One Night in
Fandom:
Pairing: Mary/Mike
Rating: NC17
Spoilers: The Nights The Lights Went Out in Vegas for sure, general thereafter.
Notes: I swore I wouldn’t watch, I swore I wouldn’t write. My willpower is non-existent.
The first thing Mike notices about the girl is her hair; long and red, falling in waves down her back. It’s the kind of hair that invites touch, begs for it really, and even across a crowded nightclub, even though he’s never seen this girl before in his life, the palms of Mike’s hands itch with the impulse.
Mike’s a man who goes with his impulses, so he crosses the room towards her. Tapping her on the shoulder, she turns, and the second thing he notices about her is her eyes. Emphasised by mascara and eyeliner – nothing too trashy though, enough to allure without being over the top – they are huge, dark pools of brown that he could very easily drown in. When he asks her to dance, she smiles, and those eyes glitter vibrant with life, her lips turning up in a smile when one of the other girls with her leans in and whispers something in her ear.
She allows him to take her hand as they walk, and it surprises him a little to find that hers is cold, because the nightclub is crowded with people and it’s quite warm in here. He blames it on the cold drink she’d been holding, that and the fact that the skimpy little top she’s wearing – a band of flimsy material held up by a couple of skinny little straps – isn’t exactly meant to keep a body warm. She’ll warm up quickly enough on the dance floor, this he knows, and he’s proven right as she moves to the music with him, finding the beat easily, those brown eyes fixed on his, following his lead.
He doesn’t know how long they spend dancing, but when a slow song comes on, he tilts his head, extends his hands in mute question. She smiles, moves into his arms without comment, but he thinks he sees a flash of something very like hurt in those brown eyes, a slight faltering of her smile. Then her head is against his shoulder, her arms wrapped around his waist, and strands of that long red hair are falling over her shoulder, against his shirt, and his hands move of their own accord, pushing it back, allowing his fingers to tangle in it, if only for a minute.
He thinks he’s overstepped the line, but there’s the tiniest puff of air against his neck, a breathy little sigh, that lets him know he hasn’t.
When the song ends, he pulls back to look at her, and, expecting a smile, he’s surprised by what he actually sees in her face. Wistful is the words that comes immediately to find, followed at once by melancholy, and he wishes he knew what made her look like that, because it sure as hell wasn’t him. Something must show in his expression, because she looks down, shaking her head, makes a move to get away from him, either to return to her friends or make an hasty exit, either one could apply. He doesn’t want that though, arranges his features into an expression of friendliness, asking her if he can buy her a drink. Shadows fall across her face, and he holds up his hands, tells her that he’s a good guy, that a drink is just a drink, and when she looks down, smiling sheepishly up at him through her eyelashes, he smiles right back.
Being a Vegas veteran comes in handy sometimes, being a valet at one of the biggest hotels in the city even handier, because it means that Mike knows pretty much everyone in town worth knowing. Which means that he knows the owner of this nightclub, and it’s an easy matter to arrange passage into the VIP area, where the lights are a little lower, the music a little more muted, where you can actually talk to one another without screaming, hear what people are saying without straining. His companion looks around her as he leads them to a table, smiling gratefully when he pulls out the chair for her. Someone comes and takes their order, whiskey for him, vodka for her, and when they are alone again, she crosses her arms on the table, looks at him curiously.
“You must be someone pretty important,” she says, and he laughs, because nothing could be further from the truth.
“No,” he says simply. “I just know a lot of people.” She accepts that as an answer, and something occurs to him. “You know, I never did get your name.”
Another one of those genuine-looking smiles, a blush adding to the effect. “Mary,” she says, and in a move that makes him laugh again, she holds out her hand to him.
“Mike,” he says, taking her hand in his, holding it for a long moment, loathe to let it go.
Let it go he does though, and they talk, just talk, for what seems like forever. Small talk mostly, nothing too deep and meaningful, but that changes when the subject of favoured nightspots comes up. He says he’s never seen her here before, and she shakes her head, says it’s her first time, that she hadn’t wanted to come, but her friends had insisted, all but dragging her out of the house. She stops talking abruptly then, and that sad, melancholy look is back on her face, in her eyes, and suddenly, everything becomes clear to Mike.
“What’s his name?”
Stunned, he finds, is as attractive on her as any other look, as is embarrassment when she looks down, twisting her glass on the table, little trails of moisture spreading across the opaque surface. “Am I that obvious?” she asks, more than a touch bitterly, and Mike smiles, one finger reaching out to touch the back of her hand.
“You don’t have to-” he begins, but she cuts him off with a shake of her head, a determined swallow of her drink.
“It’s ok,” she tells him, and the whole story comes out, about the man she’s in love with, the boy who’s been her best friend since she was two years old. It’s a story right out of a fairytale, or a Hollywood movie, a fourth grade kiss behind the swings, the teenage knight in shining armour, saving her from her father’s beatings, the prom date who bought her the most beautiful dress she’s ever seen in her life. The man who made all her dreams come true when he came to her, told her he loved her, made love to her, before running away to join the Marines immediately after, the man who she hasn’t heard from in months.
By the time she’s finished, tears are standing in her eyes, and his hands are over her still freezing ones, and he knows the reason for that now. “I’m sorry,” she says, cheeks crimson now, and she looks away from him, towards the exit. “You didn’t want to hear…”
He surprises her, and himself, by reaching out to touch her cheek, gently pulling her head around to look at him. His thumb traces a path across her skin, and he leans forward, ever so gently brushing his lips over hers. She doesn’t respond, not at first, but when he kisses her again, she does, her eyes fluttering shut, and he kisses her for a third time before he pulls back.
She’s barely breathing as her eyes open, finding his, and his hand is still on her cheek. “He’ll come back,” he tells her, sure of it, and she shakes her head, the action still not managing to dislodge his palm.
“How can you know that?” she whispers, and his answer is immediate.
“Because I would.”
Those three words make her eyes fill with tears all over again, and he can’t help himself; he has to kiss her again. And again, and again, until their chairs are pulled as close together as they can go, until their drinks are forgotten and her arms are around his neck, his fingers once more tangling in her hair.
She’s the one who pulls back, but that’s ok, because she’s also the one who looks at him with desire burning in her eyes, and asks him if he wants to get out of here.
She doesn’t have to ask him twice, and they make their way outside hand in hand, only breaking contact when she finds her friends, tells them that she’s leaving. They look at her curiously, and one’s lips definitely forms the words, “Are you sure?” and when Mary nods, Mike doesn’t miss how every single friend’s eyes are on him, not a bit subtle, memorising him, just in case he turns out to be some kind of serial killer.
Once they’re outside, she shivers in the cold night air, and Mike wraps an arm around her, pulls her closer to him as he hails a cab. They’re hardly sitting down before they’re in one another’s arms again, and he’s not quite sure who made the first move, but the driver gets quite a show, pulls up to the curb hard when he reaches Mike’s apartment, literally jolting the two of them to their senses.
The elevator ride is likewise passed with them wrapped up in one another, and how they make it down the hallway to his apartment, he’ll never be sure. But they do, and when they enter, the door is barely closed before he is pushing her against the wall, his hands on her hips, mouth opening hungrily against hers.
She’s responding enthusiastically, and the urge to throw caution to the wind, make love to her right here, is almost overwhelming. Something stops him though, telling him that Mary’s a bedroom kind of girl, and he lifts her up easily in his arms, carries her in that direction, all without his lips leaving hers.
The moment her back hits the bed though, something changes. Mike’s not quite sure what it is at first, because her hands are still finding their way underneath his shirt, her lips are still moving against his. He tells himself that he’s imagining things, that being the one night stand in the fairytale that is her love life just isn’t sitting well with either one of them, and he pushes the thoughts to one side at the same time as his hands push under her short skirt and up.
That’s when he can’t ignore it any more, because the moment she feels his hands on her inner thighs, Mary freezes.
Frowning, Mike raises his head, looks down at her to see her eyes screwed tightly shut, one solitary tear managing to escape, wobbling, trapped on her eyelashes. Her face is chalk white, her body rigid underneath his, and when she opens her eyes, the pain inside is ferocious. “I’m sorry…” she whispers, and Mike shakes his head, recalling her tale of Prince Charming saving her from her father’s fists, wondering what else he saved her from.
“It’s ok,” he tells her, bringing his hands from her hips to her cheeks, cupping her face and brushing the lightest of kisses across her forehead. “It’s ok,” he says again, his kiss this time moving from forehead to temple, then down her cheek, lingering each time before finally brushing across her lips. He meets no resistance, so he kisses her again, always gently, always lightly, until, that is, she kisses him back, tentatively at first, growing bolder each time, finally opening her mouth to his, her tongue tracing the path of his upper lip. He lets her set the pace, his hands moving from her face to her shoulders, her upper back, and when her fingers find the buttons of his shirt, he begins to trail kisses down her neck. “Tell me when to stop,” he mutters against her skin, pressing a kiss on her collarbone that makes her sigh against him.
“Don’t stop,” she whispers, shifting so that her body presses against his, and he smiles against her skin, rolling her onto her back, fitting her body over his, because who is he to refuse a lady?
From there, precious few words are exchanged or needed, and the first time she comes – his head between her legs, her hands making fists of the bedclothes – she is utterly silent. Kissing a path up her body, he sees that she is biting her lip, hard enough to leave a mark, and he wonders if she did that to stop herself calling out the wrong name. Pushing the though aside, he frees her lower lip, kisses the mark away, allows his hand to slide between her legs, stimulating already sensitive flesh. She is noisier the second time, panting and gasping as he takes his time, exerting just enough pressure to bring her to the edge, but not enough to tip her over. Her fingernails dig into his shoulders, and he smiles against her skin, pressing just a little harder in just the right spot to have her exploding in his arms, and he takes her “Oh God,” as a personal victory.
When her breathing returns somewhat to normal, she is nestled against his chest, hair tickling his skin, his fingers re-tracing a path down her spine over and over, moving from the base of her neck to the small of her back. She smiles up at him, a lazy, satisfied kind of smile, before she kisses him, the first time she’s initiated a kiss with him. He loses himself in the moment, closing his eyes, and the feel of her hand slipping between their bodies, reaching down and closing over him comes as quite a surprise. When he opens his eyes, sees the teasing smile that’s being directed his way, it’s all he can do to reach out blindly towards the bedside table, pull open the drawer, but she sees what he’s trying to do, takes over the job. He can’t take his eyes off her hands, until, that is, she moves so that she’s on top of him, takes him inside her, her hands finding his as she moves against him. This time, when she comes, his name is on her lips, met by her name from his as he follows immediately after.
She falls asleep first, wrapped around his body, and Mike just watches her for a long time, which is a first for him, no matter how beautiful the woman, no matter how spectacular the sex. But then, Mary’s not like the other women that he’s ever taken home, and the last thought on his mind as he falls asleep is that he wouldn’t mind seeing where this takes them.
When he wakes up, he is alone in bed, and there is the distinct sound of someone moving around his bedroom. He’s about to sit up in bed when there’s another sound, that of a sniff, followed by another, and he goes cold all over, because that’s Mary’s voice, and he knows she is crying. Opening his eyes just enough to see what’s going on, he sees her gathering up her clothes, dressing quickly, rubbing her hands over her face, wiping away her tears. Her face is pale, eyes red-rimmed, and he has never seen anyone look more miserable.
He wants nothing more than to sit up, take her in his arms and kiss all her pain away.
He doesn’t do that though, because he knows that he’s not the man that Mary wants to do that.
Instead, he closes his eyes, and he doesn’t move until he hears the front door click shut behind her.
In the days and weeks that follow, he thinks of her. Every time he sees a flash of red hair out of the corner of his eye, he turns, just in case it’s her, and he reads the local newspapers with a more eagle eye than usual, searching for references to returning marines and their families. But he never sees a mention of her name, or a picture of her face, and as time goes by, Mary recedes into memory, an image of one perfect night that makes him smile, a face that occasionally turns up in his dreams, more occasionally in his fantasies.
He thinks that he will never see her again, and Mary’s a pretty common name, so he doesn’t think anything of it when he’s working at the Montecito five years later, and the new guy, Danny, mentions Mary, his best friend. Nessa teases him a little, wondering if she’s just his friend, and Danny just rolls his eyes, tells her that that’s all there is to it. Mike can tell Nessa doesn’t believe him though, and he’s not so sure he does either. Then comes the day when Danny says that Ed’s given Mary a job in the Montecito, and she’s coming in that night to meet them all.
Mike doesn’t think anything of it, and when he hears Danny’s voice behind him, saying, “And this is Mike,” he turns around, ready to shake the hand of his new friend’s girl.
And sees a face he hasn’t seen in five years.
Years of gambling means Mike has a pretty good poker face, and he puts it to good use here, shaking her hand, telling her it’s nice to meet her. Mary shakes his hand with a smile, says the same, and only for the quickly disguised panic in her eyes, only for the sparks of electricity that dance their way over his skin from that press of flesh, Mike would never know they’d met before.
On Mary’s first day of work, she seeks him out, looks around carefully to make sure that no-one is listening before saying, “This is awkward.”
She’s wringing her hands, eyes troubled,
and Mike tries to put her at ease, shaking his head. “It was a long time ago,”
he tells her simply. “
Mary nods, a nervous smile flitting across her face, her gratitude obvious. “Mike… Danny… I mean… he doesn’t…”
“He’ll never hear it from me,” Mike promises, because he saw the look on Danny’s face that first night they met, the night they all went out to a nightclub and someone hit on Mary. Danny’s face had been like thunder, even the fact that Mary had turned the guy down not improving his mood, so telling Danny about himself and Mary isn’t a thought that’s even crossed Mike’s mind. Besides, he likes Danny, likes working with him, values the friendship that’s growing between them, and he’s not going to sacrifice that, not for one night five years ago.
Not even when Mary smiles at him, a smile so warm and so bright that Mike can hardly believe how much of an idiot his friend is. How could any man not want a woman who smiles like that?
“Thanks Mike,” she says simply, slipping away back to work, and Mike watches her go.
He watches her a lot in weeks and months to come, watches the way she is with Danny, the way he is around her. Listens as everyone speculates about what’s going on or isn’t going on or will go on or has gone on between the two of them. He listens, but he doesn’t tell what he knows, keeps Danny and Mary’s secret, keeps his and Mary’s secret.
He keeps the secrets, and he goes on about his business.
And if he watches her sometimes and wonders what if, well, that’s a secret for him alone.