Title: "Spaghetti Arms"
Author: Mala
E-mail: [email protected]
Rating/Classification: PG-13, John/Natalie, humor.
Disclaimer: This is all OLTL and references to "Dirty Dancing", not my own creation.
Summary: "I brought you some paint."
"I brought you some paint" had to be the dumbest line in the history of the world. Right up there with "I carried a watermelon."
Natalie groaned, banging her head against the head-rest as she put the car in drive. She'd watched "Dirty Dancing" enough times with Roxy, over gallons of cookie dough ice cream, to know that she'd shot off a classic. And the fact that Rox' was giving dance lessons at the community center and *insisted* on calling a certain someone "Johnny boy"...?
Her life was a movie. She was Jennifer Grey. All she needed now was the nose job.
She didn't know *what* has possessed her when she'd taken the paint can and the roller over to John's place. For God's sake, he had *wallpaper* up. You couldn't paint without stripping that ugly dark paper off first! But he'd played along. He'd humored her. Maybe he'd been so desperate for a break in the case that he hadn't even noticed how flimsy her excuse had been.
And that's what it was. An excuse.
She'd wanted to see him.
Funny how months ago, she couldn't stand the sight of him. How looking at him had only been an echo of losing Cristian. Clutching that jacket in her arms. She could see herself, pale and angry, reflected in John's dark eyes. Like he'd said...she had to hate him for a while. Now...now, she didn't quite know *what* she saw. What she felt. All she knew was that John McBain helped. That, now, when she was with him, she didn't feel quite so lost, so useless.
And maybe he didn't feel quite so lost either.
His pacing while he talked out loud about the case had gotten less frantic as he spoke. Every time she added a detail or asked for clarification, he'd stopped, looked down at her, and smiled. As if her simply *being* there helped him think. Kind of how his being there...his strength... had helped her with pool.
He'd put his hands on her that first night. Leaning over her as he guided the cue in her hands. *This is my dance space... this is your dance space*, she thought, irreverently. Thanks to Flynn, to Cristian, they were almost painfully aware of their boundaries.
Or at least they had been until he'd pulled off his shirt and she'd forgotten everything but his tan and the bullet hole that marred it. For someone who wore ugly clothes and barely managed to run a comb through his hair, he was in surprisingly good shape. *Really* good shape.
As she coasted through the gates and up the lane, with Llanfair looming before her, she resisted the urge to thunk her head on the steering wheel and knock some sense into herself. With her luck, she would smack the horn and Jess and Mom would come out running and everyone would think she was trying to join Cris in the afterlife.
But this wasn't about Cristian, was it? No. It was about John. Johnny Boy.
She'd wanted to see him.
She brought him paint.
She brought him paint and he got naked.
"I. Carried. A. Watermelon."
There was something seriously wrong with that.
She whimpered, shaking her head. Dumb, dumb dumb!
And now...now she was really going to have to help him paint. And fix his shirt.
Maybe this time...this time, she'd remember to bring some primer.
***
She'd brought him paint. It was an idiosyncratic thought that hit him somewhere in between Riley rambling about Flash's safety and the drive over to the station. Paint. Where did that fall on the relationship-gift continuum? Before clothing and after pens? On par with c.d.s?
He didn't think he'd ever had a woman bring him a can of paint and a roller brush before.
As he'd scrubbed the white streaks from his face, his lucky shirt hanging over the rail of the shower, it had occurred to him that he'd been on the verge of something very important. Something vital. Riley *had* interrupted. Damn that kid.
Now, his shirt was still FUBAR and his concentration was shot.
His fingers had been numb as he undid the buttons. And it was only when her eyes fell on his scar that he realized "Holy shit, I'm half- naked." Half-naked in front of Natalie Vega.
Who'd brought him paint.
He banged his head on the head-rest as he pulled into his usual spot behind Rodi's. He was pathetic. He knew that. He couldn't crack a case to save his life...or anyone else's... and he'd been moony-eyed over this girl since the first time he saw her at Crossroads. Not only had he been unable to prevent Gabrielle from being the Music Box Killer's next target, but he couldn't even talk to Natalie without sounding like Keanu Reeves and Patrick Swayze's idiot love child.
He was a pretty sorry excuse for a Fed and an even sorrier excuse of a guy.
It practically had the makings of a country song. "She brought me some paint to fix up my heart. Stripped off my wallpaper for a brand new start." Come to think of it, how *had* she been expecting him to paint without stripping all that paper off first? And why had he gone along with it?
He shut off the engine, grinning suddenly. "Well, I'll be damned."
A ploy. An excuse. She'd wanted to see him.
That was even better than a jazz album or a tie with Mickey Mouse on it.
That was...a break.
Maybe next time...maybe next time she'd remember to bring some primer.
--end-
January 8, 2003.
Author: Mala
E-mail: [email protected]
Rating/Classification: PG-13, John/Natalie, humor.
Disclaimer: This is all OLTL and references to "Dirty Dancing", not my own creation.
Summary: "I brought you some paint."
"I brought you some paint" had to be the dumbest line in the history of the world. Right up there with "I carried a watermelon."
Natalie groaned, banging her head against the head-rest as she put the car in drive. She'd watched "Dirty Dancing" enough times with Roxy, over gallons of cookie dough ice cream, to know that she'd shot off a classic. And the fact that Rox' was giving dance lessons at the community center and *insisted* on calling a certain someone "Johnny boy"...?
Her life was a movie. She was Jennifer Grey. All she needed now was the nose job.
She didn't know *what* has possessed her when she'd taken the paint can and the roller over to John's place. For God's sake, he had *wallpaper* up. You couldn't paint without stripping that ugly dark paper off first! But he'd played along. He'd humored her. Maybe he'd been so desperate for a break in the case that he hadn't even noticed how flimsy her excuse had been.
And that's what it was. An excuse.
She'd wanted to see him.
Funny how months ago, she couldn't stand the sight of him. How looking at him had only been an echo of losing Cristian. Clutching that jacket in her arms. She could see herself, pale and angry, reflected in John's dark eyes. Like he'd said...she had to hate him for a while. Now...now, she didn't quite know *what* she saw. What she felt. All she knew was that John McBain helped. That, now, when she was with him, she didn't feel quite so lost, so useless.
And maybe he didn't feel quite so lost either.
His pacing while he talked out loud about the case had gotten less frantic as he spoke. Every time she added a detail or asked for clarification, he'd stopped, looked down at her, and smiled. As if her simply *being* there helped him think. Kind of how his being there...his strength... had helped her with pool.
He'd put his hands on her that first night. Leaning over her as he guided the cue in her hands. *This is my dance space... this is your dance space*, she thought, irreverently. Thanks to Flynn, to Cristian, they were almost painfully aware of their boundaries.
Or at least they had been until he'd pulled off his shirt and she'd forgotten everything but his tan and the bullet hole that marred it. For someone who wore ugly clothes and barely managed to run a comb through his hair, he was in surprisingly good shape. *Really* good shape.
As she coasted through the gates and up the lane, with Llanfair looming before her, she resisted the urge to thunk her head on the steering wheel and knock some sense into herself. With her luck, she would smack the horn and Jess and Mom would come out running and everyone would think she was trying to join Cris in the afterlife.
But this wasn't about Cristian, was it? No. It was about John. Johnny Boy.
She'd wanted to see him.
She brought him paint.
She brought him paint and he got naked.
"I. Carried. A. Watermelon."
There was something seriously wrong with that.
She whimpered, shaking her head. Dumb, dumb dumb!
And now...now she was really going to have to help him paint. And fix his shirt.
Maybe this time...this time, she'd remember to bring some primer.
***
She'd brought him paint. It was an idiosyncratic thought that hit him somewhere in between Riley rambling about Flash's safety and the drive over to the station. Paint. Where did that fall on the relationship-gift continuum? Before clothing and after pens? On par with c.d.s?
He didn't think he'd ever had a woman bring him a can of paint and a roller brush before.
As he'd scrubbed the white streaks from his face, his lucky shirt hanging over the rail of the shower, it had occurred to him that he'd been on the verge of something very important. Something vital. Riley *had* interrupted. Damn that kid.
Now, his shirt was still FUBAR and his concentration was shot.
His fingers had been numb as he undid the buttons. And it was only when her eyes fell on his scar that he realized "Holy shit, I'm half- naked." Half-naked in front of Natalie Vega.
Who'd brought him paint.
He banged his head on the head-rest as he pulled into his usual spot behind Rodi's. He was pathetic. He knew that. He couldn't crack a case to save his life...or anyone else's... and he'd been moony-eyed over this girl since the first time he saw her at Crossroads. Not only had he been unable to prevent Gabrielle from being the Music Box Killer's next target, but he couldn't even talk to Natalie without sounding like Keanu Reeves and Patrick Swayze's idiot love child.
He was a pretty sorry excuse for a Fed and an even sorrier excuse of a guy.
It practically had the makings of a country song. "She brought me some paint to fix up my heart. Stripped off my wallpaper for a brand new start." Come to think of it, how *had* she been expecting him to paint without stripping all that paper off first? And why had he gone along with it?
He shut off the engine, grinning suddenly. "Well, I'll be damned."
A ploy. An excuse. She'd wanted to see him.
That was even better than a jazz album or a tie with Mickey Mouse on it.
That was...a break.
Maybe next time...maybe next time she'd remember to bring some primer.
--end-
January 8, 2003.