ZOMG, it's kind of like a real show! Also, a little digging on google images, and Percy Daggs grew up hot, y'all, and possibly not nerdy enough for the role we cast him in, but I did mention hot, so, OK? OK.
Also, in totally non-official news, I totally may have written fic. For my show. As I was explaining to Lyssie, not fic of my show, but, like, non-canon future speculative fic that I would totally write if the show were on the air. Actually, I might have written it before the character bible. And it's possible that it has headers, with things like Episode Spoilers and "AU!fic." What the heck kind of brain do I live in where this is acceptable procrastination behavior?
OH FINE. SHAME IS OVERRATED. I'm even leaving the spoiler warning in there, for the true effect of "... wtf, Little Red?" CONSIDER YOURSELVES SPOILED FOR AU IMAGINARY THINGS ONLY IN MY HEAD.
Title: "With Me Sweet"
Category: AU, Sara!fic, Dylan/Sara established relationship, Tabitha/Alexander, Dylan/Tabitha implied
Spoilers: "A House Divided."
Summary: Hush now, don't explain; just say you'll remain.
Author's Note: Billie Holiday's "Don't Explain" was on iTunes, and there is something deeply wrong with me writing AU fic for my own fake show that is not written yet. Send help.
You don't want to know where he's been.
Dylan comes home after midnight. He often does, even on the nights when he has no assignment. You try to be asleep by then, but you can't always, not when you have a son to worry about and a fiance in a dangerous profession. When you meet him in the kitchen, he can't quite meet your eyes and you can't quite meet his.
You think you can smell the other woman on him, pick up the traces of all her platonic pats on the back and secret smiles that you've never quite been able to decode. You know that isn't all they have together. You don't really think Dylan is sleeping with her, but he still doesn't look at you when he comes back from her because there's something more intimate about the way they share a desk than the way you share a bed.
You hate that. Even more, you hate that you can't look right at him, either, because you feel you are intruding on something. Like you always have been. Like he's cheating on her with you, instead of the other way around.
You can't look at him, so you kiss him, let your lips go where hers aren't allowed to. At least, not when they're off-duty. Her kisses have saved his life before.
You hate that, too. Hate that you're indebted to her for bringing him back to you, again and again. Hate that he'd probably stop going out there at all if it weren't for her.
There's something guilty in his kiss, and perhaps that's why he pushes you back against the cupboards, drinking you in with an unusual urgency. You shush him aloud when he knocks your head back against the wood cabinet -- it doesn't hurt, but Tucker is sleeping right behind that wall. You stumble towards your bedroom, out of your clothes, into bed, and Dylan pushes into you with hardly a warning.
You don't cry. You've never cried about this.
His teeth sink into your shoulder, then your neck, then his mouth is back on yours. He rocks you in a rhythm stronger than the one he usually sets with you, and you let the motion beat out of you the idea that he wishes you were someone else.
He loves you. You know he does.
You don't come when he does, but you pretend. You take care of your own needs in the hours when he's with her.
His labored breathing stops suddenly, and you realize he's holding his breath. Long, painful seconds later, he breathes out.
"I'm sorry I'm late," he finally confesses.
Normally, he ignores the late hour completely. You both do, when you manage to be asleep when he returns home, so you can wake up in the morning to a beautiful man in your beautiful, sun-lit bedroom, and pretend he's not going anywhere ever again.
"It's okay," you say, and in a way, it is. You're used to this, being half a widow already. You have a routine. You don't really want to hear any more.
"I had to wait. There was an assignment."
You appreciate that he can never tell you details.
He sighs. "I wanted to wait with Tabitha to make sure Alexander got back all right."
You frown, but you say, "That's good." Good that no one was hurt. Good that Alexander and Tabitha are still together. Good that you don't yet have to consider what this will be like the day that Tabitha doesn't have someone else to take her away at night.
Dylan kisses you again. "I'll be back earlier tomorrow. Promise."
You don't know if he will. You suspect it depends on her. Her and Alexander, you remind yourself.
Dylan doesn't talk about Alexander, or about Tabitha's relationship, but you know -- as only someone who loves him can know -- that he thinks about it.
You don't tell him so, but you think, in that way, Dylan might actually know how you feel.
Yes, unfriending is an acceptable response. *headdesk*
ETA: Should you take this to mean that I've casually charted out about 3 seasons of the show in my head? Um, yes. Look, it was a long drive to Seattle and back.