multiversallogs | none of us are promised to see tomorrow

Who: Kalinda Sharma and others.
What: The (horribly belated) aftermath of the siege on the city.
Where: Various locales.
When: Various.
Notes: I'm kind of using this as my catch-all post for Kalinda. The timing encompasses the immediate aftermath of MONSTER RAIN up to times more recent. There will be individual threads for each character! Want to do something here? You need only ask.
Warnings: ~~Standard warnings for the presence of Don Draper and Alan Shore.~~

It wasn't any easy half-month for anyone in the city. Kalinda isn't selfish enough to believe she was the only one effected (and affected) by the sky tearing open and horrors pouring out. That doesn't stop her from feeling alone in the aftermath, however, no matter how unjustified she knows that is. That she feels a little numb as well has nothing to do with the mild painkillers she's taking for the healing wound on her left arm.

If she were back home - never mind that there are no monsters on the Earth she comes from, so the whole scenario is completely null and void - she wouldn't have anyone to turn to, either. In that much, at least, her situation is consistent. Once, she might have been able to admit to Alicia that she actually thought she was going to die. That time had long past even before she was snatched up to join the population of the city, however. She wouldn't have been able to confide in Cary, either. He might have thought that was his opportunity, or even his cue, to take her into his arms and murmur something reassuring in her ear as if he could retroactively protect her from what had happened.

Heaven forbid.

Maybe things aren't so different here than they were there. The only thing to do is put on an impassive face, and move on with life. So far that's served her well. Pretend it didn't happen. It's amazing how often things never happened.

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"And fortunately not broken," Kalinda's quick to quip before he makes his demand. She takes a moment to scan the room in silence before she decides whether to comply. (She'd already decided.) There's a tight coiling in her belly at the edge in his voice and there's a split second where she plans her attack.

When she enters, it's at a saunter, like she's never impressed by anything. Not that there's anything here to be impressed by, present company aside, but that's beside the point. She moves to take a seat at the end of the bed, where she means to stare up at him and wait for his next move.

With a gentle click the door closes behind her. He snaps the bolt in place and stands stretching the instant as far as it'll go, his back to the room. Hand pressed to his face.

Don picks his way to the bed in halting steps, a drunk's barely constrained stagger and something else in his gait. He favors his right leg. Wincing he leans in on her good side, brushes the collar of her coat aside to kiss her neck. "How's it feel?" he whispers against her ear.

Don's movements are watched with cursory interest. "Left leg?" she asks.

Then he's close to her, which is not unexpected, and she flicks her gaze up to the ceiling, even as she tilts her head accommodatingly. As if she doesn't really care about the way his lips brush her skin, and his breath washes over her ear. Like it doesn't make that coiling even tighter and make her blood feel like it's on fire.

When she does reply, it's quiet, just this side of husky: "I feel alive."

Don shudders, the laugh rattling around inside him before emerging low and choppy. "Yeah," he says, not to her and not even to himself. The sound wells up and spills out.

He's remembering a hospital bed.

The fingers at her shoulder tighten, go slack. He sways toward her, into her. Pulls back at the point of collapse, groaning as he draws himself upright. "I'm getting"--the word's been shucked of its final 'g'--"there." His speech is clotted, his smile slightly dazed.

He's going to hurt himself - badly, if he isn't careful. What she means to say is you need to lay down. What she does is climb to her feet and fix him with a look that's sultry as it is demanding. "Get on the bed. Back against the wall." And she doesn't intend to let him begin any sort of argument, she just guides him with her hands on his shoulders, slow, deliberate steps so he can - will get on the bed.

He snatches a convulsive breath, shoulders taut under her hands. Weeks since he was touched in a way not governed by hideous design. He looks her in the eye—his gaze caught there, snared by hers. "For a change?" Don rasps with humor so bitter he could spit. He forces down another breath, swallows; his jaw clenches.

If she wants him to move she'll have to do more than guide: she'll have to push.

Edited 2012-05-08 00:24 (UTC)

She's worried she'll hurt him. Despite all outward appearances to the contrary sometimes, she doesn't want to hurt Don. But if it's going to take a shove...

It isn't quite rough the way she pushes him down onto the bed, but it's aggressive. He needs this to be something else. Something that doesn't resemble care and concern, and she gets that. There's a moment where she enjoys looming over him before she sheds her coat, leaving it in a pool of blue fabric on the floor, and gets onto the bed with him, bracing her good hand against the wall for balance. If the both of them make it through the night without furthering their respective injuries, she'll be surprised.

The bed tips up to meet him. His gut goes into a dive. A moan as Don hits the mattress, jagged pain in his leg clawing him down from his drunken remove. His eyes close; he inhales sharp and strained.

When his eyes open they seize on her. "You--have no right to look that good," he says, smile thrown like a spark, the product of some friction. He presses a hand to her side, pulls her to him. Kisses her bluntly.

He's very drunk, so the words lose some impact, but not all. Kalinda isn't floored by overtures, but flattery is still nice. Even, or especially, from Don Draper.

"I have every right to look this good," she murmurs against his mouth as they part. "It wasn't an accident." Her good arm is already protesting how much she's asking of it, but she isn't about to be deterred. She rolls over then, off of him to rest at his right side. She reaches across her own body to work his belt free, which isn't as simple with only one hand, but is definitely not impossible. As distraction, she drops small kisses along his neck.

None of this is ideal. In fact, it's awkward. Exceptionally. But they both need this, in a sense. She doesn't need to ask what happened to his leg, or if he's okay after watching someone die. He doesn't need to tell her. She doesn't need to talk about how she was terrified that she was going to get torn apart by aliens, or demons, or whatever those things were. He doesn't need to know.

What they need is contact, and a disinterest in anything outside of this precise moment in time.

none of us are promised to see tomorrow

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