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Fic: Never Say Die (2/16)
Title: Never Say Die (2/16)
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: Adults Only
Pairing: John/Ellen (see notes in Part 0)
Summary: After a hunt that went horribly wrong, John wakes up in a California hospital. It's thirteen years later, everyone he trusted seems to be dead, and he has no idea how to find his sons. Meanwhile, unknown to John, Dean's time is running out.
Warnings: Darkfic. Character death. Torture. (See notes in Part 0 for more details)
Spoilers: Up to Jus In Bello.
Previous chapters: archived here.
NEVER SAY DIE
Part Two
April 2008, Mansfield, Nebraska
Ellen stirred the pan of soup with one hand while holding the telephone to her ear with the other. The rich smell of the soup reminded her of childhood; this was her grandmother's recipe. She found herself thinking of the past more and more since the losses of the past year. Her home and her business, destroyed by demonic fire. The Roadhouse had been insured - over-insured, in fact - but money didn't compensate for the friends who lost their lives in the fire, and couldn't come close to making up for the death of her son.
Which was why Ellen was, once again, arguing with her headstrong daughter about yet another hunt.
"No, Jo, honey," she insisted, struggling to keep her tone even and reasonable. "I don't want you anywhere near..." She broke off as Jo interrupted her. She let Jo marshal her arguments for a few moments, then cut in, "Sweetheart, I can't stop you hunting, but you've got to know your limits. Your father did."
Jo gave her nothing but a stony silence, which was all Ellen usually got when she mentioned Bill.
"Jo, honey?" Ellen prompted.
"I'm here," Jo said sullenly. "Alright, if I can't take the job will you at least make sure someone does?"
Ellen breathed more easily. "Sure, honey. I think Frank Walsh is close by. I'll give him a call."
"That sonofabitch!" Jo swore.
Ellen smiled, glad that Jo couldn't see it. She'd named Frank for exactly that reason: she knew Jo hated him so she wouldn't stick around in the hope of joining the hunt. "Frank's closest," she answered Jo evenly. "Why don't you take a break, sweetheart? I'd love to see you."
"I don't know. Maybe."
Ellen didn't push her. She'd learned the hard way that if she pushed too hard, it just drove Jo further away. Jo was all she had left, now. "Okay, well, let me know what you decide."
"I will, Mom. Bye." Jo hung up before Ellen could say anything more.
Ellen sighed and laid the phone down. She hated the thought of her little Jo out there hunting. But if Jo hadn't defied Ellen, if Jo stayed home at the Roadhouse, she would be dead now. Like Ash. Like so many others who died in the Roadhouse when the demons attacked. As Ellen herself was supposed to have died.
It didn't matter that Ellen was scared for her daughter. Since the devil's gate opened and an army of demons escaped from Hell, there was just too much out there to deprive the world of any hunter willing to fight.
Ellen winced. Even inside her own head that sounded sickeningly noble. She was supposed to be a cynical barkeep, not a hero. She wasn't in this fight to save the world; she just wanted the people she loved safe. But she'd failed at that one, hadn't she? Her Bill was long dead; Ash was dead. And Ellen herself...?
That night at the devil's gate, Ellen almost died. That freaky kid, Jake, told her to put a gun to her own head. Ellen felt her body react to his instruction as if she had no control of her own muscles. She felt the smooth metal in her hand, her finger on the trigger. She tried to move the gun, to blow the kid away, but she couldn't move. She knew that when Jake told her to fire, she would do it. A small, treacherous part of her thought, Why not? Wasn't it time? Hadn't she lost enough? Oh, the thought wasn't serious, but it was real and she knew that when Jake ordered her to die, part of her would be glad to obey.
It wasn't like Ellen to dwell on losses. She pulled herself together and turned the heat under the soup pan down to low. It was ready; she just wasn't hungry yet. The soup would keep.
She carried the phone with her into the next room and called Frank Walsh to let him know about the cluster of possessions Jo discovered. Frank was happy to take the job. Then she leaned back in her armchair and closed her eyes tiredly.
The apartment - purchased with the insurance money from the Roadhouse - was the upper floor of an old hotel. Way back when this was a small town dependent on the railroad, the building had been the centre of town. Now the old railroad was buried under the highway somewhere and the small town was a dying town, not even worth a Starbucks or MacDonalds. Developers had converted the old hotel into eight “luxury” apartments with spacious rooms and high ceilings. Since Ellen moved in the place had become cluttered with boxes and improvised shelving and the luxurious wallpaper was almost completely hidden beneath pinned up photographs, letters and maps. As long as she was frugal with the money left over from the insurance, Ellen wouldn't need to find a paying job for a few years. Longer, if she resorted to the usual hunter's methods of keeping the cash flowing. Instead of working in some new saloon, Ellen was doing what she could to help the hunters in their war: maintaining the old network that used to flow through the Roadhouse, gathering and sharing information and keeping track of as much as possible. The room she sat in was a cluttered mess of newspaper clippings, notebooks and maps. Tools of the hunter's trade.
Bang!
Ellen sat up, startled. Had she fallen asleep? What had woken her?
Bang! Bang!
Who the fuck was pounding on her door? Ellen's gun, a .32 calibre semi-automatic, lay on the table beside her. She carried it with her to the door. Before opening the door, she peered through the peephole. She saw only a silhouette against the light, but Ellen gasped. It looked like...but it couldn't be... John Winchester.
Ellen knew it was stupid to open the door, but she still did it. She had protections around the apartment. She opened the safety catch on her gun and jacked a round into the chamber before touching the door. She had the gun aimed with a steady, two handed grip, before the door opened.
"What are you?" she demanded.
The thing in John Winchester's shape met her eyes calmly. "It's me, Ellen. John."
She shook her head. "John Winchester is dead."
Remarkably, it didn't faze him. He simply nodded. "I know. I mean, I know that's what you've been told, but..." he shrugged, "here I am. You can tell I'm not a ghost."
"You're not John," she insisted. Her mind was racing. She knew about shape shifters, but saw no glow in his eyes, no giveaway flare. A demon might be able to project an illusion...
John said wearily, "I'll take any test you want. Answer any question. You've got to trust me. I need help, Ellen."
The look in his eyes was so very familiar. She felt as if it was only yesterday she last saw him, the day they fought for the first and only time. Only yesterday that she'd screamed at him over her husband's broken body, bitter words, the unfair accusation that he'd wanted Bill dead. Only yesterday that he'd spoken the last words she ever heard from him. You can't blame me any more than I blame myself, but I never wished him gone. Never. If any part of you believes that, you never knew me. Goodbye, Ellen.
Perhaps it was that long-forgotten guilt, but everything about him was so familiar, from the tone of his voice to the tiny scar beneath his eye. He seemed older than she remembered him, but John always had seemed older than his years. No, this was impossible. John was dead.
Ellen made her choice. She still had her gun pointed at his head. "Alright. Tell me something that only John knows." The creature before her might be something that could read her mind, but it was the best she could do.
He smiled suddenly. "Well, I don't know about only me, but, you've got a green tattoo on your ass. How many people know about that?"
Ellen stared at him. He was right about the tattoo, but what surprised her wasn't that he was right. It was that he'd mentioned it at all. Ellen had expected him to say something about Bill, or perhaps to repeat something she'd said to John when they were alone. Not this.
Belatedly, Ellen tried to hide her surprise. She narrowed her eyes. "What's the tattoo?" she asked.
"You never did tell me," John answered. He looked like he was trying to hide a smirk. "When I said it looked like a butterfly you threatened to knife me."
It was true. Ellen lowered her gun, but kept the safety off and her finger on the trigger. "Alright," she said, taking a step back from the door. She would not explicitly invite him in. Some creatures needed an invitation. Not vampires, but the myth got started somewhere.
John stepped over her threshold, his eyes never leaving her gun. Cautious as always, she thought. Ellen backed away from him slowly. John let the door swing closed behind him and the Yale lock clicked. John moved toward her and only when he was almost in her space did Ellen find she could breathe.
John? Can you really be John?
He frowned. "What is it?" he asked. He looked back over his shoulder, then up to the devil's trap marked on the ceiling above her door. He turned back to her with a smile. "That's smart. I didn't even see it. Do I pass, then?"
"I don't know," Ellen answered honestly. "You look like John. You seem like John, but he's dead. You can't be him."
He met her eyes, his expression very serious. "You believe me, or you would have put a bullet in me by now."
Ellen looked back at him steadily. "I'm willing to hear you out. But you'd better have one hell of a convincing explanation." She led him into her living room. "Have a seat."
He gathered up the papers lying on the chair and turned as if to sit down. Instead of sitting, he turned the papers around to read them. He glanced around the room. "Is it as bad out there as this looks?"
"Worse," she answered shortly. She sat down with the gun beside her leg, out of his sight.
He looked again at the papers in his hand. "Holy shit." He sat down. "Ellen, I don't have any explanation. The last clear memory I have is...is the hunt at the Devil's Gate reservoir with Bill. I woke up in a hospital in Sacramento and somehow it's thirteen years later and I have no goddamned clue what happened to me." John spread his hands, a helpless gesture. "I found out a few things. I know Jim's gone, and others. I saw what's left of the Roadhouse. I know everyone thinks I'm dead. But I - "
Ellen interrupted. "How did you find me?"
John laid the papers he was holding on the arm of the chair. "You told me once that if you ever lost the Roadhouse, you'd want to come back to Mansfield. Where you lived with Jamie. You're the only Harvelle in town."
"You've got a good memory," Ellen said without thinking. She couldn't have mentioned that to John more than once.
"Not really. It was last month to me."
"You seriously don't remember anything?" He sounded so plausible, but how could Ellen trust this?
It hit Ellen, then, how vulnerable she was, alone. It wasn't that she couldn't protect herself: she could. But she was used to having other people around her, others she could turn to for help or rely on in a crisis. This story John was feeding her: Ash could have checked out the salient elements in seconds. The hunters who came through the Roadhouse between jobs would have known tests she didn't, and many of them knew John, too.
John leaned forward, a look of concern on his face. "You look scared. I came because I need help. I took a chance, but, Ellen, if you want me to leave, I'll go."
Ellen forced herself to let go of the gun and clasped her hands on her thighs. "John, with your memory loss I guess you can't know but..." she hesitated. "We had a fight after Bill died. I haven't seen you, in the flesh, more than twice since that day."
He nodded, looking down at his boots. "If you blamed me for what happened, it's no more than I blame myself."
It was almost exactly what he said to her before he walked out of her life. Ellen believed him now. "Maybe so," she answered, "but it was your choice to leave. You would have been welcome back, John." And with those words, Ellen knew she believed that, against all the odds, the real John Winchester was sitting before her. She would never have admitted that to anyone else.
John looked up. "If that's true...Ellen, I don't remember. It's killing me that I can't remember. I thought we'd still be friends, at least. I thought you'd know my boys."
It was as if a cartoon lightbulb went on above her head. The boys. Of course. What else would John care about? "It's nearly a year since I've seen them, but I would have heard if anything happened to them. Your kids are okay, John."
He leapt forward, hope blazing in his eyes. "You know them?"
She rose and went over to the bureau. "I know them. Here..." She kept the photograph in her drawer. Almost nothing survived the fire, but Jo sent this to her shortly afterwards. Ash had taken it with Jo's camera: Jo, Dean and Sam outside the Roadhouse. She handed the picture to John.
He took it from her. "This is..." he broke off as he glanced at the image. "Oh. Oh, God."
"They tracked me down two years ago after you..." Ellen took a deep breath, and continued, "after you died, John."
He made a dismissive gesture. "Obviously, I never really died, Ellen..."
She crouched beside his chair, looking up at him. "John. You died. Two years ago. Your sons burned your body. If you'd seen them, after, you wouldn't doubt it."
He looked genuinely scared for the first time. "That can't be true. I'm here. I'm alive."
"But it is true." She got up and returned to the bureau. John was silent, taking in what she'd said. Ellen found the bottle and poured them each a generous measure of whiskey. She added a tiny splash of holy water to his glass, even though she was pretty sure the test wasn't necessary. She offered John the glass. He took it from her hand and drank.
"How did I die?" he asked.
"Sam told me it was the demon you were tracking. The one that killed your wife. I never asked for details." It was the truth, so far as it went. But there was more. Ellen remembered that moment at the devil's gate when she saw John there. John's spirit, fighting at his sons' sides. Should she tell him about that moment? Would he understand what it meant? "John, do you really not remember? Not anything?"
"Everything after Bill's death is gone. Ellen, in my head my boys are still sixteen and twelve. And then you show me this." He looked down at the photograph. "I don't even know if I got Bill's body home to you. Did I?"
She nodded. "Yes, John, you did. And you told me the truth about what happened."
John was still staring at the picture in his hands. "I've missed so much. Why can't I remember?"
"You didn't miss it, John. You raised your boys well. You just don't remember."
"But why?" he demanded. His hand curled into a fist, crumpling the photograph. He didn't appear to notice. "I've got to find out what happened to me, Ellen. I've got to find my boys."
Ellen knew that was the one thing she couldn't do for him. She believed he was John. If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck and quacks like a duck...it's probably a rabid, possessed duck the way my life is going. But endangering Sam and Dean was something else. She could tell him honestly that she didn't know where they were. She didn't even have a current phone number for them. But she did know how to find them. Bobby Singer would know where the boys were. Hell, they might even be with Bobby.
"What is it?" John asked. "You thought of something."
"I was just..." Ellen covered quickly. "I was wondering why you looked me up, instead of Bobby. I know you met him at the Roadhouse, but I guess you didn't become friends until later. After."
John frowned. "Bobby?"
"Singer. It doesn't matter." Ellen finished her whiskey. "Alright, John. Let's look at this logically. I want you to tell me everything you know, and we'll figure out what's happened to you. While we talk...are you hungry?"
John laughed suddenly, the rich, warm laugh she remembered so well. "Am I hungry? Well, the last decent meal I remember was thirteen years ago."
Ellen laughed with him. When was the last time she really laughed? She looked at John and realised it had been like this between them all those years ago. He could always make her smile. Just like Bill. She swallowed. "Fine. Then you can talk while we eat."
Over chicken soup and more whiskey, John told Ellen everything he could remember. It wasn't very much. He wondered if she truly believed him. Ellen seemed to accept his story very easily, but Ellen had always been tough to read. It was a talent she had.
"Hunter?" Ellen repeated, when John reached that part of the story. "Who'd use an alias like that?"
John's heart sank. "That's one of the things I was hoping you could tell me," he admitted. "I have this feeling I know the name, or something about the name, but it's...just out of reach, you know?"
"No one I know uses Hunter as an alias," Ellen said. "Think about it, John. Just close your eyes for a moment. What associations does the name bring up for you?"
John did as she suggested, closing his eyes. "Hunter," he said quietly. "D. Hunter." For an instant he felt remembered fire on his skin, heat like a napalm explosion and the scent of...of... But it was gone again. He opened his eyes. "Vietnam," he said.
"Is he one of your old unit?" Ellen asked.
John shook his head at once. "No, I remember all the names from those days. But maybe... Hell, I don't know. You asked, and I just thought Vietnam."
"It's a place to start." Ellen reached for her telephone.
"Who are you calling?"
"My daughter," Ellen answered. "Jo, honey, I need some research help..."
John listened in amazement. He remembered Jo as a little girl in pigtails, always underfoot in the Roadhouse saloon. He remembered teaching her to play poker, betting pieces of candy. Bill insisted that he take the candy with him when he won, to teach her that when you lose, you really lose. He remembered how thrilled she had been the first time she cleaned him out (he'd let her win, but she didn't know that). That little girl was a hunter now?
He looked down at the photograph Ellen had given him and this time recognised Jo as the young woman standing between his boys. Beside her, Dean frowned at the camera. Perhaps the sun was in his eyes, but it looked to John as if he were impatient with the whole process. He was wearing John's leather jacket. The last time John saw Dean he was sixteen years old. A precocious sixteen, with hints of the man he would become, but in the photograph John saw that potential fulfilled. The change in Sammy was even more dramatic. His little boy was all grown up and he towered over Jo and his brother, smiling uncertainly at the camera. They'd lived a lifetime in the thirteen years John couldn't remember. Something had been stolen from him, and he hated that he'd missed so much of their lives.
Ellen finished her call, and John blinked to clear his vision.
"If 'Hunter' is an alias it'll take a while, but if it's his real name Jo will have something by tomorrow," Ellen reported.
"That quickly?" John was surprised.
"Jo's good with computers..." Ellen began, then stopped, looking unhappy.
"Ellen?"
She hook her head. "I was going to say she's not as good as Ash. He died when the Roadhouse burned."
"I'm sorry." What else could John say? He hadn't really known Ash: he was an odd child, not fond of strangers.
"A lot of good people were killed that day, John," Ellen answered. She gave him a look as if he was supposed to know what happened. Had he been involved somehow? He didn't know, and didn't ask. John had seen the wreckage of the place, because it was the first place he'd tried in his search for Ellen. The destruction was too complete for it to be an accidental fire. That and the neat row of unmarked graves spoke for itself.
Ellen was frowning. "You know, John, I think maybe we're asking the wrong questions here."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, instead of asking why you've lost thirteen years of memories, maybe the question is why is that hunt the last thing you can remember?"
It was a good question. John nodded. "Okay. But I still don't know the answer."
"Well... This is going to sound crazy, but is it possible you don't remember because you haven't lived through those years. Yet. I mean, what if something happened after that hunt..."
John understood where she was going and shook his head. "This ain't Star Trek, Ellen. Or are you suggesting that something kind of doppelganger raised my boys?"
"No," Ellen answered at once. "No. I don't know what I'm suggesting. It just seemed like a good explanation."
John couldn't help smiling. "It doesn't explain anything, sweetheart. It may be consistent with the facts, but that's all. Could be a demon's work. That's a theory I can buy." It wasn't a theory he liked, though. What else had the power to raise the dead?
Ellen nodded thoughtfully. "It's more plausible, sure. But, John, what could any demon hope to gain from bringing you back?"
Sammy, perhaps, though I can't see how... Aloud, John said only, "I wish I knew, Ellen. I surely wish I knew."
Not long after, John suggested it was time for him to leave. He had seen enough of her apartment to observe she had only one bedroom, and the papers all over the living room meant he couldn't expect to sleep on her couch. He didn't really have a plan when he came here; he'd only been focussed on finding Ellen.
Ellen nodded. "Where are you staying?"
John shrugged. "I didn't notice the name of the place. I saw a motel on my way into town."
"Which means," Ellen guessed, "you don't have a room yet."
"Well, no, but..."
"You can stay here, John," Ellen interrupted.
Of course, it was all such a long time ago for Ellen. John gazed at her, remembering.
March 1995, Harvelle's Roadhouse
John was loading his bag into the trunk of the Impala when he heard someone behind him: footsteps rustling the dry Nebraska grass. He turned quickly, reaching for his weapon.
It was Bill. John didn't relax, but he didn't draw the gun.
"Leaving so soon?" Bill asked him with his usual, easy smile.
John had his excuse ready. "I picked up a trail in North Dakota," he lied smoothly. He glanced at Bill's belt and noted with some relief that he was unarmed.
Bill's smile never faltered. "You're a good man, John. Ellen told me what happened."
John thought that unlikely. He searched his friend's eyes for signs of anger and found none. Ellen hadn't told him the truth, John guessed. So he asked, warily, "What did she tell you?"
"Ellen tried to get in your pants. You turned her down."
John turned his back on Bill and slammed the Impala's trunk closed. That was the truth, near enough, but if Ellen really told Bill that, why wasn't he angry? John thought he knew Bill pretty well, and Bill wasn't that good an actor.
"John," Bill said from behind him, and his voice had lost all trace of humour, "we should talk. You want to come back inside?"
Hell, no. John turned around, frowning. "You ain't mad?"
"With you? No."
Bill's answer sent a trickle of ice down John's spine. Bill's marriage was his business, but if he'd hurt Ellen, John was going to make it his. "And Ellen?" he asked.
Bill actually laughed. "Don't make it sound like such a threat, man. I'm not angry with either of you. Come inside. Drink's on the house."
Reassured, if confused, John followed Bill back into the Roadhouse. The saloon was empty of customers, which usually meant the children would be running around, but there was no sign of Ash or little Jo, nor even of Ellen.
Bill walked around the bar and set out two whiskey glasses.
John laid his hand over one of them. "It's early, Bill, and I've got a long way to drive." He sat down on a bar stool.
"Alright." Bill handed John a Coke without asking what he wanted, and poured whiskey into a glass for himself. He leaned on the bar without touching his drink. "John, I appreciate you telling Ellen no. There ain't a lot of hunters with that kind of honour. And you were careful not to give her away, too. Ellen was right about you."
Ellen was right. John gazed at Bill, wondering what those words really meant. "Are you telling me that was some kind of test?"
"Not the way you think."
"What does that mean?"
Bill lifted his whiskey glass and turned it in his hand so the golden liquid swirled around in the glass. "First, I want to make it clear where I stand on this. If you and Ellen got an itch you need to scratch, you go right ahead."
John sighed, opening the Coke bottle so he wouldn't have to meet Bill's eyes. "Bill, I don't - "
"I mean it, John. You've gotta understand this. I love my wife, and our marriage is solid. But I never did set much store by this faithful-unto-death thing."
John set the Coke bottle down between them. "Yeah? Well, I do. And I don't think you're as okay with it as you pretend, Bill."
"It ain't pretence, John. I never told you how I came to marry Ellen, did I?"
"Not my business," John said gruffly. He drank some Coke. He didn't like the stuff. Too sweet.
Bill sipped his whiskey. "When I first met Ellen, in Mansfield, she was living with another woman. She and Jamie were a real scandal in a small town, I can tell you. We were a threesome."
"And I thought that only happens in movies," John said sarcastically.
"They invited me in because they wanted kids. I was already hunting and it seemed like a good deal to me. Better'n most of us get. Lasted a few years." Bill drained his whiskey and poured himself another. "Until Jamie died."
John watched Bill's face while he poured the drink. It was a look he recognised. A look he'd worn himself. "She's Ash's mother," John said with sudden inspiration.
"Got it in one," Bill agreed. "I was on a hunt when... The doc said it was a hard labour, she lost a lot of blood. Then she caught an infection; she just wasn't strong enough."
John remembered the day Dean was born. He'd been scared for Mary; she seemed to be in so much pain. But nothing short of the end of the world could have induced him to leave her side. It was a miracle how quickly Mary forgot the pain and blood when she finally held their baby in her arms.
Losing Mary almost killed him. John looked at Bill. Did Bill love this woman he was talking about? Or was their relationship merely the convenience he was trying to paint it? Bill was looking down at his empty glass. The corners of his mouth were turned down. The skin around his eyes was tight. Yeah, he'd loved her. John waited, allowing Bill to take the time he needed.
When Bill looked up, his usual smile was back in place, his eyes clear. "We - the three of us - always said we wouldn't marry, because one of the girls would have to be left out. After we lost Jamie, Ellen married me so she could legally adopt her son. Our son. We fell in love...later."
Bill's last words reminded John where this conversation began. He thought maybe he was getting an inkling of what Bill was trying to say.
Bill met John's eyes, hesitating over what he wanted to say next. "When I said a minute ago that Ellen was right about you, it's because..." His voice trailed off again.
John wasn't interested in guessing. "Just say it, Bill," he said irritably.
"Alright. Three in the marriage suited me. Suited Ellen, too. We both want you in our family."
And that John had not expected. He stared at Bill. He almost asked if Bill meant what it sounded like, but didn't. He knew the answer.
He should have taken that whiskey.
Another question came to mind then and John could not figure out a way to ask without sounding like a complete idiot. John had feelings for Ellen. Feelings he'd been fighting for a long time because she was another man's wife. He liked Bill and considered him a friend. He trusted both of them more than he trusted most hunters. But this was a step beyond friendship.
John hadn't been with anyone, but for isolated one night stands, since he lost Mary.
He had to say something. The silence was getting thick enough to drown in. John twirled the Coke bottle between his fingers, thinking. Finally, he met his friend's eyes. "I don't know, Bill. One of the reasons I refused Ellen's pass was because it couldn't be meaningless with her. Casual is all I can do, since..." John didn't finish the sentence, but let his gaze fall to the wedding ring he still wore. He thought Bill would understand. He took a deep breath and looked up again. "What exactly is it you want?"
Bill's look showed he understood. "No expectations, man. No pressure. Give it a try. If we mesh, we talk. If not; no harm, no foul." Bill grinned suddenly. "Either way, it'll be a good time. Are you in?"
John was half convinced he would regret this forever, but he was certain he'd regret it if he said no. He nodded. "Yeah. I'm in."
Seven weeks later, Bill Harvelle was dead.
April 2008
John glanced around the room. "If you've got a spare blanket I can sleep in an armchair," he suggested.
Ellen's expression said clearly that she thought he was being an idiot. "I don't have a second bedroom, but I do have a big bed. And you've seen me naked before, John."
"Ellen..." He tried to articulate his objection but the words simply wouldn't come.
She shook her head. "I offered sleep, John. No strings. No expectations."
She didn't understand. Of course she didn't. In John's memory, it was less than a week since he last held her in his arms. It was years to her. John could still conjure up the taste of her on his tongue, the feel of her body beneath him. Could he sleep beside her and not think about those things? He was a man, not a goddamned saint!
But he wasn't going to get a better offer. John nodded. "Okay. I guess I can be a gentleman."
Ellen smiled suddenly. "Who do you think you're kidding?"
"Alright. I'll keep my dick to myself. Better?" That promise, at least, he knew he could keep.
"That I believe. Come on. I've got a spare toothbrush."
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(Anonymous) 2008-05-05 04:01 pm (UTC)(link)=]
I shall be in line for my next fix.
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Oh, me too! I love Bobby, but the show needs a good female character.
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