Title: Dangerous Things
Disclaimer: Very much not mine.
Summary: Post-2x02. She gets the feeling that if she were to stay and engage him any longer that night, something dangerous could end up happening.
Sitting across from her in the dimness of the bar, he's humble and sad and sarcastic and heroic, and she gets the strange feeling that if she were to stay and engage him any longer that night, something dangerous could end up happening.
She's not quite ready to deal with the idea of it, with the emotions fluttering around in her stomach, so she pulls on her leather jacket while she listens to him pretend that everything's just fine. She allows herself to touch his hand to prove a point.
It stops him dead in his tracks and suddenly he looks at her like he's drowning and she's a lifeline. He's desperate, but not overtly so. She's mentally going over their earlier conversation in his truck.
She eyes him once more before she rises and abruptly leaves, because she knows that if she were to stay, and he kept looking at her like that, something dangerous would most definitely happen. She doesn't look back or say goodbye.
In the car, though, making the drive back to the motel, she lets her mind wander to how such a scenario might play out.
"Come on," she would say. She'd nod her head toward the door and walk out ahead of him, confident he was following behind.
She'd accept his offer to drive her home and then invite him inside for coffee. She'd watch as he shuffled his feet and shoved his hands in his pockets, unsure of what to do with himself in her little room.
She'd tell him again that she didn't feel weird about the cheek kissing thing, not even a little, and then she'd stand on her tiptoes and do it again. Then she'd kiss the corner of his mouth, and he'd growl and slant his lips over hers. He'd tangle his hands in her hair and his tongue in her mouth.
She'd walk backwards with him toward the bed and fall onto it when her legs hit the edge of the mattress. He'd fall with her, against her, and tangle his legs with hers.
He'd skim his hands up along her sides and her shirt would be gone. He'd press hot, wet kisses along her collarbone while she struggled with coherent thought and the buttons on his shirt.
He'd touch her, feather-light, like he did with the roses earlier in the day, and she'd sigh and arch her back.
They'd come together and fall apart, and, afterward, she'd stroke the soft skin on his stomach as he slept. He'd look peaceful, serene, and she'd want to take a photo of him like that.
In the morning, they'd plan to go out for breakfast, but she'd distract him and they'd end up going for lunch instead.
At a red light, she props an elbow against the door and bites at her thumbnail, and she considers whether any of that would really be such a bad thing. When the light turns green, she swings her car into a U-turn and wonders if he's home yet.