I Need More

By Madame Turquoise

Fandom: The Killing

Spoilers: Season 3 ending

Romance/Angst - Holder and Linden

Rating: Fiction M. Warning: Adult Sexuality and Strong Language. 18+ (I really mean it – I don't write YA).

I listened to a lot of Tool while writing this. This is the first TV relationship I'm heavily shipping on since the golden years of Mulder and Scully, so there. This is my take on what happens next. (If you want to see some of my X-Files fanfic, it's all archived in the Gossamer site - message me for titles).

This is my first fanfic in 13 years. Be gentle with me.

She was as pale and as silent as a marble statue. Occasionally she would blink and then sigh, as if remembering at last to breathe. Her answers were all Yes, sir, No sir; that much Holder could see as he paced outside the interview room where he had recently been grilled by the two dicks from IA. She sat huddled into herself, hands gripping opposite elbow. When they weren't questioning her she stared down at the table and was motionless, her eyes gone blank. A marble statue trying to return to the museum of her silence.

He wanted desperately to light the cigarette he played with incessantly between two twitching fingers but couldn't tear himself away. He knew she needed him even if she didn't as much as glance in his direction. Even if she had tried to push him away only a day ago. Because she had told him that everything would be all right, and he believed her.

Holder realized in a quiet place deep inside himself that he had just replaced his tweak addiction with a subtler, more insidious kind. He was hooked on Linden. And that this addiction probably would kill him, but he was truly powerless and didn't even care.

Eventually one of the IA dicks pushed a paper across the table at Linden. She picked up a pen, eyes still blank, and scribbled her signature. The other IA dick crossed to the room and opened the door. He looked at Holder who was lurking in the hallway twitching in Linden withdrawal. "She's released on her own recognizance," the dick said. "We'll probably have her back tomorrow for more questions, but for now, she's free to go. Hope you're ready for your questions then, too." He looked at Holder with distaste. "You look like hell."

Holder made an obscene kissing noise at the IA guy as Linden shouldered past him on a head-down shuffle to the exit. "Sorry honey, not tonight," he sneered at the IA dick. He followed Linden out the door. In the damp, misting air she stopped suddenly and inhaled deeply. She still didn't look at him.

"Get me out of here," she told him.

"Sure, Linden," he said, trying not to sound too eager, too pathetic. Not like his whole universe orbited around her. "Where to?"

She shook her head so emphatically that her ponytail whipped his shoulder. "I don't care. Anywhere but here."

2. Nothing seems to satisfy

When he couldn't drive anymore, he pulled into the parking lot of a nameless, faceless chain motel out by the airport. Linden hadn't spoken the entire time, just stared out the window. Holder chain-smoked and played mediocre hip-hop to calm his nerves. The rain had started up again and lashed against the windshield. He sighed and pulled up his hoodie. "Wait here," he said.

She said nothing, but fumbled for his pack of cigarettes on the dashboard and held one, trembling, to her bloodless lips. "Progress!" he said with relief and slid out of the car.

He paid cash, asked for double beds in the room. He barely heard the clerk wax eloquently about the soaker tubs and the free Wi-Fi, grabbed the keycard and left. There was a little Stop'N'Go mart beside the hotel office; he ducked in, loaded up on a pile of junk food and candy and stopped short in front of a display of Canadian Club whiskey and grabbed a mickey; then thought better of it and exchanged it for the biggest bottle they had.

His phone rang while he was paying for the haul. He glanced at it. "Caroline" the display read. He thumbed it off without a second glance.

Back in the car he put the bag of goodies on her lap and turned on the ignition. "What are you doing?" she finally asked, her voice hollow and odd from disuse.

"I gotta get some sleep," he said. "So do you. It's almost 2 in the morning and my Circadian rhythm is beating totally out of whack. It's gonna be a long day tomorrow of questions and writing reports and telling the same fucking story thirty thousand fucking times, and we have to be ready for it."

She glared at him. "There's no we here –" she said slowly, smoke curling around her head wreathing her in diabolical fumes.

He cut her off. "Save it, Linden. You haven't told me what happened but I'm not a fucking retard, I get it. So you tell me how we're going to play this so shit can blow over and we can get back to normal."

She stabbed the cigarette, smoked right down to the filter, out in the ashtray, her mouth a thin, grim line. "Skinner was the killer," she said. "He fucking killed all of them. Callie, Bullet, Gracie – Trisha Seward and god knows how many." She gave a short, bitter laugh verging into the hysterical. "I really fucking know how to pick 'em –"

He did something he'd never dared to do in his entire time with Linden – he put his hand over her mouth and shook his head. "Stop it. Stop it right now, do you hear me?"

She glared at him and he glared back with equal determination, fiercely and adamantly until she dropped her gaze and nodded. He lowered his hand.

"Now here's what we're gonna do," he told her, starting the car. "We're gonna go eat this junk food, have a drink, take a shower, and get some sleep. Tomorrow morning over breakfast you're going to tell me how we're going to play this and then we're going back to the station to face the music."

She turned her face to the window. He took her silence for agreement and pulled into a parking spot around the back of the motel. He grabbed the bag of supplies and opened the door. "C'mon Linden. It's just for the night. We can figure shit out in the morning."

For a fleeting instant she looked completely mutinous, then slowly nodded and put her hand on the door handle and pulled it open, following him wordlessly into the anonymous room.

The smell of long dead cigarette smoke assaulted them as they entered. Holder set the bag down on a cheap table and switched on a lamp. "See? I got two beds. We're practicing a strict hands-off policy tonight." He kicked off his shoes and flopped down on the bed, flicking his butane lighter to the end of yet another cigarette and reached for the TV remote, flipping through images before settling on an old black and white movie that featured a blond draped in diamonds pointing a gun at a hapless gentleman.

Linden wore the same mutinous look but sat down on the edge of the bed, still swathed in her coat. "Give me a cigarette," she demanded.

He tossed the pack at her with the lighter, then got up to rummage around by the ice bucket to find two plastic-wrapped cups. He opened the bottle of CC and poured two generous shots, then brought them and the bag of Funyons back to the bed he had claimed. Linden finally removed her coat and studiously ignored him, but took the plastic cup from him when he offered it to her.

She swallowed the whole amount in one gulp and held the cup out again to him. He raised an eyebrow but wordlessly refilled it.

"You know, you're right about me," she said suddenly and turned those cool gray eyes on him, looking right at him for the first time since they'd gotten back to the station.

"What do you mean?" he asked, wondering at her mercurial turn of mind.

"I always try to run away." She drew in a breath that had a hitch in it, like a hiccup or a choked sob. "I can't tell who the good guys are anymore and I run away. I think I'm broken inside."

Holder moved to the edge of the bed to face her and instinctively brought his forehead against hers. Linden didn't move. Her skin was as cold as ice and he could feel her pulse throb in her temple, smell her tiredness beneath the veil of cigarette smoke and the clean, soap smell he always associated with Linden. She also smelled strangely coppery and salty, and he swallowed, not realizing until now that she was splattered with Skinner's blood.

"Everyone is broken," he whispered. "I think it's the burden of consciousness."

She managed a little chuckle. "Getting philosophical on me, Holder?" she said, and then Linden did something surprising. She took his free hand, the one that he had used to cover her mouth and brought it to her lips, pressing a kiss into the palm of his hand.

He held as still as he could, marveling, afraid to breathe as he held her glance. It was like being next to a wild creature that might bolt in panic if he so much as moved a muscle. She put his hand back on his knee, pressing into the top of it with her cold, white hand. They sat this way for three, four heartbeats.

She pulled away first, turning to retrieve the bottle where he had left it on the bedside table between the two sagging beds. Stabbing out the barely-smoked cigarette, she refilled first his cup then her own, then silently retreated into the washroom, shutting the door behind her. He didn't relax until he heard the water running.

He stared unseeing at the TV, his mind whirling but feeling strangely at peace, content and happy. He'd gotten his fix.

3. Show me that you love me and that we belong together

At least an hour passed. Holder had retreated to the bed and was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. He had heard splashing and then some ragged weeping. He knew well enough that he had not yet earned the right to comfort her in that extreme, willed himself to remain silent and pretend he wasn't listening.

He must have fallen asleep because when he opened his eyes again the TV was off and the room was in darkness. He glanced over at the other bed; he could make out a white-draped figure lying on her side, facing him. He couldn't help himself; he needed another fix.

"Sarah?" he whispered, hope flaring like a torch in his heart. "You awake?"

He could see her pale face in the dim light from the parking lot, a small oval as perfect as the moon. "Yes," she whispered back.

He swallowed. "Are you okay?"

A rustle as she sat up, bringing sheets with her to cover her naked body. "I… Stephen." She exhaled his name like a prayer. "I… I don't know what to do." She sounded sad, and exhausted. A thousand years weary. "Can I come over there with you?"

Everything in him screamed this is a mistake. He didn't care. He was a junkie and as a junkie was used to ignoring the voice of reason screaming in his head. "Come here," he whispered, opening his arms to her.

She came across the short distance like a wraith in the night, her skin luminous and pale, her rose gold hair trailing over her shoulders like he had pictured her a thousand times in his dreams. The bed barely dipped when she settled beside him, she was so fragile. Her body in his arms felt as hollow as a tiny little bird that he cupped carefully in his grasp. She tucked her head under his chin with a sigh, her whole frame shuddering as their bodies touched. Knee to hip to belly. He could feel the small handful of her breast against his chest, where his heart hammered so hard it was as if it would skitter right out of his body. She shivered slightly, her skin puckering to gooseflesh but not from cold. He wrapped his arms around her back, pulling her against him.

He was made mute by the feel of her thin body against his, closing his eyes in worshipful gratitude. He didn't dare breathe. Suddenly her hands were at the small of his back, tugging his sweatshirt up. She swore softly as it caught beneath him and he helped her, sitting up as much as he could to pull the offending garment off. He wrapped his arms around her again as if he was drowning and his safety was in her embrace. She turned her face towards him and found his mouth, capturing his lips and taking them for her own, exhaling into his throat so he could breathe her hot warmth as though she were resuscitating him. Her tongue surged into his mouth and he tasted whiskey and cigarettes as she thoroughly kissed him, first questioningly and then with increasing desperation. She reached down and undid his belt buckle, and then undid his zipper with deft hands, freeing his already hard cock from his underwear.

"I don't have a condom," he whispered, trying not to spook her but needing to give her this information, to be honest. He was willing to stop. He held himself perfectly still, giving her the option to withdraw, to pretend it was a mistake.

She shook her head, hair tickling his chest. "I don't care right now. I want… I need more."

He tried to flip her beneath him but she grabbed his shoulders and pushed him into the bed, hard, and with a groan straddled him, sitting slowly down on him, the hot wet warmth of her pulsing around his straining cock. He arched his back as she ground her clit down on his pubic bone and he hissed with pleasure. She was slow and tentative at first but found a rhythm that she really liked, grabbing at his shoulders and clamping her mouth down on the column of his neck. She rode him that way until he started bucking his hips, unable to stand it any longer and he moaned her name as he convulsed into her, around her, feeling the tight muscles of her pussy grip his cock in little spasms. She came sharply, choking a cry back and then collapsing on his chest, to shiver and moan again as another orgasm pulsed through her as he shifted his hips against her.

They lay quietly in a tangle, her arm across his chest, tendrils of her damp hair winding around his neck and finding its way into his mouth. He inhaled deeply, memorizing her scent. Her body was limp and languid against his, her bony knees digging into his, her sharp hipbone lined right up against his. He gently stroked her back, afraid to speak.

She raised her head to look at him, her face pale in the growing light seeping in through the drapes. It would be dawn in an hour or so. "Guess you really are my ride," she teased.

He gently smacked her bottom. "Best ride of your life," he teased back, not really meaning it but wanting to make her feel lighthearted. He didn't want to blow this. He was addicted, after all; he couldn't put his steady access to her in danger.

She laughed quietly against his chest. "I'm sorry," she said, sobering a bit. "I'm a mess. This doesn't mean –"

He put his hand against her mouth again, not wanting to get into a heavy conversation. "Shhh…" he said. "We can talk about it later." He removed his hand again and continued stroking her back. He felt sated, heavy, like he had suddenly taken way too much of his favourite drug and had lost the ability to speak, much less puzzle out what was going to happen next. He turned his face into her hair, inhaling sharply and closing his eyes. He wanted to remember this forever, he could stay this way forever…

4. I don't want it, I just need it

Holder awoke with a start, his cellphone blaring at him. He was alone in the room, tangled in a mess of his own jeans and an extra pile of sheets left on the bed. The other bed was empty and the bathroom door ajar. He stumbled to his feet and pulled aside the drapes at the window; his car was still there, but Linden was nowhere to be seen. His heart sped up, the familiar feeling of craving/loss seeping through his body.

He found his cellphone. It was Linden.

Relief shuddered through him, the junkie sick instantly abating. "Hey," he said by way of greeting.

Her voice was warm but distant. "Hey," she said. "I'll meet you at the coffee shop by the station in an hour."

"See you," he said, cradling the phone as if he were cradling her face. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply; he could still smell her on his skin.

She said nothing, hung up her phone gently. The click was reassuring; it was a beginning, not an ending.