Title: "Drawn That Way"
Author: monimala
Fandom: "OLTL"
Rating/Classification: SAC, Marcie/Rex, mild language.
Disclaimer: I *wish* Sexy Rexy was mine!
Summary: As requested by the SoapZone OLTL Live Post ...Marcie, Rex, and
hate sex. Or at least the *prelude* to hate sex. LOL.
His skull was beginning to throb. The space behind his eyes was flashing like disco lights and he tried to ignore the numbness at the base of his
neck as he squinted at the drawings spread out on the drafting table. He made pencil mark notations in the scrawl that only made sense to him. Chairs here, toybox...fridge. Wet bar. The almighty Love Center needed an effing wet bar. Because he really needed a drink.
The high-pitched monologue aimed at his back hadn't stopped. Twenty
minutes! Twenty minutes about how he was an amoral pig and how gays were
people, too and her brother Eric's wedding and...
"Marcie, would you PLEASE just shut UP," he ground out, the pencil snapping between his fingers.
"And it's really not fair and I think Michael's being--what?" She stopped almost automatically, like somebody hitting the brakes at the very last second. Complete with the slight screech.
"Thirty seconds," he pleaded, turning around and leaning against the table. She was staring at him with her mouth sort of hanging open. Working it
like a fish out of water. Righteous indignation was *not* a good look...but, unfortunate for Marcie Walsh, it was what she wore most often. "Just thirty seconds of peace and quiet," he repeated.
"But...Rex...you..." she began, huffing.
At least that was interesting. When she huffed, you could tune out the
rest of her and watch her breasts heave. And that was a *lot* of heaving.
"Me nothing!" he interrupted, yanking his eyes back up to her face before he got accused of being singlehandedly responsible for the downfall of mankind. "I love gay people, all right, Marcie? Love. Them." He waved his hand so he wouldn't pinch his temples and pray for sweet mercy. "They can get gayly married, they can have gay babies, they can pay all the gay taxes they want. They can even have hot gay sex in my living room as long as you LEAVE ME ALONE."
Aw, geez.
Now, he'd done it.
First, her face crumpled like the piles of early blueprints he'd discarded. And then...the lip trembling. Mt. St. Marcie was gonna blow. She was going to snot all over the place and then half the crew would bitch him out for daring to talk back to Our Lady of the Holy Shovel.
"I'm sorry," he said, feebly. Probably too late. And he cradled his head in his hands, rubbing his temples, waiting for the inevitable. "That was...out of line."
"Out of line?" Her voice was soft. Marcie...soft? Uh oh. "You're *always* out of line, Rex," she pointed out. "Why are you sorry now?"
Oh. So she wasn't going to cry. She was going to lecture. The
temple-rubbing spread much-needed warmth across his skull, releasing some of the tension that had built up. He looked up at her, totally mystified. Redheads! They were such a hassle! A pain! Natty, Marcie, Jessica
Rabbit. All the redheads he knew were--Jessica Rabbit???? She of the falling-head-over-heels-flashing-her-goods-in-a-cartoon fame?
He needed to be getting more sleep. Less time monkeying around with
that idiot Paul Cramer and more sleep.
"Rex...Rex are you *listening* to me...?"
Oh, God. Not again.
"I'm *talking* to you, Rex Balsom."
His fists clenched as he drummed them against his thighs.
Short of using the nail gun, there was only one way he could think of to
keep her mouth from running. It was drastic. Dangerous. He was going to
have to step up and take one for the team.
"Shut up," he said, quietly, closing the distance between them. "Just.
Shut. Up."
She blinked at him. All innocent and insulted. "Rex! I don't appreciate-"
"*I* don't appreciate you being a self-righteous, walking Public Service
Announcement when I'm trying to work! No...when I'm trying to *breathe*.
You suck up all the air in a room, Marcie," he informed, backing her up towards the wall. "Do you know how that feels...? Not being able to catch your breath?"
"You're...awful..." she stammered. And, maybe, for the first time, she was seeing the guy he used to be. The one that didn't love and didn't take crap from anyone. The guy that could still scare old ladies and little girls.
"That's the best you got, Miss Walsh? I'm 'awful'? Where's all the genius vocab now?" he taunted.
And then he kissed her.
Her lips were slack under his, shocked into stillness just like he'd hoped ... but her hands...her hands were still in motion...shoving at him as she tried pull away. He slid one palm around her neck, ignoring the ineffective beating on his chest. "Rex! Rex, *stop!" she said...and she was *still* talking...so he tilted his head, gentling his assault. Instead of a nail gun, he used his tongue, sliding it across her lower lip until her words trailed off and she opened for him. Reflex, she'd tell herself later. It was reflex. Not Rex.
He'd been wrong earlier when he said she wasn't soft. She was. An armful of curves and a warm mouth and so.much.more.bearable once you
stopped the speaking.
"You're awful," she said again, numbly, as he pulled back, allowing her
to catch her breath.
"Mhmm," he agreed. "Awful, terrible. And a pig. And you're a pushy,
loudmouthed, bitch. So, we're even."
Her hand curled into his shirt as she pulled him closer. Oh...of course she was going to take charge. She took charge of *everything*. But there was nothing righteous or do-gooder-like about her kiss. The fingers that weren't making short work of his shirt buttons were buried in his hair, winding tight enough to hurt as he pushed her to the drafting table. They stopped, abruptly, against the edge and he laughed as she yelped with surprise. He nipped at her pouty lower lip, her jaw, her throat, before coming back up.
His skull was definitely not the thing throbbing now.
He shrugged out of his unbuttoned shirt. She inched back just long enough to toss it aside. He'd have figured her for a prude. Maybe watching the
Love Crew boys take it all off had made her gutsy...just gutsy enough. He sucked back a gasp as she ran her palms down his bare chest, hooking her thumbs in his belt loops...but she shivered, uncooperative, when he slid his hands beneath her prim green blouse. "Relax," he murmured.
"I..." She turned pink, the blush started at her cleavage and moving
north. Intriiiguing. "You hate me...and I'm..."
"I hate you," he agreed, cutting off her impending body image ramble with another kiss. "I hate you...but I like women. *All* kinds of women," he
assured, as her blouse gave way and he was treated to a surprisingly trashy
bra. Bits of lace and silk and a whole *lot* of tits. Marcie Walsh was hiding her best attributes under her crusader's cape.
Maybe this was why Holden and McBain put up with her. There were benefits to being around a self-proclaimed saint...when she had a body like a deadly sin.
"You're not bad...you're just drawn that way," he chuckled, softly.
Jessica Rabbit. Yeah.
"Drawn to *you*, you mean," Marcie countered.
"Yeah...that, too."
And before she could make any more insightful corrections, he was working the zipper of her skirt. It pooled around her ankles.
"Thirty seconds of peace and quiet?" she wondered, huskily, returning the favor and ridding him of his cords.
"Oh, no...it'll take *way* longer than that." He traced a line along her
lips. "And I don't mind if you scream."
--end--
September 17, 2004.