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Jul. 18th, 2004 10:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
helsinkibabyAnd since I've just been over the The Heroine Ficathon Master List, I realised that I'd better post mine here. God help me and all who read this, I apologise in advance, especially to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
girlnorth because I'm sure this isn't what she had in mind!
Title: Thrice is Habit
Written for:girlnorth
Fandom: Alias (yeah, the CSI one? Not so much)
Pairing: Syd/Francie, Syd/Will, Syd Weiss. (You never said it had to be all slash... and I did get your restriction in there, apart from one teeny-weeny blink and you'll miss it reference to Lauren. Tiny. Hardly there. Really.
Rating: NC17 (yes, I know what I said, and by the time you read it, you will agree with me)
Sydney’s father used to have a saying.
Once is an accident.
Twice is coincidence.
Thrice is habit.
Sydney’s never been one to indulge in habits, not since she quit biting her nails at age thirteen. So even though she’s well aware of the high propensity among agents to need some kind of crutch to depend on – indeed, is well aware of the tendency towards needing liquid therapy in her own gene pool – she’s never worried about it happening to her.
She’s stronger than that.
She’s better than that.
Even after Danny and SD-6, even after Vaughn and the Covenant, she still thinks she’s better than that.
Then she wakes up in bed next to Weiss and she realises she’s wrong.
>*<*>*<
…accident…
The diamond ring shines brightly against the dark wood of the table, the stone refracting light into a thousand tiny patterns. She remembers the first time Danny slid it onto her finger, remembers how happy she was, a thousand tiny sunbursts of joy bubbling underneath her skin. She remembers waking up the next morning, Danny’s arms around her, Danny’s lips tracing a path along her back, and smiling as the diamond caught her eye. Memory and current situation combined had those same thousand tiny sunbursts of joy bubbling through her system once again, multiplied a million fold, and she had never felt so happy, knowing that her whole life was in front of her, her whole life with that man.
Coming home to find him dead was the worst pain she’d ever known.
She’s taken the ring off since then, in the shower, at work, on missions. But she’s always put it back on again, always kept that part of Danny with her.
But tonight, that ring is going to be put away at the back of her jewellery box, and the knowledge has a tear making its way down her cheek.
Beside her, Francie sniffs, her gaze on the ring beside Sydney’s, and Sydney’s heart breaks once again, this time for Francie, who was so in love with Charlie, who deserves so much more than a guy who would cheat on her. Sydney wants to make her friend feel better, reaches across to squeeze her hand, and Francie looks back, tries to smile through her tears, just like Sydney tries to smile through hers.
It doesn’t work.
It gets a little easier, both women find, after the lion’s share of two pints of ice cream, chocolate for Francie, coffee for Sydney, especially when that same ice cream is washed down with copious shots of vodka.
Just like it gets a little easier for Sydney to think of Danny, just like it gets a little easier for Francie to talk about Charlie, albeit in a slightly angry, “All men are bastards” type of rant.
Sydney listens, and she sympathises, and she holds Francie as she cries.
She’s not quite sure whose lips finds whose first, and it feels strange. She’s not sure if it’s because it’s not Danny, or if it’s because it’s not a man, or just because it’s Francie, but when she feels a slow current of pleasure unfurling in the pit of her stomach, spreading through her body, she decides it’s not bad different. It’s good different, good enough to have her opening her lips to Francie, tracing the outline of the other woman’s lips with her tongue, moaning when Francie’s hands move up her sides, ending up cupping her breasts. Neither are her own hands idle, one travelling down Francie’s back, tracing circles there, the other moving up, tangling in the long strands of dark hair.
Sydney loses herself in the kiss, only breaking it with a gasp when her back hits the couch cushions. That’s when she realises just how much clothing is askew, that Francie is looking down at her, eyes dilated, black with lust, and she hears herself moaning again, because it hits her, through the blur of vodka and sensation, that they’re really going to do this.
If she wasn’t sure, any hint of doubt is removed when Francie’s hand, which had been tracing lazy circles on Sydney’s hip, moves across, across and down, finding quickly the spot that makes Sydney moan, make her hips move up involuntarily. Francie grins, something almost feral about the look, something that sends another rush of sensation through Sydney, makes her close her eyes because it’s all too much. Just like it’s too much when Francie slides a finger inside her, then another, moving them in and out deliciously slowly. She leans forward, her lips finding Sydney’s, lingering there for a moment to swallow her moans, before they make a path across her cheek, to the hollow where her lips meet her shoulder. Lost on a tide of sensation, Sydney barely recognises her own voice, the sounds that she’s making, and then the world shatters around her, a thousand tiny sunbursts of joy bubbling through her system.
When she comes back to earth, limbs heavy and languid, she meets Francie’s gaze, and this time, the eyes that meet hers are black with something other than lust, something that looks quite a bit like worry. Sydney doesn’t like that look, doesn’t want to see it there, so she draws Francie’s head down, meets her lips with enough force to leave bruises.
“Syd-” Francie mutters into her mouth, and Sydney draws away, just enough to shake her head.
“Don’t,” she says simply, flipping Francie over easily, kissing her again, and again, hands moving down her body, just as Francie’s had moved down hers.
She smiles when Francie throws her head back, calls out her name, just like she smiles when they drift off to sleep in one another’s arms.
When she wakes up, she is alone in the living room, the smell of cooking pancakes wafting through the apartment. Francie smiles at her, passes her a plate, passes her some Advil and a strong cup of coffee.
She makes no moves to touch her, and they never speak of the previous night.
>*<*>*<
…coincidence…
What else do you do, Sydney asks herself, when you find yourself in a room in Warsaw with one of your best friends, a friend who, until very recently, thought you were dead, a friend with whom you are on a mission of international espionage, and you know you’re probably going to end up facing a woman who is the doppelganger of another of your best friends, who also happens to be his dead girlfriend, who also happened to be a former one-night-stand of yours?
Sydney’s a smart girl, but even if she wasn’t, there’s only one answer that presents itself.
Vodka.
Lots and lots of vodka.
Polish vodka. The good stuff.
It’s far from the first time they’ve done vodka shots, but it’s the first time that neither one has been involved with someone else, the first time that they’ve been able to drink to Francie, to Danny, to all the other people they’ve lost. It’s the first time that Will, who always had something of a crush on her, has been drunk since he saw her come back from the dead, and it’s the first time since Sydney came back from the dead that she’s been feeling anything like normal. Like she’s close to getting her life back.
Then, of course, there’s the high of what they’re doing, being on the run, chasing rabbits, trying to keep one step ahead of the bad guys.
Sydney’s used to it, but this is the first time that Will’s done anything like this, and she can tell from his eyes that he’s finding the adrenaline rush at least as intoxicating as this rather splendid Polish vodka.
Somehow, she’s not sure how, they end up in one another’s arms.
Somehow, and she thinks she’s the one who started it, but what with the adrenaline and the tears and the splendid Polish vodka, she can’t be sure, they end up kissing.
And, though Francie told her as much, Sydney’s still surprised to find out that Will’s a good kisser.
A really good kisser, because his lips on hers make her stomach swim. Which is nothing compared to the sensations that course through her when his lips move from her lips to her neck, five o’clock shadow heightening the sensation. Stubble rash is a certainty, and when he nips and bites and suckles her flesh, so are other marks, but she clutches at his shoulders with an almost desperate ferocity, and she decides that she really couldn’t give a damn.
Somehow, they make it to the bed, which is somewhat of a surprise, because, between the vodka and the kissing, she’s not so sure that she can walk. But he lays her down and he looks into her eyes, and she knows this should be weird, because it’s Will, and he’s always been just a friend, but she’s been declared dead for two years, and Francie is dead and Vaughn is married, and nothing in her life makes sense, so why should she question this?
Especially when his touch is spreading fire through her body, fire powerful enough to burn away all the questions, all the doubts she’s been living with for the last however many weeks and months. Powerful enough to burn away the whole world, let it all fall to ash, with the only things left her and Will and this bed and the things he’s making her feel. She moans and rocks against him, scores his back with her fingernails, begs him for more, harder and faster and please don’t stop, and when the explosion comes, when the fire consumes her, he’s right there with her.
They make love long into the night, and hours later, when the power of speech is returned to her, so is the power of thought, and she realises something that sends her away from him to the computer screen, and what she finds enables them to complete her mission.
It’s only when she stands in a hallway in the Rotunda that she realises that they never talked about that night, about what they did, and she calls after him, tells him so. He tilts his head, smiles that Will smile that she’s missed so much and agrees with her, but adds that he kind of likes that.
And Sydney smiles, because she does too.
>*<*>*<
…habit…
It’s not the first time that Weiss has stopped by after work. He’s her friend who lives right down the block, he comes over and they cook, or they eat take-out, watch spy movies and television shows and snark them mercilessly. He’s her friend who understands her life, knows what she’s going through, who listens if she wants to talk, backs off when she doesn’t. Hell, for the first few weeks after she came back to life, he practically lived with her, and she doesn’t know how she would have got back on her feet without him.
So it’s not the first time he’s come over; it’s not even the first time this month.
Nor is it the first time that he’s ever come over bearing a six-pack; again, it’s not even the first time this month.
It is, however, the first time in a while that they’ve moved past beer to vodka. Not the splendid Polish vodka she shared with Will, some part of her mind notes absently, but still pretty good.
Pretty good means enough to loosen her inhibitions, enough to have her telling him about her recent trip to North Korea with Vaughn, about a jail cell and a firing squad that wasn’t, and a kiss that definitely was.
Pretty good means enough for him to still be able to think somewhat rationally, to realise that that’s why she asked for him, rather than Vaughn, for her next mission, to call her on it. It’s only when she nods and sees his lips twist, sees how he slams down the next shot that she realises that he’s pissed off, and she doesn’t know why.
So she does the only rational thing, well, as rational she can be when she’s mixing beer and vodka.
She calls him on it.
“What?”
He looks at her, brown eyes burning into hers, searing right the way down to the depths of her soul, and when he speaks, he sounds even more bitter than he looks. “Nothing,” he says. “I guess that’s just destined to be my lot in life… Vaughn’s second. Second best.” The last is muttered considerably lower, and she doesn’t think she’s meant to hear it, but she does, and when he goes for the vodka bottle, ready to pour another round, she intercepts his hand, twisting her fingers around his.
“That’s not it,” she protests. “I would never think of you like that.”
She believes it too, at least she thinks she does, but it’s plain that he doesn’t. “Right,” he scoffs. “Whatever you say.”
“Damn right whatever I say.” She’s a little tipsy, moving into belligerent drunk territory, but she doesn’t care. She’s still holding onto his hand, and she uses her free hand to poke at him with her index finger to emphasise her point. “You’re a great agent Eric… I trust you with my life… and you’re a great friend…”
She stops talking when he catches her finger mid-stab, and the touch of his hand is warm, warm enough to burn, just like his eyes did, and are. “Friend,” he echoes. “See Syd, that’s the problem.”
The words hang suspended between them, and she stares at him, shocked. “Oh,” is the most she can manage, and he chuckles softly, humourlessly.
“Yeah,” he says. “Oh.” He holds her gaze a moment longer, then shifts, dropping his hand, moving to stand. “Look, I should go…”
“Don’t.” She didn’t know she was going to say that, much less that her hand was going to shoot out, was going to close around his wrist, but she does both, and he’s half-standing, looking down at her curiously. “Don’t go,” she clarifies, and when he doesn’t move, either towards her or away from her, she tugs his arm, adds on, “Stay.”
The tug, gentle as it is, when combined with the alcohol in his system, is enough to have him falling back down on the couch, considerably closer to her than he was previously. He stares at her, mouth open slightly, and she moves her hand so that their palms are touching, entwining their fingers together. “Syd…” he begins, and the words are choked, as if it pains him to say them. “If I stay…”
His voice trails off then, because she smiles, moving easily so that she straddles him, rocking her hips against his as she does so. What she feels there broadens her smile, and her free hand goes to his cheek, caresses it. “If you stay, what?” she whispers, and his eyes flutter shut, opening with what looks like considerable effort.
“You know what,” he replies, and his free hand moves up, finds the bottom buttons on her shirt, pops them open easily. His fingers brush against the skin of her belly, and she leans into him, bringing her lips close to his.
“Yeah,” she says, rocking against him one more time for good measure, and this time, he thrusts up to meet her. “So… stay.”
His lips are millimetres away from his, and the air between them seems to vibrate, an electrical charge pulling them towards one another. When nature takes its inevitable course, it’s as if sparks fly between them, hands roaming, clothes melting away, and no words are necessary.
>*<*>*<
Sydney’s father used to have a saying.
Once is an accident.
Twice is coincidence.
Thrice is habit.
So when she wakes up next to Weiss, she closes her eyes, counts to ten.
When she opens her eyes and she’s still there, Weiss’s body pressed against hers, she sighs, mutters, “This is getting to be a habit.”
“What is?”
The sleepy voice beside her makes her jump, but when she turns her head, looks into his eyes, which are not sleepy, but rather alert, she knows that he’s been awake for a while. Which means he had every opportunity to leave, but didn’t.
Which doesn’t actually surprise her, because she knows Weiss.
Just like she knows that he’s not going to let this go.
So she answers him honestly.
“Getting drunk and falling into bed with my best friend,” she says simply.
It sounds so much worse when it’s said aloud, but he doesn’t react, save to raise an eyebrow, look down at her curiously. “You do this a lot?” he asks, and when she shrugs, he holds up a hand. “Don’t answer that.” Another tilt of the head, a squint of the eyes. “I’m your best friend?”
Her cheeks grow warm, which she thinks is strange when considering what they did last night, and she looks down, plays with the sheet covering her. “Yeah…”
“And I’m not the first best friend you’ve…”
He lets his voice trail off, and she’s glad that she’s not looking at him, doesn’t want to see the disgust that she’s sure is on his face. She can’t even speak, just nods.
“Well then…” The smile in his voice has her looking back up at him, and he pulls her close to him. Surprise means she offers little resistance, and his lips are on hers before she realises that he was speaking as he was moving her, words that make her smile against his lips.
“If I’m not the first… just make sure I’m the last… ok?”
She winds her arms around the neck and promises herself, and him, that this is one habit she’s going to break.
girlnorth because I'm sure this isn't what she had in mind! Title: Thrice is Habit
Written for:
girlnorthFandom: Alias (yeah, the CSI one? Not so much)
Pairing: Syd/Francie, Syd/Will, Syd Weiss. (You never said it had to be all slash... and I did get your restriction in there, apart from one teeny-weeny blink and you'll miss it reference to Lauren. Tiny. Hardly there. Really.
Rating: NC17 (yes, I know what I said, and by the time you read it, you will agree with me)
Sydney’s father used to have a saying.
Once is an accident.
Twice is coincidence.
Thrice is habit.
Sydney’s never been one to indulge in habits, not since she quit biting her nails at age thirteen. So even though she’s well aware of the high propensity among agents to need some kind of crutch to depend on – indeed, is well aware of the tendency towards needing liquid therapy in her own gene pool – she’s never worried about it happening to her.
She’s stronger than that.
She’s better than that.
Even after Danny and SD-6, even after Vaughn and the Covenant, she still thinks she’s better than that.
Then she wakes up in bed next to Weiss and she realises she’s wrong.
>*<*>*<
…accident…
The diamond ring shines brightly against the dark wood of the table, the stone refracting light into a thousand tiny patterns. She remembers the first time Danny slid it onto her finger, remembers how happy she was, a thousand tiny sunbursts of joy bubbling underneath her skin. She remembers waking up the next morning, Danny’s arms around her, Danny’s lips tracing a path along her back, and smiling as the diamond caught her eye. Memory and current situation combined had those same thousand tiny sunbursts of joy bubbling through her system once again, multiplied a million fold, and she had never felt so happy, knowing that her whole life was in front of her, her whole life with that man.
Coming home to find him dead was the worst pain she’d ever known.
She’s taken the ring off since then, in the shower, at work, on missions. But she’s always put it back on again, always kept that part of Danny with her.
But tonight, that ring is going to be put away at the back of her jewellery box, and the knowledge has a tear making its way down her cheek.
Beside her, Francie sniffs, her gaze on the ring beside Sydney’s, and Sydney’s heart breaks once again, this time for Francie, who was so in love with Charlie, who deserves so much more than a guy who would cheat on her. Sydney wants to make her friend feel better, reaches across to squeeze her hand, and Francie looks back, tries to smile through her tears, just like Sydney tries to smile through hers.
It doesn’t work.
It gets a little easier, both women find, after the lion’s share of two pints of ice cream, chocolate for Francie, coffee for Sydney, especially when that same ice cream is washed down with copious shots of vodka.
Just like it gets a little easier for Sydney to think of Danny, just like it gets a little easier for Francie to talk about Charlie, albeit in a slightly angry, “All men are bastards” type of rant.
Sydney listens, and she sympathises, and she holds Francie as she cries.
She’s not quite sure whose lips finds whose first, and it feels strange. She’s not sure if it’s because it’s not Danny, or if it’s because it’s not a man, or just because it’s Francie, but when she feels a slow current of pleasure unfurling in the pit of her stomach, spreading through her body, she decides it’s not bad different. It’s good different, good enough to have her opening her lips to Francie, tracing the outline of the other woman’s lips with her tongue, moaning when Francie’s hands move up her sides, ending up cupping her breasts. Neither are her own hands idle, one travelling down Francie’s back, tracing circles there, the other moving up, tangling in the long strands of dark hair.
Sydney loses herself in the kiss, only breaking it with a gasp when her back hits the couch cushions. That’s when she realises just how much clothing is askew, that Francie is looking down at her, eyes dilated, black with lust, and she hears herself moaning again, because it hits her, through the blur of vodka and sensation, that they’re really going to do this.
If she wasn’t sure, any hint of doubt is removed when Francie’s hand, which had been tracing lazy circles on Sydney’s hip, moves across, across and down, finding quickly the spot that makes Sydney moan, make her hips move up involuntarily. Francie grins, something almost feral about the look, something that sends another rush of sensation through Sydney, makes her close her eyes because it’s all too much. Just like it’s too much when Francie slides a finger inside her, then another, moving them in and out deliciously slowly. She leans forward, her lips finding Sydney’s, lingering there for a moment to swallow her moans, before they make a path across her cheek, to the hollow where her lips meet her shoulder. Lost on a tide of sensation, Sydney barely recognises her own voice, the sounds that she’s making, and then the world shatters around her, a thousand tiny sunbursts of joy bubbling through her system.
When she comes back to earth, limbs heavy and languid, she meets Francie’s gaze, and this time, the eyes that meet hers are black with something other than lust, something that looks quite a bit like worry. Sydney doesn’t like that look, doesn’t want to see it there, so she draws Francie’s head down, meets her lips with enough force to leave bruises.
“Syd-” Francie mutters into her mouth, and Sydney draws away, just enough to shake her head.
“Don’t,” she says simply, flipping Francie over easily, kissing her again, and again, hands moving down her body, just as Francie’s had moved down hers.
She smiles when Francie throws her head back, calls out her name, just like she smiles when they drift off to sleep in one another’s arms.
When she wakes up, she is alone in the living room, the smell of cooking pancakes wafting through the apartment. Francie smiles at her, passes her a plate, passes her some Advil and a strong cup of coffee.
She makes no moves to touch her, and they never speak of the previous night.
>*<*>*<
…coincidence…
What else do you do, Sydney asks herself, when you find yourself in a room in Warsaw with one of your best friends, a friend who, until very recently, thought you were dead, a friend with whom you are on a mission of international espionage, and you know you’re probably going to end up facing a woman who is the doppelganger of another of your best friends, who also happens to be his dead girlfriend, who also happened to be a former one-night-stand of yours?
Sydney’s a smart girl, but even if she wasn’t, there’s only one answer that presents itself.
Vodka.
Lots and lots of vodka.
Polish vodka. The good stuff.
It’s far from the first time they’ve done vodka shots, but it’s the first time that neither one has been involved with someone else, the first time that they’ve been able to drink to Francie, to Danny, to all the other people they’ve lost. It’s the first time that Will, who always had something of a crush on her, has been drunk since he saw her come back from the dead, and it’s the first time since Sydney came back from the dead that she’s been feeling anything like normal. Like she’s close to getting her life back.
Then, of course, there’s the high of what they’re doing, being on the run, chasing rabbits, trying to keep one step ahead of the bad guys.
Sydney’s used to it, but this is the first time that Will’s done anything like this, and she can tell from his eyes that he’s finding the adrenaline rush at least as intoxicating as this rather splendid Polish vodka.
Somehow, she’s not sure how, they end up in one another’s arms.
Somehow, and she thinks she’s the one who started it, but what with the adrenaline and the tears and the splendid Polish vodka, she can’t be sure, they end up kissing.
And, though Francie told her as much, Sydney’s still surprised to find out that Will’s a good kisser.
A really good kisser, because his lips on hers make her stomach swim. Which is nothing compared to the sensations that course through her when his lips move from her lips to her neck, five o’clock shadow heightening the sensation. Stubble rash is a certainty, and when he nips and bites and suckles her flesh, so are other marks, but she clutches at his shoulders with an almost desperate ferocity, and she decides that she really couldn’t give a damn.
Somehow, they make it to the bed, which is somewhat of a surprise, because, between the vodka and the kissing, she’s not so sure that she can walk. But he lays her down and he looks into her eyes, and she knows this should be weird, because it’s Will, and he’s always been just a friend, but she’s been declared dead for two years, and Francie is dead and Vaughn is married, and nothing in her life makes sense, so why should she question this?
Especially when his touch is spreading fire through her body, fire powerful enough to burn away all the questions, all the doubts she’s been living with for the last however many weeks and months. Powerful enough to burn away the whole world, let it all fall to ash, with the only things left her and Will and this bed and the things he’s making her feel. She moans and rocks against him, scores his back with her fingernails, begs him for more, harder and faster and please don’t stop, and when the explosion comes, when the fire consumes her, he’s right there with her.
They make love long into the night, and hours later, when the power of speech is returned to her, so is the power of thought, and she realises something that sends her away from him to the computer screen, and what she finds enables them to complete her mission.
It’s only when she stands in a hallway in the Rotunda that she realises that they never talked about that night, about what they did, and she calls after him, tells him so. He tilts his head, smiles that Will smile that she’s missed so much and agrees with her, but adds that he kind of likes that.
And Sydney smiles, because she does too.
>*<*>*<
…habit…
It’s not the first time that Weiss has stopped by after work. He’s her friend who lives right down the block, he comes over and they cook, or they eat take-out, watch spy movies and television shows and snark them mercilessly. He’s her friend who understands her life, knows what she’s going through, who listens if she wants to talk, backs off when she doesn’t. Hell, for the first few weeks after she came back to life, he practically lived with her, and she doesn’t know how she would have got back on her feet without him.
So it’s not the first time he’s come over; it’s not even the first time this month.
Nor is it the first time that he’s ever come over bearing a six-pack; again, it’s not even the first time this month.
It is, however, the first time in a while that they’ve moved past beer to vodka. Not the splendid Polish vodka she shared with Will, some part of her mind notes absently, but still pretty good.
Pretty good means enough to loosen her inhibitions, enough to have her telling him about her recent trip to North Korea with Vaughn, about a jail cell and a firing squad that wasn’t, and a kiss that definitely was.
Pretty good means enough for him to still be able to think somewhat rationally, to realise that that’s why she asked for him, rather than Vaughn, for her next mission, to call her on it. It’s only when she nods and sees his lips twist, sees how he slams down the next shot that she realises that he’s pissed off, and she doesn’t know why.
So she does the only rational thing, well, as rational she can be when she’s mixing beer and vodka.
She calls him on it.
“What?”
He looks at her, brown eyes burning into hers, searing right the way down to the depths of her soul, and when he speaks, he sounds even more bitter than he looks. “Nothing,” he says. “I guess that’s just destined to be my lot in life… Vaughn’s second. Second best.” The last is muttered considerably lower, and she doesn’t think she’s meant to hear it, but she does, and when he goes for the vodka bottle, ready to pour another round, she intercepts his hand, twisting her fingers around his.
“That’s not it,” she protests. “I would never think of you like that.”
She believes it too, at least she thinks she does, but it’s plain that he doesn’t. “Right,” he scoffs. “Whatever you say.”
“Damn right whatever I say.” She’s a little tipsy, moving into belligerent drunk territory, but she doesn’t care. She’s still holding onto his hand, and she uses her free hand to poke at him with her index finger to emphasise her point. “You’re a great agent Eric… I trust you with my life… and you’re a great friend…”
She stops talking when he catches her finger mid-stab, and the touch of his hand is warm, warm enough to burn, just like his eyes did, and are. “Friend,” he echoes. “See Syd, that’s the problem.”
The words hang suspended between them, and she stares at him, shocked. “Oh,” is the most she can manage, and he chuckles softly, humourlessly.
“Yeah,” he says. “Oh.” He holds her gaze a moment longer, then shifts, dropping his hand, moving to stand. “Look, I should go…”
“Don’t.” She didn’t know she was going to say that, much less that her hand was going to shoot out, was going to close around his wrist, but she does both, and he’s half-standing, looking down at her curiously. “Don’t go,” she clarifies, and when he doesn’t move, either towards her or away from her, she tugs his arm, adds on, “Stay.”
The tug, gentle as it is, when combined with the alcohol in his system, is enough to have him falling back down on the couch, considerably closer to her than he was previously. He stares at her, mouth open slightly, and she moves her hand so that their palms are touching, entwining their fingers together. “Syd…” he begins, and the words are choked, as if it pains him to say them. “If I stay…”
His voice trails off then, because she smiles, moving easily so that she straddles him, rocking her hips against his as she does so. What she feels there broadens her smile, and her free hand goes to his cheek, caresses it. “If you stay, what?” she whispers, and his eyes flutter shut, opening with what looks like considerable effort.
“You know what,” he replies, and his free hand moves up, finds the bottom buttons on her shirt, pops them open easily. His fingers brush against the skin of her belly, and she leans into him, bringing her lips close to his.
“Yeah,” she says, rocking against him one more time for good measure, and this time, he thrusts up to meet her. “So… stay.”
His lips are millimetres away from his, and the air between them seems to vibrate, an electrical charge pulling them towards one another. When nature takes its inevitable course, it’s as if sparks fly between them, hands roaming, clothes melting away, and no words are necessary.
>*<*>*<
Sydney’s father used to have a saying.
Once is an accident.
Twice is coincidence.
Thrice is habit.
So when she wakes up next to Weiss, she closes her eyes, counts to ten.
When she opens her eyes and she’s still there, Weiss’s body pressed against hers, she sighs, mutters, “This is getting to be a habit.”
“What is?”
The sleepy voice beside her makes her jump, but when she turns her head, looks into his eyes, which are not sleepy, but rather alert, she knows that he’s been awake for a while. Which means he had every opportunity to leave, but didn’t.
Which doesn’t actually surprise her, because she knows Weiss.
Just like she knows that he’s not going to let this go.
So she answers him honestly.
“Getting drunk and falling into bed with my best friend,” she says simply.
It sounds so much worse when it’s said aloud, but he doesn’t react, save to raise an eyebrow, look down at her curiously. “You do this a lot?” he asks, and when she shrugs, he holds up a hand. “Don’t answer that.” Another tilt of the head, a squint of the eyes. “I’m your best friend?”
Her cheeks grow warm, which she thinks is strange when considering what they did last night, and she looks down, plays with the sheet covering her. “Yeah…”
“And I’m not the first best friend you’ve…”
He lets his voice trail off, and she’s glad that she’s not looking at him, doesn’t want to see the disgust that she’s sure is on his face. She can’t even speak, just nods.
“Well then…” The smile in his voice has her looking back up at him, and he pulls her close to him. Surprise means she offers little resistance, and his lips are on hers before she realises that he was speaking as he was moving her, words that make her smile against his lips.
“If I’m not the first… just make sure I’m the last… ok?”
She winds her arms around the neck and promises herself, and him, that this is one habit she’s going to break.
