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dani_the_girlTitle: Next time
Fandom: Spooks
Summary: Ros needs someone to trust, Adam needs someone to be honest with. After the events at the barrier, they both decide to take advantage of the invitation.
Pairing: Adam/Ros
Rating: Err not sure. Non-graphic descriptions of sex. What does that count as?
Notes: I basically knew I would have to write this fic as soon as Adam said "Next time, trust me!" and Ros replied "Next time, don't lie to me!" in 5x10. For a while, I toyed with making it my bondage, held down fic for![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kink_bingo but I couldn't make it fit the characters and I'm glad I kept it the way I did, now.
They break the water within seconds of each other. Ros finds herself fighting off the temptation to laugh at the sight of Adam with his hair dark from river water and plastered against the side of his face. It's only reaction, and she probably looks similarly unusual. They strike out for the shore and it's quickly apparent that she's the stronger swimmer. She takes a little off her speed to keep Adam in contention, make it feel like a contest - get them both warmed up a little.
Once they've pulled themselves up onto the pier and then scaled the fence to get onto the walkway, any warmth from swimming has evaporated into the cold London breeze. To their left is the Barrier compound, crawling with SO19, but if there's one rule with guys with more muscles than tactics, it's never let them see you not at your best and Ros is feeling decidedly less than her best right now. She exchanges looks with Adam.
"Safe house?" he suggests.
"Safe house," she agrees immediately.
He peels away and starts to jog along the riverside path and she follows, ignoring the rub of her soaked shoes against her ankles. Fortunately, this is not exactly fashionable London and by dint of ducking around a few back alleys, they manage to make it to an MI5 house without too many interested stares from passers by. Adam keys in the door code and they whisk in and slam the door behind them. Ros whips around to disable the alarm and they eye each other cautiously.
"Thanks," Ros says after a moment.
Adam shrugs. "No problem."
"We're dripping on the carpet," she says after a moment. "Toss you for first shower?"
His eyebrows raise but she digs a coin out of her pocket and gives him a quelling look.
"One of us should call Harry," he points out.
She leaves it hanging for a moment, but then decides to take pity. "All right," she says. "You go shower, I'll call us in."
"Thanks," he says, heartfelt, and then, to her surprise, adds "Rather you than me. I don't think I'm likely to be in Harry's good books at the moment."
He takes himself off to the bathroom, leaving her looking at the space where he'd been standing for several minutes before picking up the phone to call the Grid.
Harry is flatteringly relieved on the phone, almost to the point of being effusive. He reassures her that they have control of the barrier back and she promises they'll both come in for debriefing tomorrow morning. She's about to say goodbye when Harry says "Ros," in such uncertain tones that she finds herself startled again.
"For god sake, Harry," she snaps irritably. "You know better than anyone, you had to do it. We're fine, assuming neither of us have caught a cold."
"Yes, of course," Harry says, sounding distant over the phone line. "I'll see you both 9am sharp tomorrow."
By the time Adam has finished in the bathroom, she's having to suppress the shivers. She's found the heating and turned it on, but it hasn't had much time yet to take off the chill of a flat that's only ever used in emergencies. She's also found the credit card stash. As soon as he steps out, towel wrapped around his waist and wet clothes in hand, she says "Bedroom's that way, men's clothes in the left hand wardrobe. There's a credit card and driving license by the door - you can express your gratitude by going and picking up some food and a bottle of decent white wine."
"Sounds good," he agrees.
"Debrief is 9am tomorrow," she tells him. "Harry was obviously having guilty pangs, so I don't think you need to worry too much about a dressing down." She stands up and makes for the shower.
"Thanks," he says. "Back in half an hour or so."
It feels so good to have the hot water running over her skin that she lets her mind blank for a little, just savours the sensation of being warm again, of the dirt of the river running away from her hair, her skin, her nails, swirling down the drain. When she's finally done, clean and warm again, it feels strange, a state of grace she believed briefly she would never achieve again. She shakes herself and goes to have a look in the wardrobe for clothes.
Predictably, there's nothing in her size so she goes in the other direction, finding an overlarge t-shirt to wear loose over belted slacks. She pushes her wet clothes into the dryer and finds Adams to shove in as well. No way is she wearing anything here into the Grid tomorrow. By the time he's returned with the Chinese, she's found plates, cutlery and glasses and they help themselves in companionable silence, finally settling themselves in the living room, watching the news while they eat.
When what passes for current affairs at the BBC comes to a close, neither of them can bear to watch the insipid sit com that follows. After a glance at her face, Adam switches it off, which leaves them in silence. She watches, waits. Silence is an old technique, a classic for a reason. Adam gets up, pours them both another glass of white wine. Eventually, he cracks. They always do.
"I'm changing shrinks," he says, not looking at her. "That's why I signed off that woman."
"Really?" She tries not to let more than a hint of cynicism show. Enough to goad, not enough to enrage.
"All these bloody women," he expostulates. "There's no point in it!"
"Because," she presses.
"I can't exactly tell them I'm still pissed off at her for playing the tragic heroine in a melodrama of her own making, can I?" he bursts out.
It's so exactly what she herself has thought about Fiona Carter's death that she's not sure how to react. She wants to laugh for a moment, but reins herself in. She's not sure what she should say to him, all passion, emotion. It feels like a role reversal. Perhaps he'll weep on her shoulder. Eventually, she settles on "What would you have wanted her to do?"
"Told me!" he says, voice raised, not to shout but giving force to it. "If she didn't bloody know me well enough to trust that I wouldn't wrap her in cotton wool, what the hell were we doing for the past eight years?"
"The best you could," Ros tells him. She's had years of practice in sounding more certain than she feels.
He snorts. "You wouldn't have set up a bloody stupid op like that." It's true, but somehow, she suspects that joining in the condemnation of his dead ex-wife is not her role here. He suddenly focuses on her, sharpening up from the middle distance where he's been contemplating his ghosts. "What would you have done?"
It's the first question he's asked her that actually sounds like it requires an answer and, of course, it's one she doesn't have an answer for. "God knows," she replies, honest as she can manage. "I wouldn't have been in that situation."
She's let precious few people have power over her in her life. Her father, yes, for family and partly for the memories. Now, perhaps, Harry Pearce, for duty. But for fear? Never. It's not true to say that she's never afraid, but fear doesn't make her crumble, doesn't turn her judgement. It shores her up, makes her bleak, untouchable.
"You should tell them," she points out to him. "They'll say it's only natural, that you're sublimating being angry at yourself and then they'll tell you you've made progress." They probably would, although Ros doubts this would actually qualify as progress. She can't remember a time she's ever made progress by talking. Telling always feels too much like betrayal.
"Not my style," Adam replies, looking at the ceiling.
"Well, you could always punish her," Ros says. "Fuck the nanny, perhaps. I believe it's traditional for grieving fathers anyway." She intends to be teasing, but he turns bright red and she finds she can't help it - she snorts with laughter. "Adam! So cliche!"
He grins at her. "Not as cliche as wearing Fiona's perfume was." She's surprised, because it ought to be a barb, a thrust but it doesn't seem to be. It's more a tease.
"I'm not now," she shoots back, just a hint of a challenge. Times have changed. Although they don't seem to trust each other much more now than they did then so perhaps not so much.
"You don't want get out of the house with my data now," he points out and leaves the question hanging. What do you want?
She watches him, curious. He looks more like himself, now that the warm air of the flat has dried his hair and he has relaxed back into the sofa with only the faintest underlying hint of coiled spring, but also less like himself, less shadowed. Perhaps it's the near death experience. She wonders what she should say. If he's finding his balance, she doesn't want to throw it for a loop. She remembers him in the Barrier; "Trust me."
She stands up, unfolding from the sofa to cross to the table where the wine is still open, pour herself another glass. "I want you on the Grid," she admits as she moves. "Jo's a sweet kid but she's too naive." Look how Fiona played her, after all. "And Zaf's all action, no caution. I need someone I can trust to play off."
He stands up, suddenly close to her, and reaches his hand down to cover hers on the neck of the wine bottle. "You can trust me," he says, low voiced, intense. There's a heat in the contact that has nothing to do with the body heat radiating from them both, but everything to do with the way he's looking at her. It's not an appeal, but a challenge and she's never been one to resist a challenge.
For a second, she thinks cynically that it's all a sham, that he's decided to seduce her so she'll take his side against Harry. She told him not to lie to her but nothing he's said tonight is susceptible to proof. Nothing except the fact that he opened the hatch, chose to save them both, and the clarity in his gaze, the hint of sharpness, and the spark of mischief she hasn't seen but only suspected must have been there before. His face is already tilted down towards her, she closes the gap and stretches up to kiss him.
As she might have expected, he wants to take command, leaning in, moving his hands up to rest on her upper arms, and she immediately wants to assert herself in contrast. She hooks his foot out and leans forward, letting his hands bring her with him as he falls back onto the sofa, spreading her legs so he's underneath her. It pushes the breath out of him in a rush that sounds like a short laugh, and she smiles in response. He smells just as good as she remembered from the last time she kissed him, warm and masculine. She props her arms against the sofa on either side of his head and starts to explore. He slides his hands up underneath her t-shirt, anchoring her in place and taking liberties all at the same time.
It's characteristic of the rest of their encounter; they're both natural leaders, here as much as anywhere else, but they're both having fun, willing to take turns and enjoy the tussle of changing over. Adam is, unsurprisingly, a considerate lover - the combination of ego and self awareness is an easy tell - and she's more than ready by the time she flips him over on the mattress and sinks down onto him. He obligingly tilts his pelvis up until the look on her face must tell him the angle is perfect and she rides him until she loses her rhythm as she comes. His hand on her hips and her own trailing energy keep them going for the couple more minutes it takes Adam to get there and she rolls off to lie beside him, both staring idly at the ceiling. It's covered in stained patches.
"This is a hole," Ros tells him. "I know a much nicer safe house."
"It's south of the river, what do you expect," Adam replies. He doesn't say anything to the second half, by which Ros is pretty sure that he's caught the hint.
"Set the alarm?" he asks.
"Sure," she agrees, and suits the action to the word, turning over and propping herself up, giving them plenty of time before their debrief to get themselves looking half way decent. She flicks off the bedroom light and surprises herself by rolling back into Adam's loose embrace. It feels good, warm. Safe. She drifts off to sleep, wondering about next time.
Fandom: Spooks
Summary: Ros needs someone to trust, Adam needs someone to be honest with. After the events at the barrier, they both decide to take advantage of the invitation.
Pairing: Adam/Ros
Rating: Err not sure. Non-graphic descriptions of sex. What does that count as?
Notes: I basically knew I would have to write this fic as soon as Adam said "Next time, trust me!" and Ros replied "Next time, don't lie to me!" in 5x10. For a while, I toyed with making it my bondage, held down fic for
kink_bingo but I couldn't make it fit the characters and I'm glad I kept it the way I did, now.They break the water within seconds of each other. Ros finds herself fighting off the temptation to laugh at the sight of Adam with his hair dark from river water and plastered against the side of his face. It's only reaction, and she probably looks similarly unusual. They strike out for the shore and it's quickly apparent that she's the stronger swimmer. She takes a little off her speed to keep Adam in contention, make it feel like a contest - get them both warmed up a little.
Once they've pulled themselves up onto the pier and then scaled the fence to get onto the walkway, any warmth from swimming has evaporated into the cold London breeze. To their left is the Barrier compound, crawling with SO19, but if there's one rule with guys with more muscles than tactics, it's never let them see you not at your best and Ros is feeling decidedly less than her best right now. She exchanges looks with Adam.
"Safe house?" he suggests.
"Safe house," she agrees immediately.
He peels away and starts to jog along the riverside path and she follows, ignoring the rub of her soaked shoes against her ankles. Fortunately, this is not exactly fashionable London and by dint of ducking around a few back alleys, they manage to make it to an MI5 house without too many interested stares from passers by. Adam keys in the door code and they whisk in and slam the door behind them. Ros whips around to disable the alarm and they eye each other cautiously.
"Thanks," Ros says after a moment.
Adam shrugs. "No problem."
"We're dripping on the carpet," she says after a moment. "Toss you for first shower?"
His eyebrows raise but she digs a coin out of her pocket and gives him a quelling look.
"One of us should call Harry," he points out.
She leaves it hanging for a moment, but then decides to take pity. "All right," she says. "You go shower, I'll call us in."
"Thanks," he says, heartfelt, and then, to her surprise, adds "Rather you than me. I don't think I'm likely to be in Harry's good books at the moment."
He takes himself off to the bathroom, leaving her looking at the space where he'd been standing for several minutes before picking up the phone to call the Grid.
Harry is flatteringly relieved on the phone, almost to the point of being effusive. He reassures her that they have control of the barrier back and she promises they'll both come in for debriefing tomorrow morning. She's about to say goodbye when Harry says "Ros," in such uncertain tones that she finds herself startled again.
"For god sake, Harry," she snaps irritably. "You know better than anyone, you had to do it. We're fine, assuming neither of us have caught a cold."
"Yes, of course," Harry says, sounding distant over the phone line. "I'll see you both 9am sharp tomorrow."
By the time Adam has finished in the bathroom, she's having to suppress the shivers. She's found the heating and turned it on, but it hasn't had much time yet to take off the chill of a flat that's only ever used in emergencies. She's also found the credit card stash. As soon as he steps out, towel wrapped around his waist and wet clothes in hand, she says "Bedroom's that way, men's clothes in the left hand wardrobe. There's a credit card and driving license by the door - you can express your gratitude by going and picking up some food and a bottle of decent white wine."
"Sounds good," he agrees.
"Debrief is 9am tomorrow," she tells him. "Harry was obviously having guilty pangs, so I don't think you need to worry too much about a dressing down." She stands up and makes for the shower.
"Thanks," he says. "Back in half an hour or so."
It feels so good to have the hot water running over her skin that she lets her mind blank for a little, just savours the sensation of being warm again, of the dirt of the river running away from her hair, her skin, her nails, swirling down the drain. When she's finally done, clean and warm again, it feels strange, a state of grace she believed briefly she would never achieve again. She shakes herself and goes to have a look in the wardrobe for clothes.
Predictably, there's nothing in her size so she goes in the other direction, finding an overlarge t-shirt to wear loose over belted slacks. She pushes her wet clothes into the dryer and finds Adams to shove in as well. No way is she wearing anything here into the Grid tomorrow. By the time he's returned with the Chinese, she's found plates, cutlery and glasses and they help themselves in companionable silence, finally settling themselves in the living room, watching the news while they eat.
When what passes for current affairs at the BBC comes to a close, neither of them can bear to watch the insipid sit com that follows. After a glance at her face, Adam switches it off, which leaves them in silence. She watches, waits. Silence is an old technique, a classic for a reason. Adam gets up, pours them both another glass of white wine. Eventually, he cracks. They always do.
"I'm changing shrinks," he says, not looking at her. "That's why I signed off that woman."
"Really?" She tries not to let more than a hint of cynicism show. Enough to goad, not enough to enrage.
"All these bloody women," he expostulates. "There's no point in it!"
"Because," she presses.
"I can't exactly tell them I'm still pissed off at her for playing the tragic heroine in a melodrama of her own making, can I?" he bursts out.
It's so exactly what she herself has thought about Fiona Carter's death that she's not sure how to react. She wants to laugh for a moment, but reins herself in. She's not sure what she should say to him, all passion, emotion. It feels like a role reversal. Perhaps he'll weep on her shoulder. Eventually, she settles on "What would you have wanted her to do?"
"Told me!" he says, voice raised, not to shout but giving force to it. "If she didn't bloody know me well enough to trust that I wouldn't wrap her in cotton wool, what the hell were we doing for the past eight years?"
"The best you could," Ros tells him. She's had years of practice in sounding more certain than she feels.
He snorts. "You wouldn't have set up a bloody stupid op like that." It's true, but somehow, she suspects that joining in the condemnation of his dead ex-wife is not her role here. He suddenly focuses on her, sharpening up from the middle distance where he's been contemplating his ghosts. "What would you have done?"
It's the first question he's asked her that actually sounds like it requires an answer and, of course, it's one she doesn't have an answer for. "God knows," she replies, honest as she can manage. "I wouldn't have been in that situation."
She's let precious few people have power over her in her life. Her father, yes, for family and partly for the memories. Now, perhaps, Harry Pearce, for duty. But for fear? Never. It's not true to say that she's never afraid, but fear doesn't make her crumble, doesn't turn her judgement. It shores her up, makes her bleak, untouchable.
"You should tell them," she points out to him. "They'll say it's only natural, that you're sublimating being angry at yourself and then they'll tell you you've made progress." They probably would, although Ros doubts this would actually qualify as progress. She can't remember a time she's ever made progress by talking. Telling always feels too much like betrayal.
"Not my style," Adam replies, looking at the ceiling.
"Well, you could always punish her," Ros says. "Fuck the nanny, perhaps. I believe it's traditional for grieving fathers anyway." She intends to be teasing, but he turns bright red and she finds she can't help it - she snorts with laughter. "Adam! So cliche!"
He grins at her. "Not as cliche as wearing Fiona's perfume was." She's surprised, because it ought to be a barb, a thrust but it doesn't seem to be. It's more a tease.
"I'm not now," she shoots back, just a hint of a challenge. Times have changed. Although they don't seem to trust each other much more now than they did then so perhaps not so much.
"You don't want get out of the house with my data now," he points out and leaves the question hanging. What do you want?
She watches him, curious. He looks more like himself, now that the warm air of the flat has dried his hair and he has relaxed back into the sofa with only the faintest underlying hint of coiled spring, but also less like himself, less shadowed. Perhaps it's the near death experience. She wonders what she should say. If he's finding his balance, she doesn't want to throw it for a loop. She remembers him in the Barrier; "Trust me."
She stands up, unfolding from the sofa to cross to the table where the wine is still open, pour herself another glass. "I want you on the Grid," she admits as she moves. "Jo's a sweet kid but she's too naive." Look how Fiona played her, after all. "And Zaf's all action, no caution. I need someone I can trust to play off."
He stands up, suddenly close to her, and reaches his hand down to cover hers on the neck of the wine bottle. "You can trust me," he says, low voiced, intense. There's a heat in the contact that has nothing to do with the body heat radiating from them both, but everything to do with the way he's looking at her. It's not an appeal, but a challenge and she's never been one to resist a challenge.
For a second, she thinks cynically that it's all a sham, that he's decided to seduce her so she'll take his side against Harry. She told him not to lie to her but nothing he's said tonight is susceptible to proof. Nothing except the fact that he opened the hatch, chose to save them both, and the clarity in his gaze, the hint of sharpness, and the spark of mischief she hasn't seen but only suspected must have been there before. His face is already tilted down towards her, she closes the gap and stretches up to kiss him.
As she might have expected, he wants to take command, leaning in, moving his hands up to rest on her upper arms, and she immediately wants to assert herself in contrast. She hooks his foot out and leans forward, letting his hands bring her with him as he falls back onto the sofa, spreading her legs so he's underneath her. It pushes the breath out of him in a rush that sounds like a short laugh, and she smiles in response. He smells just as good as she remembered from the last time she kissed him, warm and masculine. She props her arms against the sofa on either side of his head and starts to explore. He slides his hands up underneath her t-shirt, anchoring her in place and taking liberties all at the same time.
It's characteristic of the rest of their encounter; they're both natural leaders, here as much as anywhere else, but they're both having fun, willing to take turns and enjoy the tussle of changing over. Adam is, unsurprisingly, a considerate lover - the combination of ego and self awareness is an easy tell - and she's more than ready by the time she flips him over on the mattress and sinks down onto him. He obligingly tilts his pelvis up until the look on her face must tell him the angle is perfect and she rides him until she loses her rhythm as she comes. His hand on her hips and her own trailing energy keep them going for the couple more minutes it takes Adam to get there and she rolls off to lie beside him, both staring idly at the ceiling. It's covered in stained patches.
"This is a hole," Ros tells him. "I know a much nicer safe house."
"It's south of the river, what do you expect," Adam replies. He doesn't say anything to the second half, by which Ros is pretty sure that he's caught the hint.
"Set the alarm?" he asks.
"Sure," she agrees, and suits the action to the word, turning over and propping herself up, giving them plenty of time before their debrief to get themselves looking half way decent. She flicks off the bedroom light and surprises herself by rolling back into Adam's loose embrace. It feels good, warm. Safe. She drifts off to sleep, wondering about next time.
