WIP whenever because I can
Y'all I wrote half a scene
I finally wrote the first real flirt scene in this goddamn fic?
For context, he's recovering from his arm injury. the lights are out and V is helping him shave ;]
She walks to her stash room and returns with a battery-powered work lamp. She sets it on the edge of the bathroom closet, angling the beam directly at Jackie.
He squints, shielding his eyes as the harsh light hits his face. "I'm not dead yet, V. Why the autopsy spotlights?"
She simply holds the razor up between his eyes as her reply. Jackie squints, arching a dark brow.
"A razor blade is not a weapon of your worth, mamita."
"You know what they say," V counters in a dark murmur. "Dire times, dire means. Now shut up."
She steps between him and the sink and catches the sudden spark of amusement in his eyes as he deliberately cranes his head upward, lifting his jaw just out of her reach then again when she has to rise up onto her toes to match him.
"Tease," she chides. "Don’t forget you’re still incapacitated with that arm, Jack. You’re playing with the wrong woman."
"What if I like playing with the wrong ones?"
He dips his chin back down to her height, and the air between them grows thick with the scent of his heavy cologne and the sweat of his fever. Their bodies brush in the cramped space—him burning with infection, her skin catching fire from an old, buried longing.
She can’t blame him for trying again. She can’t even blame him for reading all the signs perfectly right, yet…
"Good. Now move your big head a little bit to the right."
He complies, his face devoid of his usual disappointment. Maybe, at this point, he genuinely believes this is just an eternal game they play. Or maybe he’s simply given up trying to force it.
Carefully, barely pressing down, she slides the razor blade along his jawline, drawing a clean path down toward his chin. The fingers of her free hand gently brace against his skin, adjusting the angle of his face. It is oddly, terrifyingly intimate. Their breath mingles in the dark. Their eyes meet, pull away to focus on the blade, and then lock again. The silence in the small bathroom is deafening. As she works delicately over the remaining patches of stubble, the only sounds are the rhythmic splash of water as she rinses the blade and the crisp, scraping rasp of steel against coarse hair.
"You're out of character," she whispers. "Behaving."
"You told me to shut up."
"Cambio de jugada," he mumbles, flashing a sudden wink, entirely pleased with himself.
And it’s working, she hates to admit.
"Huh. Smart-assing your way to—"
V uses one manicured index finger to firmly nudge his head to the left, but she doesn't answer him. She is suddenly far too concentrated on the task.
