Answers

Feedback: nessi_anne@yahoo.com
Summary: The answer to a question...
Rating: NC17
Classifications: JMP Sex, Angst
Spoilers: Bank
Sequel To: The 1950's Stereotype By Vanessa Nichols
Songography: "This Woman's Work" (Kate Bush)
Dedication: Kat, STD
Archive: Do not archive, host or redistribute this story without prior permission.
Copyright: Copyright Vanessa Nichols; January, 1999.

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I watch him leave, wondering if he really means it, or if it's simply something he feels he's required to say as my father. Stepping forward, I slide the bolt shut, securing the door firmly before moving away. The flowers land on my hallway table with more force than I'd intended as I begin picking absently at the ribbon holding them together.

Glancing up, I am suddenly confronted with the image of my reflection. For a moment I simply stare, wondering if the answers--whatever they may be--are there, hidden in the shadows of my mother's face. But the sound of the phone ringing disrupts my thoughts and, with my head low, I turn away, requisitioning the handset as I commandeer a place on my lounge.

My voice is a betraying whisper as I speak. "What."

"I never had a chance to say goodbye."

My eyes drift shut for a brief moment. Why am I not surprised to recognise that voice? "How did you get away?" I ask perfunctorily.

"Escape Plan B." he replies simply. "Remember?"

I nod silently. "The vent." I supply unnecessarily a moment later, my fingers twisting in the phone cord absently. "How was it down there?"

"Let's just say I'm hoping my next pretend isn't as a sewer worker. Did you talk to your father?"

My eyes close at the question, inwardly steadying myself. "He just left." I admit after a moment, opening my eyes to glance at the closed door. "He didn't say it was you who broke into his home," I draw in a deep breath. "Didn't say it wasn't either."

"Fenegor?"

I recognise the interrogation style tone to his voice but, for once, don't balk at it. "I told him I didn't know who he was."

"So you lied."

It's not a question, I think as I glance down, hating the tears that are pricking at my eyes. "Like father, like daughter." I murmur after a moment, sighing--a smile pulling at my lips, as I think of how pertinent that statement really is. Then, as quickly as it had arisen, my smile disappears. "Jarod? We were so close to finding the truth..."

I can hear the tremor's in my voice, the feel of tears slowly creating paths down my cheeks, and I find myself holding my breath as I await his reply, unsure as to what I want to hear. Sympathy? Compassion? Understanding?

"You'll figure it out." I hear after a long pause and I feel an enormous sense of relief flood through me as I hear what I had *needed* him to say. Faith. Faith in me. "And so will I." My throat works silently, words unable to find a voice. And then he speaks again, breaking the silence. "Question is, what becomes of us when we have all our answers?"

I stare blindly through the tears as I hear him disconnect the line, my hand slowly dropping the receiver from my ear, glancing down at it, my head nodding in agreement.

"That is the question..." I whisper finally, a bittersweet smile hovering at my lips, my tears still brimming. I stare at the faraway wall blindly, thinking of Jarod, and my mother, and my father--the smile slowly fading. The question indeed.

__________________________________________

The alcohol has numbed my senses, dulling my thoughts into an illusion of coldness, unfeelingness. Twisting the glass before my eyes, I stare at the crystal--my reflection cracked and distorted as the moonlight shines through the window beside me. Closing my eyes, I let the glass press against my forehead, the coolness of the glass a balm against my skin.

"Be my home."

Without opening my eyes, I hurl the tumbler away from my body, hearing the sound of someone moving a split second before the shatter of glass.

"You could have killed me." comes the mild rebuke--the tone slightly amused, but the tiredness in the voice easily overpowering it.

"I tried, but you moved." I answer in kind, fatigue taking the place of vitriol. My eyes are still closed, my seemingly relaxed pose tense.

He accepts my reply in silence, and I can hear him moving again. I don't know how he got into my house--silent and dark as it is--and, for some unknown reason, I don't really care.

"Why?" I ask a moment later, a thousand queries voiced behind that one word--why is he here? Why me? What does he want from me and why?

Why.

"Why not." he answers simply.

I sigh softly, a tone of wretchedness to my voice as I reply with finality. "I don't care." I remind him painfully--a lie, but I'm unable to voice the truth.

"You don't *not* care." he retorts in a voice that's full of what some would call kindness as I suddenly feel his fingers against my face, his body close to mine as he settles beside me on the window seat.

I decline to answer, choosing instead to open my eyes. His features are as weary as mine feel--though I doubt the black hues and red rims to his eyes are from the same cause as mine. Somehow I can't see alcohol being Jarod's vice.

His eyes are staring into mine, searching--I know--for the answers that he thinks I have. I let him look for a long moment, hoping he'll finally realise that I have no more answers for him than I do for myself. Whatever I know, he's either told me or I've--reluctantly, unknowingly--told him.

"Be my home." he whispers, his gaze intense.

I keep my features focused, my returning gaze steady and firm. Silence is my reply.

After a long moment he laughs--bitterly and briefly--his hands leaving my face to press at his own, shaking his head. "Why do I even bother?" he mutters after a moment, his gaze skyward.

Silent, I wait.

He turns to face me again, his features confused and sadly amused. "Well?" he asks, turning the seemingly rhetorical query into an actual question.

I shrug. "Don't look at me," I reply woodenly.

He laughs again for a brief moment, turning away.

"What was in that envelope?" I ask then, turning the interrogation style tone on him now, like he had to me earlier on. I know he didn't open it whilst we were together in the bank.

"I didn't think you'd seen that." he murmurs softly--knowing what I was referring to--his body still sitting next to my half-reclined one but features turned away.

"I see everything." I remind him sharply, slightly cut that he would underestimate me and my abilities.

He inclines his head in apology and sighs. "Don't know." he glances back at me for a moment. "Can't bring myself to open it."

For a moment I'm surprised by his lack of action towards the solving of some of his greatest questions... until understanding creeps forward. The facing of ones dreams *can* be daunting and just because he's an overgrown labrat, that doesn't mean he's insusceptible to human responses of fear... the fear of the unknown.

"Lonely?" I query after a long moment of silence, inwardly wishing for my glass--preferably full of alcohol--back in my hand, unbroken.

"Alone." he corrects me, facing me fully once more. He doesn't continue, but I can read the rest of his response in his eyes: but not for tonight.

"I need a drink." I mumble, closing my eyes again. I need to feel complete numbness again--the coldness of no emotion, no feeling.

Without warning I feel his hands on my body--gripping my hips. In a swift move he tugs sharply, my body sliding down to lie flat on the window-seat, his torso immediately covering mine. My eyes open with a start at the unexpected movement only to drift shut again as his lips land upon mine, bruising with intensity yet the passion rising almost instaneously.

His hands slide over my silk-covered skin, rising from my hips back to my face, fingers framing my features as he forces my lips to meld to his. Shifting under his weight, I try to free my arms--wanting to touch him--only to gasp lightly into his mouth as one of his hands darts out to clasp mine together--holding them firmly above my head. Caught--and trapped--his other hand slowly moves, drawing ever-so-softly over the silk of my pyjama's before finding the buttons.

One, by one, he slowly undoes each button, fingers stroking the discovered skin. Unable to move, my hands shift beneath his, fingers entwining through his--the only contact of my own discretion that he is allowing me.

For a moment I'm angry--fiercely bitter--from the lack of control; the power he's exerting over me. Last time--the only other time--he'd willingly relinquished all authority to me, knowing my need for control. This time...

I want to fight him--to hurt him. I want to push him away, cry rape--a rape of control, power, command, authority--I want *him* to be the weak one.

But I don't.

I won't.

I can't.

His mouth leaves mine, lips trailing fire over my skin as he shifts above me; fingers pushing away the material to leave my torso bare to his exploration. His free hand moves back up towards my face and I capture his fingers with my mouth, sucking on the digits erotically; my tongue sweeping over his flesh in a mimicking movement to his.

Arousal--fierce and brutal--rushes over me, catching my sobering mind and body its tidal effect. I can feel his erection against my thigh, the effect of my body against his, and with the touch a sense of power that he *can't* steal from me.

I'm the cause. I do this to him. I make him want it... want *me*.

And I won't say no this.

I can't.

I want it--him--too.

I always have.

And as if he can sense my thoughts, he suddenly releases his grip on me--our hands suddenly free as we fight to divest each other's clothing, limbs colliding in the effort. Before long we're naked, limbs sliding together--slicked with sweat. And with that revelation of bodies bared comes the sudden grasping of my hands in his again--once more positioned above my head--the feel of his skin against mine; my legs forced to encircle his.

He pauses then, our gazes locked. I can see the queries in his eyes--has he gone too far? Has he hurt me? Do I want him to stop? My answer is no but I can't say it. I can't divulge that much information about myself. Instead I simply close my eyes, arching my hips to forcibly caress his. Our fingers entwine once more as they lay positioned above my head and in one swift move, he slips inside me; penetration complete.

For a moment I'm reminded of our last joining--the discomfit I had felt at his slow seduction. But his lips cover my mine, stealing my gasp of surprise as he moves sharply, our amalgamation fast and hard as he orchestrates the union. A brief jolt of disappointment pierces me before becoming submerged in the tsunami of arousal that's drowning me. And despite my limited movement, I move against him--with him--my utterances of pleasure lost as they combine with his, our bodies uniting with the search for mutual satisfaction.

I can feel my body tightening, his tensing. Our lips part, his face burying in the crook of my neck, his teeth nipping at my shoulder blade as he muffles his voice. Arching beneath him, I bite my lip, stifling the sounds of my pleasure. Our fingers have tightened, the clasp painful as ecstasy rocks our bodies.

Gasping in unison, he collapses against me, our skin tingling as the cool air caresses our sweat-slicked bodies. So sure that he would continue to lie there with me, holding me close, his sudden movements come as a shock. Closing my eyes to hide my surprise, I feel rather than see his shifting as he moves away from me, our hands parting as he collects his clothes.

The soft pressure of my window-seat blanket falls upon me suddenly and I glasp it to my body, uncertainty in my thoughts. Opening my eyes I watch him silently as he re-dresses; then, standing and gathering his jacket from the nearby chair, he finally looks at me, his gaze unreadable.

I wait for him to say it, to ask me. I wait for him to voice the words: be my home.

But he doesn't. He just turns, and leaves.

Silently. Quietly. As unobtrusively as he'd come.

Outside, I can hear a car starting, the engine roaring momentarily before it pulls away, the sound slowly fading into silence. Curling into a foetal position, I hug the blanket to my body--tears upon my cheeks.

Tonight, on the phone, he gave me the one thing I've always strived to gain from my father. And he gave it freely--no strings attached, no promises asked--knowing that it was what I needed... what I've *always* needed. Faith. Faith in *me*.

And tonight--he did everything I'd ever wanted. He took me--hard and fast. He left me--no lingering caresses or 'I-love-you'-like touches. He played the game by my rules, only breaking them in the kidnapping of my control. He fulfilled my usual standards--and then some--and yet...

I hadn't wanted him to.

Maybe it's the alcohol that was--is--in my system; maybe more than my thoughts were dulled with intoxication. Because tonight--for the first time--I'd wanted tenderness. I'd wanted romance.

I'd wanted love.

The one time I would have played by his rules, he played by mine.

I let my tears fall unchecked as I curl there, softly weeping.

I'll never tell him now, but if he'd asked me again; if he'd asked me to be his home...

I would have said yes.

The End

Disclaimer: All publicly recognisable characters and places are the property MTM and NBC Television. This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment not monetary purposes and no infringement on copyrights or trademarks was intended. Previously unrecognised characters and places, and this story, are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.