![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
fic: Spooks (MI-5), Holding Pattern, Ruth/Zoe
disclaimer: not mine
fandom: Spooks (MI-5)
set: post-series three
pairing (if it can be called that): Ruth/Zoe
rating: ...PG13? R? there is sex, but it's not exactly explicit.
genre: angst, femslash
length: 2000
prompt: Spooks, Ruth/Zoe, exile from the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
femslash_today porn battle o' doom
notes: My knowledge of Spooks canon is a bit sketchy. There are bits I've picked up from the wiki, and I've seen a total of about ten? episodes. But again, spotty. If I've managed not to wreck canon, go me. ;]
Though, personally, I'm not sure I understand how rambling with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
musicforcylons about Tin Man and Leverage produced Spooks femslash. But my brains work in strange ways. (I'm also not entirely sure the language works) I know the icon is Susan Taylor, but she is the only one I've got.
Holding Pattern
by ALC Punk!
"This is not how it's supposed to work," Ruth says, but Zoe isn't listening, bent over and fiddling with something inside the engine of her car.
A car she shouldn't have in a place she shouldn't be. Ruth fidgets, wondering why she was sent, or not wondering at all, since wondering may have gotten her here in the first place.
"You'd like a cuppa," Zoe says, abrupt and standing on her toes for an instant in a stretch before she drops the bonnet and turns.
It's not that she traipses up the path, but it's the sort of verb Ruth used to tag onto her, watching her walk through the office. Back before... back before a lot. Before forms were filed and pictures were taken. Zoe is almost at the door before Ruth begins moving, following her.
"You're here because--"
"Yes," grateful, glad it's in the open, Ruth tries a smile she knows is failing even before Zoe turns. Something desperate slips out, "You're not supposed to be enjoying this--"
"Am I not?"
They are women of a hundred thousand places, trained to slide in and out--well, Zoe was, Ruth was just technical support, and she thinks she should be better at interviewing by now. No more blurtings. "The file says you're living alone."
"I like the quiet." Zoe slips down the short hall, calling over her shoulder, "My upstairs neighbor spends half the night dancing, though, so perhaps that's the wrong reason."
"Does he know where you can be found?"
No answer for a time, Zoe bustling, opening cupboards and retrieving mugs and tea. The walls are a drab yellow, skirted with faded floral paper, the stove is tiny and the sink dull and silver, looking out of place amongst the green of the counter-tops. As though delaying something inevitable, she finally murmurs, "You do."
Ruth ducks her head, fiddling with the handle of the mug Zoe's handed her while she starts the water. There's a chip in the olive green, probably from a move or a flaw in the manufacturing. "They're not entirely clear on how he found you, of course."
"Luck."
There's no such thing as luck in their line of work, but Zoe knows that. Ruth looks at her across the tiny kitchen, feeling as though the walls might close in at any second. "You don't have to protect him anymore, you know."
Zoe goes absolutely still, hands clenching for an instant on a tea bag that will end its life mangled and in the bin, unused.
"Do you ever stop to think?" Zoe asks, her breath perfectly fine, her face completely still, "About what we did then, what we do now, and who we ultimately affect?"
"Does it matter?"
"Everything matters, Ruth." A flash of a smile, then Zoe turns, her back to Ruth and the tea bag dropped onto the counter. "I suppose the kettle will never boil."
The non sequitur is a distraction, but Ruth gives it to her. It's one concession she can make now. A cold-blooded part of her wonders if this will give her more of a hold on Zoe, more of an in into her psyche and brain. But Zoe was always easy to know, and the effort is wasted in a way.
"If we moved?"
Zoe looks back at her, and there is something horrifyingly painful in her eyes before she tries a smile on that doesn't seem to fit, "I'm bloody tired of moving."
The pain in Zoe's face gives Ruth impetus, and she almost stumbles on nothing before she steps closer, hand reaching to touch Zoe's shoulder. "Then we stay here." Zoe's eyes close, and she shivers before turning, letting herself be pulled into Ruth's arms, tucking her head under Ruth's chin.
"I could have stayed there forever, you know."
It was easy to wrap her arms around Zoe, easy to think of soothing, pointless things to say, though Ruth says none of them as she watches the kettle on the stove.
Letting Zoe go isn't easy, though, and Ruth thinks of all the reasons she shouldn't even be considering the wild notions staggering through her brain. She follows those with the thousand and one regulations she has memorized. But then again, Ruth hasn't always followed all of the rules.
"I'm sorry," Zoe sniffles, pulling back a little, trying to regain some semblance of control.
"Natural reaction," Ruth bluffs, trying for a smile that never sits well on her face (even practicing in the mirror doesn't help, though Tom used to be able to get something resembling a real one from her on occasion). "I'm sorry I haven't a tissue."
"'s all right." Reaching up, Zoe swipes the back of her hand under her nose and looks at Ruth for a moment. "Thank you." She leans in again, this time at a different angle.
It's a quick brush of lips, something more than words in thanks, and Ruth freezes in an instant.
Whether Zoe can feel the tension in her is debatable as she turns with a laugh to deal with the now-whistling kettle. "Of course it goes when we're distracted."
"Always the way?"
Zoe raises the kettle and glances at her, "Are you all right?"
"Fine. Sugar, please." Try for normality. Ruth is good at that, playing at normal. It's not quite imitation, she knows how real people react to things, she's just not got a lot of practice at it.
"You're not all right," Zoe objects, moving back, kettle in one hand. "It was the kiss--I shouldn't have--"
"No!" Too quick.
Zoe raises her eyebrows and leans in, "You're not here to kiss and tell, are you, Ruth?"
"We've already discussed why I'm here." Hadn't they? Ruth finds herself breathing in the scent of Zoe's skin, that light, flowery stuff that no one else in the office ever wore and that heralded her arrivals and departures better than the click of heels or the clock. She wants to close her eyes and breathe deep, remember this moment for a good long while. But that might be creepy.
"You used to watch me," Zoe says, voice quiet. "It wasn't often, and no one else ever noticed. But sometimes, I'd look up, and you'd be there. I always wondered..."
Zoe kisses her again, this time without that light pressure. The regulations start their march across Ruth's brain, but Zoe's mouth is more interesting.
Ruth kisses her back without planning to.
"Mmm. No," Zoe murmurs, slanting her head to the side, brushing her lips down Ruth's cheek, "Softer, gentler, like this."
Without thinking about it, Ruth reaches up her hand, stroking a finger along Zoe's neck, feeling her pulse quicken under the touch. "Like this?" Leaning in, she captures Zoe's mouth with her own, testing carefully, suddenly wondering if she's mis-read things, if this is simply grief or something like it.
But Zoe makes an approving noise and her hand brushes up Ruth's side.
The click of the kettle on the counter-top pulls Ruth out of the moment. She tries to catch her wits and her breath and manages only one. "I should, we--"
"I asked you in for tea," Zoe interrupts, body suddenly pressed up against Ruth's. "We're old friends. We laughed, we chatted. I told you about a cricket match last week, you talked about roses..." she kisses Ruth again, fierce and demanding.
"Daffodils," Ruth corrects when she gets the chance. "I can't stand roses."
Zoe makes a strange sound that might be a laugh before she pulls back enough to yank her blouse off. It's easy for Ruth's hands to slide up her smooth skin, cupping her breasts for an instant before Zoe's mouth is back on hers, still demanding.
It's not making love, and it's not quite sex as most consider it. Zoe with her own hand between her legs, Ruth's hands on her breasts isn't mutual masturbation, either. But it works. Zoe knows what she needs, Ruth has a decent clue about the business and when she kisses Zoe's mouth, it feels almost perfect.
Ruth can smell the tea in the one mug Zoe managed to fill before this began. It's surreal, standing in a kitchen, helping Zoe get off. It's almost like being used and Ruth hates that feeling almost as much as she hates Harry assigning her things she doesn't fit. Her hands slide down Zoe's sides and she pulls her in tight for a moment.
The right moment, and Zoe cries out in a sort of muffled sob that ends in total silence.
Water drips from the tap, plinking down against the tin of the sink, and Ruth can think again. She's holding Zoe, a post-orgasmic Zoe, in her arms.
"Tom would have come." Her turn for the non sequitur.
"But did you?" Zoe asks, the joke falling flat as she kisses Ruth's neck.
"Zoe--"
A laugh stops her and Zoe's voice is soft, almost vicious when she says, "That's what you wanted, isn't it, Ruth? What you wanted when you watched me?"
"Not like this." Too quick. But it's the truth for what it's worth.
Zoe is still for a moment, then her hands and fingers are there, unbuttoning and pulling, touching skin almost before Ruth has time to comprehend what she's doing, "Your turn for a show," she murmurs.
Objections rise to Ruth's lips, but she can't think how to say them. only in the dark under covers with lube sounds pathetic and stupid and she knows it won't take much. Her breath catches even thinking about it, Zoe's eyes dark and watchful, Ruth's hand--
"That's it," Zoe says, hands encouraging Ruth's to slide inside her pants, buttons and zippers and panties (solid grey, practical and soft).
It's a shock to stroke herself. To open her eyes and actually see Zoe there. Ruth's legs almost buckle for an instant, but the counter is still at her back, Zoe pressing her into it.
Ruth has always been a quiet masturbater, fingers quick and efficient. Even hiding under the covers, where it had felt safe to do it still meant silence (there had been roommates more than once, at university, where sex was a language unto itself). It doesn't take long to build upon the fantasy and reality, to think about what might have happened, once upon a time.
"So quiet." Voice odd, Zoe kisses her again, "Maybe one day..."
"Don't." Breathing still ragged, Ruth finds her brains again and pushes Zoe back a step. "No maybes, Zoe. No tomorrows. You know how this game works as well as I do."
"Better," snaps Zoe, changeable mood shifting to something else.
It's more efficient to fasten her pants, tucking her shirt back in (one wrinkle might take steaming to remove). She lifts the kettle, shaking it. "Water's gone cold."
"Fuck the kettle."
"Painful."
Zoe puts the kettle on the stove, but doesn't turn the burner back on. Her back is still to Ruth when she says, "Why did he have to die? Why do any of them?"
"It's the world."
"That's Harry," retorts Zoe, but there's no fire in it. She glances at Ruth again. "I'm not going back."
"You can't go back."
"Just so we're clear."
As mud. But that was always the way of it, unless there were forms involved. Ruth looks down at the full mug of tea. "I'll tell them you still can't make a decent cuppa."
"You do that."
Ruth walks herself out, leaving Zoe in the kitchen. Stepping into the grey light of day, she wonders how she would deal with life like this.
Then she starts organizing her report. The things that will go in it, the things that won't. Her fingers feel sticky and she wishes she'd thought to stop for a wash.
-f-
fandom: Spooks (MI-5)
set: post-series three
pairing (if it can be called that): Ruth/Zoe
rating: ...PG13? R? there is sex, but it's not exactly explicit.
genre: angst, femslash
length: 2000
prompt: Spooks, Ruth/Zoe, exile from the
femslash_today porn battle o' doomnotes: My knowledge of Spooks canon is a bit sketchy. There are bits I've picked up from the wiki, and I've seen a total of about ten? episodes. But again, spotty. If I've managed not to wreck canon, go me. ;]
Though, personally, I'm not sure I understand how rambling with
musicforcylons about Tin Man and Leverage produced Spooks femslash. But my brains work in strange ways. (I'm also not entirely sure the language works) I know the icon is Susan Taylor, but she is the only one I've got.Holding Pattern
by ALC Punk!
"This is not how it's supposed to work," Ruth says, but Zoe isn't listening, bent over and fiddling with something inside the engine of her car.
A car she shouldn't have in a place she shouldn't be. Ruth fidgets, wondering why she was sent, or not wondering at all, since wondering may have gotten her here in the first place.
"You'd like a cuppa," Zoe says, abrupt and standing on her toes for an instant in a stretch before she drops the bonnet and turns.
It's not that she traipses up the path, but it's the sort of verb Ruth used to tag onto her, watching her walk through the office. Back before... back before a lot. Before forms were filed and pictures were taken. Zoe is almost at the door before Ruth begins moving, following her.
"You're here because--"
"Yes," grateful, glad it's in the open, Ruth tries a smile she knows is failing even before Zoe turns. Something desperate slips out, "You're not supposed to be enjoying this--"
"Am I not?"
They are women of a hundred thousand places, trained to slide in and out--well, Zoe was, Ruth was just technical support, and she thinks she should be better at interviewing by now. No more blurtings. "The file says you're living alone."
"I like the quiet." Zoe slips down the short hall, calling over her shoulder, "My upstairs neighbor spends half the night dancing, though, so perhaps that's the wrong reason."
"Does he know where you can be found?"
No answer for a time, Zoe bustling, opening cupboards and retrieving mugs and tea. The walls are a drab yellow, skirted with faded floral paper, the stove is tiny and the sink dull and silver, looking out of place amongst the green of the counter-tops. As though delaying something inevitable, she finally murmurs, "You do."
Ruth ducks her head, fiddling with the handle of the mug Zoe's handed her while she starts the water. There's a chip in the olive green, probably from a move or a flaw in the manufacturing. "They're not entirely clear on how he found you, of course."
"Luck."
There's no such thing as luck in their line of work, but Zoe knows that. Ruth looks at her across the tiny kitchen, feeling as though the walls might close in at any second. "You don't have to protect him anymore, you know."
Zoe goes absolutely still, hands clenching for an instant on a tea bag that will end its life mangled and in the bin, unused.
"Do you ever stop to think?" Zoe asks, her breath perfectly fine, her face completely still, "About what we did then, what we do now, and who we ultimately affect?"
"Does it matter?"
"Everything matters, Ruth." A flash of a smile, then Zoe turns, her back to Ruth and the tea bag dropped onto the counter. "I suppose the kettle will never boil."
The non sequitur is a distraction, but Ruth gives it to her. It's one concession she can make now. A cold-blooded part of her wonders if this will give her more of a hold on Zoe, more of an in into her psyche and brain. But Zoe was always easy to know, and the effort is wasted in a way.
"If we moved?"
Zoe looks back at her, and there is something horrifyingly painful in her eyes before she tries a smile on that doesn't seem to fit, "I'm bloody tired of moving."
The pain in Zoe's face gives Ruth impetus, and she almost stumbles on nothing before she steps closer, hand reaching to touch Zoe's shoulder. "Then we stay here." Zoe's eyes close, and she shivers before turning, letting herself be pulled into Ruth's arms, tucking her head under Ruth's chin.
"I could have stayed there forever, you know."
It was easy to wrap her arms around Zoe, easy to think of soothing, pointless things to say, though Ruth says none of them as she watches the kettle on the stove.
Letting Zoe go isn't easy, though, and Ruth thinks of all the reasons she shouldn't even be considering the wild notions staggering through her brain. She follows those with the thousand and one regulations she has memorized. But then again, Ruth hasn't always followed all of the rules.
"I'm sorry," Zoe sniffles, pulling back a little, trying to regain some semblance of control.
"Natural reaction," Ruth bluffs, trying for a smile that never sits well on her face (even practicing in the mirror doesn't help, though Tom used to be able to get something resembling a real one from her on occasion). "I'm sorry I haven't a tissue."
"'s all right." Reaching up, Zoe swipes the back of her hand under her nose and looks at Ruth for a moment. "Thank you." She leans in again, this time at a different angle.
It's a quick brush of lips, something more than words in thanks, and Ruth freezes in an instant.
Whether Zoe can feel the tension in her is debatable as she turns with a laugh to deal with the now-whistling kettle. "Of course it goes when we're distracted."
"Always the way?"
Zoe raises the kettle and glances at her, "Are you all right?"
"Fine. Sugar, please." Try for normality. Ruth is good at that, playing at normal. It's not quite imitation, she knows how real people react to things, she's just not got a lot of practice at it.
"You're not all right," Zoe objects, moving back, kettle in one hand. "It was the kiss--I shouldn't have--"
"No!" Too quick.
Zoe raises her eyebrows and leans in, "You're not here to kiss and tell, are you, Ruth?"
"We've already discussed why I'm here." Hadn't they? Ruth finds herself breathing in the scent of Zoe's skin, that light, flowery stuff that no one else in the office ever wore and that heralded her arrivals and departures better than the click of heels or the clock. She wants to close her eyes and breathe deep, remember this moment for a good long while. But that might be creepy.
"You used to watch me," Zoe says, voice quiet. "It wasn't often, and no one else ever noticed. But sometimes, I'd look up, and you'd be there. I always wondered..."
Zoe kisses her again, this time without that light pressure. The regulations start their march across Ruth's brain, but Zoe's mouth is more interesting.
Ruth kisses her back without planning to.
"Mmm. No," Zoe murmurs, slanting her head to the side, brushing her lips down Ruth's cheek, "Softer, gentler, like this."
Without thinking about it, Ruth reaches up her hand, stroking a finger along Zoe's neck, feeling her pulse quicken under the touch. "Like this?" Leaning in, she captures Zoe's mouth with her own, testing carefully, suddenly wondering if she's mis-read things, if this is simply grief or something like it.
But Zoe makes an approving noise and her hand brushes up Ruth's side.
The click of the kettle on the counter-top pulls Ruth out of the moment. She tries to catch her wits and her breath and manages only one. "I should, we--"
"I asked you in for tea," Zoe interrupts, body suddenly pressed up against Ruth's. "We're old friends. We laughed, we chatted. I told you about a cricket match last week, you talked about roses..." she kisses Ruth again, fierce and demanding.
"Daffodils," Ruth corrects when she gets the chance. "I can't stand roses."
Zoe makes a strange sound that might be a laugh before she pulls back enough to yank her blouse off. It's easy for Ruth's hands to slide up her smooth skin, cupping her breasts for an instant before Zoe's mouth is back on hers, still demanding.
It's not making love, and it's not quite sex as most consider it. Zoe with her own hand between her legs, Ruth's hands on her breasts isn't mutual masturbation, either. But it works. Zoe knows what she needs, Ruth has a decent clue about the business and when she kisses Zoe's mouth, it feels almost perfect.
Ruth can smell the tea in the one mug Zoe managed to fill before this began. It's surreal, standing in a kitchen, helping Zoe get off. It's almost like being used and Ruth hates that feeling almost as much as she hates Harry assigning her things she doesn't fit. Her hands slide down Zoe's sides and she pulls her in tight for a moment.
The right moment, and Zoe cries out in a sort of muffled sob that ends in total silence.
Water drips from the tap, plinking down against the tin of the sink, and Ruth can think again. She's holding Zoe, a post-orgasmic Zoe, in her arms.
"Tom would have come." Her turn for the non sequitur.
"But did you?" Zoe asks, the joke falling flat as she kisses Ruth's neck.
"Zoe--"
A laugh stops her and Zoe's voice is soft, almost vicious when she says, "That's what you wanted, isn't it, Ruth? What you wanted when you watched me?"
"Not like this." Too quick. But it's the truth for what it's worth.
Zoe is still for a moment, then her hands and fingers are there, unbuttoning and pulling, touching skin almost before Ruth has time to comprehend what she's doing, "Your turn for a show," she murmurs.
Objections rise to Ruth's lips, but she can't think how to say them. only in the dark under covers with lube sounds pathetic and stupid and she knows it won't take much. Her breath catches even thinking about it, Zoe's eyes dark and watchful, Ruth's hand--
"That's it," Zoe says, hands encouraging Ruth's to slide inside her pants, buttons and zippers and panties (solid grey, practical and soft).
It's a shock to stroke herself. To open her eyes and actually see Zoe there. Ruth's legs almost buckle for an instant, but the counter is still at her back, Zoe pressing her into it.
Ruth has always been a quiet masturbater, fingers quick and efficient. Even hiding under the covers, where it had felt safe to do it still meant silence (there had been roommates more than once, at university, where sex was a language unto itself). It doesn't take long to build upon the fantasy and reality, to think about what might have happened, once upon a time.
"So quiet." Voice odd, Zoe kisses her again, "Maybe one day..."
"Don't." Breathing still ragged, Ruth finds her brains again and pushes Zoe back a step. "No maybes, Zoe. No tomorrows. You know how this game works as well as I do."
"Better," snaps Zoe, changeable mood shifting to something else.
It's more efficient to fasten her pants, tucking her shirt back in (one wrinkle might take steaming to remove). She lifts the kettle, shaking it. "Water's gone cold."
"Fuck the kettle."
"Painful."
Zoe puts the kettle on the stove, but doesn't turn the burner back on. Her back is still to Ruth when she says, "Why did he have to die? Why do any of them?"
"It's the world."
"That's Harry," retorts Zoe, but there's no fire in it. She glances at Ruth again. "I'm not going back."
"You can't go back."
"Just so we're clear."
As mud. But that was always the way of it, unless there were forms involved. Ruth looks down at the full mug of tea. "I'll tell them you still can't make a decent cuppa."
"You do that."
Ruth walks herself out, leaving Zoe in the kitchen. Stepping into the grey light of day, she wonders how she would deal with life like this.
Then she starts organizing her report. The things that will go in it, the things that won't. Her fingers feel sticky and she wishes she'd thought to stop for a wash.
-f-
no subject
I have no idea either, but have I told you lately that I love your brain? No? Cause I do.
(The icon is closest thing I have to spies.)
no subject
My brain thanks you. =D
no subject
Your brain is welcome!