Title: No One's Fantasy
Rating: PG-13, for themes
Disclaimer: Don't own them; just borrowing.
Summary: Kate and Ed Mars, on the road somewhere between arrest and arraignment. Come on, Kate. You don't get off on this, the chase?
There is a motel room.
There is a pair of handcuffs attached to a bedpost and a wrist.
(But this is no bored wife's fantasy. No, this is no fantasy at all.)
There is a man, and a woman. She calls him Edward and asks him, defiantly, if the United States government couldn't have sprung for two rooms. He stands at the window, pulls back the heavy curtain and looks out onto the lights of this no-name town, somewhere between Harrison Valley and Des Moines. Turning back to her, he sneers. "The United States government don't trust you enough to spring for two beds, sweetheart."
The woman holds his stare for several moments, eyes blazing, but looks away when he lets his gaze travel down her body, lingering at her breasts, her hip, her legs. (We can see she's naked, even though she's fully clothed. But this is still no fantasy. Never will be.)
There is a gun on the table. He lets the curtain fall closed and picks the weapon up instead. It's a casual movement; he's done this before. He's comfortable with the gun and he's comfortable with pointing it at her. And she doesn't flinch when he waves it carelessly in her direction.
The man smiles, and it's not genuine at all but it's not meant to be. "It's really a shame we had to meet this way, Kate." When he sits down on the bed she scoots away from him, as much as the cuffs will let her. Her eyes blaze at him again and we can smell her hatred on the stale air.
"Don't touch me."
His hand lifts from where it'd rested, briefly, on her thigh. The smile again, the sneer. "Come on, Kate. You don't get off on this, the chase?" He pauses. "Finally getting caught?"
We can taste her hatred now, too, but she stays completely still. Still, even as he drags the muzzle of the gun across her cheek, lightly, and traces her jawline with the cold metal. It'd be a caress if he were using his hand. (But remember: This is no fantasy.)
She waits a beat, then her free hand is up, fist clenched, her eyes fixed on the side of his jaw. We can almost hear the crack of bone on bone before it happens.
But he's faster than she is, and his fingers encircle her wrist and she's pushed back against the headboard. His face is inches from hers and he smiles again, slowly, that triumphant sneer.
Just as suddenly as her fist and his fingers, he releases her wrist and stands up, walks back to the table and perches on its edge. He flicks the lamp off and now the only light is the soft glow when he lights a cigarette.
"Try to sleep, Kate. Long day ahead of us."
We can hear the smile in his voice.