If I Was Your Dark Lady
29 September 2011 05:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ladygrendelTitle: If I Was Your Dark Lady
Fandom: NCIS
Characters/Pairings: Timothy McGee, OFC (McGee/OFC)
Warnings: murder, drug abuse, dubious consent, serial killer, adult themes
Summary: She was his first - his first love, his first woman, his first killer (set pre-NCIS)
Every night after a brutal case, he dreams about her. Her dark hair and eyes, drawing him in…
"Why were you hiding this?"
He glances up, blushing when he sees the manuscript in her hands.
"It's nothing…it's not even that good…"
"Not that good!" Her eyes are bright with excitement. "It's incredible! And you said you weren't a writer."
"I'm not-" he tries to protest but she won't listen. She pulls him in for a kiss, her lips tasting of pomegranates and sugar. He pulls away, her arms still wrapped around him.
"Yes, you are." She leans in, her words tickling his ear. "My own Shakespeare…"
Every time he enters that cold room he wants to ask her why…why she was a monster…why she hid her true self from him for so long…
The first time they meet is at a party. He's only there because his roommate promised to hang out with him, only to bail once they arrived. At sixteen he's possibly the youngest person there, but that's the curse of being a genius. As he makes his way through the house he has to fight the crowd, moving up the stairs like a salmon swimming upstream.
All he wants is some quiet. College life is so strange, so noisy. Maybe his father was right – if he can't handle a small school like this one, what are his chances of surviving MIT or Johns Hopkins?
Finally reaching the end of the hall, he wrenches a door open and enters the mysterious room beyond it. The door is old and made of some sort of fancy wood, not thick enough to completely block out the obnoxious music, but it'll do.
"Had to get away, huh?"
He jumps and turns. A woman (and she has to be a woman, with curves in all the right places) is standing at a bookshelf, a large tome in her hands.
"Sorry, I'll just-"
"Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality."
She closes the book and puts it back, oh so carefully, as if it has its own place on the shelf.
"Emily Dickinson." She raises an eyebrow, and he clears his throat, embarrassed. "The poem, it's Emily Dickinson."
"Do you know the rest of it?"
A test, but whether it's a test of his worth or smarts, he isn't sure. Determined to impress this woman, he finishes the poem without hesitation:
"We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
for his civility.
We passed the school where children played
At wresting in a ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.
We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.
Since then 't is centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity."
With each stanza he closes in on her, until they are almost nose to nose. Her eyes glitter with amusement and something else. She touches his cheek, and smiles. He knows he has passed her test, although the prize is still a mystery.
Only until much later, far too late, does he learn that she could have snapped his neck that night and been done with it.
How often does she say they're meant for each other? Both Navy brats abused by their fathers…authority figures…
He's such a romantic, but who can honestly resist forbidden love? While he's a mere sixteen year old freshman, she's a twenty-four year old TA. The house that they met in was actually hers, something she inherited from her late father.
When school finally starts, he discovers that she's teaching his English class. Every poem she recites before the group is for him, he can tell when their eyes meet.
A toy…a plaything…was that all he had been? Was she even capable of love? Surely it was love…
He's never thought much about him having sex. All he's ever seen is two beautiful people in movies or on TV kissing and doing suggestive things. In truth, sex is messy, but so very good. She takes the lead, teaching him, showing him a path to true pleasure. The second time they take it easy, and he tentatively makes a few moves of his own, which she approves of with groans and moans.
He should have been watching the news…should have been paying attention to the discussions between his father and Sam…
Coming home to visit was becoming torture. Any time spent away from her seemed like a waste, and his skin burned for her touch and kisses.
It's dinner time. His sister is away, sleeping over at a friend's house. Every time the family sits down to eat, the hole where his mother had once been seems to widen until it'll swallow reality. An old friend of his father's, a detective, is visiting.
The conversation is already almost halfway over when he finally tunes in. They're talking about some recent murders; a certain mark left on every victim, something that the police believe points to a serial killer.
"It could be a woman." The men blink, surprised by the interruption. He feels his face grow hot. "I mean, not everything is set in stone. Statistics are just estimations…they can be wrong."
His father's smile is condescending although the detective's is not.
"They're the police, Timmy," says the Commander. "They know what they're doing."
Timmy…McGee…McGeek…Probie…no one can say his name like she can…
"Tim?"
He turns, to find her holding something out to him. A shy, beautiful smile graces her face. "What is it?"
"A pipe. Well, it was my father's." He takes it in his hands, the scent of tobacco still strong. There's another scent, something much sweeter. "I was wondering…do you want to do something…naughty?"
That should have been a sign. God, how many times had his mother told him that drugs were bad, that you shouldn't do them. He hadn't liked what was in the pipe, but that wasn't all she had. Sometimes, after coming down from a high, he vaguely remembered doing strange things…hearing twisted words she had whispered to him…it was all like a dream…
He had seen pictures of the bodies, the codes that had been carved into the abdomens. It was only until he decided to stroll through her Oscar Wilde collection did he find it.
She was meticulous, and each book was numbered. Everything had its place. The code was written on the inside of The Picture of Dorian Gray. He froze, suddenly remembering one of the photographs the detective had shown him: a little boy covered in cigarette burns, but not a trace of DNA had been left behind. Even the cigarette brand had been generic. The kid hadn't died from the burns – his throat had been slashed, and he'd bleed out like a slaughtered pig.
The code…he followed the book number…to the page number…to the line number…then the word…
"A cigarette is the perfect type of perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want?"
Something pricks his neck, and the book tumbles from his hands, hitting the floor with a strange thump. Suddenly limp, he falls back, straight into her arms. Darkness, slow and viscous, closes in on him as she starts to drag him across the room.
That night…whatever happened that night will always be a blur, although whether that's because of the drugs or his determination to stay ignorant remains to be seen…
Their bodies are slick with blood. Almost every inch of the basement has been covered in it. She tackles him, laughing, and he can't help but join in – it's just too infectious.
The corpse in the corner barely resembles a human being anymore. The uniform has been ripped to shreds, precious ribbons and medals scattered like trash. And yet, he can hear the dead man's heart beating like an old war drum. The tempo increases-
"Tim?"
Beating faster, now unsteady-
"Can you hear me? Tim?"
Silence. Pain. Nothing.
Even then, there were programs in school that were supposed to beat the dangers of drugs into every child's head. He had heard somewhere that drugs were like alcohol – don't mix your poisons, or else you'll end up with nasty consequences…like death…
He wakes up, disoriented, to find himself in a hospital bed. The detective…Sam…is sitting by his bed. At first he doesn't believe the man – his muse, his lover can't possibly be this monster – but logic wins. DNA and the books from her library don't change the facts.
She was, as the media had dubbed her, the Infinity Killer. Her victims had been found throughout the area: Maryland, D.C., Virginia…
She had given him drugs, enough to cause him to OD. While he had been lying on the floor of that hellhole she called 911, and had even tried CPR. She had saved his life, when she could have simple fled the scene. How can he ever repay her? How is he supposed to function on borrowed time? On her time?
She was a monster…but she was his monster….The first in a long line of crazies that he managed to attract…Langdon…Amanda…even, if he were to be honest, Abby…
"Delilah."
He's here – it's his duty. Ever since his eighteenth birthday two months ago, she's refused to cooperate. Sam said she had even stopped at the exact time of his birth, too.
"Tim." She smiles, and he's reminded of how his name rolls off her talented tongue. "How do you like MIT?"
"It's fine. Much bigger than the old place." He pulls out a cigarette and lights it, enjoying the nicotine. It's a nasty habit, but at least it's legal. "Although I guess I shouldn't complain about space…"
"No, probably not." She doesn't have to ask, he automatically puts the cigarette to her lips. He watches her breasts rise as she takes a drag, then fall when she exhales. "I do appreciate the visit."
"You know the deal. No death penalty as long as you talk." While Sam and his father probably wouldn't mind her dying, he can't stand the thought of never seeing her again. "If you won't talk to Sam…will you talk to me?"
This is the opening she's been waiting for, the trap she had set since before her deal with the DA and sentencing. Delilah Burke, the Infinity Killer. A monster, true, but she's his beast, his responsibility. If Sam can't help those waiting, grieving families he will.
Delilah refuses to tell the exact number of victims, revealing only one or two each month in the past two years. Maybe with a bit of time and effort he'll be able to close her case forever. With some faith, every body will be discovered and given a proper burial after returning home.
"O Muse! Sing in me, and through me tell the story of that man skilled in all the ways of contending, a wanderer, harried for years on end…" She is Circe, Calypso, a siren. She'll be the death of him, but he's too far gone to give a damn. "She was a sweet thing, about five or six. A fine set of lungs on her." A pause followed by a coy look. "Should I go on?"
This is his penance, for sleeping with the devil and for killing a man only to bathe in his blood.
"Keep going," he replies, taking another drag from the cigarette. "And don't stop until you've reached the end."
If he is Shakespeare, then she is his Dark Lady.
>>>>>
Next: When I'm Bad
Fandom: NCIS
Characters/Pairings: Timothy McGee, OFC (McGee/OFC)
Warnings: murder, drug abuse, dubious consent, serial killer, adult themes
Summary: She was his first - his first love, his first woman, his first killer (set pre-NCIS)
Every night after a brutal case, he dreams about her. Her dark hair and eyes, drawing him in…
"Why were you hiding this?"
He glances up, blushing when he sees the manuscript in her hands.
"It's nothing…it's not even that good…"
"Not that good!" Her eyes are bright with excitement. "It's incredible! And you said you weren't a writer."
"I'm not-" he tries to protest but she won't listen. She pulls him in for a kiss, her lips tasting of pomegranates and sugar. He pulls away, her arms still wrapped around him.
"Yes, you are." She leans in, her words tickling his ear. "My own Shakespeare…"
Every time he enters that cold room he wants to ask her why…why she was a monster…why she hid her true self from him for so long…
The first time they meet is at a party. He's only there because his roommate promised to hang out with him, only to bail once they arrived. At sixteen he's possibly the youngest person there, but that's the curse of being a genius. As he makes his way through the house he has to fight the crowd, moving up the stairs like a salmon swimming upstream.
All he wants is some quiet. College life is so strange, so noisy. Maybe his father was right – if he can't handle a small school like this one, what are his chances of surviving MIT or Johns Hopkins?
Finally reaching the end of the hall, he wrenches a door open and enters the mysterious room beyond it. The door is old and made of some sort of fancy wood, not thick enough to completely block out the obnoxious music, but it'll do.
"Had to get away, huh?"
He jumps and turns. A woman (and she has to be a woman, with curves in all the right places) is standing at a bookshelf, a large tome in her hands.
"Sorry, I'll just-"
"Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality."
She closes the book and puts it back, oh so carefully, as if it has its own place on the shelf.
"Emily Dickinson." She raises an eyebrow, and he clears his throat, embarrassed. "The poem, it's Emily Dickinson."
"Do you know the rest of it?"
A test, but whether it's a test of his worth or smarts, he isn't sure. Determined to impress this woman, he finishes the poem without hesitation:
"We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
for his civility.
We passed the school where children played
At wresting in a ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.
We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.
Since then 't is centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity."
With each stanza he closes in on her, until they are almost nose to nose. Her eyes glitter with amusement and something else. She touches his cheek, and smiles. He knows he has passed her test, although the prize is still a mystery.
Only until much later, far too late, does he learn that she could have snapped his neck that night and been done with it.
How often does she say they're meant for each other? Both Navy brats abused by their fathers…authority figures…
He's such a romantic, but who can honestly resist forbidden love? While he's a mere sixteen year old freshman, she's a twenty-four year old TA. The house that they met in was actually hers, something she inherited from her late father.
When school finally starts, he discovers that she's teaching his English class. Every poem she recites before the group is for him, he can tell when their eyes meet.
A toy…a plaything…was that all he had been? Was she even capable of love? Surely it was love…
He's never thought much about him having sex. All he's ever seen is two beautiful people in movies or on TV kissing and doing suggestive things. In truth, sex is messy, but so very good. She takes the lead, teaching him, showing him a path to true pleasure. The second time they take it easy, and he tentatively makes a few moves of his own, which she approves of with groans and moans.
He should have been watching the news…should have been paying attention to the discussions between his father and Sam…
Coming home to visit was becoming torture. Any time spent away from her seemed like a waste, and his skin burned for her touch and kisses.
It's dinner time. His sister is away, sleeping over at a friend's house. Every time the family sits down to eat, the hole where his mother had once been seems to widen until it'll swallow reality. An old friend of his father's, a detective, is visiting.
The conversation is already almost halfway over when he finally tunes in. They're talking about some recent murders; a certain mark left on every victim, something that the police believe points to a serial killer.
"It could be a woman." The men blink, surprised by the interruption. He feels his face grow hot. "I mean, not everything is set in stone. Statistics are just estimations…they can be wrong."
His father's smile is condescending although the detective's is not.
"They're the police, Timmy," says the Commander. "They know what they're doing."
Timmy…McGee…McGeek…Probie…no one can say his name like she can…
"Tim?"
He turns, to find her holding something out to him. A shy, beautiful smile graces her face. "What is it?"
"A pipe. Well, it was my father's." He takes it in his hands, the scent of tobacco still strong. There's another scent, something much sweeter. "I was wondering…do you want to do something…naughty?"
That should have been a sign. God, how many times had his mother told him that drugs were bad, that you shouldn't do them. He hadn't liked what was in the pipe, but that wasn't all she had. Sometimes, after coming down from a high, he vaguely remembered doing strange things…hearing twisted words she had whispered to him…it was all like a dream…
He had seen pictures of the bodies, the codes that had been carved into the abdomens. It was only until he decided to stroll through her Oscar Wilde collection did he find it.
She was meticulous, and each book was numbered. Everything had its place. The code was written on the inside of The Picture of Dorian Gray. He froze, suddenly remembering one of the photographs the detective had shown him: a little boy covered in cigarette burns, but not a trace of DNA had been left behind. Even the cigarette brand had been generic. The kid hadn't died from the burns – his throat had been slashed, and he'd bleed out like a slaughtered pig.
The code…he followed the book number…to the page number…to the line number…then the word…
"A cigarette is the perfect type of perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want?"
Something pricks his neck, and the book tumbles from his hands, hitting the floor with a strange thump. Suddenly limp, he falls back, straight into her arms. Darkness, slow and viscous, closes in on him as she starts to drag him across the room.
That night…whatever happened that night will always be a blur, although whether that's because of the drugs or his determination to stay ignorant remains to be seen…
Their bodies are slick with blood. Almost every inch of the basement has been covered in it. She tackles him, laughing, and he can't help but join in – it's just too infectious.
The corpse in the corner barely resembles a human being anymore. The uniform has been ripped to shreds, precious ribbons and medals scattered like trash. And yet, he can hear the dead man's heart beating like an old war drum. The tempo increases-
"Tim?"
Beating faster, now unsteady-
"Can you hear me? Tim?"
Silence. Pain. Nothing.
Even then, there were programs in school that were supposed to beat the dangers of drugs into every child's head. He had heard somewhere that drugs were like alcohol – don't mix your poisons, or else you'll end up with nasty consequences…like death…
He wakes up, disoriented, to find himself in a hospital bed. The detective…Sam…is sitting by his bed. At first he doesn't believe the man – his muse, his lover can't possibly be this monster – but logic wins. DNA and the books from her library don't change the facts.
She was, as the media had dubbed her, the Infinity Killer. Her victims had been found throughout the area: Maryland, D.C., Virginia…
She had given him drugs, enough to cause him to OD. While he had been lying on the floor of that hellhole she called 911, and had even tried CPR. She had saved his life, when she could have simple fled the scene. How can he ever repay her? How is he supposed to function on borrowed time? On her time?
She was a monster…but she was his monster….The first in a long line of crazies that he managed to attract…Langdon…Amanda…even, if he were to be honest, Abby…
"Delilah."
He's here – it's his duty. Ever since his eighteenth birthday two months ago, she's refused to cooperate. Sam said she had even stopped at the exact time of his birth, too.
"Tim." She smiles, and he's reminded of how his name rolls off her talented tongue. "How do you like MIT?"
"It's fine. Much bigger than the old place." He pulls out a cigarette and lights it, enjoying the nicotine. It's a nasty habit, but at least it's legal. "Although I guess I shouldn't complain about space…"
"No, probably not." She doesn't have to ask, he automatically puts the cigarette to her lips. He watches her breasts rise as she takes a drag, then fall when she exhales. "I do appreciate the visit."
"You know the deal. No death penalty as long as you talk." While Sam and his father probably wouldn't mind her dying, he can't stand the thought of never seeing her again. "If you won't talk to Sam…will you talk to me?"
This is the opening she's been waiting for, the trap she had set since before her deal with the DA and sentencing. Delilah Burke, the Infinity Killer. A monster, true, but she's his beast, his responsibility. If Sam can't help those waiting, grieving families he will.
Delilah refuses to tell the exact number of victims, revealing only one or two each month in the past two years. Maybe with a bit of time and effort he'll be able to close her case forever. With some faith, every body will be discovered and given a proper burial after returning home.
"O Muse! Sing in me, and through me tell the story of that man skilled in all the ways of contending, a wanderer, harried for years on end…" She is Circe, Calypso, a siren. She'll be the death of him, but he's too far gone to give a damn. "She was a sweet thing, about five or six. A fine set of lungs on her." A pause followed by a coy look. "Should I go on?"
This is his penance, for sleeping with the devil and for killing a man only to bathe in his blood.
"Keep going," he replies, taking another drag from the cigarette. "And don't stop until you've reached the end."
If he is Shakespeare, then she is his Dark Lady.
>>>>>
Next: When I'm Bad