give us back a taste of the way things were before they made the laws

[attitude]

A deathwish is usually made long before it's realized. Before she was ever made Valentine, Faye was the type of girl who chased after dreams and would leap off the edge of a cliff without looking down. Reckless abandon was encouraged by a pair of parents so caring and attentive that she never wanted for anything, parents who cleared the path of brambles and branches for their daughter, never letting her feel so much as a scratch. To the girl who lived a life of safety, danger and risk were intoxicating and quickened the heart in a way that not even love could, forming thoughts that persisted even when memories had long since faded and broken away.

From early on, Faye was made to be a hunter.

It shows now, in the bright red that runs down from her knee and the harsh breathing that barely manages to fill her lungs. Her gun is held still and the aim true, save for the slight rattle of the weapon that comes from hands being raised through sheer willpower alone. All around Faye, their blood painting books dusty from disuse, are the bodies of Splicers. Figures, she's murmured to herself, that they'd all be hiding out behind stacks of books. Figures, that even men who lose their minds are nothing other than cowards.

Her breath is ragged with a slight protest, an unwillingness on Faye's part to let go. She just has one more. One more Splicer, who lopes around with predatory intent, that Faye needs to put down. She can do it. She could do it. But her vision is starting to swim and adrenaline is learning to fade, replaced by fatigue as her heel grinds against tile and startles the creature, inspires a flying rage.

"Shit," she bites out, raising her voice as she stumbles back, firing a couple of shots that barely clip its shoulder. "Dammit, hold still!"

Comments

[weary-head.livejournal.com]

Dean's legs don't want to hold his weight. He's been running, fighting, been damn near to blown up, and yet it's pleasure that's stolen all his strength, Dean so weak with it that for a moment it's only the wall at her back that holds them up.

He knows he'll have to pull away eventually, but he waits until his breath has slowed, then waits some more, face tucked in against her skin where she won't see anything to scare either of them.

[attitude]

After a few breaths, it feels like neither one of them has moved. Feels like neither of them is daring to. Faye isn't willing to believe that Dean hasn't pulled himself back to awareness by now, isn't willing to believe that he'd take so much longer than herself to do so, her head turning just a touch, until her cheek presses against his hair, damp with sweat. She doesn't want to be the first to move, but as the seconds pass by, it feels like sand slipping between her fingers, less and less control resting in her palm, so she presses her nose against his temple, almost as though to ease him away, slow, leaving either one of them with a shred of dignity.

"I know I can be good," she remarks, light, a joke, too insubstantial after the weight of the evening. "But I'm not that good."

[weary-head.livejournal.com]

Dean exhales something that feels like gratitude, as much for the joke as for everything that came before it, and kisses her throat. "I got blown up," he says, pleasantly worn out but calmer now, "cut me some slack."

He winces, still sensitive skin tingling as he pulls out of her, his muscles tired but enjoying their reprieve. Faye's a mess when he looks up at her, and gloriously so, eyes bright over her flushed cheeks, mussed violet hair falling everywhere. Dean almost wants to start all over again, but her body must be sore, propped up against the wall like that. Dean curls his hands over her hips and starts to ease her down. "Elevator sex," he chuckles, "haven't done that in a while."

[attitude]

In lieu of an answer, not wanting to lie or give herself away— elevator sex isn't something that she's ever done, not until now— Faye offers Dean a smile, one that she hopes will put any questions to rest. Her body feels weak, impossibly so, every step skittish even without the burden of her heels, but still she carries herself with as much ease as she can muster, tugging her briefs up and shivering at the cool touch of damp cloth. She leans in to press another kiss, the last she has planned for now, under the line of his jaw, shockingly affectionate by her standards, lips lingering against his skin.

Save for the look on his face, Dean looks like the past half an hour haven't affected him at all, and she wrinkles her nose with momentary jealousy, imagining that she can't have escaped half as unscathed. "I wouldn't call it my venue of choice, but," she shrugs, glancing up again while she tugs her shorts up, slipping the button back into place, and works on getting her hair into any semblance of order before she even tries fighting with her shirt and the boots tossed around on the floor.

[weary-head.livejournal.com]

Dean gets his jeans back around his hips and forgets the rest, too caught up in the sight of her trying to put herself back together. His buckle clanks as he moves, takes the yellow pieces of her shirt in his hands and fastens it whole again. "Stop fussin'," he says, mouth as loose as the rest of him. "You look gorgeous and you know it."

[attitude]

Pressing her lips tightly together to stave off the reply that's just waiting on the tip of her tongue, Faye simply shoots him a look, reaches for his belt and tugs him sharply closer, buckling it for him— an equal exchange. Since their first meeting, even alcohol-stained as it was, Faye's always thought of Dean as a romantic, and tonight only seems to prove it, the look on his face so out of place in their surroundings, dark and dingy, gritty. It's only the rust of the bathysphere that keeps her from bolting, the ability to try and ignore it all, right down to the way her heart beats sharply against her chest, aching even through the fatigue.

She could listen to such flattery for years and years, if only she could believe that it'd last so long.

"What, you want to announce to the whole world that we just did it in an elevator?" she asks, tone teasing as she raises a hand to brush away some of the smudged dirt on his cheek, careful to avoid the cuts.

[weary-head.livejournal.com]

"Don't have to know it was an elevator," Dean returns with a tired but cheeky smile, his skin tender beneath her fingertips. "Could've been any number of places down here."

He lifts a hand, smooths down the tumble of her hair himself just to feel it, and smiles again. "Good as new. And if not, you can tell anybody who asks we had a tussle. Wouldn't be a lie."

[attitude]

"Considering the fact that you won't spar full-force with a woman, that just ends up sounding like a euphemism, coming from you," Faye retorts, even as she carefully makes her way over to the lever again, sending the both of them back on their way to the welcome center, watching out for any sharp edges or broken glass on the bathysphere floor before tugging her boots back on. "Anyway, let them judge us all they want."

A grin spreads across her face, pleased, and lazily so. "I don't mind. Just as long as I don't get hounded with questions on the way to the shower."

[weary-head.livejournal.com]

"Yeah?" Dean asks, unconsciously shadowing her movements through the cramped space of the bathysphere. He remembers his shirt when the thing lurches back into motion, arms tangled in the sleeves and the winding straps of ammo he'd let fall to the floor.

Any illusion Dean might ever had of being smooth with a woman he cares for is just that. "What'd you tell them if you did get asked?"

[attitude]

Tugging the sleeves of her outer, crimson shirt a little higher, hiding some of the cuts and scrapes from below, Faye shrugs, mostly to buy herself time, trying to determine the answer. While she's not sure whether or not she plans on telling him the truth, and while she certainly doubts that anyone would be bold enough to ask her no matter how much she's sure that she smells of sex right now, it's still probably something worth considering, lest she lets something drop from her lips that she didn't want the whole world to know.

But it only takes a few seconds before she figures, what would it hurt for people to know that she had a bit of fun?

"That I was stuck in an elevator with Dean Winchester, and we decided on a fun way to pass the time," she decided, raising a brow in challenge. "And I liked it. Unless you don't want news getting out to all the women who'd suddenly start lining up for a turn."

[weary-head.livejournal.com]

Dean's eyebrows climb over his sudden and stupid grin. "Glowing report, huh?" His mouth is still open to say that his report would earn her similar, but Dean realizes he doesn't want her to have a line, anymore than he really wants one himself.

"That's, uh," he says, dropping his gaze, "yeah. S'afraid I was getting rusty."

[attitude]

She raises a brow, tilting her head to get a better look at him, as though another angle might help her understand what it is exactly behind that sudden look of doubt on his features. Faye should be able to understand the anxiety, she really should, but there's a part of her that finds it hard to believe that it still lingers now, considering all that they've just done. Not that she minds the grin, she thinks. If there's anything that should wipe away a girl's fears, it'd be that.

"Rusty? This isn't exactly a skill you forget after a few months, is it?" she asks, hair falling forward again, framing her face. "It changes with every person. Though..." Her gaze falls to the bathysphere floor, heavy, even as her features continue to try for levity. "That's something I don't need to tell you, I'm sure."