(no subject)
Dying was easier the second time.
Josh had managed it, somehow, and Steve didn't understand but he believed it when Dr McCoy told him he was cured. The virus was gone. And he was alive.
They told him to rest, to lie down and wait until his pressure came back up, until his pulse calmed, until his breathing evened out. But he couldn't wait. So he promised to come back; that Claire would drag him if he didn't, and that was true. Because he needed to see her.
She was at the cabin, reading a book with paper beside her, pen poised over it as if she'd been taking notes. She looked up as he entered. "Steve? Where have you been?"
"...at the hospital."
Claire frowned. "Were you hurt?"
"No. I'm fine." He walked over, brushing a loose bit of hair behind her ear. "Better than fine."
She didn't understand. "Better than--? Oh." She stood, as the recognition lit her eyes. "Oh, Steve. You're..?"
"Cured." He smiled, and she flung herself at him, rising onto her toes with her arms around his neck. Steve held her about the waist, holding her up, feeling her weight in his arms and smelling her hair as it brushed his face. "They did it."
There were tears in Claire's eyes as she pulled back, smiling, and touched his face. "I... I don't know what to...."
He kissed her then, clumsy because they were so close, and she tangled fingers in his hair. It eased into something smoother, deeper, slower, and Steve tried to ignore the heat building in his chest, and the way the blood was rushing away from his head. Claire noticed, but to Steve's surprise she only pressed closer, and he made a needy sound into her mouth. Her chest pressed into his as her breath caught. They broke for air.
"Claire... I..."
"Shhh, I know. I know."
Nothing could come of this. It was likely that he was only alive in this place, in this time; even if he could return home, she was from seven years later. She was nine years older than him, and wouldn't remember this. Wouldn't remember them together, the fact that he slept in her bed with his arms around her every night, that they kissed and held hands and that his touch on her was gentle, tentative -- that when he slid one hand up the back of her shirt she shivered in his arms.
"Steve..." Claire's head dropped to his shoulder, his fingers tightened in his hair.
He wanted her. More than he'd wanted anything before in his life. More than he'd wanted to be alive. He wanted her safe and happy and in bed with him, letting him touch her. "Claire. Can we..?"
"No." But when he kissed her again, she didn't resist. She leaned against him and he supported her, feeling her warmth seeping through his shirt. And Steve stepped forward; Claire's legs hit the edge of the bed and they fell -- not his intention, but she arched up instinctively under his weight and his breath hitched, stifling what would have been a moan.
He wasn't going to beg. He wasn't going to push. But Claire looked up at him for a long moment, and then one of her legs bent up beside his hip. Steve slid a hand down her other side, settling on the waistband of her jeans. And she nodded, and they kissed, and when her breathing became ragged he dropped his head to kiss her neck. Her skin smelled of floral soap and Claire, and she was quiet until his teeth scraped; an accident, but there was a soft moan on her exhalation. She reached down and pulled at his shirt.
It came off, along with hers, his hand supporting her as she leaned up to pull off her sweater. She lay back down with her bra still on, but Steve couldn't keep himself from leaning down and kissing along the curve of her breasts. She sighed, hands on his neck, his shoulders, back up to his jaw.
He wasn't terribly handsome, or strong, or built. He knew this, that there was nothing terribly desirable about him. But she seemed to want him anyway... his jeans were becoming distinctly uncomfortable.
"Claire?" He murmured the name against her skin.
"Hmmm?"
"You're beautiful."
She didn't respond, exactly, but nudged him off and reached for his belt. It proved very difficult, in Steve's opinion, to strip and kiss, but somehow they managed it, kicking off shoes and pants. Claire rolled on top of him in her underwear, and the few processes still running in Steve's brain shut down completely. He fumbled to get her bra off until she laughed against his lips and reached back to unclip it herself. Which worked just fine, in his opinion -- his hands stroked and wandered, his pulse sped at the feel of her skin against him. And he would have been content with that, with touching and kissing and holding her close, but then Claire shifted again. Steve was busy nuzzling her neck, but something dropped to the floor and he saw it out of the corner of his eye. Claire's fingers hooked under the waistband of his boxers -- he caught one of her wrists, suddenly nervous. She moved off him, lying naked on her side and waiting.
What the fuck was wrong with him?
Steve let go of Claire's wrist and yanked off his underwear, before nearly pouncing on Claire. She was laughing again, and he was struggling to keep his hips a modest distance away, but she raised her knee and tugged him down. He moaned raggedly, and was embarrassed at the sound.
"Steve..." Claire brought up her other leg, and tilted her hips, and Steve couldn't even respond beyond a questioning, 'mm?' Claire squirmed as he pressed against her, her breathing uneven and fast. "Go ahead," she whispered.
"What do I...?" She smiled at him, and dropped her hand from his shoulder to between them, fingers wrapping around his erection and guiding him lower. He wanted to ask if they should go slower, if he should do something in between, but he wasn't sure what, or if he'd have the patience or coherence. And he knew for certain that if she touched him any more intently, they wouldn't be getting much farther. So he let her hand guide him down, her leg pull him forward, and listened to her soft cry as he slid inside her.
It was awkward. He was having trouble falling into a rhythm, was too distracted to kiss her properly; the whole thing was overwhelming. He was with Claire. He was dizzy, breathless -- his world was Claire, and she was everything. It wasn't so different from usual.
Steve's hands slid under Claire, gripping her shoulders to hold her in place. Her legs were up around his hips and she squirmed and arched and whispered his name. It was as much as Steve could manage to keep breathing; he let his body run on autopilot as their movements smoothed and sped.
It ended in a rush, his hands gripping too tight and her breath catching in a rough moan. He struggled to keep his weight on his elbows instead of on her when he finished; he felt wrung out and shaky, but Claire was still trembling as well. It seemed normal, for something so overwhelming. Steve managed to lift himself off her, rolling onto his back trying to catch his breath. She curled against his side immediately, legs tangling, head on his shoulder and arm wound tight across his chest. Steve touched her hair.
"I love you, Claire." He needed to say it, rough and quiet, sweet and gentle. Even though she knew without the words. He brushed his fingers over her cheek and kissed the top of her head.
"I know." Claire closed her eyes, exhaled and turned her face toward his; their foreheads touched. He needed to hear it, but didn't expect it. So when she whispered, "I love you too," his heart skipped a beat. Maybe two.
They fell asleep, in the middle of the day, Claire in Steve's arms, her hand still in his hair.
He dreamt of home, and home was Claire.
Josh had managed it, somehow, and Steve didn't understand but he believed it when Dr McCoy told him he was cured. The virus was gone. And he was alive.
They told him to rest, to lie down and wait until his pressure came back up, until his pulse calmed, until his breathing evened out. But he couldn't wait. So he promised to come back; that Claire would drag him if he didn't, and that was true. Because he needed to see her.
She was at the cabin, reading a book with paper beside her, pen poised over it as if she'd been taking notes. She looked up as he entered. "Steve? Where have you been?"
"...at the hospital."
Claire frowned. "Were you hurt?"
"No. I'm fine." He walked over, brushing a loose bit of hair behind her ear. "Better than fine."
She didn't understand. "Better than--? Oh." She stood, as the recognition lit her eyes. "Oh, Steve. You're..?"
"Cured." He smiled, and she flung herself at him, rising onto her toes with her arms around his neck. Steve held her about the waist, holding her up, feeling her weight in his arms and smelling her hair as it brushed his face. "They did it."
There were tears in Claire's eyes as she pulled back, smiling, and touched his face. "I... I don't know what to...."
He kissed her then, clumsy because they were so close, and she tangled fingers in his hair. It eased into something smoother, deeper, slower, and Steve tried to ignore the heat building in his chest, and the way the blood was rushing away from his head. Claire noticed, but to Steve's surprise she only pressed closer, and he made a needy sound into her mouth. Her chest pressed into his as her breath caught. They broke for air.
"Claire... I..."
"Shhh, I know. I know."
Nothing could come of this. It was likely that he was only alive in this place, in this time; even if he could return home, she was from seven years later. She was nine years older than him, and wouldn't remember this. Wouldn't remember them together, the fact that he slept in her bed with his arms around her every night, that they kissed and held hands and that his touch on her was gentle, tentative -- that when he slid one hand up the back of her shirt she shivered in his arms.
"Steve..." Claire's head dropped to his shoulder, his fingers tightened in his hair.
He wanted her. More than he'd wanted anything before in his life. More than he'd wanted to be alive. He wanted her safe and happy and in bed with him, letting him touch her. "Claire. Can we..?"
"No." But when he kissed her again, she didn't resist. She leaned against him and he supported her, feeling her warmth seeping through his shirt. And Steve stepped forward; Claire's legs hit the edge of the bed and they fell -- not his intention, but she arched up instinctively under his weight and his breath hitched, stifling what would have been a moan.
He wasn't going to beg. He wasn't going to push. But Claire looked up at him for a long moment, and then one of her legs bent up beside his hip. Steve slid a hand down her other side, settling on the waistband of her jeans. And she nodded, and they kissed, and when her breathing became ragged he dropped his head to kiss her neck. Her skin smelled of floral soap and Claire, and she was quiet until his teeth scraped; an accident, but there was a soft moan on her exhalation. She reached down and pulled at his shirt.
It came off, along with hers, his hand supporting her as she leaned up to pull off her sweater. She lay back down with her bra still on, but Steve couldn't keep himself from leaning down and kissing along the curve of her breasts. She sighed, hands on his neck, his shoulders, back up to his jaw.
He wasn't terribly handsome, or strong, or built. He knew this, that there was nothing terribly desirable about him. But she seemed to want him anyway... his jeans were becoming distinctly uncomfortable.
"Claire?" He murmured the name against her skin.
"Hmmm?"
"You're beautiful."
She didn't respond, exactly, but nudged him off and reached for his belt. It proved very difficult, in Steve's opinion, to strip and kiss, but somehow they managed it, kicking off shoes and pants. Claire rolled on top of him in her underwear, and the few processes still running in Steve's brain shut down completely. He fumbled to get her bra off until she laughed against his lips and reached back to unclip it herself. Which worked just fine, in his opinion -- his hands stroked and wandered, his pulse sped at the feel of her skin against him. And he would have been content with that, with touching and kissing and holding her close, but then Claire shifted again. Steve was busy nuzzling her neck, but something dropped to the floor and he saw it out of the corner of his eye. Claire's fingers hooked under the waistband of his boxers -- he caught one of her wrists, suddenly nervous. She moved off him, lying naked on her side and waiting.
What the fuck was wrong with him?
Steve let go of Claire's wrist and yanked off his underwear, before nearly pouncing on Claire. She was laughing again, and he was struggling to keep his hips a modest distance away, but she raised her knee and tugged him down. He moaned raggedly, and was embarrassed at the sound.
"Steve..." Claire brought up her other leg, and tilted her hips, and Steve couldn't even respond beyond a questioning, 'mm?' Claire squirmed as he pressed against her, her breathing uneven and fast. "Go ahead," she whispered.
"What do I...?" She smiled at him, and dropped her hand from his shoulder to between them, fingers wrapping around his erection and guiding him lower. He wanted to ask if they should go slower, if he should do something in between, but he wasn't sure what, or if he'd have the patience or coherence. And he knew for certain that if she touched him any more intently, they wouldn't be getting much farther. So he let her hand guide him down, her leg pull him forward, and listened to her soft cry as he slid inside her.
It was awkward. He was having trouble falling into a rhythm, was too distracted to kiss her properly; the whole thing was overwhelming. He was with Claire. He was dizzy, breathless -- his world was Claire, and she was everything. It wasn't so different from usual.
Steve's hands slid under Claire, gripping her shoulders to hold her in place. Her legs were up around his hips and she squirmed and arched and whispered his name. It was as much as Steve could manage to keep breathing; he let his body run on autopilot as their movements smoothed and sped.
It ended in a rush, his hands gripping too tight and her breath catching in a rough moan. He struggled to keep his weight on his elbows instead of on her when he finished; he felt wrung out and shaky, but Claire was still trembling as well. It seemed normal, for something so overwhelming. Steve managed to lift himself off her, rolling onto his back trying to catch his breath. She curled against his side immediately, legs tangling, head on his shoulder and arm wound tight across his chest. Steve touched her hair.
"I love you, Claire." He needed to say it, rough and quiet, sweet and gentle. Even though she knew without the words. He brushed his fingers over her cheek and kissed the top of her head.
"I know." Claire closed her eyes, exhaled and turned her face toward his; their foreheads touched. He needed to hear it, but didn't expect it. So when she whispered, "I love you too," his heart skipped a beat. Maybe two.
They fell asleep, in the middle of the day, Claire in Steve's arms, her hand still in his hair.
He dreamt of home, and home was Claire.