Title: Right Here, With You
Warning: references and allusions to past sexual situations, angst.
Pairing/Characters: Gwen/Fox, mentions of Theresa, Ethan, others.
Word Count: 835.
Summary (for chapter): prompt: sway. "This only works if we're straight with each other. Talk to me." Takes place before This but after CYHTH and W&F.
The bright city lights twinkle like fairy lights far below as New York readies itself for another new year, but Gwen pays them no heed, too wrapped up in her own mind to notice, them (or him, it seems). She startles at the sound of his voice, blinks at the sparkling flute of champagne he waves before her, scolds him all at once. "Don't sneak up on me like that."
Fox smirks at her in the reflection of the floor to ceiling glass, steadies her with a hand, at once firm and gentle, at her hip when she takes his proffered gift. "It's not like it was hard," he tells her, dropping a kiss upon her bared shoulder. "You were a million miles away."
Gwen lifts the flute to her lips, and it hovers there in her indecision before Fox plucks it from her hand, compels her to turn around, meet his inquisitive (concerned) gaze. When he merely raises a sly brow at her, patiently impatient, Gwen can do nothing more than sigh, her internal debate tipping in his favor when the brisk change in position makes her sway abruptly on her feet. Grabbing on to his forearm in an effort to reclaim her balance, she looks at him with pleading eyes, and soon the party and the tipsy, jubilant revelers are left behind. Gwen tries for a smirk but fails, and she chafes her hands up and down her naked arms, cold or riddled with nerves, she can't tell which (both). "The coat closet? I'm not…" she trails off. "Fox, we are not…"
"Oh," Fox ably plays the part, a twinkle of danger, of sexy allure sparking in his dark eyes. "You prefer wine cellars?"
His teasing has the desired effect, and Gwen blushes with the memory. Unwittingly, her eyes drop below his belt, flicker back up to his handsome face, and she feels the slow heat of his own fond memories start to flicker and flame low in the pit of her belly at the look in his glittering eyes. Her mouth, her lips, feel parched, and she wets her lips with her tongue, murmurs half-hearted protests and apologies into his mouth when he surges forward with a groan, sweeps his large hands across her hips, draws her impossibly nearer until not an inch of her doesn't touch him.
Fox kisses her until his lungs cry out for precious oxygen, and his restless hands are in her hair when he finally pulls back, stares at her. "This only works if we're straight with each other. Talk to me."
Even when they were lying to other people, Ethan, Theresa, the rest of their collective family, they'd never lied to themselves. Gwen knows, in order for them to keep what they have (and it works, it works so well, only she doesn't know what exactly it is, how he feels, how he will feel when…), she has to continue that thread of honesty, starting here, starting now. Still, the words stall somewhere between her frantically whirling brain and her paralyzed vocal cords. "Fox," she begins, only to sputter into a weighted silence.
Red satin slithers underneath his skimming palms as Fox lowers his hands to rest them again on her hips, and he moves back, distances himself with a regretful sigh when it seems that they are deadlocked in their efforts to communicate with each other. The countdown to the new year has begun, muted yet joyous, with his retreat (10…9…8…7…).
To Gwen, it feels like an ultimatum, and the words bubble their way up (6…5…4…), all the way from her concrete feet, tickle past her fluttering, stuttering heart, swell inside her impossibly tight throat, and finally spill messily from her trembling lips as she locks onto his arm (3…2…1!). "I think I'm pregnant."
The door to their sanctuary bursts open then, and Fox ispropelled forward, into her arms, his hands coming up to cup her elbows protectively, and his lips pressing into her hairline as they make room for the unexpected throng of drunken party-goers in the midst of a mass exodus from the party.
Gwen waits them out, wills her frantically thumping heartbeat to calm when they are alone again, and she lifts hesitant eyes to his unreadable face, blurts out all her insecurities. "I can't be pregnant. I'm not supposed to be. Sarah was supposed to be my one and only chance. What if something's wrong? What are we going to do? I know this isn't what you signed up for when you climbed behind the wheel of that car. You never promised me forever. You never promised me anything at all. Everything matters now. Everything. Fox," she finally pauses long enough to take a shaky breath, demands, "say something. Please."
Fox's answer is simple, is silent, but it says it all as he takes her hand, again takes her mouth.
Gwen melts into his soothing persuasion, knows (everything means something to him, too) it is all the promise that she needs.
I don't know what's wrong with me.
I can't seem to help myself lately with all the Gwen fic, lol. I don't mind entirely, but I *do* have a lot of other dangling WIPs that I want to finish, and this is totally not helping.
This story takes place in the CYHTH-universe, so you might want to start with that one.
I hope you guys are interested in more of this fic, because it may, if my muse continues to harrass me with ideas for these guys, blossom into a full-blown fic kinda like Pieces did.
Raise your hand (or click on that little review button) if you want more.
Mistakes are all mine.
Oh, and the prompt used for this chapter? Taken from a 100-word table so...