fic: leaving on a jet plane (rpf: stargate: atlantis)
five times torri and joe challenge response
STATUS: Complete
SUMMARY: ... got away from it all.
RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATIONS: Torri/Joe
ARCHIVING: Do not archive. Please ask.
NOTES: This story is RPF (real person fiction). If that bothers you, turn away now. Also? rough and unbeta'd -- sorry.
FOR: havocthecat
WORDS: 940
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue.
Copyright anr; August 2007.
* * * * *
Leaving on a Jet Plane by anr
* * * * *
Joe's not exactly sure how they ended up in a motel somewhere in Seattle -- he thinks it had something to do with the Science Fiction Museum and Hall of Fame, and Torri's determination to prove Dave wrong on a random piece of trivia -- and, truthfully, he doesn't really care.
"Oh, god." He thinks he's going to be sick. "Oh, god, oh, shitfuckchristfucking hell."
Beside him, Torri stretches languidly, her thigh brushing against his hip. "And good morning to you too," she says dryly, her words catching on a yawn.
He closes his eyes and counts to ten, prays for salvation. "Please tell me we didn't -- didn't --" He can't finish his sentence; doesn't want to.
A weighted silence, damning in and of itself.
"I'm sorry."
*
Chicago is insane, the fans overwhelming, so when Torri proposes that they all attempt to make a break for it after autographs, Joe's one of the first to agree. They all decide on a location (a bar across town), a time (as quickly as possible), and agree to split up for the actual travelling there (so as to avoid drawing too much attention). Admittedly, it's probably not the best plan they've ever come up with but, hey, if it works, if it gets him even just a few hours peace from all the wackiness that is Comic Con, he'll be happy.
He almost can't get away when the time comes -- there's just too many people, all desperate to see and talk to him; he can see Rachel fighting a similar battle across the room -- but then two of the Farscape peoples walk in, clearly unexpectedly, and the attention shift is immediate. Taking advantage, Joe slips out before anyone can notice.
Thirty minutes to get to the bar, fifteen to find a table with enough chairs. He's the first one there and he buys a beer while he waits.
Torri arrives not too long after that, talking on her cell as she winds her way through the bar. "That was Paul," she says, snapping the phone shut. "He and Rachel were caught trying to break out; they've been escorted to the banquet."
As if on cue, his own cell beeps. Digging it out of his pocket, he brings up his messages and, "Dave too, apparently."
Torri slips into the seat next to his. "So," she says, stealing his beer and taking a sip. "Guess it's just us then."
He freezes, just for a moment, visions of Seattle flickering to mind, and then relaxes. Seattle was months ago, an aberration, a momentary lapse in judgement and certainly nothing that will ever happen again. Leaning over, he reclaims his beer. "Guess so," he agrees.
Smiling, she orders a drink.
*
He flies down to Los Angeles to see his agent and checks into a hotel room that he doubts he'll end up using. Torri's not expecting him, but neither does she seem surprised when she opens her door and finds him standing on her front step.
"Hey," he says. He tries not to think about all the ways this could backfire; definitely doesn't think about all the reasons why it's such a terrible idea.
She steps aside, allowing him in. "Hey," she says, smiling.
He's kissing her before the door can close.
*
He doesn't even try to justify France.
*
Five twelve-hour days of filming and he's so tired he can hardly think straight anymore, let alone act. Letting himself into his trailer, he doesn't even bother shedding his costume, just drops down onto his sofa and slings an arm over his eyes. If he has to move again anytime this year, it will be too soon.
There's a knock on his door, closely followed by the sound of someone opening said door and stepping inside. He bites back a groan. "This had better be fucking important," he says without looking, and then almost jumps when he feels them sit down on the edge of the sofa.
"I'd like to think I am," she says, and he pulls back his arm to find her leaning over him, a smile on her lips.
One of his hands brushes against her cheek; his other finds her knee and smoothes up towards her hip. "Hey you," he says, as his fingers slide into her hair. "What --"
She leans down and kisses him, swallowing his words as her tongue slicks against his, hot and wet and needy. He feels wide awake suddenly, the exhaustion that has dogged him these past couple of months, ever since her final episode, instantly gone.
"Let's get out of here," she murmurs against his mouth, and he smiles.
"And go where?" he asks, brushing his lips along her jaw as he tugs her closer. He finds the pulse point in her neck and sucks hard enough to leave a mark, loving the way she pushes into his touch. Absently, he wonders where his passport is.
"Anywhere." Her hand slides down his chest and towards his belt. "Doesn't matter."
She's right -- it doesn't. Finding her mouth again, he kisses her deeply, memorising the taste and feel of her after so long without. Then he pushes her away and gets up, reaching for her again as soon as he's standing.
She moves into his arms easily, her body fitting against his in a way that makes his head spin.
He drops a quick kiss onto the tip of her nose and smiles. "Let's go."
* * * * *
The End.
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated. *g*
STATUS: Complete
SUMMARY: ... got away from it all.
RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATIONS: Torri/Joe
ARCHIVING: Do not archive. Please ask.
NOTES: This story is RPF (real person fiction). If that bothers you, turn away now. Also? rough and unbeta'd -- sorry.
FOR: havocthecat
WORDS: 940
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue.
Copyright anr; August 2007.
* * * * *
Leaving on a Jet Plane by anr
* * * * *
Joe's not exactly sure how they ended up in a motel somewhere in Seattle -- he thinks it had something to do with the Science Fiction Museum and Hall of Fame, and Torri's determination to prove Dave wrong on a random piece of trivia -- and, truthfully, he doesn't really care.
"Oh, god." He thinks he's going to be sick. "Oh, god, oh, shitfuckchristfucking hell."
Beside him, Torri stretches languidly, her thigh brushing against his hip. "And good morning to you too," she says dryly, her words catching on a yawn.
He closes his eyes and counts to ten, prays for salvation. "Please tell me we didn't -- didn't --" He can't finish his sentence; doesn't want to.
A weighted silence, damning in and of itself.
"I'm sorry."
*
Chicago is insane, the fans overwhelming, so when Torri proposes that they all attempt to make a break for it after autographs, Joe's one of the first to agree. They all decide on a location (a bar across town), a time (as quickly as possible), and agree to split up for the actual travelling there (so as to avoid drawing too much attention). Admittedly, it's probably not the best plan they've ever come up with but, hey, if it works, if it gets him even just a few hours peace from all the wackiness that is Comic Con, he'll be happy.
He almost can't get away when the time comes -- there's just too many people, all desperate to see and talk to him; he can see Rachel fighting a similar battle across the room -- but then two of the Farscape peoples walk in, clearly unexpectedly, and the attention shift is immediate. Taking advantage, Joe slips out before anyone can notice.
Thirty minutes to get to the bar, fifteen to find a table with enough chairs. He's the first one there and he buys a beer while he waits.
Torri arrives not too long after that, talking on her cell as she winds her way through the bar. "That was Paul," she says, snapping the phone shut. "He and Rachel were caught trying to break out; they've been escorted to the banquet."
As if on cue, his own cell beeps. Digging it out of his pocket, he brings up his messages and, "Dave too, apparently."
Torri slips into the seat next to his. "So," she says, stealing his beer and taking a sip. "Guess it's just us then."
He freezes, just for a moment, visions of Seattle flickering to mind, and then relaxes. Seattle was months ago, an aberration, a momentary lapse in judgement and certainly nothing that will ever happen again. Leaning over, he reclaims his beer. "Guess so," he agrees.
Smiling, she orders a drink.
*
He flies down to Los Angeles to see his agent and checks into a hotel room that he doubts he'll end up using. Torri's not expecting him, but neither does she seem surprised when she opens her door and finds him standing on her front step.
"Hey," he says. He tries not to think about all the ways this could backfire; definitely doesn't think about all the reasons why it's such a terrible idea.
She steps aside, allowing him in. "Hey," she says, smiling.
He's kissing her before the door can close.
*
He doesn't even try to justify France.
*
Five twelve-hour days of filming and he's so tired he can hardly think straight anymore, let alone act. Letting himself into his trailer, he doesn't even bother shedding his costume, just drops down onto his sofa and slings an arm over his eyes. If he has to move again anytime this year, it will be too soon.
There's a knock on his door, closely followed by the sound of someone opening said door and stepping inside. He bites back a groan. "This had better be fucking important," he says without looking, and then almost jumps when he feels them sit down on the edge of the sofa.
"I'd like to think I am," she says, and he pulls back his arm to find her leaning over him, a smile on her lips.
One of his hands brushes against her cheek; his other finds her knee and smoothes up towards her hip. "Hey you," he says, as his fingers slide into her hair. "What --"
She leans down and kisses him, swallowing his words as her tongue slicks against his, hot and wet and needy. He feels wide awake suddenly, the exhaustion that has dogged him these past couple of months, ever since her final episode, instantly gone.
"Let's get out of here," she murmurs against his mouth, and he smiles.
"And go where?" he asks, brushing his lips along her jaw as he tugs her closer. He finds the pulse point in her neck and sucks hard enough to leave a mark, loving the way she pushes into his touch. Absently, he wonders where his passport is.
"Anywhere." Her hand slides down his chest and towards his belt. "Doesn't matter."
She's right -- it doesn't. Finding her mouth again, he kisses her deeply, memorising the taste and feel of her after so long without. Then he pushes her away and gets up, reaching for her again as soon as he's standing.
She moves into his arms easily, her body fitting against his in a way that makes his head spin.
He drops a quick kiss onto the tip of her nose and smiles. "Let's go."
* * * * *
The End.
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated. *g*