fic: pack my bag to no place (Alex/Izzie)
Nov. 11th, 2010 01:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
waltzmatildahTitle: Pack My Bag To No Place
Character: Alex (Alex/Izzie)
Word Count: 2050
Rating: NC-17 (wtf?!)
Summary: My left field DREAM for the lead up to S07E08. In fact, it's SO left field, it's probably not even spoilery...
Author's Note: So, the premise of this is for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
alittlembrace_x, the pairing is for ovariesofsteel, because she's not talking to me at the moment and I need to FIX THAT, STAT! And finally, the tone is most definitely thanks to miss_blanche, and if I didn't already have a fic titled “Somewhere Along In The Bitterness” then this would have been it...!
The first text arrives a little before three in the afternoon. The number is unfamiliar but the words contained within it are anything but.
He taps out a quick response. Vague and precautionary. Hits send and refuses to think about the potential consequences. After all, he's nothing if not well versed in the art of self preservation these days.
His cell phone is silent for hours after that. Burns a proverbial hole in his pocket as charts are steadily completed and patients drift off to sleep and he runs out of legitimate excuses not to go home. Decides instead on Joe's and beer and maybe darts if it's quiet enough. Anything to avoid the Stepford-like scenes that have taken over the rest of his world.
He's almost crossed the parking lot when the reply arrives. Short and to the point. Succinct to a degree that is almost rude.
He grins because he's come to expect little else. This is not the first time they've jousted in such a way.
The back lit screen of his phone spells out a motel of dubious standards in a part of the city he's never had cause to visit. It's an audacious move. Perhaps designed to call his bluff.
He leans on the heavy wooden door at the entrance to Joe's, uses his weight to push it open and makes his way across the well worn floor. Nods out a greeting to Walter and takes up his usual position at the bar.
Settles in to make her wait.
Barely makes it to two thirds of the way through his beer before his cock is screaming at him to stop being such a fucking tease.
Gives in to it, because it's an easier concept to reconcile than the thought of giving in to her.
- - -
He was right about the motel. It's dark and wet and the gaudy neon light blinks in and out at random. Alternates green and pink before dying out completely for seconds at a time. Bursting back to iridescent life just when he'd given up on it's ability to light his tentative path.
The text message contained a room number and he sidles up to it cautiously, heart hammering out a staccato beat in his chest.
And he hates that she still has the power to do that to him.
He knocks forcefully. Twice. Uses the thunderous noise to assert an authority that he absolutely does not feel before stepping deliberately to the side. Out of sight, out of mind.
The door yawns open with a resounding crack as the metal safety chain does it's job with supreme effectiveness.
A strangled "Fuck me" escapes through clenched teeth and tumbles out the gap.
He rolls his eyes as the door closes again, metal against metal as she works the lock loose.
“Well, that is the plan, honey...” He hums the words under his breath. Sarcastic and sharp and still not entirely convinced.
The door swings open again, all the way this time, and a hand snakes out and around the corner. Fists into the collar of his jacket and tugs him up against the frame of the door. Cracked paint flakes as his back presses against the warped wood and her tongue flicks languidly along the length of his lower lip.
Teasing.
Always teasing.
He wraps his hands around her biceps and pushes back. Eyes closed. Knees locked. Teeth against teeth, and tongue and chin.
And they still haven't actually looked at one another.
- - -
The fingers of his left hand curl around the door handle. Slam it closed with a bang that has her flinching violently.
He laughs into her mouth. A harsh bark. Chalks up point number one to the asshole in the room and goes back to getting reacquainted.
Her hands climb the skin under his shirt. Ice cold against his overheated chest. The sensation blanks his mind momentarily and gives her all the power she needs.
They're on the bed after that and he has no idea how it happened. Three metres of floor space crossed in a dervish of entwined limbs and discarded clothing.
“I always did like you so much better naked...”
Her breath is hot against his ear and her words bounce around inside his skull.
He tries not to think too much about what they might mean. What they might have once meant.
- - -
He pulls a can of coke from the surprisingly well stocked mini bar. Refuses to think about why the welcome basket of tea bags and instant coffee sachets also contains two condoms that can be purchased for three bucks each. According to the mis-spelled card propped beside them.
Pretty fucking cheap, all things considered.
He pops the drink and tips his head back, only just manages not to choke on the contents as she shifts her position between his thighs.
“Don't you fucking dare tell anyone about this...” He can already imagine the recriminations.
“Oh, please,” she counters, incredulous. “The only friend I've managed to hold onto recently is the proud owner of a marble headstone in a cemetery so full of ex-Seattle Grace employees I'm beginning to think it might be part of the fucking salary package.” Her reply is quite verbose, all things considered. And if, by all things, you mean the fact that she's got her mouth wrapped around his dick. “You're the only one with people to tell around here...”
It's true, in a pathetic, no body loves me kind of way...
“They wouldn't believe me even if I did tell 'em. Which is all kinds of ironic if you think about the amount of lies they tell themselves every fucking day.”
There's a bitterness to his words that he doesn't bother to hide.
And the fact that they're having this conversation while she's sucking him off in a hotel room on the wrong side of town is not as disconcerting as it probably should be.
“So...” she pauses, mid-thrust, and it's all he can do not to clamp his hands down on the back of her head, “How are they all anyway? Still inappropriately co-dependent?”
“Argh, that-” he groans, arching his back in a vague attempt at a protest, “-is so not something you want to hear the answer to. Not unless your vision for this evening ended with you hanging yourself in the fucking corner...”
She laughs heartily and the sensation is electric.
“Good to know some things never change...”
- - -
He guesses it's early morning because the stained curtain covering the single window has taken on a sickly glow indicative of weak sunlight attempting to make an appearance.
He closes his eyes again. Doesn't need to be able to see to know exactly what the room looks like. What he looks like.
What she looks like.
What they both look like twisted together in a never-ending line of arms and legs and fingers and toes.
He can tell from her breathing that she not asleep. Still knows her well enough to know that.
“Gotta say, this was a really classy choice. I'll be sure to leave a fifty on the end of the bed when I leave.”
“Puh-lease,” she huffs, breath hot against the curve of his shoulder, ever indignant despite the circumstances. “If I was charging you could never afford me.”
“Good thing you're not then, hey.” And he doesn't actually have a clue what she's up to these days, can't quite bring himself to ask any of the questions he probably doesn't want to know the answers to.
Despite the fact that he so absolutely does.
“Well, you know what they say...” She rolls away from him, tugs at sweat damp sheets as though she's only just realised she's naked, “You can take the trash out of the trailer park or however it goes...”
“You were never trash-” His tone softens as fingers tangle in blonde hair and breathing hitches, holds.
And he's starting to break all his self-imposed rules.
- - -
He drifts off to sleep as the weak sunlight warms the room to a temperature not conducive to wakefulness.
Dreams of blood and blonde hair and the feel of sand between his toes.
She wakes him with the aid of one hand. Uses skills he's been lucky enough to experience in the past to have him believing he'd never been asleep in the first place.
“Jesus fucking Christ. I'd forgotten how good you were at this...” His voice is thick, deep. A low growl in the back of his throat.
She straddles his legs, just above his knees, the dark blue sheet tangled around one bent leg. He pushes two fingers into her; gently at first. Adds more as she slides across his skin.
She makes a strangled sound. Somewhere between a sigh and a scream. A sound that had been seared into his synapses years ago. The familiarity of it takes his breath away and he opens his eyes to take the moment in.
He's surprised to find her grinning back at him, triumphant. “Why'd we ever stop just doing this?”
She bends at the waist until her curls are haloed around his head and her tongue is working it's way between his clenched teeth. “We were always so fucking good at this part...”
- - -
They arrived separately and an unspoken agreement means they'll leave the same way. She dresses first. Readjusts her underwear and slips back into her cotton top with an unabashed ease.
He doesn't bother to pretend he's not watching the whole show. Erect and contemplating what the fuck he's going to do about it after the door closes solidly behind her.
He's not her problem, after all.
Surgical scars criss cross her abdomen in much the same way they criss cross his chest. Branding them as the ones left standing when the casualties started pouring in. Unlikely as it most definitely should have been.
It's a startling occurence to have in common and if they never again have anything else, they will always have that.
He's beginning to wonder if it might just be enough.
- - -
He waits 'til a car starts noisily in the parking lot, it might be hers, it might not, before rolling over on the bed and reaching awkwardly for the telephone.
The receptionist launches into a heavily accented introduction that he cuts off sharply. Requests an additional night be added to his plastic and contemplates blowing an entire weeks wages on the decidedly enticing contents of the mini bar.
Does exactly that before he can change his mind.
- - -
He misses rounds.
Can't quite bring himself to care.
Gets a text message at lunch that has him choking on his burger.
Taps out a two word reply.
Trailer trash.
Deletes it before he can bring himself to hit send because he stands by what he said. She was never trash to him...
Despite the fact that it had only been hours, there was a practiced ease building between them. The kind of familiarity that comes with knowledge and intimacy and a shared history that can never be erased. The kind of familiarity that had existed in the past. Before cancer and anger and and a misguided attempt at marriage tore apart more than it ever managed to bring together, fractured everything to splinters at their feet.
And he wonders if he might actually be right about it this time. After all, his earlier prediction had been eerily accurate.
“Where the hell did you disappear to this weekend?”
“Try not to be too jealous, but I spent pretty much all of it having hot, dirty sex with an ex-supermodel in a seedy hotel room on the other side of town...”
He punctuates the statement with a mouthful of fries and grins widely at Meredith's response.
“God, you are so full of crap these days.”
Character: Alex (Alex/Izzie)
Word Count: 2050
Rating: NC-17 (wtf?!)
Summary: My left field DREAM for the lead up to S07E08. In fact, it's SO left field, it's probably not even spoilery...
Author's Note: So, the premise of this is for
alittlembrace_x, the pairing is for ovariesofsteel, because she's not talking to me at the moment and I need to FIX THAT, STAT! And finally, the tone is most definitely thanks to miss_blanche, and if I didn't already have a fic titled “Somewhere Along In The Bitterness” then this would have been it...!The first text arrives a little before three in the afternoon. The number is unfamiliar but the words contained within it are anything but.
He taps out a quick response. Vague and precautionary. Hits send and refuses to think about the potential consequences. After all, he's nothing if not well versed in the art of self preservation these days.
His cell phone is silent for hours after that. Burns a proverbial hole in his pocket as charts are steadily completed and patients drift off to sleep and he runs out of legitimate excuses not to go home. Decides instead on Joe's and beer and maybe darts if it's quiet enough. Anything to avoid the Stepford-like scenes that have taken over the rest of his world.
He's almost crossed the parking lot when the reply arrives. Short and to the point. Succinct to a degree that is almost rude.
He grins because he's come to expect little else. This is not the first time they've jousted in such a way.
The back lit screen of his phone spells out a motel of dubious standards in a part of the city he's never had cause to visit. It's an audacious move. Perhaps designed to call his bluff.
He leans on the heavy wooden door at the entrance to Joe's, uses his weight to push it open and makes his way across the well worn floor. Nods out a greeting to Walter and takes up his usual position at the bar.
Settles in to make her wait.
Barely makes it to two thirds of the way through his beer before his cock is screaming at him to stop being such a fucking tease.
Gives in to it, because it's an easier concept to reconcile than the thought of giving in to her.
- - -
He was right about the motel. It's dark and wet and the gaudy neon light blinks in and out at random. Alternates green and pink before dying out completely for seconds at a time. Bursting back to iridescent life just when he'd given up on it's ability to light his tentative path.
The text message contained a room number and he sidles up to it cautiously, heart hammering out a staccato beat in his chest.
And he hates that she still has the power to do that to him.
He knocks forcefully. Twice. Uses the thunderous noise to assert an authority that he absolutely does not feel before stepping deliberately to the side. Out of sight, out of mind.
The door yawns open with a resounding crack as the metal safety chain does it's job with supreme effectiveness.
A strangled "Fuck me" escapes through clenched teeth and tumbles out the gap.
He rolls his eyes as the door closes again, metal against metal as she works the lock loose.
“Well, that is the plan, honey...” He hums the words under his breath. Sarcastic and sharp and still not entirely convinced.
The door swings open again, all the way this time, and a hand snakes out and around the corner. Fists into the collar of his jacket and tugs him up against the frame of the door. Cracked paint flakes as his back presses against the warped wood and her tongue flicks languidly along the length of his lower lip.
Teasing.
Always teasing.
He wraps his hands around her biceps and pushes back. Eyes closed. Knees locked. Teeth against teeth, and tongue and chin.
And they still haven't actually looked at one another.
- - -
The fingers of his left hand curl around the door handle. Slam it closed with a bang that has her flinching violently.
He laughs into her mouth. A harsh bark. Chalks up point number one to the asshole in the room and goes back to getting reacquainted.
Her hands climb the skin under his shirt. Ice cold against his overheated chest. The sensation blanks his mind momentarily and gives her all the power she needs.
They're on the bed after that and he has no idea how it happened. Three metres of floor space crossed in a dervish of entwined limbs and discarded clothing.
“I always did like you so much better naked...”
Her breath is hot against his ear and her words bounce around inside his skull.
He tries not to think too much about what they might mean. What they might have once meant.
- - -
He pulls a can of coke from the surprisingly well stocked mini bar. Refuses to think about why the welcome basket of tea bags and instant coffee sachets also contains two condoms that can be purchased for three bucks each. According to the mis-spelled card propped beside them.
Pretty fucking cheap, all things considered.
He pops the drink and tips his head back, only just manages not to choke on the contents as she shifts her position between his thighs.
“Don't you fucking dare tell anyone about this...” He can already imagine the recriminations.
“Oh, please,” she counters, incredulous. “The only friend I've managed to hold onto recently is the proud owner of a marble headstone in a cemetery so full of ex-Seattle Grace employees I'm beginning to think it might be part of the fucking salary package.” Her reply is quite verbose, all things considered. And if, by all things, you mean the fact that she's got her mouth wrapped around his dick. “You're the only one with people to tell around here...”
It's true, in a pathetic, no body loves me kind of way...
“They wouldn't believe me even if I did tell 'em. Which is all kinds of ironic if you think about the amount of lies they tell themselves every fucking day.”
There's a bitterness to his words that he doesn't bother to hide.
And the fact that they're having this conversation while she's sucking him off in a hotel room on the wrong side of town is not as disconcerting as it probably should be.
“So...” she pauses, mid-thrust, and it's all he can do not to clamp his hands down on the back of her head, “How are they all anyway? Still inappropriately co-dependent?”
“Argh, that-” he groans, arching his back in a vague attempt at a protest, “-is so not something you want to hear the answer to. Not unless your vision for this evening ended with you hanging yourself in the fucking corner...”
She laughs heartily and the sensation is electric.
“Good to know some things never change...”
- - -
He guesses it's early morning because the stained curtain covering the single window has taken on a sickly glow indicative of weak sunlight attempting to make an appearance.
He closes his eyes again. Doesn't need to be able to see to know exactly what the room looks like. What he looks like.
What she looks like.
What they both look like twisted together in a never-ending line of arms and legs and fingers and toes.
He can tell from her breathing that she not asleep. Still knows her well enough to know that.
“Gotta say, this was a really classy choice. I'll be sure to leave a fifty on the end of the bed when I leave.”
“Puh-lease,” she huffs, breath hot against the curve of his shoulder, ever indignant despite the circumstances. “If I was charging you could never afford me.”
“Good thing you're not then, hey.” And he doesn't actually have a clue what she's up to these days, can't quite bring himself to ask any of the questions he probably doesn't want to know the answers to.
Despite the fact that he so absolutely does.
“Well, you know what they say...” She rolls away from him, tugs at sweat damp sheets as though she's only just realised she's naked, “You can take the trash out of the trailer park or however it goes...”
“You were never trash-” His tone softens as fingers tangle in blonde hair and breathing hitches, holds.
And he's starting to break all his self-imposed rules.
- - -
He drifts off to sleep as the weak sunlight warms the room to a temperature not conducive to wakefulness.
Dreams of blood and blonde hair and the feel of sand between his toes.
She wakes him with the aid of one hand. Uses skills he's been lucky enough to experience in the past to have him believing he'd never been asleep in the first place.
“Jesus fucking Christ. I'd forgotten how good you were at this...” His voice is thick, deep. A low growl in the back of his throat.
She straddles his legs, just above his knees, the dark blue sheet tangled around one bent leg. He pushes two fingers into her; gently at first. Adds more as she slides across his skin.
She makes a strangled sound. Somewhere between a sigh and a scream. A sound that had been seared into his synapses years ago. The familiarity of it takes his breath away and he opens his eyes to take the moment in.
He's surprised to find her grinning back at him, triumphant. “Why'd we ever stop just doing this?”
She bends at the waist until her curls are haloed around his head and her tongue is working it's way between his clenched teeth. “We were always so fucking good at this part...”
- - -
They arrived separately and an unspoken agreement means they'll leave the same way. She dresses first. Readjusts her underwear and slips back into her cotton top with an unabashed ease.
He doesn't bother to pretend he's not watching the whole show. Erect and contemplating what the fuck he's going to do about it after the door closes solidly behind her.
He's not her problem, after all.
Surgical scars criss cross her abdomen in much the same way they criss cross his chest. Branding them as the ones left standing when the casualties started pouring in. Unlikely as it most definitely should have been.
It's a startling occurence to have in common and if they never again have anything else, they will always have that.
He's beginning to wonder if it might just be enough.
- - -
He waits 'til a car starts noisily in the parking lot, it might be hers, it might not, before rolling over on the bed and reaching awkwardly for the telephone.
The receptionist launches into a heavily accented introduction that he cuts off sharply. Requests an additional night be added to his plastic and contemplates blowing an entire weeks wages on the decidedly enticing contents of the mini bar.
Does exactly that before he can change his mind.
- - -
He misses rounds.
Can't quite bring himself to care.
Gets a text message at lunch that has him choking on his burger.
Taps out a two word reply.
Trailer trash.
Deletes it before he can bring himself to hit send because he stands by what he said. She was never trash to him...
Despite the fact that it had only been hours, there was a practiced ease building between them. The kind of familiarity that comes with knowledge and intimacy and a shared history that can never be erased. The kind of familiarity that had existed in the past. Before cancer and anger and and a misguided attempt at marriage tore apart more than it ever managed to bring together, fractured everything to splinters at their feet.
And he wonders if he might actually be right about it this time. After all, his earlier prediction had been eerily accurate.
“Where the hell did you disappear to this weekend?”
“Try not to be too jealous, but I spent pretty much all of it having hot, dirty sex with an ex-supermodel in a seedy hotel room on the other side of town...”
He punctuates the statement with a mouthful of fries and grins widely at Meredith's response.
“God, you are so full of crap these days.”
