Erica can practically feel the headache coming on. The last thing she wants is some ridiculous cross-agency pissing contest with some macho-cowboy detective.
She and her somber FBI companion find the first uniform they can, and the officer smirks a little at them when they show their badges. Erica asks for the lead detective and the other agent heads off to interview witnesses.
“Hey, Ford!” the cop calls out to someone. “The FBI's here.” He jerks his thumb at Erica and about thirty cops turn to stare at her. Over on the other side of the scene, one of them waves her over. Erica heads over in that direction, ignoring the looks she keeps getting. Dealing with local law enforcement is always a pain in the ass.
The cop who waved her over looks like every California cliché Erica can imagine wrapped up into one neat package. He’s got blonde hair and tan skin and a beat-up leather jacket and looks totally at home among the palm trees and bright sunlight.
He’s standing over a body, one of the V ambassadors, a kid not much older than Tyler, and Erica can see a deep V carved into the spot right below his ear, the scar still a little pink.
“He’s Fifth Column,” Erica murmurs, crouching down next to Detective Ford. She leans over a little, squinting at the kid’s face. She doesn’t recognize him from any of the video conference meetings they’ve done recently, which makes her feel kind of terrible.
"How the hell do you know that?" Ford asks, looking at her sidelong. Erica sits back on her heels, trying to think of something. What the hell is wrong with her?
"I, uh," she says, scrubbing a hand across her face. "I recognize him from one of the files we've got." It's a weak explanation, but Ford seems to accept it.
“Thanks, Fibbie,” he says, looking her up and down. He’s got a thick Southern accent, which she finds equal parts surprising and amusing and he’s smiling a little, deep dimples creasing his cheeks.
“Agent Evans,” Erica says as sternly as she can manage, trying hard not to smile back at him.
“Is that right?” he says, that smile still on his face. “Well. Thanks, Agent Evans.”
She gives up and smiles back at him and he reaches out and shakes her hand.
Erica’s stomach does this little flip when his hand touches hers, his skin feeling incredibly warm against the cool February air.
*
Before the end of the week, two more healing centers are destroyed -- one in Reseda and one out in Malibu. She and James spend most of their time combing through files and trying to figure out if there's a Fifth Column cell out here that's responsible for the bombings.
Not that they find anything; Erica is very careful to steer the investigation away from the actual resistance out here. Part of her thinks she should feel guilty, sabotaging the investigation and lying to James, but she doesn't really. Mostly because she knows this is just more of Anna's handiwork, sacrificing strategic centers to force the FBI to sniff out the Fifth Column for her.
But it is exhausting, lying and covering up everything she knows. Plus, everything seems more horrific out here for some reason. Erica guesses it’s because of all the sunshine and trees and warmth; all the blackened bodies and buildings stand out a lot more than they did back in New York, where everything was gray and cold.
Even though he's angry with her, Tyler keeps calling. Most of the calls end with one or both of them saying something cutting, and Erica knows she should probably just stop answering, but she can't. At least he's talking to her again, even if he does hate her.
She worries about him, out there with Anna, but she knows Lisa’s keeping an eye on things and, well. There’s only so much Erica can do from out here. The truth is, it’s getting kind of exhausting, fighting with Tyler and trying to keep him safe.
If nothing else, Erica feels better knowing that whatever Anna’s planning, killing Tyler doesn’t seem to be on the agenda.
*
They spend most of her second week in town driving back and forth out to Malibu and Reseda, trying to figure out who set off the bombs and why. James is actually a lot better at this than most of the FBI people she works with back east, since he doesn't automatically take the Vs side. It's nice, being around someone who's not completely enamored with Anna and her whole fucked-up plan for world domination.
Since she's been in town, James's partner, Miles, has been gone -- some family emergency or something -- and so Erica uses his desk while she's there. It's nice, almost like she's got a place here, not like she's the Fed who's infringing on their investigation.
They're staying late one night, both of them looking at the bombing files, trying to figure out their next moves. They're in the only ones in the squad room, which Erica thinks is a little weird. She thought Homicide would be a round-the-clock thing, but apparently the next full shift doesn't show up until midnight.
“Hey,” James says, startling out of her reverie. "You hungry?”
Erica just looks at him for a second, trying to figure out if he's asking her out or just being nice or what. Finally, she decides it doesn't matter.
"Yeah," she says, closing the file and scrubbing a hand across her face. "Why?"
“There’s, uh, this place across the street," he says, smiling a little at her. On the desk in front of him, there's a couple of crime scene photos, a couple of Peace amabassadors covered in blood and ash. "You wanna grab a drink and maybe something to eat?”
Erica thinks about it for just a second, about going out for a drink like a normal person, someone who goes to bars after work instead of the basement hideouts of terrorists or the back rooms of churches. She knows she should probably just head back to her hotel and get some sleep, but she could definitely use a drink and James right next to her, smiling at her a little, wide enough so that his dimples show.
“Sure,” she says. “Let’s go.”
*
Apparently, “across the street” means something different in L.A. than it does in New York and they have to take James’s car. It’s a standard issue unmarked police car, dented and dusty, no hubcaps on any of the wheels. Inside it smells like stale coffee and cigarettes and the back seat is littered with take-out food wrappers and Styrofoam cups.
Erica sits quietly on the drive over while James fiddles with the radio. After just a few minutes, he turns it off completely and they just listen to the steady stream of police talk that flows from the scanner mounted on the dash.
It’s weird, being around normal people for a change. Her days are usually filled with terrorists and priests and traitorous aliens, so when she goes to a bar with a cop, a normal guy, Erica’s not quite sure what to talk about.
James gets a beer and she orders a scotch -- a double, because that’s just the kind of day it’s been -- and she can't think of anything to say. She used to be a normal person, back before this whole alien invasion thing happened, but now she feels completely adrift, like unless she's talking about how to save the world, she's got nothing to offer.
“So,” James says, once the waiter takes their menus and disappears behind the bar. “What’s with all the calls?”
“I’m sorry?” Erica says, a little taken aback.
The waiter appears with their drinks and James waits until he leaves before he says anything else. “Your phone’s been ringing off the hook since you got here,” he says with a shrug. “Jealous boyfriend?”
Erica laughs, a little louder than she means to, and James looks up at her, eyebrows raised. “Not even close,” she says. She takes a long drink, savoring the sweet, rich taste of the whiskey. “My son. Tyler.”
“Ah,” James says, nodding like he completely understands.
“He’s eighteen, so,” she says, feeling kind of loose already from the alcohol. “He’s got a lot of angst.”
James barks out a laugh and takes a drink.
“I got a daughter,” he says after a couple of seconds. “Clementine. She lives out in Phoenix with her mom.”
“Oh,” Erica says, surprised for some reason. “Do get to see her much?”
She takes another drink, closing her eyes as the warmth from the alcohol makes it way down her throat. When she looks at James, he’s biting his lip and the circles under his eyes look darker and more pronounced, like bruises.
“Not enough,” he says, taking a long pull of his beer.
Erica watches him and thinks about Tyler and how he hates her half the time, even when she’s trying to protect him.
Before she can wallow in too much self-pity, the waiter appears with their food. Her head's pretty fuzzy from the alcohol and Erica realizes she hasn't had anything to eat since she grabbed half a bagel on her way out of the hotel that morning.
She and James talk through most of dinner, both of them deftly avoiding anything else too personal. They both just ordered burgers and James keeps stealing fries off her plate, smiling at her shamelessly when she swats at his hand.
By the time they leave, Erica’s pretty wasted. She’s not sure how much she’s had, but she feels kind of great, loose and warm and happy. Even though James has only had a couple of beers, he looks pretty happy, too, his smiles easy and bright.
They walk back to James’s car in silence, their shoulders bumping and the air warm and heavy around them. He opens her door for her and, when he does, she turns and he’s so close to her and she can just smell a hint of his cologne, spicy and clean.
*
They drive back to the station mostly in silence. Everything around her feels kind of unreal and fuzzy and Erica rests her forehead against the cool glass of the car window, watching as the trees and the moon and the neon lights blur past.
They’re back at the station before she realizes it, James opening his door to let in the cool winter air.
“I gotta grab a couple of files out of my desk,” he says. Erica just stares at him, feeling a little confused. She maybe shouldn’t have had so much to drink, she realizes. And then James is opening her door before she quite realizes what’s going on. “Just let me grab them and then I’ll drive you home.”
“Okay,” Erica says vaguely, stepping out of the car to follow him inside. Since they’ve left the bar, they’ve barely said anything to each other.
On the elevator ride to the fifth floor, Erica’s phone rings. She almost ignores it, but then she realizes it might be Jack or Hobbes checking in with a Fifth column update, so she fumbles it out of her jacket pocket.
The called ID says Tyler and Erica presses answer just as the elevator dings to stop.
“Tyler,” Erica says. She rubs a hand across her forehead, feeling completely exhausted. “Hey.”
James shoots her a curious glace and she just shakes her head, nodding against the phone. He nods once and starts walking to his desk, gesturing towards the locker room. She smiles a little, and heads towards the room, grateful for some privacy.
*
Tyler tells her that he's going to be going on some kind of weeks-long pilot training mission. He's got a million reasons, but Erica knows it's because of Anna's bliss.
She sits on the hard wooden bench, surrounded on both sides by ugly blue lockers, and just listens silently as her son slips further and further away from her.
By the time she hangs up, she feels completely lost, like she'll never ever get her son back from where he's gone.
*
When James opens the door, she’s still sitting just like that on the wooden bench in the locker room, staring at her phone. She doesn’t even look up when he walks in the room.
He just stands there for a few seconds, leaning against the doorway and not saying anything. The room’s incredibly quiet, quiet enough so that she can hear him breathing, and Erica wonders what the hell she’s doing.
“Hey,” he finally says. He runs a hand through his hair and looks around the locker room, like he’s trying to make sure they’re alone. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” She nods and looks down at her phone again, shaking her head a little before slipping it into her pocket. The old air conditioner in the corner kicks on all of sudden -- shuddering and rattling against the window frame -- and she jumps a little at the sound.
Neither one of them say anything for a few more seconds, the room silent other than the hum of the air conditioner.
“Hey,” he says again, pushing off the door jamb and walking over to her. “We ain't gotta work on this any more tonight. What do you say I take you home?”
Erica smiles a little at that -- at the idea that she's actually got a home to go to out here. She feels, absurdly, like she might cry. James doesn't seem to notice, just reaches his hand out to help her up.
She grabs his hand and he pulls her up so that they’re standing face to face. Erica catches another hint of his cologne and, without even thinking about it, steps closer to him, so close that she can feel his breath on her face. James blinks at her and then leans in and kisses her, just on the corner of her mouth. He tastes a little bit like beer and she opens her mouth under his, running her tongue across his lower lip.
James wraps his arms around her back and Erica reaches one hand up to cup the side of his face, sneaking her other hand up under his jacket and his shirt, so that it’s pressed flat against his stomach.
They walk backwards a few steps until they bang up against the lockers with a dull thud, and James winces a little.
“Sorry,” she says breathlessly. A part of her realizes that someone could walk in at any second, but she’s pretty much beyond the point of caring. It’s just been so long since she’s felt anything like this and she can’t bring herself to stop.
“Don’t worry about it.” James reaches up and slides his hand up under her nice, sensible button down shirt, cupping her breast in his hand.
Erica gasps and pushes against him, sliding her hand across his stomach, her fingers dipping below the waist of his jeans. James bites down on her lip, and she moves her hand lower, under his boxers, skin against skin.
She wraps her hand around his cock, stroking her thumb across the tip until he gasps into her ear. She tightens her hand around him and he starts making these noises deep in his throat, his breath warm against her face.
He reaches down and undoes the button on her jeans, snaking his hand inside, moving his fingers against her in this rhythm that feels unbelievable. With his free hand, he reaches down and starts to push her jeans off, and Erica reaches down to help him, pushing the rough denim off his hips.
Part of her wonders what exactly she's doing, if this is a terrible idea, but James keeps kissing her, his stubble scraping a little against the sensitive skin on her jaw and she reaches up with one hand, cupping her hand against the back of his head.
Once they get her jeans off, she hitches one leg up around him so that she’s straddling him. She wraps her legs around him, and takes him in her hand, guiding him inside of her.
“Erica,” he says, his breath hitching in his throat, and, Jesus Christ. She can’t remember the last time someone’s said her name like that, like it’s the only thing that matters.
Once he’s fully inside of her, he just looks at her for a minute, their noses brushing. Her heart feels like it’s beating way too fast and she can’t stop staring at him and she’s just wanted this since she first laid eyes on him, is the thing.
Erica rocks forward again, hard enough so that his head bangs into the locker behind him again.
She doesn’t bother apologizing this time, just stares right at him, watching the way his mouth moves, red and wet. When she ducks her head to bite lightly on his collarbone, running her tongue along the hollow of his throat, James starts moving faster, rocking against her and she groans and bites her lip and then she’s shuddering all around him, pressing him harder and harder into the lockers.
Once she comes down, she starts biting softly at his neck, at the pulse point right below his jaw and she’s still shaking a little against him and he jerks up into her and holds his hand against her back, pressing so hard she’ll probably have bruises there in the morning.
They’re still kind of standing up, Erica’s legs wrapped around his hips, her shirt hanging open. She’s not sure she’s ever going to be able to move again.
“Damn, Blondie,” he says, once he manages to catch his breath.
“Blondie?” She smiles at that, the corners of her mouth curling up just a little. “That’s the best you can do?”
James rolls his eyes and Erica laughs, pressing her cheek against his shoulder and wishing that this could last a little longer.
“My mind ain’t exactly workin’ as quick as it normally is,” he says, the corners of his mouth turning up in a half-smile. “I’ll think of something better in a little while.”
Erica smiles and presses her forehead against his, exhaling softly. James runs a hand through her hair and she presses closer to him, wishing that this was really her life -- California and sunshine and a guy she could actually be with.
*
She stays with James that night, at his crappy little apartment on LaCienega.
The place is kind of depressing -- empty beer cans on the coffee table and the bitter smell of cigarettes -- but it's nice being there anyway, with someone who seems to like her, who's basically a normal guy.
James closes the door softly behind them and presses a kiss against this spot below her ear. She smiles at him and follows him over towards his bedroom, her hand clasped tight in his.
*
Erica's phone rings first thing in the morning, early enough so that it's barely even light outside. There's been another bombing, this one out in the Valley.
When Erica hangs up the phone, James presses his face against the bare skin of her back, right between her shoulder blades, and she smiles a little, rolling over to face him, to tell him they've got to get going. Outside, as the sun starts to rise over the city, casting the room in bright, golden light.
*
end
Fandoms/Pairing: V/Lost crossover; Erica Evans/James Ford
Rating: R
Words: 3,540
Summary: Erica arrives in L.A. on a sunny winter afternoon in late February.
A/N: General spoilers through "Devil in a Blue Dress" (02.09) for V, though nothing super-specific. No real spoilers for Lost.
*
After the attacks in New York stop, the Fifth Column suicide bombers start to target L.A.
Because Erica’s the agent in charge of what’s still the only government-run Fifth Column anti-terrorism group in the country, the FBI sends her out there after the third bombing to investigate and organize a west coast task force.
*
Erica arrives in L.A. on a sunny winter afternoon in late February. Before she left New York, she and Tyler had another fight, one that ended with him storming out of the house. Again.
She spends the whole trip out to California worrying about Tyler and texting Hobbes about the plan she set up in Manhattan before she left.
Hobbes and Jack are supposed to do some recon on one of the blue energy sites, but Hobbes is worried Jack's going to punk out on them before they can actually get any useful information. Which means that Erica spends both flights worrying about how things are going back east without her and her layover in Denver reassuring Hobbes about Jack's usefulness and convincing him to stick with the plan.
By the time the plane lands at LAX, her phone's dead and Erica's got the worst headache of her life.
When she gets out to the baggage claim, there’s a guy in a somber black suit standing stoically by the doors.
“Agent Evans?” he asks, sounding just as bureaucratic as he looks.
Yes," she says, wondering why the Bureau sent an agent out here to meet her at the airport.
“There’s been another attack,” the guy says, and Erica sighs.
He waits while she grabs her bag and then Erica follows him outside, blinking into the bright winter sunlight.
*
When they get to the scene, the place is complete chaos, smoldering rubble and bloody victims and the usual assortment of rubberneckers pressed up against crime scene tape and police barriers.
There are at least a half dozen LAPD cruisers on the scene, lights flashing and Erica can practically feel the headache coming on. The last thing she wants is some ridiculous cross-agency pissing contest with some macho-cowboy detective.
She and her somber FBI companion find the first uniform they can, and the officer smirks a little at them when they show their badges. Erica asks for the lead detective and the other agent heads off to interview witnesses.
“Hey, Ford!” the cop calls out to someone. “The FBI's here.” He jerks his thumb at Erica and about thirty cops turn to stare at her. Over on the other side of the scene, one of them waves her over. Erica heads over in that direction, ignoring the looks she keeps getting. Dealing with local law enforcement is always a pain in the ass.
The cop who waved her over looks like every California cliché Erica can imagine wrapped up into one neat package. He’s got blonde hair and tan skin and a beat-up leather jacket and looks totally at home among the palm trees and bright sunlight.
He’s standing over a body, one of the V ambassadors, a kid not much older than Tyler, and Erica can see a deep V carved into the spot right below his ear, the scar still a little pink.
“He’s Fifth Column,” Erica murmurs, crouching down next to Detective Ford. She leans over a little, squinting at the kid’s face. She doesn’t recognize him from any of the video conference meetings they’ve done recently, which makes her feel kind of terrible.
"How the hell do you know that?" Ford asks, looking at her sidelong. Erica sits back on her heels, trying to think of something. What the hell is wrong with her?
"I, uh," she says, scrubbing a hand across her face. "I recognize him from one of the files we've got." It's a weak explanation, but Ford seems to accept it.
“Thanks, Fibbie,” he says, looking her up and down. He’s got a thick Southern accent, which she finds equal parts surprising and amusing and he’s smiling a little, deep dimples creasing his cheeks.
“Agent Evans,” Erica says as sternly as she can manage, trying hard not to smile back at him.
“Is that right?” he says, that smile still on his face. “Well. Thanks, Agent Evans.”
She gives up and smiles back at him and he reaches out and shakes her hand.
Erica’s stomach does this little flip when his hand touches hers, his skin feeling incredibly warm against the cool February air.
*
Before the end of the week, two more healing centers are destroyed -- one in Reseda and one out in Malibu. She and James spend most of their time combing through files and trying to figure out if there's a Fifth Column cell out here that's responsible for the bombings.
Not that they find anything; Erica is very careful to steer the investigation away from the actual resistance out here. Part of her thinks she should feel guilty, sabotaging the investigation and lying to James, but she doesn't really. Mostly because she knows this is just more of Anna's handiwork, sacrificing strategic centers to force the FBI to sniff out the Fifth Column for her.
But it is exhausting, lying and covering up everything she knows. Plus, everything seems more horrific out here for some reason. Erica guesses it’s because of all the sunshine and trees and warmth; all the blackened bodies and buildings stand out a lot more than they did back in New York, where everything was gray and cold.
Even though he's angry with her, Tyler keeps calling. Most of the calls end with one or both of them saying something cutting, and Erica knows she should probably just stop answering, but she can't. At least he's talking to her again, even if he does hate her.
She worries about him, out there with Anna, but she knows Lisa’s keeping an eye on things and, well. There’s only so much Erica can do from out here. The truth is, it’s getting kind of exhausting, fighting with Tyler and trying to keep him safe.
If nothing else, Erica feels better knowing that whatever Anna’s planning, killing Tyler doesn’t seem to be on the agenda.
*
They spend most of her second week in town driving back and forth out to Malibu and Reseda, trying to figure out who set off the bombs and why. James is actually a lot better at this than most of the FBI people she works with back east, since he doesn't automatically take the Vs side. It's nice, being around someone who's not completely enamored with Anna and her whole fucked-up plan for world domination.
Since she's been in town, James's partner, Miles, has been gone -- some family emergency or something -- and so Erica uses his desk while she's there. It's nice, almost like she's got a place here, not like she's the Fed who's infringing on their investigation.
They're staying late one night, both of them looking at the bombing files, trying to figure out their next moves. They're in the only ones in the squad room, which Erica thinks is a little weird. She thought Homicide would be a round-the-clock thing, but apparently the next full shift doesn't show up until midnight.
“Hey,” James says, startling out of her reverie. "You hungry?”
Erica just looks at him for a second, trying to figure out if he's asking her out or just being nice or what. Finally, she decides it doesn't matter.
"Yeah," she says, closing the file and scrubbing a hand across her face. "Why?"
“There’s, uh, this place across the street," he says, smiling a little at her. On the desk in front of him, there's a couple of crime scene photos, a couple of Peace amabassadors covered in blood and ash. "You wanna grab a drink and maybe something to eat?”
Erica thinks about it for just a second, about going out for a drink like a normal person, someone who goes to bars after work instead of the basement hideouts of terrorists or the back rooms of churches. She knows she should probably just head back to her hotel and get some sleep, but she could definitely use a drink and James right next to her, smiling at her a little, wide enough so that his dimples show.
“Sure,” she says. “Let’s go.”
*
Apparently, “across the street” means something different in L.A. than it does in New York and they have to take James’s car. It’s a standard issue unmarked police car, dented and dusty, no hubcaps on any of the wheels. Inside it smells like stale coffee and cigarettes and the back seat is littered with take-out food wrappers and Styrofoam cups.
Erica sits quietly on the drive over while James fiddles with the radio. After just a few minutes, he turns it off completely and they just listen to the steady stream of police talk that flows from the scanner mounted on the dash.
It’s weird, being around normal people for a change. Her days are usually filled with terrorists and priests and traitorous aliens, so when she goes to a bar with a cop, a normal guy, Erica’s not quite sure what to talk about.
James gets a beer and she orders a scotch -- a double, because that’s just the kind of day it’s been -- and she can't think of anything to say. She used to be a normal person, back before this whole alien invasion thing happened, but now she feels completely adrift, like unless she's talking about how to save the world, she's got nothing to offer.
“So,” James says, once the waiter takes their menus and disappears behind the bar. “What’s with all the calls?”
“I’m sorry?” Erica says, a little taken aback.
The waiter appears with their drinks and James waits until he leaves before he says anything else. “Your phone’s been ringing off the hook since you got here,” he says with a shrug. “Jealous boyfriend?”
Erica laughs, a little louder than she means to, and James looks up at her, eyebrows raised. “Not even close,” she says. She takes a long drink, savoring the sweet, rich taste of the whiskey. “My son. Tyler.”
“Ah,” James says, nodding like he completely understands.
“He’s eighteen, so,” she says, feeling kind of loose already from the alcohol. “He’s got a lot of angst.”
James barks out a laugh and takes a drink.
“I got a daughter,” he says after a couple of seconds. “Clementine. She lives out in Phoenix with her mom.”
“Oh,” Erica says, surprised for some reason. “Do get to see her much?”
She takes another drink, closing her eyes as the warmth from the alcohol makes it way down her throat. When she looks at James, he’s biting his lip and the circles under his eyes look darker and more pronounced, like bruises.
“Not enough,” he says, taking a long pull of his beer.
Erica watches him and thinks about Tyler and how he hates her half the time, even when she’s trying to protect him.
Before she can wallow in too much self-pity, the waiter appears with their food. Her head's pretty fuzzy from the alcohol and Erica realizes she hasn't had anything to eat since she grabbed half a bagel on her way out of the hotel that morning.
She and James talk through most of dinner, both of them deftly avoiding anything else too personal. They both just ordered burgers and James keeps stealing fries off her plate, smiling at her shamelessly when she swats at his hand.
By the time they leave, Erica’s pretty wasted. She’s not sure how much she’s had, but she feels kind of great, loose and warm and happy. Even though James has only had a couple of beers, he looks pretty happy, too, his smiles easy and bright.
They walk back to James’s car in silence, their shoulders bumping and the air warm and heavy around them. He opens her door for her and, when he does, she turns and he’s so close to her and she can just smell a hint of his cologne, spicy and clean.
*
They drive back to the station mostly in silence. Everything around her feels kind of unreal and fuzzy and Erica rests her forehead against the cool glass of the car window, watching as the trees and the moon and the neon lights blur past.
They’re back at the station before she realizes it, James opening his door to let in the cool winter air.
“I gotta grab a couple of files out of my desk,” he says. Erica just stares at him, feeling a little confused. She maybe shouldn’t have had so much to drink, she realizes. And then James is opening her door before she quite realizes what’s going on. “Just let me grab them and then I’ll drive you home.”
“Okay,” Erica says vaguely, stepping out of the car to follow him inside. Since they’ve left the bar, they’ve barely said anything to each other.
On the elevator ride to the fifth floor, Erica’s phone rings. She almost ignores it, but then she realizes it might be Jack or Hobbes checking in with a Fifth column update, so she fumbles it out of her jacket pocket.
The called ID says Tyler and Erica presses answer just as the elevator dings to stop.
“Tyler,” Erica says. She rubs a hand across her forehead, feeling completely exhausted. “Hey.”
James shoots her a curious glace and she just shakes her head, nodding against the phone. He nods once and starts walking to his desk, gesturing towards the locker room. She smiles a little, and heads towards the room, grateful for some privacy.
*
Tyler tells her that he's going to be going on some kind of weeks-long pilot training mission. He's got a million reasons, but Erica knows it's because of Anna's bliss.
She sits on the hard wooden bench, surrounded on both sides by ugly blue lockers, and just listens silently as her son slips further and further away from her.
By the time she hangs up, she feels completely lost, like she'll never ever get her son back from where he's gone.
*
When James opens the door, she’s still sitting just like that on the wooden bench in the locker room, staring at her phone. She doesn’t even look up when he walks in the room.
He just stands there for a few seconds, leaning against the doorway and not saying anything. The room’s incredibly quiet, quiet enough so that she can hear him breathing, and Erica wonders what the hell she’s doing.
“Hey,” he finally says. He runs a hand through his hair and looks around the locker room, like he’s trying to make sure they’re alone. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” She nods and looks down at her phone again, shaking her head a little before slipping it into her pocket. The old air conditioner in the corner kicks on all of sudden -- shuddering and rattling against the window frame -- and she jumps a little at the sound.
Neither one of them say anything for a few more seconds, the room silent other than the hum of the air conditioner.
“Hey,” he says again, pushing off the door jamb and walking over to her. “We ain't gotta work on this any more tonight. What do you say I take you home?”
Erica smiles a little at that -- at the idea that she's actually got a home to go to out here. She feels, absurdly, like she might cry. James doesn't seem to notice, just reaches his hand out to help her up.
She grabs his hand and he pulls her up so that they’re standing face to face. Erica catches another hint of his cologne and, without even thinking about it, steps closer to him, so close that she can feel his breath on her face. James blinks at her and then leans in and kisses her, just on the corner of her mouth. He tastes a little bit like beer and she opens her mouth under his, running her tongue across his lower lip.
James wraps his arms around her back and Erica reaches one hand up to cup the side of his face, sneaking her other hand up under his jacket and his shirt, so that it’s pressed flat against his stomach.
They walk backwards a few steps until they bang up against the lockers with a dull thud, and James winces a little.
“Sorry,” she says breathlessly. A part of her realizes that someone could walk in at any second, but she’s pretty much beyond the point of caring. It’s just been so long since she’s felt anything like this and she can’t bring herself to stop.
“Don’t worry about it.” James reaches up and slides his hand up under her nice, sensible button down shirt, cupping her breast in his hand.
Erica gasps and pushes against him, sliding her hand across his stomach, her fingers dipping below the waist of his jeans. James bites down on her lip, and she moves her hand lower, under his boxers, skin against skin.
She wraps her hand around his cock, stroking her thumb across the tip until he gasps into her ear. She tightens her hand around him and he starts making these noises deep in his throat, his breath warm against her face.
He reaches down and undoes the button on her jeans, snaking his hand inside, moving his fingers against her in this rhythm that feels unbelievable. With his free hand, he reaches down and starts to push her jeans off, and Erica reaches down to help him, pushing the rough denim off his hips.
Part of her wonders what exactly she's doing, if this is a terrible idea, but James keeps kissing her, his stubble scraping a little against the sensitive skin on her jaw and she reaches up with one hand, cupping her hand against the back of his head.
Once they get her jeans off, she hitches one leg up around him so that she’s straddling him. She wraps her legs around him, and takes him in her hand, guiding him inside of her.
“Erica,” he says, his breath hitching in his throat, and, Jesus Christ. She can’t remember the last time someone’s said her name like that, like it’s the only thing that matters.
Once he’s fully inside of her, he just looks at her for a minute, their noses brushing. Her heart feels like it’s beating way too fast and she can’t stop staring at him and she’s just wanted this since she first laid eyes on him, is the thing.
Erica rocks forward again, hard enough so that his head bangs into the locker behind him again.
She doesn’t bother apologizing this time, just stares right at him, watching the way his mouth moves, red and wet. When she ducks her head to bite lightly on his collarbone, running her tongue along the hollow of his throat, James starts moving faster, rocking against her and she groans and bites her lip and then she’s shuddering all around him, pressing him harder and harder into the lockers.
Once she comes down, she starts biting softly at his neck, at the pulse point right below his jaw and she’s still shaking a little against him and he jerks up into her and holds his hand against her back, pressing so hard she’ll probably have bruises there in the morning.
They’re still kind of standing up, Erica’s legs wrapped around his hips, her shirt hanging open. She’s not sure she’s ever going to be able to move again.
“Damn, Blondie,” he says, once he manages to catch his breath.
“Blondie?” She smiles at that, the corners of her mouth curling up just a little. “That’s the best you can do?”
James rolls his eyes and Erica laughs, pressing her cheek against his shoulder and wishing that this could last a little longer.
“My mind ain’t exactly workin’ as quick as it normally is,” he says, the corners of his mouth turning up in a half-smile. “I’ll think of something better in a little while.”
Erica smiles and presses her forehead against his, exhaling softly. James runs a hand through her hair and she presses closer to him, wishing that this was really her life -- California and sunshine and a guy she could actually be with.
*
She stays with James that night, at his crappy little apartment on LaCienega.
The place is kind of depressing -- empty beer cans on the coffee table and the bitter smell of cigarettes -- but it's nice being there anyway, with someone who seems to like her, who's basically a normal guy.
James closes the door softly behind them and presses a kiss against this spot below her ear. She smiles at him and follows him over towards his bedroom, her hand clasped tight in his.
*
Erica's phone rings first thing in the morning, early enough so that it's barely even light outside. There's been another bombing, this one out in the Valley.
When Erica hangs up the phone, James presses his face against the bare skin of her back, right between her shoulder blades, and she smiles a little, rolling over to face him, to tell him they've got to get going. Outside, as the sun starts to rise over the city, casting the room in bright, golden light.
*
end