Fic: Inside the clocks are filled with sand
Title: Inside the clocks are filled with sand
Pairing: John/Elizabeth
Rating: NC - 17
Genre: hurt / comfort
Spoilers: S2 "Epiphany" (set immediately after that episode)
Warnings: adult content
Summary: Elizabeth feels they should discuss those six months. They do.
Beta reader: tenacious_err , who wins cookies, chocolate, peanut butter, coffee - take your pick, darling, or take it all! You rock :)
Disclaimer: I don't own SGA. The title comes from Sting's song "Inside", which I also don't own.
Author's notes: "Epiphany" is one of those episodes which left me wanting more - you know, what happened after they got home kind of stuff. I don't think John's apparent abandonment issues were addressed in the show ever again (and as we all know, SGA rocks at that kind of continuity), and this ep really needed that kind of following, so there can never be too many post - "Epiphany" fics. Special thanks to tenacious_err , who allowed me to adopt a part of her personal fanon into my own -- John Sheppard + sex = ascension :)
Enjoy it! Feedback is always appreciated.
*
Inside the failures of the light, the night is wrapped around me
Inside my eyes deny their sight, you'd never find me in this place
Inside we're hidden from the moonlight, we shift between the shadows
Inside the compass of the night, inside the memory of your face
- Sting, "Inside"
*
The room is mostly dark in the spreading dusk and she can see the light seeping through bathroom door far on the left. She walks quietly into his quarters, taking the lack of usual order into notion. John Sheppard is a remarkably neat man.
She doesn't need to call out to him, because he can hear her there, he just doesn't move his eyes from his reflection in the mirror. She watches him lathering the thick black beard that's covering his cheeks and wonders if she's seeing the dark shadow in his eyes right.
“John,” she says carefully, and he glances at her, his grim expression unchanged.
“Hey,” he answers slowly, like he is measuring every breath. Walking into his bathroom isn't new, but this look in his eyes is. Well, not entirely, but last time she saw something similar in his eyes he was gray and blue in his face and his yellow eyes weren't exactly him.
Or perhaps there was a portion of him in there after all. She watches him as he begins to shave, slowly, methodically, the razor uncovering the smooth skin in it's wake, and his movements appear more tired by the second. He is not going to ask her in, because there is a terribly stubborn and sometimes destructive side to him, she knows this, but this is a matter they need to discuss, not because of the dark look in his eyes.
She touches him carefully, and he tenses up beneath her fingers, and she's contemplating how honest he's always been with her, and between the words that fail him and his body which infallibly reacts she's always capable to pick up something to clue her in. She thinks she knows him well by now, but perhaps she is wrong.
“We weren't going to leave you there, John,” she says, because it's as good an opening line as any, and she prefers being frank and open with him. It's precisely what he is trying to avoid, and even though they traveled a long road sometimes she still needs to remind him he isn't going to weasel out. She stares at the mirror from behind him, until their eyes make contact in the reflection and he's watching her intensely for a second and she holds out. She always does. He looks away, because the stare is too heavy for him, and he knows she doesn't, doesn't look away, she is still watching him.
“I know,” and rationally, he does, now; but she knows the more important part of him isn't convinced and she feels the pressure of heavy sadness swelling in her chest when she sees him like this. It makes her slightly angry, and perhaps a little guilty too, because it's always him running into the great and dark unknown. It's not just, but there's not much she can do, because it's the nature of who they have to be. He has to go and she has to stay and wait, and do her best to bring him home, and now she had failed him. Not that she wanted, or intended to; or neglected him, things were simply bigger than her limited power.
It doesn't matter to the way he feels, and she rubs his shoulder slowly, and he tenses further, moves away from her. He thinks she is there for sex; under the usual I-just-got-myself-out-of -the-deathtrap circumstances she'd already be naked, but this time he doesn't want that, which isn't like him.
“It doesn't look like that,” she says quietly, giving his shoulder a light, final squeeze. He raises his eyes, reflection staring at reflection, and it's just another distance he's putting between them. It doesn't feel right because it's usually her who moves away. “I think we need to talk about those six months,” her voice is calm, but she isn't.
“We don't,” he shrugs, and she is not used to seeing him like this. This cold and detached, but she knows he is hurting and angry and warm beneath it. “I was bored out of my mind sitting on my butt and pretending to meditate. Nothing to write home about,” there's a slight hitch in his voice when he cuts himself under his jaw.
“You thought nobody was coming back for you,” she says and he doesn't answer. She lets him handle the silence until he cuts himself again and she steps next to him and makes him turn and face her. “I bet it crossed your mind,” she takes the razor from his hand and washes it in the faucet. He looks guilty and hurt at the same time. It was on his mind often and it makes her sad to know he thinks so little of himself. Her hand is steady and careful when she picks up where he has left off, trailing up his long neck. Things cross her mind too. He is still and perhaps trusts her too much. “But for us it was merely a few hours,” she says while watching her hands and his skin.
He takes a tentative, deep breath. “Exactly. You couldn't do much with the time dilation field in the way. It's no big deal.”
“But you didn't know that. You thought we left you,” she presses, holds her hands still and their eyes make contact, heavy, guilty and angry. “Rodney and Ronon and Teyla were just on the other side and weren't coming for you,” she whispers and his eyes change and cloud over, and no, he won't say it, but doesn't need to.
He looks away.
“Teer... she knew things. She knew I was coming. She told me I was there to help them ascend. She never mentioned...”
“John,” she takes him gently by the chin and makes him turn and face her again. “One might see the past, but no one can see the future. It's subject to change.”
“I slept with her,” he says suddenly. She pulls her hands away a little, and it's just a moment. This is not a relationship, but it certainly isn't just a convenient fuck either, not with him. It's John. He doesn't hold back. He either gives all or nothing and hopes people won't notice when he puts his heart into something, and she doesn't want to know if he wanted to give it all.
Sometimes she wants him to know that she is noticing.
“I... it's okay,” she says, although it isn't, even if he was simply trying to move on and failing, which he probably was. She knows John, knows he isn't holding back when he is with her, knows she is so unfair with him. “I'm sorry,” she says not looking at him, putting the razor down. Elizabeth is fairly certain he didn't give it all to the other woman, but she also knows he wanted to forget about her, and that hurts more than it should. Moments pass and she hears him breathe. He is still and so close, and she feels him move, reach for the towel and wipe his face. Then, he is reaching for her, rough and warm fingers on her cheek, and he's pulling her closer.
“I should be apologizing,” he says.
“For what, John? There is nothing to apologize for,” his fingers are brushing her hair away, and now they're both sad and inching closer to each other. It's only him who feels he should apologize in a situation like this. He won't say he feared she wrote him off and she won't say she is hurt because he slept with someone else, and they will do this again. This - his lips brushing hers timidly, and thick black beard tickling her, and her fingers curling in the soft fabric of his oversize shirt. She sighs and he uses the moment to coax her mouth to open, and then they're kissing.
This is familiar. He is familiar, though it shouldn't be and tips of her fingers are tickling, wanting to push him away, but her body melts against his and she is unbuttoning his shirt and uncovering him, for her eyes to see, like she hadn't seen him in months of time. He has scars and one of them looks fresh, although it's healed and she traces it lightly. What might be minutes for her were days and weeks for him, time and space and distance away, and it's right under her fingers, the ways he can be hurt. The ways she can hurt him, the ways he lets her.
John kisses her again, open mouthed and demanding. He keeps kissing until she lacks air and thoughts, and the back of her knees touch the edge of his bed. She undresses him, pieces of clothing silently meeting the ground and then he is standing before her, honest and bared and she hates herself a little bit. She lets him undress her, touch her the way he wants and needs and watches him watching her. His eyes are dark and watery, so sharp and intent, longing filling them and she knows he feared he would never see her again.
They kiss and then he's just watching her for a moment, his eyes burning and his expression unreadable. It scares her, because John is so easy to read for her, because she counts on that and knows how to guide him and where, and he lets her. Not this time. His face turns determinant as he pulls her lower on the bed and spreads her knees, her thighs and then he's there - thick and soft beard tickling the skin and warm lips meeting her tender flesh and she gasps.
She both likes and dislikes this, feeling this good and losing the control so completely. Her palms are flat against the sheet, her body moving like a wave along with the teasing of his lips, and she closes her eyes each time he enters her with his tongue, and she can't think of a way to be closer or more intimate than this. He mumbles her name and drags his tongue along her, slow and heavy and hot, slides into her with one finger and then another, again, and again, and again. She closes her eyes and comes, blindly. It starts in her and ends on his lips. He is still saying her name against her as she is shuddering, feeling he took something from her.
She swallows hard and tries looking at him when he's above her, dark like a shadow, eyes seeking something on her face and she feels so open - like he could see through her and all the way down and into her heart and all of her safety precautions would fail. She feels scared, because having control means being safe and she is not a person to rush blindly; but at some point the possibility of losing John became something she doesn't want to face, and has to count with, every time he goes.
She keeps looking at him, because he needs it, she needs it. She needs him to come home. He pushes himself into her, slowly, carefully, and the expression on his face is almost painful.
He moves within her and it both hurts and doesn't. He knows it, right? He should. She gasps and slides her hands up his shoulders and around his neck.
“'Lizabeth,” he says, and it's needy and seeking. She spreads her legs a little and he grunts, closes his eyes and drops his head lower, not moving. His breathing is hard, labored, he can't keep himself on top of her like this because he is still injured. She calls him and has to stroke his face, guide his chin up to look in his eyes, and he looks both hopeful and hopeless.
“Turn,” she says through her tight, tight throat, kisses his half-shaven jaw and then they slowly turn.
'Lizabeth,” he breaths for air when she straddles him. He will never ask of her to tell him, but she can read the plea in his look, the one she's trying not to notice, that one thing she denies him and herself as they're keeping up with this dance.
She doesn't sleep when he goes missing. She doesn't move from the gate room, and nobody really tries to make her go. Not that she would listen. She cares more than she should, and knows it's too late to take a step back.
Elizabeth slides down onto him and it feels like rest of the world has slowed down, the night and the quiet hum of the City around them, everything drowned out in the sound of John's breathing and pounding of her heart.
“'Lizabeth,” he repeats as she steadily moves, rough voice against the skin of her neck. She tastes sweat when she kisses his shoulder and lets him push her up to change the angle, and it makes her eyes close and her spine tingle-
“I'm here,” she says, not thinking any more, because she can't, because this is too much, because almost losing him every so often is too much. She can tell he is close already, the hitch of his breath and the pounding of his heart under her telling her that he needs to let go.
“I missed you so much,” he mutters against her skin and pulls her against him, so hard it almost hurts. “Missed you, missed you so...,” he's mumbling, and not really thinking himself, so open and entirely vulnerable, and it scares her a little. “So fucking much.” She pulls up, so he can look at her,
“I am here,” is all she can say as the sweat is forming on her upper lip and breaking out on her skin, and they're moving harshly, grinding into each other like they're trying to be one, just for a second. He swallows hard, closes his eyes and comes, quietly; and while his body is shuddering they almost are one.
It feels like that.
She is stroking his face gently and he is holding onto her as his breathing is calming down.
“God, Elizabeth,” he says her name slowly, in a way that sends shivers through her. He picks up the hitch in her breath, the way she tenses when she's aroused still, and slides his palms down her body to cup her ass and nudge her forward. “Come on. Come on, 'Lizbeth,” he says and keeps whispering. There is only his voice when she moves up along his body, where he guides her, until she is above his face, and he is keeping her legs spread. She grips the bedpost and moans loudly when she feels his touch again - familiar and hot, burning through her in all the wrong ways that feel so good.
He is kissing her and eating her out, just the way she likes it, the way that will send her over the edge. She can feel him speaking more than she can hear him, voice deep and almost rough reverberating through her body, and it's like waves, like a tide. She will sink, but it's okay. He slips a finger inside of her, and another, kisses the inside of her thigh and the beard is tickling her. She moves, her body matching his whispers, things that sound like her name, promises, and God; almost like he's praying.
He is.
He bites her and she comes, long and hard and when she comes down to herself she's lying on top of him.
A bit later he lets go.
She knows what he is doing - getting up so he wouldn't be here to see her -
“John?” she calls, voice laced with just a little panic that slipped through. He turns from where he is sitting on the bed. “Where are you going?”
“Oh, you know, I just need to...” he gestures around his face, and she really, really doesn't want him to go. If he does, she thinks, there will be no turning back, and something would die between them entirely.
“No, I mean... John,” she pushes herself up and swallows, and they stare at each other. She slowly lets out that breath he is holding and- “We can do that in the morning,” she offers.
She can see Adam's apple move up and down his long neck as he just looks at her. It goes on forever and almost...
“John.”
He never looks away.
“I guess we could,” and his eyes seem almost scared.
“Come here,” she calls, even though it's his bed. And he does.
He covers them and they sleep.
*
“I like the beard.”
“Uh huh.”
“It's very... manly,” she smiles when she says that. He would smirk if he wasn't too scared of her cutting him with the razor.
“I'm a manly man, Elizabeth,” his hands travel further up her thighs, finding her hips with a new confidence. She is sitting on the counter in the bathroom and he is resting between her knees. She has his shirt on, but he is still completely nude.
“So you are,” she indulges him with an appreciative glance and raises her eyebrow. He relaxes a little bit more, as she makes progress along his cheek. “Almost ready to kiss you,” she says and moves over to the other cheek.
“Why not kiss me now?”
“Patience,” she smiles at his fake pout.
“I was patient for long enough,” he makes a point by pulling her closer and making his intentions apparent. If she didn't have a meeting in half an hour, she wouldn't mind.
“You were really bored there, weren't you?” she asks carefully, and strokes his lower lip with her thumb. He kisses it.
“Bored out of my skull,” he says but means something else. She knows. He doesn't really have to say it. “They were only using me as their ascension providing tool,” it's one of those off-handed jokes he just blurts out, before he even realizes what he says.
“I see,” she lets her smile turn a little mean. “Rodney seems to have a theory on that.”
He rolls his eyes, “Elizabeth! That is not -”
“Having sex with you in order to ascend? The idea does come with a certain appeal,” she teases lightly. “I wonder what are you holding out from me?”
She can practically see the little wheels rolling in his head and then his lips spread into a smirk.
“You know, ascension comes with a certain state of mind, which is achieved through practice,” his hands wander up her body, until he reaches her breasts. “Lots and lots of practice.”
She is done shaving him and he pulls her into a kiss - long and sweet, a kind of kiss they can't really afford, but she doesn't think about that now. She doesn't want to.
“And I happen to know you are strong willed and stubborn,” he adds, kissing along her jaw. “You'll need to school your mind through lots of practice,” he adds. If she doesn't stop him now the shirt will be on the floor within the matter of minutes.
“Not now John,” she asserts her control unwillingly, and he accepts, but keeps chasing her lips. “But you can certainly try to make me glow a bit later,” she promises and they smile at each other.
“Lunch break?” he asks hopefully. Her throat is tight, because it feels too soon, too fast, although she let them wait until it was too late - for so many times. Her hands slide up his biceps when she nods. “We're okay?” he asks then. “About...”
“Shh,” she says gently. Certain things are best forgotten.
“I missed you,” he adds nevertheless, and it means something different.
“I know,” she says, she understands, and he knows she does. “I am here now.”
*
Pairing: John/Elizabeth
Rating: NC - 17
Genre: hurt / comfort
Spoilers: S2 "Epiphany" (set immediately after that episode)
Warnings: adult content
Summary: Elizabeth feels they should discuss those six months. They do.
Beta reader: tenacious_err , who wins cookies, chocolate, peanut butter, coffee - take your pick, darling, or take it all! You rock :)
Disclaimer: I don't own SGA. The title comes from Sting's song "Inside", which I also don't own.
Author's notes: "Epiphany" is one of those episodes which left me wanting more - you know, what happened after they got home kind of stuff. I don't think John's apparent abandonment issues were addressed in the show ever again (and as we all know, SGA rocks at that kind of continuity), and this ep really needed that kind of following, so there can never be too many post - "Epiphany" fics. Special thanks to tenacious_err , who allowed me to adopt a part of her personal fanon into my own -- John Sheppard + sex = ascension :)
Enjoy it! Feedback is always appreciated.
*
Inside the failures of the light, the night is wrapped around me
Inside my eyes deny their sight, you'd never find me in this place
Inside we're hidden from the moonlight, we shift between the shadows
Inside the compass of the night, inside the memory of your face
- Sting, "Inside"
*
The room is mostly dark in the spreading dusk and she can see the light seeping through bathroom door far on the left. She walks quietly into his quarters, taking the lack of usual order into notion. John Sheppard is a remarkably neat man.
She doesn't need to call out to him, because he can hear her there, he just doesn't move his eyes from his reflection in the mirror. She watches him lathering the thick black beard that's covering his cheeks and wonders if she's seeing the dark shadow in his eyes right.
“John,” she says carefully, and he glances at her, his grim expression unchanged.
“Hey,” he answers slowly, like he is measuring every breath. Walking into his bathroom isn't new, but this look in his eyes is. Well, not entirely, but last time she saw something similar in his eyes he was gray and blue in his face and his yellow eyes weren't exactly him.
Or perhaps there was a portion of him in there after all. She watches him as he begins to shave, slowly, methodically, the razor uncovering the smooth skin in it's wake, and his movements appear more tired by the second. He is not going to ask her in, because there is a terribly stubborn and sometimes destructive side to him, she knows this, but this is a matter they need to discuss, not because of the dark look in his eyes.
She touches him carefully, and he tenses up beneath her fingers, and she's contemplating how honest he's always been with her, and between the words that fail him and his body which infallibly reacts she's always capable to pick up something to clue her in. She thinks she knows him well by now, but perhaps she is wrong.
“We weren't going to leave you there, John,” she says, because it's as good an opening line as any, and she prefers being frank and open with him. It's precisely what he is trying to avoid, and even though they traveled a long road sometimes she still needs to remind him he isn't going to weasel out. She stares at the mirror from behind him, until their eyes make contact in the reflection and he's watching her intensely for a second and she holds out. She always does. He looks away, because the stare is too heavy for him, and he knows she doesn't, doesn't look away, she is still watching him.
“I know,” and rationally, he does, now; but she knows the more important part of him isn't convinced and she feels the pressure of heavy sadness swelling in her chest when she sees him like this. It makes her slightly angry, and perhaps a little guilty too, because it's always him running into the great and dark unknown. It's not just, but there's not much she can do, because it's the nature of who they have to be. He has to go and she has to stay and wait, and do her best to bring him home, and now she had failed him. Not that she wanted, or intended to; or neglected him, things were simply bigger than her limited power.
It doesn't matter to the way he feels, and she rubs his shoulder slowly, and he tenses further, moves away from her. He thinks she is there for sex; under the usual I-just-got-myself-out-of -the-deathtrap circumstances she'd already be naked, but this time he doesn't want that, which isn't like him.
“It doesn't look like that,” she says quietly, giving his shoulder a light, final squeeze. He raises his eyes, reflection staring at reflection, and it's just another distance he's putting between them. It doesn't feel right because it's usually her who moves away. “I think we need to talk about those six months,” her voice is calm, but she isn't.
“We don't,” he shrugs, and she is not used to seeing him like this. This cold and detached, but she knows he is hurting and angry and warm beneath it. “I was bored out of my mind sitting on my butt and pretending to meditate. Nothing to write home about,” there's a slight hitch in his voice when he cuts himself under his jaw.
“You thought nobody was coming back for you,” she says and he doesn't answer. She lets him handle the silence until he cuts himself again and she steps next to him and makes him turn and face her. “I bet it crossed your mind,” she takes the razor from his hand and washes it in the faucet. He looks guilty and hurt at the same time. It was on his mind often and it makes her sad to know he thinks so little of himself. Her hand is steady and careful when she picks up where he has left off, trailing up his long neck. Things cross her mind too. He is still and perhaps trusts her too much. “But for us it was merely a few hours,” she says while watching her hands and his skin.
He takes a tentative, deep breath. “Exactly. You couldn't do much with the time dilation field in the way. It's no big deal.”
“But you didn't know that. You thought we left you,” she presses, holds her hands still and their eyes make contact, heavy, guilty and angry. “Rodney and Ronon and Teyla were just on the other side and weren't coming for you,” she whispers and his eyes change and cloud over, and no, he won't say it, but doesn't need to.
He looks away.
“Teer... she knew things. She knew I was coming. She told me I was there to help them ascend. She never mentioned...”
“John,” she takes him gently by the chin and makes him turn and face her again. “One might see the past, but no one can see the future. It's subject to change.”
“I slept with her,” he says suddenly. She pulls her hands away a little, and it's just a moment. This is not a relationship, but it certainly isn't just a convenient fuck either, not with him. It's John. He doesn't hold back. He either gives all or nothing and hopes people won't notice when he puts his heart into something, and she doesn't want to know if he wanted to give it all.
Sometimes she wants him to know that she is noticing.
“I... it's okay,” she says, although it isn't, even if he was simply trying to move on and failing, which he probably was. She knows John, knows he isn't holding back when he is with her, knows she is so unfair with him. “I'm sorry,” she says not looking at him, putting the razor down. Elizabeth is fairly certain he didn't give it all to the other woman, but she also knows he wanted to forget about her, and that hurts more than it should. Moments pass and she hears him breathe. He is still and so close, and she feels him move, reach for the towel and wipe his face. Then, he is reaching for her, rough and warm fingers on her cheek, and he's pulling her closer.
“I should be apologizing,” he says.
“For what, John? There is nothing to apologize for,” his fingers are brushing her hair away, and now they're both sad and inching closer to each other. It's only him who feels he should apologize in a situation like this. He won't say he feared she wrote him off and she won't say she is hurt because he slept with someone else, and they will do this again. This - his lips brushing hers timidly, and thick black beard tickling her, and her fingers curling in the soft fabric of his oversize shirt. She sighs and he uses the moment to coax her mouth to open, and then they're kissing.
This is familiar. He is familiar, though it shouldn't be and tips of her fingers are tickling, wanting to push him away, but her body melts against his and she is unbuttoning his shirt and uncovering him, for her eyes to see, like she hadn't seen him in months of time. He has scars and one of them looks fresh, although it's healed and she traces it lightly. What might be minutes for her were days and weeks for him, time and space and distance away, and it's right under her fingers, the ways he can be hurt. The ways she can hurt him, the ways he lets her.
John kisses her again, open mouthed and demanding. He keeps kissing until she lacks air and thoughts, and the back of her knees touch the edge of his bed. She undresses him, pieces of clothing silently meeting the ground and then he is standing before her, honest and bared and she hates herself a little bit. She lets him undress her, touch her the way he wants and needs and watches him watching her. His eyes are dark and watery, so sharp and intent, longing filling them and she knows he feared he would never see her again.
They kiss and then he's just watching her for a moment, his eyes burning and his expression unreadable. It scares her, because John is so easy to read for her, because she counts on that and knows how to guide him and where, and he lets her. Not this time. His face turns determinant as he pulls her lower on the bed and spreads her knees, her thighs and then he's there - thick and soft beard tickling the skin and warm lips meeting her tender flesh and she gasps.
She both likes and dislikes this, feeling this good and losing the control so completely. Her palms are flat against the sheet, her body moving like a wave along with the teasing of his lips, and she closes her eyes each time he enters her with his tongue, and she can't think of a way to be closer or more intimate than this. He mumbles her name and drags his tongue along her, slow and heavy and hot, slides into her with one finger and then another, again, and again, and again. She closes her eyes and comes, blindly. It starts in her and ends on his lips. He is still saying her name against her as she is shuddering, feeling he took something from her.
She swallows hard and tries looking at him when he's above her, dark like a shadow, eyes seeking something on her face and she feels so open - like he could see through her and all the way down and into her heart and all of her safety precautions would fail. She feels scared, because having control means being safe and she is not a person to rush blindly; but at some point the possibility of losing John became something she doesn't want to face, and has to count with, every time he goes.
She keeps looking at him, because he needs it, she needs it. She needs him to come home. He pushes himself into her, slowly, carefully, and the expression on his face is almost painful.
He moves within her and it both hurts and doesn't. He knows it, right? He should. She gasps and slides her hands up his shoulders and around his neck.
“'Lizabeth,” he says, and it's needy and seeking. She spreads her legs a little and he grunts, closes his eyes and drops his head lower, not moving. His breathing is hard, labored, he can't keep himself on top of her like this because he is still injured. She calls him and has to stroke his face, guide his chin up to look in his eyes, and he looks both hopeful and hopeless.
“Turn,” she says through her tight, tight throat, kisses his half-shaven jaw and then they slowly turn.
'Lizabeth,” he breaths for air when she straddles him. He will never ask of her to tell him, but she can read the plea in his look, the one she's trying not to notice, that one thing she denies him and herself as they're keeping up with this dance.
She doesn't sleep when he goes missing. She doesn't move from the gate room, and nobody really tries to make her go. Not that she would listen. She cares more than she should, and knows it's too late to take a step back.
Elizabeth slides down onto him and it feels like rest of the world has slowed down, the night and the quiet hum of the City around them, everything drowned out in the sound of John's breathing and pounding of her heart.
“'Lizabeth,” he repeats as she steadily moves, rough voice against the skin of her neck. She tastes sweat when she kisses his shoulder and lets him push her up to change the angle, and it makes her eyes close and her spine tingle-
“I'm here,” she says, not thinking any more, because she can't, because this is too much, because almost losing him every so often is too much. She can tell he is close already, the hitch of his breath and the pounding of his heart under her telling her that he needs to let go.
“I missed you so much,” he mutters against her skin and pulls her against him, so hard it almost hurts. “Missed you, missed you so...,” he's mumbling, and not really thinking himself, so open and entirely vulnerable, and it scares her a little. “So fucking much.” She pulls up, so he can look at her,
“I am here,” is all she can say as the sweat is forming on her upper lip and breaking out on her skin, and they're moving harshly, grinding into each other like they're trying to be one, just for a second. He swallows hard, closes his eyes and comes, quietly; and while his body is shuddering they almost are one.
It feels like that.
She is stroking his face gently and he is holding onto her as his breathing is calming down.
“God, Elizabeth,” he says her name slowly, in a way that sends shivers through her. He picks up the hitch in her breath, the way she tenses when she's aroused still, and slides his palms down her body to cup her ass and nudge her forward. “Come on. Come on, 'Lizbeth,” he says and keeps whispering. There is only his voice when she moves up along his body, where he guides her, until she is above his face, and he is keeping her legs spread. She grips the bedpost and moans loudly when she feels his touch again - familiar and hot, burning through her in all the wrong ways that feel so good.
He is kissing her and eating her out, just the way she likes it, the way that will send her over the edge. She can feel him speaking more than she can hear him, voice deep and almost rough reverberating through her body, and it's like waves, like a tide. She will sink, but it's okay. He slips a finger inside of her, and another, kisses the inside of her thigh and the beard is tickling her. She moves, her body matching his whispers, things that sound like her name, promises, and God; almost like he's praying.
He is.
He bites her and she comes, long and hard and when she comes down to herself she's lying on top of him.
A bit later he lets go.
She knows what he is doing - getting up so he wouldn't be here to see her -
“John?” she calls, voice laced with just a little panic that slipped through. He turns from where he is sitting on the bed. “Where are you going?”
“Oh, you know, I just need to...” he gestures around his face, and she really, really doesn't want him to go. If he does, she thinks, there will be no turning back, and something would die between them entirely.
“No, I mean... John,” she pushes herself up and swallows, and they stare at each other. She slowly lets out that breath he is holding and- “We can do that in the morning,” she offers.
She can see Adam's apple move up and down his long neck as he just looks at her. It goes on forever and almost...
“John.”
He never looks away.
“I guess we could,” and his eyes seem almost scared.
“Come here,” she calls, even though it's his bed. And he does.
He covers them and they sleep.
*
“I like the beard.”
“Uh huh.”
“It's very... manly,” she smiles when she says that. He would smirk if he wasn't too scared of her cutting him with the razor.
“I'm a manly man, Elizabeth,” his hands travel further up her thighs, finding her hips with a new confidence. She is sitting on the counter in the bathroom and he is resting between her knees. She has his shirt on, but he is still completely nude.
“So you are,” she indulges him with an appreciative glance and raises her eyebrow. He relaxes a little bit more, as she makes progress along his cheek. “Almost ready to kiss you,” she says and moves over to the other cheek.
“Why not kiss me now?”
“Patience,” she smiles at his fake pout.
“I was patient for long enough,” he makes a point by pulling her closer and making his intentions apparent. If she didn't have a meeting in half an hour, she wouldn't mind.
“You were really bored there, weren't you?” she asks carefully, and strokes his lower lip with her thumb. He kisses it.
“Bored out of my skull,” he says but means something else. She knows. He doesn't really have to say it. “They were only using me as their ascension providing tool,” it's one of those off-handed jokes he just blurts out, before he even realizes what he says.
“I see,” she lets her smile turn a little mean. “Rodney seems to have a theory on that.”
He rolls his eyes, “Elizabeth! That is not -”
“Having sex with you in order to ascend? The idea does come with a certain appeal,” she teases lightly. “I wonder what are you holding out from me?”
She can practically see the little wheels rolling in his head and then his lips spread into a smirk.
“You know, ascension comes with a certain state of mind, which is achieved through practice,” his hands wander up her body, until he reaches her breasts. “Lots and lots of practice.”
She is done shaving him and he pulls her into a kiss - long and sweet, a kind of kiss they can't really afford, but she doesn't think about that now. She doesn't want to.
“And I happen to know you are strong willed and stubborn,” he adds, kissing along her jaw. “You'll need to school your mind through lots of practice,” he adds. If she doesn't stop him now the shirt will be on the floor within the matter of minutes.
“Not now John,” she asserts her control unwillingly, and he accepts, but keeps chasing her lips. “But you can certainly try to make me glow a bit later,” she promises and they smile at each other.
“Lunch break?” he asks hopefully. Her throat is tight, because it feels too soon, too fast, although she let them wait until it was too late - for so many times. Her hands slide up his biceps when she nods. “We're okay?” he asks then. “About...”
“Shh,” she says gently. Certain things are best forgotten.
“I missed you,” he adds nevertheless, and it means something different.
“I know,” she says, she understands, and he knows she does. “I am here now.”
*