Lady Paperclip (paperclipbitch) wrote,
Lady Paperclip
paperclipbitch

Britchick/Montanagirl. Amongst others.

Title: S/He Wants You
Fandom: CSI:NY
Pairing: Lindsay/Peyton (everyone/Mac)
Challenge/Prompt: fanfic100, 084. He and psych_30, #13 Delusion
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Femslash (het/slash)
Summary: But she can’t force Mac into feeling things he clearly doesn’t.
Author’s Notes: This is a very strange fic in that it’s a side of Lindsay that doesn’t really fit in with canon, but on the other hand it is excitingly different. If I can carry this off. It’s possible that I might not, so feedback is gratefully received. And I’m super proud of the line about Peyton’s accent, so…



I’m learning that some things I can’t live without, and one of them is him.
Nerina Pallot

Peyton informs her, drunk and somewhat morose, that there’s a very good chance she’s in love with Mac. Irreversibly so. This is sort of news to Lindsay, although you’d have to be blind (or, at least, completely insensate to everything around you) not to notice the lingering looks between Mac and Peyton. However, Lindsay knows only too well that you can’t necessarily equate lingering looks with love (just look at her and Danny).

“Oh”, she says thoughtfully, taking another sip of her Cosmopolitan. “And how does he feel about you?”

Peyton sighs, face the perfect picture of misery. She is beautiful, Lindsay reflects almost wistfully, although when she’s drunk it sounds more than ever like she’s deliberately putting on the English accent just to be pretentious.

“I don’t think that I’ll ever be enough for him,” Peyton complains. Lindsay refuses to sympathise, although she knows where Peyton’s coming from. They’ve all realised that Mac doesn’t want to get close to anyone and they get hurt by his deliberate failures to connect. It’s in Stella’s wan, tight smiles and the crushed expressions Don gets when he thinks no one’s looking.

(He drinks too much; soft admissions with the beer bottle against his lips, and Lindsay sits quietly and listens because there’s nothing else she can do; he looks woundingly hurt but she can’t force Mac into feeling things he clearly doesn’t.)

“I’m sorry,” Lindsay says quietly. She knows she shouldn’t be here. But she and Stella were going to go out, their monthly tradition, and Stella pulled out at the last minute, paperwork once again rearing its unwelcome head, so Lindsay was left with the possibility of asking Danny (God forbid that their relationship is platonic), watching Don sulk into his beer, having nothing to say to Sheldon, or asking Peyton.

“Don’t be.” Peyton laughs a little breathlessly. “I’m just stupid. Unbelievably stupid.”

It’s probably true, but Lindsay squeezes her hand and assures her she isn’t anyway.

It only takes a few too many white wine spritzers to prove to Lindsay that Peyton is so much more than a pale shadow with her Mac-won’t-love-me eyes. This is almost a relief; no one that beautiful deserves to be so morose. The women’s bathrooms of a faintly upmarket bar are not the place to do this, but Peyton’s pink lipstick is smudging onto Lindsay’s mouth and Lindsay can’t be sure just how drunk Peyton is and whether she wants this at all, but it’s comfort and Lindsay wants this so nothing else actually matters.

Peyton’s hands are clumsy, so unlike the times when she’s confidently wielding a scalpel, searching hungrily under Lindsay’s blouse, trembling fingers hot against her skin. Lindsay wants this; wanted it since she first saw Peyton on the bridge smiling hesitantly up at Mac, so she’s going to damn well take it.

It’s easy, too easy, to slip her hand up Peyton’s thigh, pushing her skirt up her legs and ripping the thin, thin pantyhose in her quest to reach flesh.

“Please,” Peyton moans, that slightly slurred accent sending half a shiver down Lindsay’s spine. Peyton’s underwear is soaked and she moans beautifully as Lindsay slides her hand inside.

It’s comforting, that’s all it is, making Peyton’s loneliness feel different and maybe a little better. Mac won’t ever be able to love her but if she wants to delude herself then all Lindsay can do is provide body heat and a friendly presence.

Peyton’s hips rock as Lindsay pushes two fingers inside her, head dropping against Lindsay’s shoulder with a soft, Etonian murmur of “God”. Lindsay presses her thumb against Peyton’s clit and slides a third finger into her cunt, twisting them just to hear Peyton moan erratically and breathe against Lindsay’s neck. It doesn’t take much to push her over the edge, a perfectly enunciated curse on her lips, flooding Lindsay’s fingers. Their mouths meet again a moment later, tasting like wine and hunger.

“Come on,” Peyton mumbles.

And if Mac ever notices the light brown, immaculately curled brown hairs on Peyton’s pillows (and he must do, because he’s a brilliantly observant CSI), he never mentions it to either of them. Peyton just seems grateful for the contact, and Lindsay takes what she gets because she can and because she wants it.

Flack is harder to fix, but Lindsay expected that. He got blown up and Mac held his hand for hours and did his best to save him but it’s not love and Flack is beginning to realise that in an increasingly morose fashion.

“What the fuck do I do, Monroe?” he asks bluntly, half-drunk and beatifically morose in a fashion he manages to carry off perfectly.

“I don’t know,” Lindsay admits softly, watching light glance off his eyelashes and reflecting that it was simple to seduce Peyton but she can’t do this with Flack. She’s not enough for him and she isn’t enough to help.

She read, or heard, or was told, that children who are the victims of abuse or other horrible accidents learn to work all the angles. Manipulate people into doing what they want. Lindsay wonders if, in some strange way, the same thing might apply to her. Part of her hopes it doesn’t, but she suspects that the Montana sugar-sweetness wide-eyed thing she does might possibly count as manipulation. Either way, she talks Danny into going for a drink with Flack and the next day there’s an ease in tension that tells her that she somehow managed to turn the situation into something entirely different and fascinating.

Mac won’t love any of them but Lindsay does what she can to make it right, stealing kisses from Peyton in the women’s bathrooms near autopsy every time Mac won’t meet her eyes, doing what she can to make Flack smile because otherwise she has to watch him hurt and it kills something deep down.

“It’s never going to work, is it?” Peyton asks helplessly, almost tearfully, handing Lindsay a file full of autopsy results. “I should- I should just give up on him.”

“Don’t lose hope,” Lindsay whispers, squeezing her hand briefly. She tries not to think that if Peyton gives up on Mac she’ll never need Lindsay again.

Peyton gives her a pale smile and makes her way back downstairs. Lindsay watches her go and walks down to Mac’s office.

“What were you talking to Peyton about?” Mac asks. It’s dark and late and everything’s a little fuzzy around the edges.

“Test results,” Lindsay says, laying the file down on the desk. “Nothing much.”

He smiles, and, because the 35th floor is mostly empty and it’s late, he steps up and leans in and kisses her. Lindsay smiles against his mouth and brings her arms up to wrap around his neck.

Mac isn’t a bastard intentionally. He doesn’t know about Flack’s pale obsession, Peyton’s loving desperation, Danny’s endless need for validation, Stella’s want for friendship that exceeds anything he can give her. Lindsay does, but she doesn’t let it bother her.

Mac still comes home to her at night.


End Notes: I really hope that I managed to get across the fact that Lindsay is sleeping with Mac and so uses this fact to manipulate those around her. It’s a twist of character for her that is obviously not canon and something I wanted to play with, but I don’t know whether I managed to carry it off. Anyway.

Tags: challenge: fanfic100, challenge: psych_30, character: don flack, character: lindsay monroe, character: mac taylor, character: peyton driscoll, pairing: lindsay/peyton, tv show: csi:ny, type: femslash, type: het, type: slash
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