Chapter Text
Jackson, surprisingly, obeys Lisa’s terms. He grudgingly takes down his cameras and flies to Moscow to finish an assassination for a low-level Ukrainian politician who inherited just enough money to hire him.
Ah, the Balkans. Jackson can’t get out quick enough.
Part of him thinks Lisa’s going to be gone when he gets back. (Not that it matters. She can’t run from him when she’s already nearly his). Luckily, he’s wrong. Jackson doesn’t keep up the constant surveillance he was doing before, but if he occasionally glances into her apartment window from his balcony, that’s just coincidence.
She keeps her blinds shuttered, like she knows he’s watching.
He goes over Friday nights. Lisa never calls the police, even though she should. He suspects the police would take her stalking reports more seriously if they knew he was wanted for terrorism.
Jackson knows this is a ploy by the FBI. Using the woman he’s been obsessed with since week two of watching her as bait, he grudgingly admits, is a smart move. The only other option is that Lisa has completely lost her mind. The woman he met on the plane: the one who stabbed him in the neck with a pen and shot him with barely any preamble would not invite him into her home with no ulterior motive. He scans her apartment every time for wire taps and cameras. There are never any.
The smart move would be to leave town and watch Lisa from a distance.
Jackson usually prides himself on his intelligence.
Still, he returns every Friday. They take turns cooking and Jackson gets to learn more about Lisa, the parts that can’t be captured in any documentation or file. He learns about her rocky relationship with her mother, how a part of her tires of having to cater to her father’s boredom in retirement. Of course, she doesn’t tell most of him this. Lise is easy enough to read.
He stores it all away with all the greed of a billionaire hoarding diamonds.
They form a strange sort of friendship. Privately, Jackson thinks Lise wasn’t smart at all to invite him into her life. Stalking, while unsettling, has a limit to what it can do to a person. Even when she goes through with this plot to get him taken into custody, it won't extract him from her life. No, he’s infected Lisa’s life like a mold spore. They’re two macrocosms orbiting each other.
Inevitably, they will collide.
Lisa seems unaware of their pre-ordained fate. She makes him burnt toast and eats his meals unaware that she's slowly growing to like him. She would never admit it, of course, but he can see it in her eyes.
They’re meant to be.
Twisted elation fills his chest at the thought.
One Friday, he brings a bottle of pre-mixed Peach Bellini. Not much to his taste, but he suspects Lisa will like it.
She does.
“You know,” she says when she’s on her third glass, “You never told me why you didn’t kill me the first night you broke in.”
“Why would I have?”
She sends him a look.
“I don’t think you need to ask that question.”
“Ah, Lise,” he says, “You know I would never kill you. It’d be a waste.”
She twirls the glass in her fingers.
“What exactly is your end game?” She finally asks after a long moment, “Do we keep having dinners until you or your assassin contacts kill me?” His knuckles turn white on his glass at the idea of someone else getting to kill her.
She’s his.
“You have such a morbid imagination,” Jackson scolds and silently thinks the same thing about her government contacts, “You really should be more optimistic.”
“Answer the question.”
Like most things Lisa Reisert commands him to do when his livelihood isn’t on the line, he obeys.
“I think you know what I want from you.”
His eyes trace downward before he can stop it. Her expression hardens.
“If that’s all you want,” she says icily, “I wouldn’t exactly have a choice, would I?”
Jackson cuts her off. “That’s not what I meant. I don’t play that game.”
His fingers drum an even beat on his thigh.
“Then what did you mean?”
Jackson scoffs. “I think you know.”
Lisa scowls, thunderous in her drunk glower, “Why can’t you ever get to the point?”
“Why can’t you use your brain?” He shoots back.
“You’re impossible!”
He smiles. “No more than you are, Lise. It’s not my fault you haven’t noticed I’m wooing you.”
She chokes back a laugh.
“Is that what this is? You’re not in love with me, Jack.”
“You don’t know what I feel,” he answers, voice approximating even. His fingers stutter in their rhythm.
Lisa doesn’t have a response. She doesn’t break eye contact either. She just looks at him, mouth slightly parted. She’s drunk and he’s nearly sober. It takes less than no effort to rise slowly from his chair. He puts his hands on her armrests, caging her in her seat. Their faces are so close he can count her eyelashes. He tastes sweetness on her breath. He wants to inhale until there’s nothing less.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Lise,” Jackson warns in a low voice, “Even I have only so much self control.”
Her eyes drift down to his lips and for a moment he thinks she’s going to kiss him. His heart pulses at the thought. Instead, she pulls away.
“I think dinner’s over,” she whispers.
His lips pull into a grim smile. He presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth and she lets him.
“See you soon, Lise,” he says before he leaves. She doesn’t get up from the table.
Jackson doesn’t see her for another three weeks. He’s not avoiding her, he just has other jobs to do.
At least, that’s what he tells himself.
It’s not like he needs the money.
He returns to Colorado little worse for wear with two new scars. Ah well. Knife wounds heal faster than a gun shot. They didn’t get him that deep. It’s Monday, which means he has four and a half days to rest before his dinner date.
Hopefully his new scars are healed by then.
Friday comes and he doesn’t have to wear bandages any longer. The healing scars are still pink and raw. He didn’t get an infection his time.
Surprising.
Lisa drops her coffee cup when he opens the door.
“Do you have a copy of my key?” She asks, aghast.
“How else did you think I was getting in here? Picking the fucking lock?”
She doesn’t respond, which means the answer is a resounding ‘yes’.
“I didn’t expect to see you. You’ve been gone for almost a month.”
“Three weeks,” he corrects, “I’m sorry. Work, you know how it is.”
Her face shutters
“Who’d you kill this time?”
“Oh, you know,” he says casually, “Vladimir so-and-so, nothing you need to worry about.”
His name was Abdul Ivanov and he was part of the Russian mob presence in the US. Nothing special. (Also not anything that would typically get him killed except for the fact that the CIA is better funded than he was).
Jackson isn’t particularly fond of killing for the government. But damn if it doesn’t pay well. It almost washes away the nasty aftertaste.
“Did you kill his wife and kids too?” Lisa questions, lips pulled back in a vicious mockery of a smile.
Jackson shifts uncomfortably.
“No,” he says shortly, “I see you’re still mad about the Keefes.”
“Mad isn’t the right word,” she scoffs, “You’re more disconnected from reality than I thought if you think ‘mad’ sums up my feelings.”
“I don’t choose the targets.”
“No, but you kill them anyway.”
Jackson dislikes the idea of killing children. Abhors it, actually, and avoids it whenever possible.
It’s not always possible.
“I couldn’t get out of the job, Lise,” he eventually admits, “I have a boss too, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
Jackson huffs a disbelieving laugh. Idly, he wonders how Lisa managed to spend all these nights with him without realizing he didn’t get his kicks killing kids.
Willful ignorance.
“What? You didn’t think international criminals worked a nine to five? I have higher ups too. Except,” he tacks on bitterly, “In my line of work you get taken out if you don’t obey.”
A brief wave of something passes over Lisa’s face.
“I’m sorry,” she says, too forgiving—as always, “I didn’t know.”
“How could you?” He says with a tight smile, “You’re convinced I’m a monster.”
There are half a dozen responses Lise could respond with: you are a monster, you’ve been stalking me for months, you nearly killed me, you nearly killed my father. All of them would be true.
She doesn't say any of them.
“I don’t think you’re a monster,” she whispers. Jackson’s blood freezes before sluggishly resuming its pace.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do,” she says and she walks towards him— a saunter, it could be called. She gets so close he can smell her perfume. He determinedly ignores the heat rising in his neck. (Futile. He’s too pale to conceal his sudden flush).
“What game are you playing Lise?” Jackson asks, gaze scattering over her face.
“I’m not playing a game.”
She’s lying, but then she’s kissing him and Jackson doesn’t care anymore. She rests in between his legs and it seems the most natural thing in the world to pull her closer. Her mouth is hot and wet against him. He tastes her and feels himself stiffen in his pants. Jackson knows something is wrong, but he wants to see how far she’ll take this. She would never want him, not in reality. But he’ll take her theatricals as they come.
He craves her too much not to.
His fingers clench on her waist, dimpling soft flesh. She presses her hips into his and makes slow grinding motions. Part of him marvels that she’s willing to go this far at all. He knows how much he scares her. (Knows the trauma behind the fear. One day he’ll tell her what he did to her assailant, when the Miami river drags the last of his corpse out to sea). Jackson bites back a moan. Regretfully, he winds his hand in her hair and pulls her away.
“Lise, Lise, Lise,” Jackson sighs, “What am I going to do with you?”
Lisa Reisert stares up at him, eyes dark. “I can think of a couple things.”
Her voice is husky and Jackson’s hands clench and release in a pulsing motion. He wants nothing more than to peel her out of that skintight pencil skirt, press her legs apart, and fuck her until she can’t remember any words other than his name.
He can’t, though.
“I wish I could believe you.”
“You can,” Lisa insists.
“Are you really willing to go this far?” Jackson asks incredulously, “What— you make yourself sleep with me and call the police while I’m in a post-orgasmic haze?”
“I wouldn’t be making myself sleep with you.”
“That’s the part you’re going to respond to?” He questions, but she licks her lips and he starts to think that no matter her motives he’s not strong enough to resist her. She pulls him back into a kiss and some of his resolve crumbles.
Even if she gets arrested, he won’t stay in jail for long. Chances are the higher-ups will bail him out before finger printing. Planners of assassinations and governmental disruptions have a lot to lose when it comes to snitches. (Jackson thinks it says a lot he’s considering this at all, knowing what comes afterward. He doesn’t quite know what happened to his logic-driven self. Something, he knows, to do with the woman in front of him).
He pulls away again and searches her hazel eyes for anything that tells him she doesn’t want this. Lisa tries to recapture him in another kiss, but Jackson tilts his head to the side. She reaches his jaw instead and sucks. He swallows thick in his throat.
“Lise,” he says, self deprecating laugh escaping, “You don’t have to do this. I know you haven’t, since—” He doesn’t finish the sentence. “You don’t have to,” he repeats.
“I want to,” she whispers against his jaw.
He could slam his head against the wall and it would have the same effect he’s feeling now. He can feel the curves of her body pressing into him and he considers for a too-long moment what he would do if he were a lesser man.
He is a lesser man.
He’s trying to be better for her.
“If you want to call the cops, call the cops. I won’t run. Don’t fuck me if you’re only trying to subdue me.”
“You’re not very good at listening to what I’m saying, are you?” Lisa shoves him against the wall, sweet reversals, “Let me be clearer. You’re the one who said you were wooing me. What? Scared of a little consummation?”
He stares down at her, hazel eyes boring into his own.
“I’d sooner kill you than hurt you,” he admits, “I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret.”
Jackson wonders when he turned into such a good fucking person. Ah, the things love will do.
“I think we’re past the point of regret, Jackson.”
This time, he doesn’t resist when she pulls him down to her level and presses her lips against his. His hands slip under the hem of her shirt and he lets out a shuddering sigh at finally, finally getting what he’s been waiting for.
Eventually, her soft, warm kisses aren’t enough. He needs more.
She doesn’t resist when he slowly stretches himself to his full height and guides her toward the bedroom, one kiss at a time. She lets him strip off her blouse, revealing soft skin and the scar along her clavicle. He traces it with his tongue and she moans.
“Last chance, Lise,” he warns when the back of her knees hit the bed.
“Shut up and fuck me.”
It’s when he presses her onto the bed that Jackson realizes he doesn’t care if he’s arrested while he’s still inside her. He doesn’t care if he goes to prison. There is little power on heaven or earth that could stop his obsession with this woman. His Lise.
He strips off his shirt and Lisa’s eyes alight on his abdomen, eyes shining with lust. He crawls to her. Her chest rises with deep, shuddering breathes. He makes the long trek in between her legs. Her legs hook around his waist. He bites back a grin.
“Good girl,” he says, “Eager, aren’t we?”
“Jackson,” she pleads, digging little half-moon crescents into his shoulder blades, “Please.”
He pulls himself away and strips her out of that fucking skirt like he’s been wanting to for months. She’s so wet that he can see it through the bias-cut satin.
“Let me,” he says and he’s firmly not begging, even if he’s on the cusp of it, “Please.”
She nods, shaky.
“Alright,” she agrees and spread her legs wider.
He peels her underwear off, glued to her with sweat and arousal. She’s doing remarkably well, he notes with distant admiration. He rewards her with hot, sucking kisses to the seam of her thigh. He leaves bruises in his wake before moving down to her dripping cunt.
She must want this as much as him. He sucks her clit into her mouth and she lets out a loud, sharp moan. It ignites a fire in his veins. His arms keep themselves wrapped around her thighs, keeping her spread open for her. She doesn’t try to close her legs, but he’d rather avoid getting his teeth knocked out by her subconscious movement. He drinks away her arousal and she replaces it. He pulls one arm up to slip two fingers into her, slowly teasing. She’s ridiculously wet. Jackson feels more of his concern drip away. She wants this, he knows now, she wants him. Her hips thrust back into him. His other arm pins her down to stifle her movements, refusing to go any faster.
“Jackson,” she says and it’s very nearly a moan, “I need—” She breaks off into a cry and Jackson feels her pulse around his fingers. She shies away from his touch. Too sensitive, he notes with a sharp grin. He reluctantly lets go when moans turn into cries.
She looks down at him, hair sticking to her forehead. An almost painful wave of arousal floods him at the sight of Lisa Reisert splayed in front of him in nothing but her bra.
Speaking of…
“I really should have gotten rid of this ages ago,” he says, reaching behind her to unclip her bra. He tosses it somewhere in the room. He bites back a hiss at the sight.
It should be criminal for his Lise to wear clothes.
“Why are you still wearing pants?” Lisa pants, not quite recovered, “Seems unfair.”
“You know, Lise,” Jackson says, biting back a groan as she presses against him, “People underestimate your genius.”
“Not you, though,” she whispers. He feels small hands undo the zipper of his dress pants. He smiles, bloodless, down at her.
“No,” he responds, “I know better.”
It’s hardly an effort to shove his pants off. He can’t stifle the groan that erupts when Lisa grinds on him, so close to allowing him to slip in. She’s on birth control (at least, he assumes. She’s been picking up a pack a month at the local pharmacy ever since he’s been watching her. He’s wondered about that. It’s not like she’s had any gentleman callers). There are condoms in her night stand. She doesn’t reach for them.
“Fuck me,” she gasps, “Jackson, please.”
Jackson knows better than to make a lady wait.
He rubs against her without entering. She arches into him and he wants nothing more than to pin her down and fuck into her over and over and over—
Unfortunately for his aching dick, his conscience kicks in.
“Sure you don’t want a condom?” He checks in.
“Expired,” she says because of course they are, he missed the obvious on that one, “It’s not like you don’t know I’m clean.”
True.
“Well,” Jackson tacks on, “If you insist.”
He slips in, shallowly thrusting into her. He groans at the feeling. She’s warm, running hot-blooded against his skin. It takes all he has not to bury himself inside of her.
Instead, he goes slow, carefully watching Lisa’s face for any sign of distress. Her forehead never wrinkles in pain. The only thing he sees on her face is pleasure. His restraint slips and he presses deeper. She envelops him inch by inch. A shuddering breath escapes him when he’s balls deep. She flexes and for a moment his vision whites out.
He’s wanted this for so long, but it’s still better than he’s imagined.
And oh— how he’s imagined.
Lisa thrusts into him. Jackson gets the message. He pulls out until he’s barely inside and slams in. Her nails bite into his lower back, a little too close to his new scars. He’d rather swallow razor blades than tell her to stop.
Stuttered moans and half-uttered pleas tumble out of her lips. She’s so wet that slick sounds fill the room as Jackson fucks into her. A dark blush turns her cheeks a delightful red. Jackson winds a hand into Lisa’s hair and pulls her head back, exposing the long line where pink turns into a pale skin. He nips with teeth and lips. Not hard enough to scar. He admires the red indentations.
“Awfully quiet, Lise,” he remarks, flippant in a way he doesn’t feel, not with the heat gathering at the base of his spine, “What? Lost for words?”
She hasn’t managed to form a coherent syllable in the past five minutes.
“Shut up,” Lisa says flippantly and he sees a hint of the woman who smashed a vase over his head, “And fuck me harder.”
Well, who is he to disobey?
Jackson lifts her lower back and uses the new position as leverage to slam into her. Loud, desperate moans escape her. He grins. Jackson can’t keep this up for long. He already feels the tell-tale spark in the pit of his stomach. It’s too soon, not when he’s not sure when he’ll get to do this again. He takes a deep breath and relaxes his thighs.
“Come on, Lise. Up, up, up.” He shifts her until he has a good angle to circle her clit with two slick fingers. She lets out a vindicating moan. Jackson grins. “There we go.”
He keeps the pressure light. He wants to make her work for it. Her moans grow more breathless. It takes everything he has to make this last. He wants to come so badly he thinks he ascends to a separate plane.
Jackson reaches up to wrap his hand around her throat and she comes around his dick, cunt clenching painfully around him.
“Fuck,” he bites out. He manages three more times before coming, head tipped back in ecstasy.
He comes to, recovering, still inside of her.
“Shouldn’t you be calling your CIA contacts?” Jackson questions.
“You might still be able to avoid them if you leave now,” she says, looking up at him with eyes so bright it’s like staring into the sun.
He grins down at her, pleasantly surprised. She’s beautiful. He presses his thumb over her bottom lip before kissing her one last time.
“You know I’ll be back,” he says and it’s not a question.
“I know,” she answers anyway. He grins wicked against her lips.