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Jan. 30th, 2006 12:05 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
apocalypsosTitle: Just Say Goodnight
Author: Troll Princess
Rating: R
Fandom: The 4400
Pairing: Shawn/Isabelle
Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine, wheeee!
Author's note: Well, I said I'd write it eventually, right? ;) (Partly because no one else will. I guess I'm the only one this twisted, because really, on some level, Shawn/Isabelle is severely twisted.)
*****
Just Say Goodnight
******
"Hello, Shawn," she says, "I'm Isabelle."
In retrospect, Shawn really thinks that's the moment everything really goes to Hell.
******
He drapes a blanket around her shoulders as she sits on his couch, wide brown eyes taking in the whole situation as if it's a scene she's watched a dozen times over. His fingertips drift accidentally over warm velvet skin, and there's something electric in that brief moment that makes Shawn flinch backward.
"I don't bite, Shawn," she says, her lips tugging upward in an infectious smile. He tries to forget her time as an adult can be measured in minutes, has to forget she was an infant only yesterday when that smile shoots directly to places he'd rather not think about.
She doesn't make any move to cover herself, to tug the blanket over her bare breasts. He tenses as he moves to hold it closed for her, and that's how Lily finds them.
Shawn tries to come up with a better way for the whole thing to have played out later, Isabelle grown and naked on his couch and his hands desperately trying to cover her up, and realizes there's not much that could have made that situation worse.
******
Isabelle refuses to go back to her home with Lily and Richard, eliciting another strangled sob from a stunned Lily.
Shawn refuses to let Isabelle sleep in his rooms with him, no matter how persuasive she makes her arguments.
In the end, she spends that first night outside his apartment, her back pressed against the door and the scent of her carrying through to him like some sort of wild aphrodisiac.
He wonders what it says about him that it takes only fifteen minutes of tossing and turning and twisting his sheets around his legs before he drags a pillow and blanket out to the front door and props himself up against it.
He is out of it in minutes, and when he wakes up in the morning slumped awkwardly against the door, he isn't the least bit sore.
******
The next few days are hectic and strange. Kyle turns himself in for Jordan's murder. More arrests are made for the mistreatment of the 4400. Richard's suddenly telekinetic.
And then Jordan appears out of nowhere, unkempt and dazed and suffering from amnesia.
Shawn spends half his time trying to to be a responsible leader and the other half wanting to get wasted and spend a night hunched over a toilet like the teenager he still technically is.
Towards the end of the day, after calling Uncle Tommy for information about Kyle over and over again and doing half a dozen interviews, Isabelle walks into his office, a six-pack of beer swinging at her side. A week ago, she couldn't walk or talk or eat solid foods, but now she urges everybody out of the room as persuasively as if she'd hypnotized them and leads them out like trained dogs who don't even seem to notice the alcohol in her hands. She closes the doors behind them all, a mischievous grin on her face, and perches on the edge of his desk. She crosses her legs in such a way that the hem of her skirt rises higher on her thighs, a tantalizing distraction.
"You keep it up at this pace," she says, "and you'll be no good to me at all."
She hands him a beer, the can perfectly chilled when she hands it to him, and Shawn adds the question of how she kept it that way as an addendum to wondering how she'd gotten her hands on it. And he wants to be serious about all this, to ask intelligent questions about how she grew and why and what this has to do with everything they're meant to do, none of which she's been the least bit enthusiastic about answering.
But he can't stop thinking about the way her dark curls ripple over her shoulders, or the gentle slope of her body as she leans towards him from the other side of the desk.
"I'm not sure this is such a good idea," he says.
He opens the can of beer without reluctance, and he's pretty sure she gets the idea he doesn't mean getting buzzed in his office.
******
Shawn doesn't get how Isabelle does it, how she gets away with all of the things she gets away with. She's the only person in the entire Center -- maybe even the entire world -- who can get Matthew off his back. She waltzes around the place getting people to gleefully ignore the two of them when she decides they're going to drink or hang out or whatever completely useless thing she's planned out. She tells people what to do and they just do it ... hell, even Lily, who keeps staring at her like she's a strange scary interloper or something.
Every time he wonders how she pulls it off, he thinks, It's because she's really fucking creepy, that's why.
The rumors spread like wildfire, that she killed a trio of crazy assholes trying to shoot her and Lily and Richard, that she made her sister's spleen rupture or something. And before long, everyone in the Center knows them, this sick new mythology.
He's positive that it wasn't Lily or Richard who started those stories, not after he sees the looks on their faces when they overhear the whispers. The perfectly calm look on Isabelle's face when she hears them, however, is another matter entirely.
Her own personal form of intimidation, he thinks, and realizes it doesn't get to him quite as much as it should.
But knowing that doesn't stop his dreams.
Hell, they may be her fault, too.
******
Sleeping against the door like this -- and don't think that hasn't turned into another one of those ridiculous rumors -- means not having dreams where he tosses Isabelle into a bed and she lets him do whatever the hell he wants to her. It means dreams that start with him slamming the door shut and pressing her against it. He lifts her up and she wraps her legs around his waist, and because it's a dream their clothes suddenly vanish and the sex lasts fucking forever and he's never felt anything that dizzying and heated.
The last time, he comes to in an instant, breathing hard and desperate to open the doors, and he swears he can hear her breathing just as hard on the other side of the door.
After that, he goes back to sleep in his own bed. You know, if you can call writhing around in the most comfortable bed in the goddamn Center trying to keep your eyes shut sleeping.
******
The next morning, he wakes up to find Isabelle sleeping beside him. Naked.
He's starting to believe that the process that made her grow up so damn fast was so complicated they had to leave a few things out of her. Like, say, the definition of the world "subtle."
She opens her eyes while he's looking down at her, her dark gaze calm and steady. "You're dreaming it, too," she says. It's not a question.
He runs his fingers through his hair and it hits him when he lifts his arm that he's naked, too. "Are you doing this?"
It's not exactly the most polite thing to say, he guesses, but she sits up a little with the sheet pressed to her chest and shrugs. It's the closest thing to a real answer he's going to get, not a yes and not a no. He can't bring himself to be angry either way.
"Is it so bad?" she asks. "All of this?"
Her free hand drifts briefly over the sheet still covering her. There goes that lack of subtlety. And he wishes he could answer but he can't, not now, not truthfully. In his dreams she tastes like something addictive and sweet, and everything about her fits him like she was built with Shawn Farrell's hands and lips and skin in mind.
Maybe she was, a voice in his head says, and instead of fighting it he's suddenly desperate to confirm it.
She eases closer, her lips pressing insistently against his, and the thought that she might be just for him doesn't bother him as much as it should.
Author: Troll Princess
Rating: R
Fandom: The 4400
Pairing: Shawn/Isabelle
Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine, wheeee!
Author's note: Well, I said I'd write it eventually, right? ;) (Partly because no one else will. I guess I'm the only one this twisted, because really, on some level, Shawn/Isabelle is severely twisted.)
Just Say Goodnight
******
"Hello, Shawn," she says, "I'm Isabelle."
In retrospect, Shawn really thinks that's the moment everything really goes to Hell.
******
He drapes a blanket around her shoulders as she sits on his couch, wide brown eyes taking in the whole situation as if it's a scene she's watched a dozen times over. His fingertips drift accidentally over warm velvet skin, and there's something electric in that brief moment that makes Shawn flinch backward.
"I don't bite, Shawn," she says, her lips tugging upward in an infectious smile. He tries to forget her time as an adult can be measured in minutes, has to forget she was an infant only yesterday when that smile shoots directly to places he'd rather not think about.
She doesn't make any move to cover herself, to tug the blanket over her bare breasts. He tenses as he moves to hold it closed for her, and that's how Lily finds them.
Shawn tries to come up with a better way for the whole thing to have played out later, Isabelle grown and naked on his couch and his hands desperately trying to cover her up, and realizes there's not much that could have made that situation worse.
******
Isabelle refuses to go back to her home with Lily and Richard, eliciting another strangled sob from a stunned Lily.
Shawn refuses to let Isabelle sleep in his rooms with him, no matter how persuasive she makes her arguments.
In the end, she spends that first night outside his apartment, her back pressed against the door and the scent of her carrying through to him like some sort of wild aphrodisiac.
He wonders what it says about him that it takes only fifteen minutes of tossing and turning and twisting his sheets around his legs before he drags a pillow and blanket out to the front door and props himself up against it.
He is out of it in minutes, and when he wakes up in the morning slumped awkwardly against the door, he isn't the least bit sore.
******
The next few days are hectic and strange. Kyle turns himself in for Jordan's murder. More arrests are made for the mistreatment of the 4400. Richard's suddenly telekinetic.
And then Jordan appears out of nowhere, unkempt and dazed and suffering from amnesia.
Shawn spends half his time trying to to be a responsible leader and the other half wanting to get wasted and spend a night hunched over a toilet like the teenager he still technically is.
Towards the end of the day, after calling Uncle Tommy for information about Kyle over and over again and doing half a dozen interviews, Isabelle walks into his office, a six-pack of beer swinging at her side. A week ago, she couldn't walk or talk or eat solid foods, but now she urges everybody out of the room as persuasively as if she'd hypnotized them and leads them out like trained dogs who don't even seem to notice the alcohol in her hands. She closes the doors behind them all, a mischievous grin on her face, and perches on the edge of his desk. She crosses her legs in such a way that the hem of her skirt rises higher on her thighs, a tantalizing distraction.
"You keep it up at this pace," she says, "and you'll be no good to me at all."
She hands him a beer, the can perfectly chilled when she hands it to him, and Shawn adds the question of how she kept it that way as an addendum to wondering how she'd gotten her hands on it. And he wants to be serious about all this, to ask intelligent questions about how she grew and why and what this has to do with everything they're meant to do, none of which she's been the least bit enthusiastic about answering.
But he can't stop thinking about the way her dark curls ripple over her shoulders, or the gentle slope of her body as she leans towards him from the other side of the desk.
"I'm not sure this is such a good idea," he says.
He opens the can of beer without reluctance, and he's pretty sure she gets the idea he doesn't mean getting buzzed in his office.
******
Shawn doesn't get how Isabelle does it, how she gets away with all of the things she gets away with. She's the only person in the entire Center -- maybe even the entire world -- who can get Matthew off his back. She waltzes around the place getting people to gleefully ignore the two of them when she decides they're going to drink or hang out or whatever completely useless thing she's planned out. She tells people what to do and they just do it ... hell, even Lily, who keeps staring at her like she's a strange scary interloper or something.
Every time he wonders how she pulls it off, he thinks, It's because she's really fucking creepy, that's why.
The rumors spread like wildfire, that she killed a trio of crazy assholes trying to shoot her and Lily and Richard, that she made her sister's spleen rupture or something. And before long, everyone in the Center knows them, this sick new mythology.
He's positive that it wasn't Lily or Richard who started those stories, not after he sees the looks on their faces when they overhear the whispers. The perfectly calm look on Isabelle's face when she hears them, however, is another matter entirely.
Her own personal form of intimidation, he thinks, and realizes it doesn't get to him quite as much as it should.
But knowing that doesn't stop his dreams.
Hell, they may be her fault, too.
******
Sleeping against the door like this -- and don't think that hasn't turned into another one of those ridiculous rumors -- means not having dreams where he tosses Isabelle into a bed and she lets him do whatever the hell he wants to her. It means dreams that start with him slamming the door shut and pressing her against it. He lifts her up and she wraps her legs around his waist, and because it's a dream their clothes suddenly vanish and the sex lasts fucking forever and he's never felt anything that dizzying and heated.
The last time, he comes to in an instant, breathing hard and desperate to open the doors, and he swears he can hear her breathing just as hard on the other side of the door.
After that, he goes back to sleep in his own bed. You know, if you can call writhing around in the most comfortable bed in the goddamn Center trying to keep your eyes shut sleeping.
******
The next morning, he wakes up to find Isabelle sleeping beside him. Naked.
He's starting to believe that the process that made her grow up so damn fast was so complicated they had to leave a few things out of her. Like, say, the definition of the world "subtle."
She opens her eyes while he's looking down at her, her dark gaze calm and steady. "You're dreaming it, too," she says. It's not a question.
He runs his fingers through his hair and it hits him when he lifts his arm that he's naked, too. "Are you doing this?"
It's not exactly the most polite thing to say, he guesses, but she sits up a little with the sheet pressed to her chest and shrugs. It's the closest thing to a real answer he's going to get, not a yes and not a no. He can't bring himself to be angry either way.
"Is it so bad?" she asks. "All of this?"
Her free hand drifts briefly over the sheet still covering her. There goes that lack of subtlety. And he wishes he could answer but he can't, not now, not truthfully. In his dreams she tastes like something addictive and sweet, and everything about her fits him like she was built with Shawn Farrell's hands and lips and skin in mind.
Maybe she was, a voice in his head says, and instead of fighting it he's suddenly desperate to confirm it.
She eases closer, her lips pressing insistently against his, and the thought that she might be just for him doesn't bother him as much as it should.
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no subject
Date: 2006-01-30 05:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-30 08:12 am (UTC)And yes, this makes me eager for the new season (boy, does it).
no subject
Date: 2006-01-31 02:43 am (UTC)Also, this has totally inspired me to work on my Shawn/Kyle. I hope you're happy.
no subject
Date: 2006-01-31 02:51 am (UTC)And yes, very happy. The world needs more good 4400 fic, especially Shawn fic. ;)
no subject
Date: 2006-02-11 05:41 pm (UTC)Anyway, the way you describe Shawn's sense of conflict, wanting to take charge at the same time he'd really just like to get drunk, seems so right. And your Isabelle is a terrifying, seductive creature.
And this:
She eases closer, her lips pressing insistently against his, and the thought that she might be just for him doesn't bother him as much as it should.
Oh, yeah! Creepy and kind of hot all at the same time.
I'm really looking forward to seeing what they do with grownup Isabelle on the new season, and your story has made me all the more eager to find out. Thank you!