Title: Pity's Optional
Word Count: 610
Spoilers/Warnings: Spoilers for episode 3.15, "Papa's Cabin"
Disclaimer: The characters depicted here were created by Rob Thomas. They are used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended, and no profit is being made from their use.
Summary: Written in response to the Ennui Challenge at head_tilt. Eli Navarro is bored.
Author's Note: I realize it's bad form to be late responding to a challenge at the community you help run, but what can I say? My life is crazy right now. I figure nine hours past the deadline isn't too bad. :)
Eli Navarro was bored. He was home alone for the weekend, with no miscellaneous relatives around to ratchet up the noise level. He'd watched all three Terminator movies back-to-back-to-back, and then couldn't find the remote, so he watched the last hour of Legally Blonde. It didn't hurt that Reese Witherspoon was hot.
He'd ordered a large pepperoni pizza, the remains of which were still sitting on the coffee table. He'd gone through half a box of Thin Mints, a bag of microwave popcorn, and most of a fifth of Jack Daniels. He'd jerked off to alternating fantasies of Jessica Alba and Veronica Mars, but even that got old after a while. If that didn't scream "bored and pathetic," he didn't know what did.
He needed to get out of the house, but he was in no condition to drive. He wasn't sure he was even in any condition to walk over to the phone. As he was pondering that possibility, the doorbell rang. He hauled himself off the couch, and waited a moment for the room to tilt back to level.
When he opened the door, he was faced with the woman he'd been picturing naked less than an hour ago.
No, not Jessica Alba.
"Hey, V. What brings you by?" he asked, carefully enunciating his words.
She shrugged. "I was just in the neighborhood."
"Yeah, and I'm havin' tea at the Grand this afternoon."
"You've been drinking," she informed him, slipping past him into the house.
She turned to face him, stared him down for a moment. "So you have any left?"
He nodded towards the coffee table, where the bottle of Jack sat. "Help yourself."
She picked it up and flopped down on the couch. "Tim Foyle killed Dean O'Dell."
"I heard. Always knew that guy was a weasel."
"At least he didn't try to kill me."
"Point in his favor, then."
She took a long swallow of whiskey, grimacing at the initial burn. "I'd like to go a year without someone trying to kill me. There are too many people dead already."
Sitting down next to her, he replied, "They do seem to drop like flies around here."
"Maybe it's me."
"What are you talking about?"
"People around me keep dying. I feel like the Grim Reaper of Neptune."
"That's bullshit, and you know it."
She took another long pull from the bottle. "Is it? Aren't you afraid of dying?"
He pried the bottle from her fingers. "Being around you terrifies me, V, but it ain't 'cause I'm afraid of dying."
She held his gaze, saw the truth and the pain and the lust in his eyes. "You're drunk," she reminded him.
"What's that saying about a drunk man's words?"
She laughed quietly. "I'm not having drunk pity sex with you."
"How 'bout just drunk sex? Pity's optional."
If she was surprised, she didn't show it. "What would you do if I said yes?"
"Are you saying yes?"
She reached out and reclaimed the whiskey, taking another quick drink. "I'm not saying no," she hedged.
This time, when he took the bottle out of her hand, his fingers lingered gently on hers for a moment. Setting it back on the table, he brought his hand up to her face, resting his palm on her cheek, his thumb reaching out to stroke across her lips. "You sure about this?"
"Hell yes." He brought his mouth down on hers, his other hand coming up to cup her face as well. He felt her hesitate, just for a moment, and then her hands were on his shoulders and she was kissing him back.
He wasn't bored anymore.