Great Romances of the 20th Century

Summary: He will always want what he can't have, and she is the ultimate untouchable. Declan/Fiona

Disclaimer: don't own the characters, title is a song by Taking Back Sunday.

A/N: I know, it's weird, but I also know I'm not the only one who thought something was going on when these two were first introduced.

idée fixe — an idea dominating the mind; an obsession

It's on a Monday night and in the backseat of a limo - not his - when Declan is struck by the realization that everything is about to change.

He feels it, but does nothing to stop it; instead he instigates it, eggs it on, and adds fuel to the fire by taking the hand of a senator's daughter and pushing her down into the plush leather seats. (He has always believed in the power of nature versus nurture—and it is certainly within his nature to be the one to strike the match rather than to seek out an extinguisher.)

"You're beautiful," he whispers against the girl's lips, and it isn't a complete lie - he just doesn't believe the statement as much as he allows her to think he does. It's a little white lie, executed out of necessity. In his mind he hears what Fiona's cocky response would be if he were to say this to her instead: "I know."

They've met before; the senator's daughter has told him just about every little mundane detail of her life, including her name, but he's never really bothered to remember any of those. Declan slides his hand up her skirt, not stopping when he reaches the band of her underwear, and she giggles. The sound is momentarily grating but it's also a means to an end and so he ignores it. When she dips her head towards his, strands of her silky dark brown hair tickle his chin. She smells faintly of Chanel no. 5 and tastes like cherries - the perfume that Fiona hates and the fruit she can never get enough of. The eyes of the senator's daughter are a dull and flat shade of blue but when he closes his eyes he sees a cerulean hue that reminds him of icicles, and a heart shaped mouth biting hard into a plump red cherry.

The senator's daughter kisses him with far too much tongue, but he isn't complaining when her roving hands land on the fly of his zipper.

In the darkened backseat of the senator's limo, Declan comes hard with the senator's daughter's mouth wrapped firmly around him and with the cadence of Fiona's name on his lips.

On Tuesday, Victoria hides some scotch underneath her cocktail dress and slides a bottle of champagne inside her boyfriend's jacket as they all sneak out back to the pool house. It is both a poor attempt at being inconspicuous and a pathetic cry for attention. She accomplishes neither, but is remarkably smashed by the time the champagne is passed Declan's way.

The rim of the champagne bottle is covered in Fiona's lipstick—Patisserie, it's called—and Declan is convinced the drink somehow tastes even sweeter because of her. "I abhor champagne."

"You abhor a lot of things," she reminds him, the beginnings of a smile causing her lips to twitch.

"Well, I despise champagne," he insists seriously.

"I know." Fiona giggles as she takes the bottle from him, her hand wrapping around the cool glass with effortless grace.

He hates champagne because she loves it and it reminds him so much (too much) of her - sweet, light, and elegant. As it is, champagne is everywhere in this society and he already thinks of her more than he should without having to be reminded of his obsession every time he takes a fucking sip of his drink.

Fiona's knee brushes against the outside of his thigh but she lets it stay where it is. Either she doesn't notice, or she ignores it. The latter is probably more likely. She loves to feign oblivion to how her actions make him feel.

"Ignorance is bliss," he mumbles morosely.

"What?" She laughs, a flush of scarlet coloring her cheeks, bringing his attention back to the desire that burns underneath his skin, and he swears the need to touch her is so overwhelming it's killing him.

Her leg is pressed firmly against his; he wants to both push her away and pull her closer. He thinks he's losing his mind.

He wonders if she even realizes what she does to him. He knows she likes to tease him—the soft touches, the hand on his knee, which no one can see but, god, he can feel—but sometimes he finds it difficult to brush it off as nothing. (Because to him, it is everything.)

"So do you think Victoria's boy-toy will last another hour?" he asks her, motioning towards the closed bathroom door and trying to distract himself with the lull of meaningless conversation.

"I don't know... champagne and scotch seem to have the opposite effect on her libido, compared to the average person."

She giggles again and he looks up to find her staring at him. "What?"

She doesn't answer him, instead her smile softens and her eyes drop down to his lips and before he can stop her, her thumb is brushing across his lips and wiping away smudges of her lipstick. "You don't look good in drag," she informs him, her voice dropping to a low pitch that causes a stirring somewhere deep in his gut.

"I know."

Declan has resigned himself to leaving their meaningful looks unresolved and untouched, decided that inconsequential trysts with unavailable Canadian (or European, or American- the list is innumerable) girls will have to be enough to smother his feelings for the only girl he shouldn't want, in any and every sense of the word.

"Declan," she sighs, her tone soft and leading. The tip of her thumb is resting somewhere near his bottom lip and he kisses it softly, delicately, before grabbing her hands and removing them from his face.

He doesn't know how much more of this he'll be able to take.

Thursday, he is forced to attend yet another pointless societal dinner, with his sister by his side and their parents working the room, painting the perfect picture of familial stability. But Fiona's standing much too close to him and when she leans into his ear to mock Victoria's seemingly constant state of inebriation, he can feel her breath on his neck and her hand on his arm and it is almost too much for him to handle then.

Declan leaves her behind, walking abruptly to the balcony to get out of Fiona's suffocating atmosphere of the scent of her perfume - something sweet and tangy, with the hint of lilacs - hoping some fresh air will do him good and allow him to think more clearly.

She follows him, two minutes later, handing him a drink and sipping her own.

"Scotch?" he asks, hopefully.

Fiona shakes her head, demure smile betraying her. "Seltzer water; as if you need any more scotch."

He nods, leaning against the railing of the balcony, trying to put some distance between him and his malleable thoughts. "What's wrong?" He really wishes she wouldn't ask him that.


"Nothing," he lies instead. And the guilt within him only increases, because he has always preferred not to lie to her.

He takes the glass, but pointedly avoids looking her in the eyes. He fruitlessly wishes Jane—or anyone, really—would call to give him an excuse to escape, give him a distraction.

"Declan, you know you can tell me the truth—"

"No, actually, I can't tell you," he insists, harsher than he ever would think he'd be with her. She reaches for him and he wishes she wouldn't, because this isn't the first drink he's had tonight and she smells so damned good he can't help wanting to kiss her.

Fiona steps toward him and, without any hesitation, that's exactly what he does.

He hates himself for it, and is so disappointed by his lack of self control— until he feels her sigh against him.


By Friday night, he thinks he's ruined.

The entire time he's with Jane, his mind is on Fiona. Jane senses his distraction and tells him that their arrangement is pointless if she can't use him to forget about her relationship issues and she sends him on his way. Though the rejection stings a little—it's never happened to him before— he is not disappointed about returning home.

Fiona's room is quiet and dark, illuminated only by thin streams of moonlight, but her door is open. It's an invitation and Declan simply cannot resist the temptation. Besides, he knows she isn't sleeping.

"You miss me?" he asks her, but his tone isn't as light as he would have liked. He wonders if she'll tell him that kissing him was a mistake. That it's perverse and wrong; that there is no reason it needs to happen ever again. Or worse, that it didn't mean to her what it meant to him.

But she only evades answering his question by asking him another.

And he isn't surprised; she hardly ever does what he expects her to do.

"Did you have fun on your date?" It's hard to tell without seeing her face if she's being sincere or snarky. (But, knowing her, she probably is.)

He steps into her bedroom, very much aware of her eyes trailing after him as he sits on the edge of her bed and turns to face her.

"I don't 'date', Fi. You know that."

"Yes, but you've never actually told me why," she points out coyly.

"Didn't think I needed to. You're smart, you can figure it out."

"Is it because of this?" It's then that he notices the way they're sitting: his jean clad knee pressed against her bare thigh, her hand over his. "…Because of me?" she asks him. He feels her breath on his lips and they're too close for this to be considered normal, he thinks.

He knows, more than anything, that this is wrong.

She's testing him, he realizes as her lips curve into a smile. He will always want what he can't have and she is the ultimate untouchable. It pisses him off that she is the only one who can toy with him almost as much as he can manipulate her.

Emotional blackmail is almost more of a turn on than the sensation of her skin against his and he isn't entirely sure what's fueling his actions anymore as he kisses her, hard. She gasps, surprised, when he wastes no time by pushing her back onto the bed and sliding up the hem of her shirt.

He's trying to remember if he locked her door when she grabs his hand and places it against her stomach, slowly inching it down, past her belly button, slipping underneath the band of her underwear until he no longer needs her guidance, and touches her until she trembles.

Somewhere in between a moan and a sigh, she says his name in a way that he's never heard before. "Declan."

The sound of her voice stirs something within him and his kisses turn gentler, a strong contradiction to the frantic and desperate pace of his fingers.

He pushes down on her hips, getting lost in the surreal feeling of her legs wrapped low around his waist when the sound of a door closing down the hall stills them both.

He stands, removing his hands from her, in spite of his need to finish what he's started.

"Declan, wait… don't just leave—"

It's probably best that he leaves her alone, before he ends up doing something he regrets.

Too late, he thinks as he closes the door softly behind him.

Afterward, he avoids her for three days.

He almost wishes it never happened.

Only because he knows something like that can never happen again, and now he is only plagued with thoughts of what he could have had. Now he can only compare the sound of his name on Fiona's lips to the not-quite-right garbled way that it tumbles from Jane's mouth. (Needless to say, his "arrangement" with Jane doesn't last much longer.)

Declan is halfway into the parking lot when he feels a hand come down gently on his shoulder. Fiona, of course. He should know by now that he can't hide from her.

"You're always running away."

"Hazard of being the son of a diplomat."

Of course this line won't work; she knows better than anyone that while it is easy to blame their parents, they aren't the only cause for why he is the way he is. "More like hazard of being a coward. Where are you going?"

"Just for a drive."

"I'm coming with you."

One of the things he can't help but (and shouldn't) love about her: she never has to ask for what she wants.


"I'm coming with you," she repeats, though this time her tone is softer and her eyes down cast; she has to know that using the combination of the two will get to him, will keep him from refusing her.

They drive around for fifteen minutes in silence and it isn't until after another twenty that he begins to get nervous under her stare. "Pull over?"

He does, because he knows they need to get past this and he needs to get over this unhealthy fixation.

But then, he turns to face her and his eyes are drawn to her parted lips, her eyes searching his as she tries to figure out the right thing to say. "What are we doing?"

He doesn't have an answer for her.

She grabs his hand and pulls him into the backseat. He doesn't ask her what she's doing because, in all honesty, he's missed her, missed being around the person who is, in spite of everything else, a piece of him. He doesn't know who he is without her.

He's spent days avoiding her, in a vain attempt to diminish any thoughts of her hands on his chest, her lips on his skin…

She lets out a shaky breath as he settles himself between her legs; he feels himself sigh at the sensation of his bare skin on hers, at the sound of her saying his name in the way that he loves to hear her say it. Declan realizes then, as he pushes her legs up higher around his waist and she arches into his touch, that this is how it will have to be: a secret, their secret, his obsession.