[fic] rookie blue | You Were the Ocean
Title | You Were the Ocean
Fandom | Rookie Blue
Character | Gail (/Luke)
Word Count | 1100
Summary | And it always does come down to this in the end; for them…
Author’s Note | For drzlilsuga’s prompt at my 2015 Comment Ficathon of Redemption. This is not a comment fic. Oops.
She slides onto the stool beside him,
nudges her shoulder deliberately into his as she sits,
sighs.
“Hiding in plain sight, huh?”
He ducks his head, looks over and up at her,
through his lashes,
offers her a shrug in reply.
“Detective Rosarti was looking for you when I left.”
He looks up properly at that but remains
silent.
“I told her I didn't know where you were.”
He raises his eyebrows
(and he’s all about the non-verbal communication at the moment,
so it seems).
“Maybe I wanted this seat all to myself?”
She answers his raised eyebrow version of a question mark in a round-about way that serves no purpose as an actual answer.
Or,
maybe,
it is the truest answer of them all. She tries not to think too hard about her motivations when it comes to
him
these days.
“I should warn you,” he says, and when he lifts his head she can see his eyes struggle to
find focus,
“I’ll probably fall in love with you before you’ve finished your first beer.”
(Fuck)
“How much have you had?” she asks, dragging the sleeve of her jacket just high enough to see:
20:52
“And then,” he ignores her, “just as you’re about to leave, I’ll probably ask you to
marry me.
It is my MO, after all.”
He lifts the glass in his hand with concentrated purpose and a comical degree of determination.
Still manages to
miss
on the first attempt.
“Apparently.”
(she’d go with fuck again,
as an exclamation as well as a summation of the situation in general,
but she’s pretty sure she’s already covered that part)
“Yeah, well,” she opts for instead, “I heard McNally asked you to marry her, not the other way round.”
And it’s not her most supportive moment, she’ll definitely
agree
with that.
His elbows slide forward through previously spilled beer and rings of watery condensation on the bar top. Forward, forward, forward til his
stubbled chin
is right there and resting in the pooled mess.
“Oh, Luke,” she says,
(his name feels heavy on her tongue, and she remembers
then,
this is why she rarely uses it)
“That was...
(uncalled for
not what I meant
the truth,
maybe,
but still…)
I’m sorry.”
She orders a tequila shot and a bottle of Moosehead to
chase it with
(excuse me, bartender, she uses her hands to say, hold the lemon wedge
non-verbal communication is not just for the mute
and morose
after all).
“Gail,” he says.
His eyes are closed, and he’s officially been cut-off, a printed receipt detailing his
tab
grows booze-soggy between the two of them.
“Gail,” he says again. An incongruous combination of
Suggestive
and
Sad.
But…
“Oh, no…” she says. Because she will not be that girl for him
(at least,
not tonight.
And,
especially,
not
like this…)
He says, “Oh, fuck.”
Which, yes.
Exactly.
“Yeah, well,”
She goes with a show of competitive one-upmanship in an attempt to
diffuse
the situation somewhat,
(if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em
or some other cheesy platitude)
“until you’ve been left at the altar in a shady Vegas chapel, you ‘aint got nothin’ on me, Callaghan.”
The tequila hits her tonsils and she
chokes
gags
loses all ability to inhale, exhale, inhale, breeeeathe.
And it’s little more than the perfect punctuation mark for that particular life event,
to be quite honest.
“Okay, so,” he says, filled with purpose and a co-ordinated pointer finger all of a sudden. “Maybe I wasn’t exactly left at the altar,”
(and the loose quotation marks he slings around this part of his rebuttal are a nice touch, she thinks,
nods)
“… but details, details, Constable Peck. It all amounts to the same thing in the end. A
broken heart
(pause, one beat, two…
four, five, six
eleven, twelve)
and a hangover.”
She laughs. Bitter.
They, the two of them, Peck and Callaghan, little more than
legacies
of their respective last names,
they are not supposed to have
hearts,
or so office gossip, version 2.0, would like to tell her.
“Gail,” he says again.
Still suggestive.
Still achingly sad.
And her resolve
slips
on cue.
Not for the first time,
she thinks.
“We can’t keep doing this,”
she says.
He stands, steadier than he has any right to be.
Loops his fingers tightly through hers and
pulls.
She fumbles for her credit card and slides it in the direction of the busily glass-polishing bartender. “We’ll be back,” she says, means it.
Repeats it.
“We’ll be back in a
minute.”
It’s raining in the parking lot, hard, cold water falling from the
perpetual grey cloud
that hangs over their heads.
“Luke,” she says, her painted lips staining the side of his neck, red, “Luke, Luke, Luke, Lukelukeluke…”
And sometimes heavy is
exactly
what she’s looking for.
It’s dark. Not pitch, but
not far off…
His hands shake
(anticipation
desperation
intoxication
cold)
as he manipulates buttons and zippers and buttons and buttons and buttons.
She wraps her fingers around his, then pins them,
splayed,
on either side of his head, his back against rough, wet brick as she kicks his feet apart to even the
playing field
somewhat.
He is responsive to her lead
(the choreography for this particular waltz?
familiar…),
finds her lips and her teeth and her tongue with his
lips,
teeth,
tongue.
He tastes like salt. And
rum
(and regret).
She pulls him away from the wall, pushes him flat on his back onto an (almost) empty packing crate.
Pulls, pushes. Pulls, pushes.
Pulls.
Pushes.
As she exhales, rain water bubbles on her lips, drips from the very tip of her nose. His jeans, just the right amount of
low
Her skirt, just the right amount of
high
(their underwear, just the right amount of
no longer in the goddamn way…)
“Fuck,” he says. Or she says.
Or no-one says.
The rain
rains.
They move to the beat of it, the incessant roar of water on road,
on roof
on skin
on water, on water, on water…
She’s got her hands pressed against his shoulders, holding him down even as he tries to sit up. She likes him
better
like this.
Beneath her.
Literally
(not metaphorically, never
metaphorically).
Literally, beneath her.
And,
inside of her.
She can see him most clearly in these moments. Raw and rent open. Exposed in a way he’d never dare
offer
to anyone else.
And it always does come down to this in the end; for them,
(touch, and taste, and skin
on skin
on skin).
Non-verbal
communication.
Fandom | Rookie Blue
Character | Gail (/Luke)
Word Count | 1100
Summary | And it always does come down to this in the end; for them…
Author’s Note | For drzlilsuga’s prompt at my 2015 Comment Ficathon of Redemption. This is not a comment fic. Oops.
She slides onto the stool beside him,
nudges her shoulder deliberately into his as she sits,
sighs.
“Hiding in plain sight, huh?”
He ducks his head, looks over and up at her,
through his lashes,
offers her a shrug in reply.
“Detective Rosarti was looking for you when I left.”
He looks up properly at that but remains
silent.
“I told her I didn't know where you were.”
He raises his eyebrows
(and he’s all about the non-verbal communication at the moment,
so it seems).
“Maybe I wanted this seat all to myself?”
She answers his raised eyebrow version of a question mark in a round-about way that serves no purpose as an actual answer.
Or,
maybe,
it is the truest answer of them all. She tries not to think too hard about her motivations when it comes to
him
these days.
“I should warn you,” he says, and when he lifts his head she can see his eyes struggle to
find focus,
“I’ll probably fall in love with you before you’ve finished your first beer.”
(Fuck)
“How much have you had?” she asks, dragging the sleeve of her jacket just high enough to see:
20:52
“And then,” he ignores her, “just as you’re about to leave, I’ll probably ask you to
marry me.
It is my MO, after all.”
He lifts the glass in his hand with concentrated purpose and a comical degree of determination.
Still manages to
miss
on the first attempt.
“Apparently.”
(she’d go with fuck again,
as an exclamation as well as a summation of the situation in general,
but she’s pretty sure she’s already covered that part)
“Yeah, well,” she opts for instead, “I heard McNally asked you to marry her, not the other way round.”
And it’s not her most supportive moment, she’ll definitely
agree
with that.
His elbows slide forward through previously spilled beer and rings of watery condensation on the bar top. Forward, forward, forward til his
stubbled chin
is right there and resting in the pooled mess.
“Oh, Luke,” she says,
(his name feels heavy on her tongue, and she remembers
then,
this is why she rarely uses it)
“That was...
(uncalled for
not what I meant
the truth,
maybe,
but still…)
I’m sorry.”
She orders a tequila shot and a bottle of Moosehead to
chase it with
(excuse me, bartender, she uses her hands to say, hold the lemon wedge
non-verbal communication is not just for the mute
and morose
after all).
“Gail,” he says.
His eyes are closed, and he’s officially been cut-off, a printed receipt detailing his
tab
grows booze-soggy between the two of them.
“Gail,” he says again. An incongruous combination of
Suggestive
and
Sad.
But…
“Oh, no…” she says. Because she will not be that girl for him
(at least,
not tonight.
And,
especially,
not
like this…)
He says, “Oh, fuck.”
Which, yes.
Exactly.
“Yeah, well,”
She goes with a show of competitive one-upmanship in an attempt to
diffuse
the situation somewhat,
(if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em
or some other cheesy platitude)
“until you’ve been left at the altar in a shady Vegas chapel, you ‘aint got nothin’ on me, Callaghan.”
The tequila hits her tonsils and she
chokes
gags
loses all ability to inhale, exhale, inhale, breeeeathe.
And it’s little more than the perfect punctuation mark for that particular life event,
to be quite honest.
“Okay, so,” he says, filled with purpose and a co-ordinated pointer finger all of a sudden. “Maybe I wasn’t exactly left at the altar,”
(and the loose quotation marks he slings around this part of his rebuttal are a nice touch, she thinks,
nods)
“… but details, details, Constable Peck. It all amounts to the same thing in the end. A
broken heart
(pause, one beat, two…
four, five, six
eleven, twelve)
and a hangover.”
She laughs. Bitter.
They, the two of them, Peck and Callaghan, little more than
legacies
of their respective last names,
they are not supposed to have
hearts,
or so office gossip, version 2.0, would like to tell her.
“Gail,” he says again.
Still suggestive.
Still achingly sad.
And her resolve
slips
on cue.
Not for the first time,
she thinks.
“We can’t keep doing this,”
she says.
He stands, steadier than he has any right to be.
Loops his fingers tightly through hers and
pulls.
She fumbles for her credit card and slides it in the direction of the busily glass-polishing bartender. “We’ll be back,” she says, means it.
Repeats it.
“We’ll be back in a
minute.”
It’s raining in the parking lot, hard, cold water falling from the
perpetual grey cloud
that hangs over their heads.
“Luke,” she says, her painted lips staining the side of his neck, red, “Luke, Luke, Luke, Lukelukeluke…”
And sometimes heavy is
exactly
what she’s looking for.
It’s dark. Not pitch, but
not far off…
His hands shake
(anticipation
desperation
intoxication
cold)
as he manipulates buttons and zippers and buttons and buttons and buttons.
She wraps her fingers around his, then pins them,
splayed,
on either side of his head, his back against rough, wet brick as she kicks his feet apart to even the
playing field
somewhat.
He is responsive to her lead
(the choreography for this particular waltz?
familiar…),
finds her lips and her teeth and her tongue with his
lips,
teeth,
tongue.
He tastes like salt. And
rum
(and regret).
She pulls him away from the wall, pushes him flat on his back onto an (almost) empty packing crate.
Pulls, pushes. Pulls, pushes.
Pulls.
Pushes.
As she exhales, rain water bubbles on her lips, drips from the very tip of her nose. His jeans, just the right amount of
low
Her skirt, just the right amount of
high
(their underwear, just the right amount of
no longer in the goddamn way…)
“Fuck,” he says. Or she says.
Or no-one says.
The rain
rains.
They move to the beat of it, the incessant roar of water on road,
on roof
on skin
on water, on water, on water…
She’s got her hands pressed against his shoulders, holding him down even as he tries to sit up. She likes him
better
like this.
Beneath her.
Literally
(not metaphorically, never
metaphorically).
Literally, beneath her.
And,
inside of her.
She can see him most clearly in these moments. Raw and rent open. Exposed in a way he’d never dare
offer
to anyone else.
And it always does come down to this in the end; for them,
(touch, and taste, and skin
on skin
on skin).
Non-verbal
communication.