For Celendra: Every day is Sunday, every month is May. This story is a little bit of Dark that came about because a bunch of us were talking comics and slashfic on IRC as we are wont to do, and 'rith said to me, "You know --" We were talking about The Authority at the time -- "You know, I'm surprised nobody's ever written an Angie/Jenny piece. . . ." So I let that stew for a while, and then tonight I sat down to write another story, but this one wouldn't let me go until it was out. It's very short, and I'm told it's intense. This one isn't for the kiddies, boys and girls. I don't get explicit, but there are people having sex in this story -- or it's mentioned, anyway -- and they're *gasp, faint* both the same gender. If that offends you -- well, don't read this story and save yourself the aggravation.
For the record, Jenny Sparks, Angie 'the Engineer' Spica, Jack Hawksmoor, and The Authority are copyrights of DC/Wildstorm. I am making no profit, I'm just playing with their toys for a moment or two. Still with me? Great. Let's walk down the Carrier's corridors and see what we hear . . . .
Leman
by Falstaff
She came to me again tonight.
She came to me and we made love for three hours and forty-five minutes. Then she got up out of my bed and walked out the door and didn't look back.
Neither of us ever said a word.
We never do. We never have. Not since the first night, when she showed up at my door and when I asked her what it was about, she just looked at me, the most mournful, frightened look I've ever seen, looking so out of place on her strong, raw-boned face, and whispered, "I need you, Angie," and kissed me.
Woman can kiss. She can do everything. Does things in bed that no man, no woman, has ever done for me. She's amazing. But she never says a word.
I don't know why. She came close to telling me once. I was up late, working in the Control Center, and she came in and we talked. Not about our nights together, just talked, and right before she walked out again she stopped at the door. "I'm not capable of loving anybody, Angie," she said. "I thought you ought to know that."
And she walked away.
And yet when we make love it is making love, it's the most tender and loving sex I've ever experienced. And yet . . . .
And yet. It's not love, though. Not underneath all that. She knows it, I'm sure, and I know. When Jack and I got together, when we do this, it's making love, sure, and it reaches out and boils me over, 'cause I know he loves me, in his quiet way, and I love him back.
But Jenny still comes to me a few times a week. And I always let her in. We go through our ritual. She takes off her clothes and folds them neat. I toss mine on the floor. She walks into the bedroom. I follow her in and turn down the bed. She gets in, lies on her back, spreads her legs. I climb in, straddle her hips. She pulls the blanket over my back. And we start.
And I can't turn her away. Because I know she needs this, needs me. She hasn't got somebody like Jack to turn to. She isn't capable of love, she says. I think she's lying, at least to herself. But I know that I love her. Not like I love Jack. But I love her. And I will never turn her away.
Even though I cry every time she leaves me. Even though every time I feel empty and cold when she's gone. Even though I know, even as I feel the warmth flood through me as I see her lying in my bed, that when she leaves I will feel like a whore and I will cry myself to sleep with that horrible word running through my head . . . .
Putana. Little putana, not good enough, never good enough, use you and leave you, all you're good for. Jenny's putana.
But I can never turn her away. And I will not.
I owe her that much.
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