Title: Something Trite
Spoilers: Through S5, which is all we currently have available here in the US.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: It’s a tiny little thing. I have much love for Ros. I just wanted her to have a little of it back.
She’d always thought she was above things like the need to reaffirm life after a near death experience. It was trite and mundane and altogether blandly predictable.
And yet here she was, painting her dining room a lovely shade of ochre. It led into the kitchen which, after a great deal of consideration, she’d decided to paint rust. She was even contemplating sepia for the bedroom, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to go that dark.
“I think it looks nice.”
Jo was looking up at the still wet paint contemplatively, a streak of it running at an angle down her cheek. She had her short blonde hair pulled back in a complex maze of clips and barrettes, the look surprisingly appealing. She was wearing an old Arsenal tee so faded it was almost more pink than red and jeans that were practically threadbare.
Ros couldn’t help but smile at the picture. It was another thing to which she’d never felt particularly susceptible – this notice of things that were endearing and, worse, the slightly liquid feel of her insides when it happened.
“Well,” Ros said coolly, trying to curb the faint note of happiness she knew was going to be in her tone, “it’s certainly not lifeless, is it?”
Jo surveyed the room again, as if willing it to provide her with proof. “No. Not lifeless at all.”
Her smile was warm, stretching out to elicit a host of dimples that gave Ros that disconcerting liquid-y feeling again. Deliberately ignoring the feeling, she smiled tightly then tossed her brush in the direction of the pail carelessly, heedless of the droplets of paint that went flying. They left a halo of ochre on the thick canvas tarpaulin marred only by the tread of her shoe, a half-set of ochre footprints fading into the barest imprint.
“You’ve got paint on your cheek,” she said softly, arm slipping around Jo’s waist. For a brief moment, her smile reached her eyes, and she pulled the other woman even closer. “It makes you look impish.”
“Is that a polite way of saying that I look like a filthy urchin?” Jo asked, hands reaching out to balance on Ros’ hips. They rested there for a second before sliding further, fully encircling the other woman’s waist and bringing them fully face to face. There was a cool hesitation in Ros’ eyes, the expression one she’d rarely seen leave the other woman, but beneath it was a shimmer of happiness and the faintest flicker of contentment.
It pulled at Jo, like something elemental.
She leaned forward for a soft kiss that quickly became more than she’d intended. Ros’ hands were firm against the curves of her buttocks, pulling her forward with the demanding frankness the other woman had displayed since she’d bluntly asked Jo to dinner following the debacle with the barrier. It was the same demanding frankness she’d displayed since joining MI-5, actually, and at first Jo hadn’t been sure whether or not she should be insulted that Ros focused on her with the same ruthless intensity she gave to the job.
When Ros finally allowed her to pull away, the other woman’s eyes were glittering with blatant arousal, any hint of cool hesitation having vanished. “I would never say anything of the sort,” she said softly, and it took a moment for Jo to remember the earlier conversation. And even when she did, the slight smirk on Ros’ face made it impossible to know whether she was being subjected to sarcasm or the truth.
“If you continue to subject me to this type of abuse,” Jo said playfully, brushing a soft line of kisses up Ros’ jaw as she did so, “then you’ll find yourself painting the kitchen all by yourself.”
“That would be a tragedy,” Ros murmured in mock dismay. “Please allow me to appease your offended sensibilities.”
Jo’s smile deepened. She took a step back, whipped her shirt over her head and tossed it casually to the side. Her voice, when she spoke, was a satisfied purr. “Well, since you asked so prettily, I’ll let you start now.”
This, Ros told herself later – silken skin and wet heat a panacea underneath her fingertips – this was neither trite nor mundane.
And, without doubt, certainly not lifeless.