This is a demented story about two people who one day decide to just ‘take
the plunge’. Unfortunately, when the disturbed author (that would be me)
took it upon herself to write this she also just ‘took the plunge’, so
please don’t go too hard on her. I don’t own shit but the fanfic itself and
I don’t think anyone responds well to flaming criticism, so take the hint
and maintain a sense of civility if you feel compelled to comment.
.she sets things tragic.
By ~nanaseven~
// and yet it haunts me so / what are we letting go / the spell is broken //
"...you in there?"
He thought he was whispering, when in reality he was yelling. He thought he
was knocking lightly, when in reality he was pounding. He thought a lot of
things, a lot of thoughts all melting into each other. But it didn't really
matter and he didn't really care because the walls and floors were starting
to melt together too. Not for the first time that night he stumbled.
Fortunately, the door happened to be there to break his fall.
Unfortunately, that door belonged to the apartment of one Lucretzia Noin.
The door flung open, nearly knocking him onto his ass. A shadow loomed
there, the shadow of the devil himself-—rather, herself. Then he remembered
that Satan didn’t wear drawstrings and a tee, and that Satan didn’t have
eyes of merciless blue that could kick the hell out of him in one glance. At
least that was what they were doing now.
"Zechs?" she hissed. "What are you doing here? Do you have any idea what
time it is?"
Actually, he couldn't think of a reason why he had come to see her. If there
had been one, he must have forgotten. As for her second question-—well, his
leaden limbs had a feeling that it was pretty goddamn late. Or pretty
goddamn early. Whatever. He couldn't conjure a sensible thought to fucking
save his life. He opened his mouth, clouded brain scrambling for some kind
of answer.
Suddenly there were two of her.
Milliardo felt himself pitching forward and made a grab for the Noin on the
left; luckily he picked the right one. He could almost feel her frown as he
sagged against her, and his eyes closed involuntarily as she slipped her
hands beneath his arms, resting them on his shoulder blades, trying to
support his weight. He clung to her more firmly, relishing the feel of her
warm, soft skin beneath his fingers. Cobalt hair grazed his cheek, smelling
of the strawberry shampoo he knew she used in the shower.
"For Godsakes," Noin murmured, straining to hold his limp form. "You smell
like a brewery, Zechs." She made a little 'oof' sound and pushed him away a
bit, grasping his shoulders to steady him. "I suppose that's where you were
today during the conference, eh?"
He groaned inwardly. Oh, terrific. Now she was frowning, and not in concern
either. He had no idea what he could have done to piss her off—-aside from
showing up plastered at her doorstep, anyway. Had there been a conference?
Nobody had bothered to inform him about it. Maybe he had forgotten, maybe it
was the fact that he had quite recently exceeded the recommended dosage of
tequila. He just wanted her to stop being mad at him and explain what was
going on or at least let him sit down.
* * *
Noin kept still for a moment, waiting for his answer, trying not to think
about things like long strands of pale hair, and the way they tangled in her
fingers as she held Zechs upright, slumberous ice-chip eyes and how solid he
felt, standing as close as he was. Instead she made herself focus on her
slowly rising temper, the delicious sleep he had dragged her from, him and
his jeans and his bomber jacket and his whiskey breath. Like a son of a
bitching biker, he looked, not the dignified man she was used to being
around. What was on his mind, coming over to her place at this hour?
"Stay here," she ordered, giving him a gentle but meaningful shove, then
heading into the kitchen. She took a glass from the cabinet and slammed the
door in a rare throe of spite, hoping to irritate the mother of a headache
he just had to be having at the moment.
* * *
Milliardo blinked, his head finally clearing up somewhat. He leaned against
the wall, arms folded, watching Noin bang around her kitchen. She was so
beautiful. Fuck, how was he supposed to deal with that? Just stand back and
stare at her, the teal-haired heroine whom everyone adored? Pretend not to
notice the way her eyes flared darkly in anger, and the bloom of her cheek,
and the shadow of slim thighs through flannel as she bent to rummage around
the refrigerator?
It was easier said than done.
* * *
"What are you doing?"
"Making you some juice," Noin replied nonchalantly, not looking up. She set
a bottle of peach Snapple forcefully upon the counter and nudged the
refrigerator shut with one hip. "The glucose should help burn through the
alcohol in your system." She slid a manicured nail beneath the seal, neatly
popping the plastic. "I don't know about the expiration date on this stuff,
though," she teased. "If you start to hemorrhage, let me know."
It was meant as a joke. He wasn't laughing. She scowled; he should be happy
she wasn't throttling him right now. Stuff him and his beer-schnockered
butt.
"Want some help?" he offered from the foyer.
"No, thanks." She was having trouble keeping her anger in check as it was.
The last thing she needed was an extra pair of hands to get in the way-—and
drunken ones at that. "You know, I really hope this does the job in a hurry.
Otherwise you'll be sleeping on the-—"
Without warning the glass slipped from her grasp. Apricot liquid splashed
across the Formica.
"-—oh, shit." She turned, snatching up a dishtowel from a nearby rack.
"Anyway, do you mind explaining why the hell you were a no-show this
afternoon? We were planning to discuss the whole issue with St. Germaine
until you—-"
She froze when the hand that clutched the towel was covered by a larger
one. Puzzled, Noin took an automatic step back, and found herself against a
hard male body.
* * *
Milliardo felt her stiffen at his nearness, suppressing a smile. Lieutenant
Noin; practical, pure Lieutenant Noin, modest to a fault. He slid his arms
around her middle, crossing his hands over her abdomen, feeling her heat
through her clothing. Surely she knew how he felt about her, what she did to
him with every half-smile, every innocent touch. He inclined his head,
white-blond hair falling around his face, over her shoulders, and pressed
his mouth gently to the skin behind her ear.
"Zechs." His name was barely discernible as it left her lips. Certainly not
a protest, in any case. He slipped a finger beneath the hem of her camisole,
lifting the soft cotton, and rested a hand on her bare stomach, his
fingertips lightly stroking her warm skin. For that one moment she was his,
trapped between the counter and the circle of his arms, warm, sweet and
achingly desirable. For that one moment she seemed to relent, seemed to melt
against him, a contented sigh caught in her throat.
"Lucretzia," he whispered, mouth grazing her ear. "Do you know how beautiful
you are? Your perfect skin, your smile." Milliardo placed a featherlight
kiss at her nape. "The way you look at me. It's beautiful." His lips curved
against her neck. "Beautiful."
The fingers on her stomach skittered higher.
* * *
Noin swallowed, hardly daring to breathe. The rational part of her wanted to
get away from him before things escalated, but she had gone boneless when he
had touched her and that rational part suddenly held no merit whatsoever.
God, his mouth was on her, along her ear, sliding down her neck and
whispering things that tugged at her heart. How long had she wanted to hear
him say such words? He thinks I'm beautiful. Or was it the liquor talking?
She wasn't sure she wanted to find out.
"You're so good, Noin," he husked. His voice was driving her crazy. "You
taste so good." He lightly nipped her nape, sending a lovely tingle down her
spine. His hand was still flat against her ribs, fingers splayed wide.
Then his palm brushed the underside of her breast, and Noin nearly jumped
out of her skin.
* * *
It shattered. She was squirming, twisting around in his arms, her hands
planting on his chest and pushing him firmly away.
Milliardo frowned, bewildered. What had she done that for? Her breathing was
quick, her face flushed, eyes unfocused slightly. He was overcome with the
unholy desire to touch her again, and reached out but she held up a hand,
backing up against the countertop, gripping the edge so hard her fingers
were white.
"No," she protested, her voice rougher than usual. "Stop it, Zechs. Just
stop."
"I don't want to," he told her almost petulantly. "Noin, what’s the matter
with you...?"
She ran her the tip of her tongue across her upper lip, a nervous habit she
had developed only recently. "I want to know where you were today, dammit!
Why were you out drinking when you knew there was a meeting this afternoon?"
He blinked. What in the hell was this meeting she kept bringing up? He
didn't care about meetings or the fucking Preventers, anyhow. He just wanted
her. "Noin, I don't know what you're talking about," he replied honestly.
Her rejection had shaken him somewhat sober, and now that he was more or
less coherent, he still couldn't recall what she was referring to. "Nobody
told me about any meeting."
"That's strange, because a memo was sent to every one of us!" she snapped.
"Did you even bother to check your answering machine? Because I've been
trying to get a hold of you all day but no one's been picking up." She
stepped forward, hands gesturing wildly to prove her point. "Which is not
surprising because you weren't home much today, were you, Zechs?"
* * *
He was yelling now. "I had no idea about any meeting! Why the fuck don't you
believe me?"
"Placing any of my trust in you was out of the question when you showed up
inebriated at my doorstep!" she shot back. "And don't shout at me!"
Zechs stopped shouting. Zechs stopped shouting and lunged forward, catching
her shoulders and yanking her close, too quickly and too unexpected for her
to do anything. His mouth closed down over hers and he kissed her wildly.
Noin's protest was lost against his lips and she almost welcomed the warm
push of his tongue. His hands were sliding everywhere and his hips were
flush with hers and what the hell was she doing pressed up against the
refrigerator? God, she wanted him, but not like this!
So Noin did the only thing she could. She slugged him, hard.
That worked pretty well. He stumbled backward, holding his jaw tenderly,
ice-chip eyes ablaze with disbelief. She gasped for breath, regretting her
action. Dammit, she could still taste him—slightly sharp, like woodsmoke and
steel, undertones of tequila, lime and something entirely foreign, entirely
pleasant.
"Zechs," she started brokenly, one hand outstretched. "Zechs, I'm sorry...I
didn't mean..."
He looked down at fingers that came away pink with blood.
* * *
She had hit him. He deserved it. She had hit him. He almost admired her for
it. But the blow hurt like hell, just like it hurt that she was being so
difficult. Tell me you love me, Noin. God knew he loved her more than
anything. What made her so blind to the obvious? Maybe she did not want to
see.
"I know good and well what you mean," he said, wiping his bleeding mouth on
his leather sleeve. "You just never let anybody in there, do you, Noin? I
used to think I could do it, but you won't let anyone inside. Not even me."
Her hand brushed his sleeve. Milliardo shrugged it away. He wanted to hurt
her, as she had hurt him. "Don't touch me. I'm sick of playing this game
with you."
"Zechs." Her voice wavered slightly. "I wouldn't have done that if you
hadn't given me a reason to."
"This isn't about that," he continued. "It's not about sex, either. It's
about how you keep yourself so goddamn distant from me all the time.
Sometimes I think I know the real Lucretzia Noin. Then something like this
happens." A weak chuckle. "You know me better than anyone else does. But
every time I try and knock down those walls around you, you build them up
stronger than before."
Noin stared at him, her face unreadable. Her hands trembled at her sides.
Ah, she isn't so unaffected. “If you're referring to my refusal of your so
cleverly orchestrated seduction, then you can go to hell," she replied
tightly, venomously. "I don't take just any man into my bed, you know."
He flushed despite himself. "That has nothing to do with it. I'm trying to
get close to you—-and you're twisting things around."
Oh, you’re such a martyr,” she said with disdain. “How dare you presume that
I’m some kind of cold bitch. You’re not the answer to the world’s problems,
Zechs, or mine.”
“You are a cold bitch,” he told her. “So many men would do anything for you,
and you just blow them off.”
“Get out of my house,” she spat, marching over to him and pointing
meaningfully to the door. “Get the fuck out of my house, Zechs!”
Her cheeks glinted with tear-shine. She was crying. He had made her cry, his
Noin. It wasn’t as satisfying as he thought it would be.
“Get the fuck out!” she was screaming at him. “Get out, goddammit!”
Milliardo complied. He jerked the door open so forcefully it nearly ripped
off the hinges, fueled by a sudden rush of anger, and stormed out, slamming
it behind him.
Very well. He would leave, if she wanted him to. And he wouldn’t come back.
* * *
On the other side of the trembling door sat a woman, sobbing softly in
cooling rage, crumbling on the inside. She never should have let him see her
cry. She should have kept it all inside, like she did every time, and
brought it to the surface after he had left and gone.
Tears of wanting, tears of love, tears of anguish. When she thought about
it, each was really no different than the other.
~fin~
