Pillow Talk
Title: Pillow Talk
Summary: He looks at her like she might be crazy.
Pairing(s): Desmond/Ilana, Ben/Ilana
Rating: R
Notes: I've been trying to do a Desmond/Ilana-Ben/Ilana longer fic for some time now. Let's see if I get this right.
Her mother dies on the fifteenth, middle of the summer. It's too hot for a funeral, Desmond mutters as they pick out a casket, last minute. Ilana's never believed in preparing for tragedy ahead of time. Something inside her tends to brave the storms as they come. Bunker down and fight it out. Preparing is cheating.
She wanted to be buried.
It's expensive.
Well you're not paying for it, she snaps, moving forward and deciding on a dark mahogoney wood. She pays for it and signs the delivery papers. Her mother will be buried in two days. Desmond drives her home and follows her up the stairs to her apartment. She doesn't let him in.
What's the matter with you?
You're annoying me. I want to be alone. He runs his fingers down her spine and whispers in her ear, but she curls away from him. I told you. Stop. She shuts the door and hears him curse and walk down the stairs. He's right. It's too hot for a funeral. It's too hot for a lot of things.
A week later Desmond wants to take her out to dinner, but cancels, leaving her in the parking lot. Ilana stands there and cries, for reasons she can only half explain. She bangs on the roof of her car until her palm hurts and a stranger's voice sounds from her right side. Hey. Hey, it's okay. His thin hands cover her own and pull them away from the metal of the car. Don't - you'll break something. And somehow she knows he not just talking about her hand.
I'm sorry, she whispers, and he laughs.
Come on. I'll buy you a drink. He's a smaller man, well dressed, sort of shy. She wonders where this bravery comes from, how big his heart must be, how stupid he must feel, how sweet he is. Silly little thoughts that blunder from one side of her brain to the next, tip out into a bad tasting beer.
Aren't you going to eat?
I did. But you could use this. She laughs, a little too harsh. He narrows his eyes and drinks water.
What's you're name? she says suddenly, setting the bottle, hard, down on the table.
Ben. You?
Ilana.
It's lovely, he says quietly, not meeting her eyes. She likes him.
An hour later and he's walking her to her apartment, following her when she beckons him inside. Whatever she and Desmond are, it will survive this, this fling with a history teacher who was too nice to let her drive herself home. He's better than she thought he'd be, less predictable than she'd imagined. She rarely comes the first time, but with him she does. Says his name at times when she's never said a man's name before. His hands instinctively get tangled in her hair, thumbs across her forehead. He whispers her name into her throat over and over again until his back arches and there! She falls asleep with her fingers brushing the crow's feet around his eyes, smoothing the skin over his lips.
In the morning, she ushers him out, lingers at the door over a long and heady kiss that leaves her confused for hours. Desmond calls, but she ignores him. He comes over later and they fuck, but it's nothing like the night before. Nothing she'll remember later, or imagine over and over in her head with her hand between her legs in the shower, knees weak. She wonders how he'll ever find her again.
She doesn't worry long. There's an evening in the middle of the week when he risks coming over and banging on the door at ten o'clock. She throws it open, half expecting him, half needing him. I know there's someone else, but- Ilana grabs him by the shirt and slams the door. The words don't finish forming before they're on the sofa, clothes still on, and he's deep inside her, pushing in over and over, his hands at that familiar spot in her hair again, until she's screaming his name.
She pulls him to her room, tugs at his clothes with her hands, his lips with her teeth. Again, she whispers. He laughs and kisses her neck, slow and wonderful and just so. She wonders what he is to her. What she is to him. Something more, she knows. Nothing ever feels this good and this right without being something large and grand and spectacular.
When Desmond gets shifty and distracted, she doesn't care, doesn't say much. Whether he knows or not that she's fucking someone else, he doesn't let on. Ben is over more and more often, sometimes working there with her. Grading papers on her bed, reading something out loud to her. A sonnet, a quote, something. She likes to hear his voice, likes to know there's something sturdy in her life. Do you love me? she says, after many months of this game.
Ben looks at her like she might be crazy, like she might be ridiculous. Of course. She shoves his papers off the bed and turns out the light, feeling his laughter roll through his chest. Of course I love you, he repeats. Of course I do.
Summary: He looks at her like she might be crazy.
Pairing(s): Desmond/Ilana, Ben/Ilana
Rating: R
Notes: I've been trying to do a Desmond/Ilana-Ben/Ilana longer fic for some time now. Let's see if I get this right.
Her mother dies on the fifteenth, middle of the summer. It's too hot for a funeral, Desmond mutters as they pick out a casket, last minute. Ilana's never believed in preparing for tragedy ahead of time. Something inside her tends to brave the storms as they come. Bunker down and fight it out. Preparing is cheating.
She wanted to be buried.
It's expensive.
Well you're not paying for it, she snaps, moving forward and deciding on a dark mahogoney wood. She pays for it and signs the delivery papers. Her mother will be buried in two days. Desmond drives her home and follows her up the stairs to her apartment. She doesn't let him in.
What's the matter with you?
You're annoying me. I want to be alone. He runs his fingers down her spine and whispers in her ear, but she curls away from him. I told you. Stop. She shuts the door and hears him curse and walk down the stairs. He's right. It's too hot for a funeral. It's too hot for a lot of things.
A week later Desmond wants to take her out to dinner, but cancels, leaving her in the parking lot. Ilana stands there and cries, for reasons she can only half explain. She bangs on the roof of her car until her palm hurts and a stranger's voice sounds from her right side. Hey. Hey, it's okay. His thin hands cover her own and pull them away from the metal of the car. Don't - you'll break something. And somehow she knows he not just talking about her hand.
I'm sorry, she whispers, and he laughs.
Come on. I'll buy you a drink. He's a smaller man, well dressed, sort of shy. She wonders where this bravery comes from, how big his heart must be, how stupid he must feel, how sweet he is. Silly little thoughts that blunder from one side of her brain to the next, tip out into a bad tasting beer.
Aren't you going to eat?
I did. But you could use this. She laughs, a little too harsh. He narrows his eyes and drinks water.
What's you're name? she says suddenly, setting the bottle, hard, down on the table.
Ben. You?
Ilana.
It's lovely, he says quietly, not meeting her eyes. She likes him.
An hour later and he's walking her to her apartment, following her when she beckons him inside. Whatever she and Desmond are, it will survive this, this fling with a history teacher who was too nice to let her drive herself home. He's better than she thought he'd be, less predictable than she'd imagined. She rarely comes the first time, but with him she does. Says his name at times when she's never said a man's name before. His hands instinctively get tangled in her hair, thumbs across her forehead. He whispers her name into her throat over and over again until his back arches and there! She falls asleep with her fingers brushing the crow's feet around his eyes, smoothing the skin over his lips.
In the morning, she ushers him out, lingers at the door over a long and heady kiss that leaves her confused for hours. Desmond calls, but she ignores him. He comes over later and they fuck, but it's nothing like the night before. Nothing she'll remember later, or imagine over and over in her head with her hand between her legs in the shower, knees weak. She wonders how he'll ever find her again.
She doesn't worry long. There's an evening in the middle of the week when he risks coming over and banging on the door at ten o'clock. She throws it open, half expecting him, half needing him. I know there's someone else, but- Ilana grabs him by the shirt and slams the door. The words don't finish forming before they're on the sofa, clothes still on, and he's deep inside her, pushing in over and over, his hands at that familiar spot in her hair again, until she's screaming his name.
She pulls him to her room, tugs at his clothes with her hands, his lips with her teeth. Again, she whispers. He laughs and kisses her neck, slow and wonderful and just so. She wonders what he is to her. What she is to him. Something more, she knows. Nothing ever feels this good and this right without being something large and grand and spectacular.
When Desmond gets shifty and distracted, she doesn't care, doesn't say much. Whether he knows or not that she's fucking someone else, he doesn't let on. Ben is over more and more often, sometimes working there with her. Grading papers on her bed, reading something out loud to her. A sonnet, a quote, something. She likes to hear his voice, likes to know there's something sturdy in her life. Do you love me? she says, after many months of this game.
Ben looks at her like she might be crazy, like she might be ridiculous. Of course. She shoves his papers off the bed and turns out the light, feeling his laughter roll through his chest. Of course I love you, he repeats. Of course I do.