untitled AU

[nepheliad.livejournal.com]

Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,049
Characters: Isabella Fitzwilliam, Cary Vaughn-Blair, Ryan Bertrand
Notes: My response to Was came out in prose.

They met as if by accident.

Truth be told, for one of them it was an accident; she hadn't meant to be outside at all. She hadn't meant to be outside looking the way she looked (about sixteen, eighteen at the most, pale blonde hair, soft features, smooth and sultry curved) or outside wrapped only in a bathrobe in the middle of October. If she were going to be outside it wouldn't be looking like that, it would be being more dressed than that, and it wouldn't be because her apartment was on fire.

For the other two, it was only a sort of accident – they had been looking for excitement and adventure, and absolutely found it. An apartment fire, a scared-looking young woman running outside, not quite sure what to do, a collision between the scared-looking young woman and the taller of the two men, an out-of-place cop from the Metropolitan Police of London.

The other one, also a policeman from London, originally of Montréal, where they had been prior to New York City, prior to the first one being crashed into by a frantic young woman in a bathrobe, had simply begun to laugh. Under his breath, but he had laughed, because the entire thing had been terribly absurd and somehow the fact that they were standing by, comforting this woman who seemed vaguely familiar, somehow, as if they had seen her before –

It was absurd, and it remained absurd, and it continued to be absurd as they stayed there with her, trying to calm her down and ask her questions as FDNY cleaned up the mess. She refused to give her name, refused to give any information, was shaking and frantic about her things – old letters, she said, there were old letters inside, and she needed to get to them and couldnt have them destroyed, and her clothes and jewelry and photographs and so many things –

Her name, they learned after nearly an hour, was Isabella.

Cary, the British policeman told her as he held her in his arms to stop her shaking, to stop her chill, to calm her down. This is Ryan.

Ryan nodded.

Isabella smiled shakily.

They spent the rest of the day together, took her shopping (we're not public safety here but we're on vacation, got a bit of money, we can at least get you something a little warmer), wrapped her up in a dress and stockings and shoes and a coat and bought her dinner. Invited her to stay in their hotel; not with them, but down the hall.



She stayed with them.

Not in their room, but down the hall.

She didn't know what she was doing. Didn't know why she was letting herself spend time wth these people, these two policemen from England, and maybe it was, a little, because they were policemen. They both reminded her a little bit of Sam.

Cary's hands reminded her of Sam's, too.

She tried not to think of it.



He tried not to think of her, of how it had felt to hold her. He tried not to let himself be drawn to someone they had protected, saved, found a bit of clothes and a place to sleep and nothing else – there was nothing for it.

But Ryan saw through him. Saw it all.

You like her.

Of course I like her.

You – fancy her, is that the word you'd use.

I do not died on his lips.

Cary couldn't lie.



They ran into her again in the morning. Spent the day with her again. She couldn't tell them any of her secrets and she wouldn't make anything up, so she never told them anything at all and they didn't tell her very much of anything either. She learned little things about them. Learned that they were from England, yes; that the one was from Canada, the other from Liverpool, they now lived in London and worked in London and lived together in a flat, but they weren't together together, not like that.

Only moments later was she to discover that one of them did, in fact, have a male lover. He wasn't present. That was a pity, she told them, and laughed as she twisted her cigarette between her fingertips and ignored how uncomfortably modern Ryan's lighter was. Nothing like her own. A Bic from the corner. Cheap and easy.

But when Cary looked at her, when he thought she didn't see him, giving her a hungry look she'd seen in Finney's eyes, in Andy's eyes, in Asa's and Jeremy's and countless others over the years, but his look was intense and dark and guarded. And secret. He made no show of how he felt. Not outwardly. And that frustrated her.

Why wouldn't he say anything about it? Just because she wouldn't let him in, just because she wouldn't let him know her, wouldn't let him touch her, wouldn't tell him anything at all because she wasn't what she looked like she was (even if she hadn't felt more like herself in ages and ages, laughing and being carefree and flirting – mostly with Ryan, who flirted back, who didn't become stony and nervous and instead was happy to play along because Ryan wore a ring and Ryan was safe) – that didn't have to mean that he wasn't going to try.

What was wrong with her that he wouldn't try, she wondered, and he wondered what was wrong with him that he couldn't ever stop thinking about her, about being near her, about touching her, maybe, even, not maybe, definitely, yes, he wanted to touch her, and he'd known her for two days –

Constantly in her company for two days, Ryan reminded him. Constantly. Except when they were asleep.



Two days turned into three, four, five – and then, suddenly, a week had passed.

Within that week, and nobody quite knew how, but things changed. Somehow, in the dark, at a film perhaps, when they hadn't even been watching the screen because they were caught up in simply being in each other's spaces, somehow, Cary's fingertips found the side of her neck, meant to be an affectionate gesture, instead got a low moan and a tiny squeak, and everything changed.

She stayed with them again.

Not down the hall, but in their room, in Cary's bed, and Ryan stayed down the hall instead.

Comments

[chimbleysweep]

I have had this open in my tabs since you wrote it. JUST FYI.