Sadly pornless, set towards the end of Small Favor.
*
When she opens the door to his new office he and Hendricks are unloading a box of books; they’d been talking earlier but fallen silent as she drew near, so she’d heard nothing of their conversation.
He’s half-seated on the desk, a slender paperback curled in his right hand, and, ignoring Hendricks, she goes to him. He’s two or three inches taller than her, but between her heels and his posture she has to bend her head down to meet his lips and he kisses her dryly but not chastely. There is hunger in it, and his hand presses hard against her silk shirt, and it is not entirely unpleasant.
She pulls back. Hendricks has left them wordlessly, although probably not without his own form of mute protest. Hendricks doesn’t trust her. Hendricks doesn’t trust her with him, or him with her, or all of the above.
His eyes are closed, and it makes him look slightly vulnerable, more so than the bruises, the bandages, and, she imagines, the blood that must have covered him until recently.
She touches the bandage over his left ear, and he opens his eyes.
“They hurt you,” she says.
His mouth moves. A smile, maybe, or a grimace. “A little,” he concedes. “My pride, mostly.”
“Oh?” Her hand trails over the gauze, tracing the truncated flesh underneath. He does not flinch.
“I was not their primary target. Merely a test run, and possibly bait, for what they truly wanted, someone far more important than me, who turned out to be an eleven year old girl.”
She stares. He, lost in thought, continues.
“And once they had her, they hardly bothered with me. Well. A child of that age is more... responsive to pain, of course. More amusing for them to torture. To jeer at. To taunt that she should cry out for her mother, when she could not even--” He breaks off, and moves his hand from her waist to her hair. “My apologies. I forgot.”
She can barely hear him, only dimly feels it when he wraps his arms around her and holds her while she shakes. At the end of it, he stands up, kisses her fleetingly on her forehead, says, “Later,” and helps her to the door.
Hendricks is waiting, just outside. He glances at her, then at him, and frowns a barely perceptible frown, but stands aside. She walks past him to the elevator, and behind her the conversation resumes, but right now she does not, cannot, care.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
Mini-fill
Date: 2011-02-27 08:48 pm (UTC)*
When she opens the door to his new office he and Hendricks are unloading a box of books; they’d been talking earlier but fallen silent as she drew near, so she’d heard nothing of their conversation.
He’s half-seated on the desk, a slender paperback curled in his right hand, and, ignoring Hendricks, she goes to him. He’s two or three inches taller than her, but between her heels and his posture she has to bend her head down to meet his lips and he kisses her dryly but not chastely. There is hunger in it, and his hand presses hard against her silk shirt, and it is not entirely unpleasant.
She pulls back. Hendricks has left them wordlessly, although probably not without his own form of mute protest. Hendricks doesn’t trust her. Hendricks doesn’t trust her with him, or him with her, or all of the above.
His eyes are closed, and it makes him look slightly vulnerable, more so than the bruises, the bandages, and, she imagines, the blood that must have covered him until recently.
She touches the bandage over his left ear, and he opens his eyes.
“They hurt you,” she says.
His mouth moves. A smile, maybe, or a grimace. “A little,” he concedes. “My pride, mostly.”
“Oh?” Her hand trails over the gauze, tracing the truncated flesh underneath. He does not flinch.
“I was not their primary target. Merely a test run, and possibly bait, for what they truly wanted, someone far more important than me, who turned out to be an eleven year old girl.”
She stares. He, lost in thought, continues.
“And once they had her, they hardly bothered with me. Well. A child of that age is more... responsive to pain, of course. More amusing for them to torture. To jeer at. To taunt that she should cry out for her mother, when she could not even--” He breaks off, and moves his hand from her waist to her hair. “My apologies. I forgot.”
She can barely hear him, only dimly feels it when he wraps his arms around her and holds her while she shakes. At the end of it, he stands up, kisses her fleetingly on her forehead, says, “Later,” and helps her to the door.
Hendricks is waiting, just outside. He glances at her, then at him, and frowns a barely perceptible frown, but stands aside. She walks past him to the elevator, and behind her the conversation resumes, but right now she does not, cannot, care.