Title: "Digestif"
Author: monimala
Fandom: GH
Rating/Classification: no adult language, filler fic, Robin/Patrick, Carly/Jax.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters.
Summary: A filler fic for March 9. This is Patrick and Jax's takes on their evenings out with Robin and Carly at the Metro Court.
Note: A "digestif" is an after-dinner drink, the opposite of an "aperitif."

He's actually offended.

It's a new emotion for him, because the last thing he can remember truly offending him was when the barista at the Starbucks across from the hospital assumed he wanted skim milk in his venti latte. He's a whole milk kind of guy, thank you very much. It does the body good.

Maybe he ought to make the good Dr. Scorpio drink some. Because, yeah, he's offended. He's offended that he sat right across from her for an hour and rated somewhere below the appetizer menu and the Metro Court décor on her interest level. He's offended that it's Carly Corinthos Alcazar (whatever her last name is this week) that gets Robin all riled up and flushed.

Okay, maybe he's offended *and* turned on by that and if the hotel had a mud pit, he'd be happy to suggest they wrestle, but, all in all, dinner didn't go how he'd planned. He'd *planned* to charm Robin with med school stories and flirt outrageously and feed her crème brulee. She would be so awestruck by his gentlemanly date behavior, that she'd allow him to walk her home and then he would slam her up against the wall by her front door and kiss her until they were both mad with lust.

Instead, he finds himself standing with her outside Kelly's diner, mad with lust all on his own…and, lest he forget, offended. Fortunately, he's also a little buzzed, thanks to the champagne that Carly sent to their table and that he happily consumed instead of broiled chicken. So, he just watches her. A pint-sized ball of energy, gesturing and complaining about her lost appetite and "Carly this" and "Carly that." Her hair is all curled. Red is definitely her color and he wonders if she's wearing matching underwear. He wonders if she'd hit him if he told her she looks sixteen and part of the thrill of dating her is that he can be a dirty old man without going to jail for it.

He settles for grabbing her, leaning down, and cutting off her tirade the old-fashioned way. No, not chloroform (although that idea might have merit if she and Carly keep fighting in public).

He loves her sharp intake of breath as she swallows the syllable of whatever she was going to say. He loves how she stands rigid for just the barest second, surprised, before melting against him. He buries his hand in her hair, cradling the back of her head and she arches up on her toes, opening her mouth for him. No words. Not even one utterance of "Carly." Just her hot tongue and the certainty that he's going to be visiting the chiropractor a lot if she lets him do this more often.

"You're on a date with *me*," he reminds her, softly.

"I know. I'm sorry." He feels her smile against his skin. Her breath whispers across his dimples and when she traces the outline of one with her tongue, he actually feels his knees go a little weak. That hasn't happened since he was thirteen.

*This* does the body good.


He's actually offended.

And, let's face it, it takes a lot. There's not much he hasn't seen or done. But Courtney's barely been gone a week and he's barely slept and, somewhere, in an incubator, a boy who is not his son is fighting to live…and he suddenly finds himself assaulted by Carly's lips. One moment, he's minding his own business, watching her and Sonny's flunky perform a surprisingly charming dance routine, and the next moment, there are Carly lips on his. Not that it's an entirely unpleasant sensation.

But a man likes to be warned about these things. There's a protocol, isn't there? Dinner, dancing…and, okay, they started dinner, but the bulk of the dancing part was definitely with another man. And then she's dragging him off into the elevator and dangling room keys and completely ignoring his reminders that he's grieving.

He should've known no good could come of it when she spotted Robin across the room and warned him, "Scenes are for amateurs." And "no good" went steadily to "worse" when Max cut in. She's certainly no amateur. She's a train wreck. All right, that's probably the wrong comparison considering she was *in* a train wreck, but he's offended by this sudden proximity, by being used, and can't be held accountable for his linguistic lapses.

The elevator doors close, hiding them from Max and she pulls back a few steps…blissful space…but doesn't lose that telltale twinkle in her eyes. Some would call it "impish." Others, no doubt, "devilish." He has a sneaking suspicion that even Satan would run from Carly Corinthos Alcazar…whatever her name is this week.

"You're crazy, you know that?" he tells her, shaking his head.

Her eyes are sparkling, set off by the blue of her dress, and he wonders how in the Hell he color-coordinated with her. He picked just the right tie. And right now, it feels as tight as a hangman's noose. She's crazy and she's alive and bright and if he stops and considers it, he can still taste her. Expensive champagne and even more costly challenge.

"You don't tell a woman who got out of a mental health facility that she's crazy, Jax." She's just teasing, but he feels immediately contrite.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, in a show of good breeding. Lady Jane would be proud. "I didn't mean that."

"I know," she whispers with a smile. "But I'm about to mean this…"

This time, she kisses him without an audience. Her mouth is cool and sure and she takes control of him like she's taken control of everything else in his life. Unabashedly, wholeheartedly. He slides his hands up from her waist, tangling in silk and in her.

Not that it's an entirely unpleasant sensation.


March 9, 2006.

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