Stay

"Stay," Reese whispered, his gray-blue eyes imploring.

Joss tensed. Immediately, he realized his mistake– if he didn't change the mood quickly, she'd be out of his apartment so fast, the US Olympic Track and Field team would draft her for the next games.

They'd become lovers a few months ago, at first sharing out of the way hotel rooms, the back seat of her police cruiser and one very memorable time on the back of the Ducati, but now he had an apartment, Taylor was away for the week and he wanted her to stay over. For the past three nights, Joss had come up with some bullshit excuse about why she couldn't stay – a desperately needed telephone number posted on her refrigerator, an envelope she forgot to mail, long lost dry cleaning that needed to be picked up – stuff that was so lame, if he wasn't so angry with her, he would have laughed in her face at how bad the excuses were.

Thank God you're on the right side on the law Joss, he thought - you couldn't lie your way out of a paper bag.

Part of why he wanted her to stay was purely physical. She was in his dreams now, almost every night, chasing away some of the nightmares like an avenging angel. He'd wake up with a raging hard on, and thought of having her around his cock instead of his hand made him dizzy with need.

The other part wanted her to stay to prove that he, the two of them together, mattered to her. He wasn't under the illusion that this would last –she'd told him the first time "don't make this more than it is" – and he knew she meant it. But if she stayed, just one night, after the numbers and the bantering and the gunplay and the sex, they would lie in the dark and talk, and maybe start to become friends.

And that could last, even after everything else ended.

He leapt out of bed, shamelessly hoping she was watching his naked body, and crossed the room to the open kitchen. Smirking, he said, "You have to stay. I have bagels." He held up a bag, surreptitiously checking for mold.

Joss grimaced at him. "John, how long have those bagels been sitting on your counter – they're probably hard as rocks!"

"Well, you know how Finch feels about guns – maybe we can throw bagels at the bad guys instead."

Joss sat up, laughing, "I can see the headlines now - Killer 'Lox-ed' Up, Murderer Creamed by a Bagel - film at eleven." she said in her best television anchor voice.

Tonight the sheets were a dark red – his breath caught when he saw how they highlighted her skin. She had to stay.

"Besides, Finch has stocked this place with every appliance known to man. I need someone to help me figure out this coffee maker – I bet you were the smartest kid in class."

"Yeah, they used to call me Cookbook Carter – I always followed instructions. Nobody was surprised when I became a cop," she glanced at the clock, stifling a yawn.

"Come on, Joss – I even saved the instruction manual for you," he tossed it on her lap, sliding back into bed with her.

"Wow, this does everything except harvest the beans," Joss mused as she flipped through the pages. "You know, I bet the instructions in the other languages are just as bad as the ones in English."

He gathered her in his arms. "Maybe the next Miss America can hope for clearer instruction manuals, instead of world peace – one way to bring everyone together."

"Hmmm," she said, swallowing another yawn, "It might be worth it to help you figure this out, to actually see you take direction from someone."

He kissed her. "I take direction very well – the words 'harder', 'faster' and 'deeper' earlier this evening come to mind."

She smirked at him. "But I can't tell anybody about that. Telling Fusco that I directed you on how to use a coffee maker…"

"He wouldn't believe you."

They stayed that way for a while, whispering about silly things until her deep even breathing told him she'd fallen asleep.

Barely daring to move, he stretched out two fingers and shut the light off. A driving rain blocked the sounds of the city, cocooning them in the darkness. He closed his eyes and fell into a deep dreamless slumber.