Fic: Lost for you (so lost for you) - part two
Title: Lost for you (so lost for you)
Fandom: The Bourne series/The Bourne Legacy
Pairing: Aaron/Marta
Genre: post - movie. introspective, romance. smut with feelings and substance.
Rating: M
Warnings: it's pretty explicit, not for kids stuff.
Summary: He could cross the room in four strides exactly and be next to her, and God, he knows what would happen.
A/N: THE COOKIES GO TO cybermathwitch for beta reading this super quickly, and for being awesome and amazing and the best fic/fandom/anything friend you can imagine. Also, a big, big thank you to sienamystic for reading the draft and convincing me this felt the way I wanted it. The title was borrowed from Dave Matthews Band's "Crash into me".
Uh, so, these two have invaded my brain and refused to get out. Also, they're awesome and lovely and have this amazing and interesting dynamic, AND they both feel so touch starved. This fic just .... happened. I hope you like it.
Written for daxcat79
*
In his head he still calls her Doctor Shearing sometimes.
Right now, Doctor Shearing is drunk. It’s not too bad, she can still walk on her own, and her behavior isn't drawing any unwanted attention. If anything it’s endearing and he finds it hard to stop looking at her. But she is definitely under the influence, and she talks a lot more than she usually does. He’s hearing about Marta he doesn’t know, the one whose parents were musicians and how she got into science and how much she loved her books. The one he would really like top get to know better. He needs her to remain functional, and he really hates telling her they should leave the bar, because they’re having fun
“Spoilsport,” she says when they walk out on the street.
“I think you’ve had enough to drink,” he grins. She gives him a cheeky grin in return.
“Are you suddenly my dad?”
“No, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t look out for you,” he says. She smacks his arm lightly. He starts to laugh, because her expression is comical, and everything is unexpected and just... different.
“I can look after myself just fine.”
“I know,” he says, smile playing on his lips.
“I can look out after you too,” she stops in front of him and pokes his chest with her finger.
“I never thought differently,” he says softly, and it’s the truth. They just look at each other, his breath suspended and her eyes are a little wild under seeping streetlights. The town is packed with tourists and they don’t stand out in any way. It’s deceiving and almost liberating and he still can’t stop looking over his shoulder. He feels torn, because he wants her to feel good (he wants to make her feel good) but he needs her to be able to run. “I’m sorry Doc,” he says.
“It’s Marta. M-A-R-T-A,” she accentuates every letter with a poke. His smile falters and her expression softens. “Oh, you’re so -” she doesn’t finish, she huffs and gives him a look full of mixed feelings. “Don’t you like my name?”
“I do,” he says. He really does.
She starts walking, and gives him a sideways glance. He walks next to her, close and almost touching her.
They find their way to the harbor and the ship. Francis and Joseph are still away when they make their way aboard. Aaron tries to busy himself with something, but she is there, alone at the ship’s rail, with that look full of longing in her eyes. He can’t help it, he feels like a robber, a thief who took that small semblance of normalcy from her, again.
“Hey,” he says when he leans close to her, and she’s still staring towards the world they can’t have. “I’ve ruined the evening, haven’t I?” he asks carefully.
“No,” she looks at him and deep in her eyes there’s understanding and forgiveness and compassion. He wonders how she can still have all of that in her, after everything. “You’re overestimating your influence,” she adds and her look turns half teasing. He chuckles. Okay, then, he thinks.
“Oh right,” he says. This time it really does sound light. “Sorry.” They’ll play it like that, they’ll keep each other away from regrets and other, similar things.
“Oh, Aaron, stop apologizing. I …understand. We still have to be careful,” she says, hands tightening on the rail. The lights are floating in front of them, blinking against the water’s surface, just across the street. There’s a city full of people and pulsing with life and music and happiness. They got to be a small part of that for a moment. “Stop feeling so bad,” she murmurs and her hand reaches and wraps around his.
“Okay,” he breathes. Her fingers are there, warm against his. The bits of normalcy, he thinks. Things he couldn’t have before - should he have them now? Is it really safe, or are they going to make him see less, be less careful?
Become helpless?
“It was still very lovely,” she says quietly and smiles wistfully towards the lights. He squeezes her hand and she holds on just a little tighter in return, and he wonders how ordinary people do it. How they handle everything, all the conflicting emotions and desires versus the things they should do.
A moment later she starts to let go, and he almost wants to make up some reason to keep on holding her, but she turns to him and pulls him closer and gives him this look. He isn’t sure what it is, or what it means, but it seems designed to but it seems designed to draw him in and keep him looking at her, so he does, because she’s amazing, and she’s beautiful and she’s close, not just in physical sense. She’s close. Someone who just had drinks with him and told him about her sister and her childhood.
“I’ve -” he starts and falters. She looks down, at their joined hands. “I wish we could - I don’t know, wish there was a way to fix this,” he says.
“That should be my line,” she says then.
"Oh, but you've already fixed me," falls from his lips and her smile turns soft and sad. He feels he should stop this free fall into sadness if he can, and pulls her against him and holds her until he feels her relax.
Closeness is comforting and it somehow helps him breathe. He remembers his life as Aaron in a blur of motion and right now he’s standing still, and it’s good, so good, like hands wrapping around him, touching his arms, resting on his chest, her head settling under his chin. He thinks how she’d fixed more than just his brain and DNA, how she keeps on fixing him, creating opportunities to have a taste of life he could only observe from afar. She moves, her hand placed above his heart, and looks up at his face. Her smile is too dreamy and her eyes are slightly unfocused and shiny, the only cues giving away the fact that she’s not sober.
“You should go to sleep, Doc,” he says. She’s holding onto his shoulder, thumb stroking along his collarbone and he really doesn’t see it coming, he doesn’t. The next moment she's on her toes, her mouth against his, her determination lacking finesse, their noses bumping. When she loses her balance he tries to steady her, and she holds onto him, but it doesn’t break their connection. Their lips stay together, they both see to that.
He can feel all of her muscles come alive, becoming fierce and almost desperate. Her lips move, sweet and dry and insistent and he doesn’t think, he can’t, he just goes along. She kisses him and he kisses back, and it’s so simple, it just happens. This feels like a free fall of different kind, an oblivion when she coaxes his mouth to open for her and she tastes him. He lets her, and kisses her back, until they both need air. They part gasping and when she tries to kiss him again he pulls back, so her lips fall against his neck. It takes all self control he possesses not to keep kissing her.
“Aaron,” she sighs into his chest. “I want this -” He wonders if its useless to resist, if he even stands a chance. He kisses her forehead and holds onto her.
“You shouldn’t do something you’ll regret when you’re sober,” he says.
“I won’t regret it,” she insists, flat palms stroking over his muscles. “I’ll want to do it again.”
He closes his eyes and swallows hard; he won’t take the real, conscious choice away from her. No matter how much he believes her when she says she wants this, no matter how much he needs it.
“So we’ll do this later when you’re sober,” he tells her.
*
Forming attachments was unwise, falling in love was forbidden, and now he understands why. It ruins focus completely, it rearranges one’s frame of reference. The world becomes tilted and things gain new meaning. In program it would have been dangerous and just fucking impossible. Now? Nobody owns him any more. He’s free to do what he wants with himself, right?
Yes, but still.
He knows that adrenaline and traumatic experiences and loneliness make a dangerous mix, but that’s not all. That’s not nearly everything that's happening here. It feels like a whole lot more than that, and he knows it should worry him, not make him feel so anxiously excited and filled with longing. He shouldn’t go back and think of that morning when he woke up with Marta wrapped around him.
He’s stretched on his back, staring at the darkness, hearing Marta’s steady breathing over the sound of waves and the ship rocking beneath them. So close, he has to shut his eyes and count. Count in Russian, in Portuguese, in every language he knows. He could cross the room in four strides exactly and be next to her, and God, he knows what would happen.
He just doesn’t have it in him to tell her no again - he doesn’t want to.
*
The sun is high above the horizon and there is nothing but the sea around them.
“Oh God. I don't know how I managed that - oh!”
“Hold still doc,” Aaron frowns as he holds her palm in his hands.
“It's fine, I can -”
“They're in your right hand. You're right handed.
She sighs as he continues his inspection.
“I didn't know fish with thorns existed,” she complains as he angles her hand to get a better look.
“It's just ordinary fish fins,” he says, wishing he had small pincers, something, but his fingers will have to do. “You'll have to be more careful,” he looks at her and smiles. The frown she throws his way doesn't scare him.
The fins really are like thorns, he thinks, sharp and long, sticking out of her skin. Aaron gets them out, carefully, saying he's sorry every time she hisses or makes some other painful sound. Her skin is still delicate compared to everyone else on the boat, but the sterile, impeccable look of a doctor's hands is long gone. They're rougher, used, dirty. They're almost like his, in fact.
They sit on the ship's deck, under the hot sun. Time moves slowly and the rest of the world is a backdrop of noise from somewhere far away. Aaron finds gauze and a bandage, then he carefully wraps her hand. He kisses her open palm when he's done, the part covered with bandages first and then the heel, and holds her other palm up and kisses it once, twice, three times. It's somewhere between reverence and the way one would kiss a lover.
She lets him.
“Aaron,” she smiles when he looks up at her, teasing and almost happy, and bites her lip a little. There's a bit of red on her cheeks, under the tan the sun has given her. “What was that for?”
He shakes his head, and gives her one sided grin, “Nothing.”
“Right,” she says as they still hold hands. He’d like to tell her, but he doesn't know how - it might come out wrong.
He remembers what her house looked like. He knows she was working on it herself, because he knows her love for creating and remaking things, making them better. Only they burned her work together, turned her half finished home into ashes, and he is a creation she completed instead, and even though there were others before her who turned him into what he is now, her mark on him is final. The quiet servant of distant engineer god became his direct creator, and he's not sure he could ever replace all the things she had to burn, had to give up in that pursuit.. He's not even sure he should - at this point it's hard to even know what he should be doing, apart from keeping her safe.
He must look too serious, because her smile drops and her eyes deepen.
“Doc -” he starts, but she lifts her wrapped palm to his face.
“Shhh,” she says, then she slides closer along the narrow bench they're sitting on. “It's - Try not to think for a moment.”
He wants to say that he likes to think - that thanks to her science and tests he can - but with her face so close to his it's hard to focus on anything else. Her thumb brushes across his lips and he closes his eyes. He might be faster and stronger than she is, but this stops him in his tracks. This touch that’s for him. He looks at her looking at him like she's trying to commit every bit of him to her memory, the way he looks and feels under her hand. He kisses her thumb and she closes her eyes, like this is bliss and the only thing she wants.
She continues touching his face and he's not sure who makes that soft and pleading sound. Her fingers slide down his neck and towards his naked chest, and even though she touched all of him many times before, this feels like the first time. He tilts his face towards hers and they're breathing each other in.
It feels like the time stops. She spreads her fingers in the middle of his chest and looks at her hand there, and he looks too, his skin, her skin, his work on her hand. Somehow it's even hard to breathe and his heart is hammering behind his ribs, echoing against her open palm. Her face is close enough for their foreheads to touch when she continues her exploration, slides her fingertips over the plane of his chest. Her fingers are barely there, but when she touches his nipple his eyes fall shut and he moans. He feels her lips against his neck, kissing once, twice, traveling lower, toward the juncture of neck and shoulder. His skin is oversensitive, his breathing hard, entire body pulled taut and ready, but he can't even move. He can only feel.
The moment when she lifts her face and her lips near his feels like an eternity. He knows what he should do, theoretically, as he's done this before, only those sort of experiences from his past feel like they belong to some other life. This is different than everything Kenneth had experienced, it's different from his quick, practical one night stands that left him relieved but empty. They weren't this; they were nothing like this. He would marvel at everything, except these things flash briefly through his mind and disappear, leaving only awareness of Marta and everything she's doing to him.
This? This is filling his chest. It's trying to claw its way out as Marta's eyes flick between his eyes and his lips, and he knows that she wants him to kiss her, so he does. He moves slowly and presses his lips against hers, soft and barely there. She responds, and her body feels alive and willing against his when she presses close. He remembers his own hands then, holding onto her waist and pulling her closer as she kisses him back. He thinks he might drown in the feel of her; her hands on his chest, around his neck, her mouth opening against his when Francis shouts his name.
They break apart and he breathes harshly, looking at her red mouth and the bandaged hand rubbing where he just kissed her.
“I - uh - I have to -” he starts and fails, then gets up. “I, I'm sorry,” he says and licks his lips, looking at her with what has to look like a lifetime of need he never truly felt. She nods and smiles and he smiles in return, but it's awkward, like too many unsaid words hanging between them. He hurries over to Francis, but he can feel Marta's eyes on him, like pull of Earth on his feet.
*
It's a little bit awkward when he enters the small room they've been given. She's standing in the corner, by the sink, brushing her hair and he tries to come up with something to do with himself. He rearranges his bed (it barely qualifies as one, but he can sleep on it without constant worry someone will walk in to shoot him). She doesn't say anything but he’s hyper aware of her, of every sound she makes, and he tries not to turn around and look at her.
When she makes a painful sound he does anyway. He looks and she's trying to replace the bandage, and the gauze he used to cover her wounded palm is stuck. He's there before he thinks better of it.
“Let me,” he says, not looking at her face, just focusing on her hands. Touching her is probably a worse idea than looking at her. But he can handle this, he can, except she squeezes his fingers when he’s done, and holds him there and he looks up. Her face is soft in the dim light, from the familiar line of her mouth to the inviting depth of her eyes. The longing in them pulls him, so he touches her lips on an impulse, a mirror of her touch earlier. She's looking at him when she kisses his fingertips, like she wants to tell him yes, and this and I'm certain. He thinks she wants to do this, so he lets her. She takes his hand in hers, her soft and small hand wrapped around his bigger palm. She holds it open and kisses the center of his hand, open mouth and warm breath tickling his skin.
“Marta,” he manages to push her name through his tight throat. He lets her touch his face, slide her hands down his shoulders and chest and stop at his waist, to find the edges of his shirt and slide underneath them. He swallows a moan when her fingers touch his skin and she nuzzles his neck.
“Aaron,” she echoes and he wants to drown in the sound. “Oh, God, Please. Please, don’t -” He presses his face against hers, almost shaking as he realizes that there are only two options here, and he’s not walking away this time. “It's okay,” she says and he nods, he trusts her, he always trusts her.
They kiss - this time it happens like a pull of magnets, like she’s a part of him he has to discover. Her hands close around him, palms slide across the skin of his back as he pulls her close. This time when she parts his lips nobody interrupts them and he lets her kiss him, taste him the way she wants. He wants to touch her, all of her, and kiss her, and it's intense, hard, and completely overwhelming. He has to break for air, and he looks at her, urgency and desire reflecting on her face as they both breathe hard. He kisses her, deep, sloppy, uncoordinated; with hands on her hips and then he pulls back again, to press his forehead against hers. He's trying to regain at least some of his self control, but it's hard with her fingers touching between his ribs, and down along his spine.
“Marta,” he's breathing harshly, touching her face. His thumb falls against her lips and she opens her mouth, sucks it inside and he moans. His hips move and he grinds against her, instinct more than conscious action. As much as he's trying to hold himself back, his body is betraying him, but Marta doesn't seem to mind. Her eyes roll back and she moans when she feels him hard against her stomach.
“Yes,” she says, pushing him backwards, and he walks until he hits his own bed. She pushes him to sit and climbs to straddle him and they shift until they're pressed against each other and she’s on top of him. He closes his eyes and kisses her; her lips, her chin, her neck and she breathes his name and pulls at his shirt until he lifts his arms and lets her undress him. She looks at him, at the body she knows; she counted his scars and touched each and every one, but now her touch is different. It's like she wants to feel them all against her bare hands, because they're his. She kisses the freshly healed skin on his shoulder and he shudders, with his arms around her waist pulling her tight against him.
Then she starts to take off her shirt and he has to hold his breath and close his eyes. She's wearing nothing underneath, and it's a sight he always wanted to see, something he fantasized about through years of loneliness and now she's naked with him here. His hand waits above her breast for a moment, before she breathes her consent against his mouth. He holds her, touches her, presses his face against her; drags his open mouth against her skin. She moans his name and holds onto his shoulders when he takes her breast into his mouth. They hold each other so tightly, almost like they're trying to absorb each other, crawl into each other, so they could be one. He's never done this, never had something like this; he never had someone look at him or touch him like Marta does. He's dragging his mouth wet and hot along the column of her neck and she sounds and looks like she's losing herself in this, in him. He slides his hands down her back, grabs her butt and pulls her down, to press her against his hardening, needy body. They both moan and she holds onto him desperately.
“Please, Aaron,” she says, and he knows what she's asking, he knows that she needs the same thing he does. “I want you -”
“-Want you too,” he manages and she reaches between them to unbutton his pants. Her hands are shaking, they're both shaking and he's barely thinking straight. “Marta, I don't have -,” he hisses as she undoes the last button and reaches inside to wrap her hand around him. “God, Marta. No, uh, no protection,” he manages finally as her hands strokes him slowly and he knows there's no chance he'll last long.
“I have,” she says as she kisses his face and smiles. “An implant,” she explains and he nods. “It's okay, we're okay,” she assures and oh God, his heart is going to burst out of his chest. She stands up to unfasten her pants and push them down her hips, and he just looks at her. She's amazing, better than anything his mind ever conjured. He tells her so and as she touches him and tells him he's beautiful, standing over him, touching his face. He's kissing her hands and fumbling with his jeans and underwear, finally kicking it away from his legs. Then he pulls her and maybe he's too rough, but she comes to him, straddles him just like she did before, only there's nothing between them now. No barriers, no masks, no duties; just them.
She grasps him and he presses his face against her breasts when she lowers herself down on him. Then she holds onto him, and God, he can't even move. He just exists, suspended in this moment, breathing, heart beating and gripping her as she moves above him. It's slow, agonizing, perfect. He holds onto her hips and pushes, groans against her skin.
“Is this okay?” he asks and she nods. She looks breathless, just like he feels and they kiss and fumble to find a rhythm.
“It's good,” she says and moans with his every thrust. “It's great. Oh, Aaron,” she says. “Yes. Don't stop, don't stop -”
He doesn't. He wants to take it slow, but he can't. It's been a long time, and he's been so alone, and she's so gorgeous, wet and hot around him and the pressure builds steadily until he can't think any more, he can't control his movement, he just has to do this, have her; her heartbeat under his palm and her moans in his ears. He comes suddenly, so hard he can see stars behind his eyelids, and thinks he might fly apart if she weren’t holding him together.
“I'm sorry,” he says, panting.
“Don't be,” she kisses the skin of his shoulder. Then she kisses his mouth and she's pulling him to lay down on the narrow bed next to her. She spreads her legs and guides his hand between them, urges his fingers inside of her. “Touch me,” she says, and she shows him. “Touch me like that.”
He does, just as she demonstartes, and she asks more, harder and loses herself in everything he's doing to her. It doesn't take long and she is so fucking gorgeous when she shatters under his hand.
*
Later, they talk. They touch and kiss and talk, like it’s something they’ve done a million times before, and they stay together, bodies and fingers and palms, until the morning comes.
Fandom: The Bourne series/The Bourne Legacy
Pairing: Aaron/Marta
Genre: post - movie. introspective, romance. smut with feelings and substance.
Rating: M
Warnings: it's pretty explicit, not for kids stuff.
Summary: He could cross the room in four strides exactly and be next to her, and God, he knows what would happen.
A/N: THE COOKIES GO TO cybermathwitch for beta reading this super quickly, and for being awesome and amazing and the best fic/fandom/anything friend you can imagine. Also, a big, big thank you to sienamystic for reading the draft and convincing me this felt the way I wanted it. The title was borrowed from Dave Matthews Band's "Crash into me".
Uh, so, these two have invaded my brain and refused to get out. Also, they're awesome and lovely and have this amazing and interesting dynamic, AND they both feel so touch starved. This fic just .... happened. I hope you like it.
Written for daxcat79
*
In his head he still calls her Doctor Shearing sometimes.
Right now, Doctor Shearing is drunk. It’s not too bad, she can still walk on her own, and her behavior isn't drawing any unwanted attention. If anything it’s endearing and he finds it hard to stop looking at her. But she is definitely under the influence, and she talks a lot more than she usually does. He’s hearing about Marta he doesn’t know, the one whose parents were musicians and how she got into science and how much she loved her books. The one he would really like top get to know better. He needs her to remain functional, and he really hates telling her they should leave the bar, because they’re having fun
“Spoilsport,” she says when they walk out on the street.
“I think you’ve had enough to drink,” he grins. She gives him a cheeky grin in return.
“Are you suddenly my dad?”
“No, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t look out for you,” he says. She smacks his arm lightly. He starts to laugh, because her expression is comical, and everything is unexpected and just... different.
“I can look after myself just fine.”
“I know,” he says, smile playing on his lips.
“I can look out after you too,” she stops in front of him and pokes his chest with her finger.
“I never thought differently,” he says softly, and it’s the truth. They just look at each other, his breath suspended and her eyes are a little wild under seeping streetlights. The town is packed with tourists and they don’t stand out in any way. It’s deceiving and almost liberating and he still can’t stop looking over his shoulder. He feels torn, because he wants her to feel good (he wants to make her feel good) but he needs her to be able to run. “I’m sorry Doc,” he says.
“It’s Marta. M-A-R-T-A,” she accentuates every letter with a poke. His smile falters and her expression softens. “Oh, you’re so -” she doesn’t finish, she huffs and gives him a look full of mixed feelings. “Don’t you like my name?”
“I do,” he says. He really does.
She starts walking, and gives him a sideways glance. He walks next to her, close and almost touching her.
They find their way to the harbor and the ship. Francis and Joseph are still away when they make their way aboard. Aaron tries to busy himself with something, but she is there, alone at the ship’s rail, with that look full of longing in her eyes. He can’t help it, he feels like a robber, a thief who took that small semblance of normalcy from her, again.
“Hey,” he says when he leans close to her, and she’s still staring towards the world they can’t have. “I’ve ruined the evening, haven’t I?” he asks carefully.
“No,” she looks at him and deep in her eyes there’s understanding and forgiveness and compassion. He wonders how she can still have all of that in her, after everything. “You’re overestimating your influence,” she adds and her look turns half teasing. He chuckles. Okay, then, he thinks.
“Oh right,” he says. This time it really does sound light. “Sorry.” They’ll play it like that, they’ll keep each other away from regrets and other, similar things.
“Oh, Aaron, stop apologizing. I …understand. We still have to be careful,” she says, hands tightening on the rail. The lights are floating in front of them, blinking against the water’s surface, just across the street. There’s a city full of people and pulsing with life and music and happiness. They got to be a small part of that for a moment. “Stop feeling so bad,” she murmurs and her hand reaches and wraps around his.
“Okay,” he breathes. Her fingers are there, warm against his. The bits of normalcy, he thinks. Things he couldn’t have before - should he have them now? Is it really safe, or are they going to make him see less, be less careful?
Become helpless?
“It was still very lovely,” she says quietly and smiles wistfully towards the lights. He squeezes her hand and she holds on just a little tighter in return, and he wonders how ordinary people do it. How they handle everything, all the conflicting emotions and desires versus the things they should do.
A moment later she starts to let go, and he almost wants to make up some reason to keep on holding her, but she turns to him and pulls him closer and gives him this look. He isn’t sure what it is, or what it means, but it seems designed to but it seems designed to draw him in and keep him looking at her, so he does, because she’s amazing, and she’s beautiful and she’s close, not just in physical sense. She’s close. Someone who just had drinks with him and told him about her sister and her childhood.
“I’ve -” he starts and falters. She looks down, at their joined hands. “I wish we could - I don’t know, wish there was a way to fix this,” he says.
“That should be my line,” she says then.
"Oh, but you've already fixed me," falls from his lips and her smile turns soft and sad. He feels he should stop this free fall into sadness if he can, and pulls her against him and holds her until he feels her relax.
Closeness is comforting and it somehow helps him breathe. He remembers his life as Aaron in a blur of motion and right now he’s standing still, and it’s good, so good, like hands wrapping around him, touching his arms, resting on his chest, her head settling under his chin. He thinks how she’d fixed more than just his brain and DNA, how she keeps on fixing him, creating opportunities to have a taste of life he could only observe from afar. She moves, her hand placed above his heart, and looks up at his face. Her smile is too dreamy and her eyes are slightly unfocused and shiny, the only cues giving away the fact that she’s not sober.
“You should go to sleep, Doc,” he says. She’s holding onto his shoulder, thumb stroking along his collarbone and he really doesn’t see it coming, he doesn’t. The next moment she's on her toes, her mouth against his, her determination lacking finesse, their noses bumping. When she loses her balance he tries to steady her, and she holds onto him, but it doesn’t break their connection. Their lips stay together, they both see to that.
He can feel all of her muscles come alive, becoming fierce and almost desperate. Her lips move, sweet and dry and insistent and he doesn’t think, he can’t, he just goes along. She kisses him and he kisses back, and it’s so simple, it just happens. This feels like a free fall of different kind, an oblivion when she coaxes his mouth to open for her and she tastes him. He lets her, and kisses her back, until they both need air. They part gasping and when she tries to kiss him again he pulls back, so her lips fall against his neck. It takes all self control he possesses not to keep kissing her.
“Aaron,” she sighs into his chest. “I want this -” He wonders if its useless to resist, if he even stands a chance. He kisses her forehead and holds onto her.
“You shouldn’t do something you’ll regret when you’re sober,” he says.
“I won’t regret it,” she insists, flat palms stroking over his muscles. “I’ll want to do it again.”
He closes his eyes and swallows hard; he won’t take the real, conscious choice away from her. No matter how much he believes her when she says she wants this, no matter how much he needs it.
“So we’ll do this later when you’re sober,” he tells her.
*
Forming attachments was unwise, falling in love was forbidden, and now he understands why. It ruins focus completely, it rearranges one’s frame of reference. The world becomes tilted and things gain new meaning. In program it would have been dangerous and just fucking impossible. Now? Nobody owns him any more. He’s free to do what he wants with himself, right?
Yes, but still.
He knows that adrenaline and traumatic experiences and loneliness make a dangerous mix, but that’s not all. That’s not nearly everything that's happening here. It feels like a whole lot more than that, and he knows it should worry him, not make him feel so anxiously excited and filled with longing. He shouldn’t go back and think of that morning when he woke up with Marta wrapped around him.
He’s stretched on his back, staring at the darkness, hearing Marta’s steady breathing over the sound of waves and the ship rocking beneath them. So close, he has to shut his eyes and count. Count in Russian, in Portuguese, in every language he knows. He could cross the room in four strides exactly and be next to her, and God, he knows what would happen.
He just doesn’t have it in him to tell her no again - he doesn’t want to.
*
The sun is high above the horizon and there is nothing but the sea around them.
“Oh God. I don't know how I managed that - oh!”
“Hold still doc,” Aaron frowns as he holds her palm in his hands.
“It's fine, I can -”
“They're in your right hand. You're right handed.
She sighs as he continues his inspection.
“I didn't know fish with thorns existed,” she complains as he angles her hand to get a better look.
“It's just ordinary fish fins,” he says, wishing he had small pincers, something, but his fingers will have to do. “You'll have to be more careful,” he looks at her and smiles. The frown she throws his way doesn't scare him.
The fins really are like thorns, he thinks, sharp and long, sticking out of her skin. Aaron gets them out, carefully, saying he's sorry every time she hisses or makes some other painful sound. Her skin is still delicate compared to everyone else on the boat, but the sterile, impeccable look of a doctor's hands is long gone. They're rougher, used, dirty. They're almost like his, in fact.
They sit on the ship's deck, under the hot sun. Time moves slowly and the rest of the world is a backdrop of noise from somewhere far away. Aaron finds gauze and a bandage, then he carefully wraps her hand. He kisses her open palm when he's done, the part covered with bandages first and then the heel, and holds her other palm up and kisses it once, twice, three times. It's somewhere between reverence and the way one would kiss a lover.
She lets him.
“Aaron,” she smiles when he looks up at her, teasing and almost happy, and bites her lip a little. There's a bit of red on her cheeks, under the tan the sun has given her. “What was that for?”
He shakes his head, and gives her one sided grin, “Nothing.”
“Right,” she says as they still hold hands. He’d like to tell her, but he doesn't know how - it might come out wrong.
He remembers what her house looked like. He knows she was working on it herself, because he knows her love for creating and remaking things, making them better. Only they burned her work together, turned her half finished home into ashes, and he is a creation she completed instead, and even though there were others before her who turned him into what he is now, her mark on him is final. The quiet servant of distant engineer god became his direct creator, and he's not sure he could ever replace all the things she had to burn, had to give up in that pursuit.. He's not even sure he should - at this point it's hard to even know what he should be doing, apart from keeping her safe.
He must look too serious, because her smile drops and her eyes deepen.
“Doc -” he starts, but she lifts her wrapped palm to his face.
“Shhh,” she says, then she slides closer along the narrow bench they're sitting on. “It's - Try not to think for a moment.”
He wants to say that he likes to think - that thanks to her science and tests he can - but with her face so close to his it's hard to focus on anything else. Her thumb brushes across his lips and he closes his eyes. He might be faster and stronger than she is, but this stops him in his tracks. This touch that’s for him. He looks at her looking at him like she's trying to commit every bit of him to her memory, the way he looks and feels under her hand. He kisses her thumb and she closes her eyes, like this is bliss and the only thing she wants.
She continues touching his face and he's not sure who makes that soft and pleading sound. Her fingers slide down his neck and towards his naked chest, and even though she touched all of him many times before, this feels like the first time. He tilts his face towards hers and they're breathing each other in.
It feels like the time stops. She spreads her fingers in the middle of his chest and looks at her hand there, and he looks too, his skin, her skin, his work on her hand. Somehow it's even hard to breathe and his heart is hammering behind his ribs, echoing against her open palm. Her face is close enough for their foreheads to touch when she continues her exploration, slides her fingertips over the plane of his chest. Her fingers are barely there, but when she touches his nipple his eyes fall shut and he moans. He feels her lips against his neck, kissing once, twice, traveling lower, toward the juncture of neck and shoulder. His skin is oversensitive, his breathing hard, entire body pulled taut and ready, but he can't even move. He can only feel.
The moment when she lifts her face and her lips near his feels like an eternity. He knows what he should do, theoretically, as he's done this before, only those sort of experiences from his past feel like they belong to some other life. This is different than everything Kenneth had experienced, it's different from his quick, practical one night stands that left him relieved but empty. They weren't this; they were nothing like this. He would marvel at everything, except these things flash briefly through his mind and disappear, leaving only awareness of Marta and everything she's doing to him.
This? This is filling his chest. It's trying to claw its way out as Marta's eyes flick between his eyes and his lips, and he knows that she wants him to kiss her, so he does. He moves slowly and presses his lips against hers, soft and barely there. She responds, and her body feels alive and willing against his when she presses close. He remembers his own hands then, holding onto her waist and pulling her closer as she kisses him back. He thinks he might drown in the feel of her; her hands on his chest, around his neck, her mouth opening against his when Francis shouts his name.
They break apart and he breathes harshly, looking at her red mouth and the bandaged hand rubbing where he just kissed her.
“I - uh - I have to -” he starts and fails, then gets up. “I, I'm sorry,” he says and licks his lips, looking at her with what has to look like a lifetime of need he never truly felt. She nods and smiles and he smiles in return, but it's awkward, like too many unsaid words hanging between them. He hurries over to Francis, but he can feel Marta's eyes on him, like pull of Earth on his feet.
*
It's a little bit awkward when he enters the small room they've been given. She's standing in the corner, by the sink, brushing her hair and he tries to come up with something to do with himself. He rearranges his bed (it barely qualifies as one, but he can sleep on it without constant worry someone will walk in to shoot him). She doesn't say anything but he’s hyper aware of her, of every sound she makes, and he tries not to turn around and look at her.
When she makes a painful sound he does anyway. He looks and she's trying to replace the bandage, and the gauze he used to cover her wounded palm is stuck. He's there before he thinks better of it.
“Let me,” he says, not looking at her face, just focusing on her hands. Touching her is probably a worse idea than looking at her. But he can handle this, he can, except she squeezes his fingers when he’s done, and holds him there and he looks up. Her face is soft in the dim light, from the familiar line of her mouth to the inviting depth of her eyes. The longing in them pulls him, so he touches her lips on an impulse, a mirror of her touch earlier. She's looking at him when she kisses his fingertips, like she wants to tell him yes, and this and I'm certain. He thinks she wants to do this, so he lets her. She takes his hand in hers, her soft and small hand wrapped around his bigger palm. She holds it open and kisses the center of his hand, open mouth and warm breath tickling his skin.
“Marta,” he manages to push her name through his tight throat. He lets her touch his face, slide her hands down his shoulders and chest and stop at his waist, to find the edges of his shirt and slide underneath them. He swallows a moan when her fingers touch his skin and she nuzzles his neck.
“Aaron,” she echoes and he wants to drown in the sound. “Oh, God, Please. Please, don’t -” He presses his face against hers, almost shaking as he realizes that there are only two options here, and he’s not walking away this time. “It's okay,” she says and he nods, he trusts her, he always trusts her.
They kiss - this time it happens like a pull of magnets, like she’s a part of him he has to discover. Her hands close around him, palms slide across the skin of his back as he pulls her close. This time when she parts his lips nobody interrupts them and he lets her kiss him, taste him the way she wants. He wants to touch her, all of her, and kiss her, and it's intense, hard, and completely overwhelming. He has to break for air, and he looks at her, urgency and desire reflecting on her face as they both breathe hard. He kisses her, deep, sloppy, uncoordinated; with hands on her hips and then he pulls back again, to press his forehead against hers. He's trying to regain at least some of his self control, but it's hard with her fingers touching between his ribs, and down along his spine.
“Marta,” he's breathing harshly, touching her face. His thumb falls against her lips and she opens her mouth, sucks it inside and he moans. His hips move and he grinds against her, instinct more than conscious action. As much as he's trying to hold himself back, his body is betraying him, but Marta doesn't seem to mind. Her eyes roll back and she moans when she feels him hard against her stomach.
“Yes,” she says, pushing him backwards, and he walks until he hits his own bed. She pushes him to sit and climbs to straddle him and they shift until they're pressed against each other and she’s on top of him. He closes his eyes and kisses her; her lips, her chin, her neck and she breathes his name and pulls at his shirt until he lifts his arms and lets her undress him. She looks at him, at the body she knows; she counted his scars and touched each and every one, but now her touch is different. It's like she wants to feel them all against her bare hands, because they're his. She kisses the freshly healed skin on his shoulder and he shudders, with his arms around her waist pulling her tight against him.
Then she starts to take off her shirt and he has to hold his breath and close his eyes. She's wearing nothing underneath, and it's a sight he always wanted to see, something he fantasized about through years of loneliness and now she's naked with him here. His hand waits above her breast for a moment, before she breathes her consent against his mouth. He holds her, touches her, presses his face against her; drags his open mouth against her skin. She moans his name and holds onto his shoulders when he takes her breast into his mouth. They hold each other so tightly, almost like they're trying to absorb each other, crawl into each other, so they could be one. He's never done this, never had something like this; he never had someone look at him or touch him like Marta does. He's dragging his mouth wet and hot along the column of her neck and she sounds and looks like she's losing herself in this, in him. He slides his hands down her back, grabs her butt and pulls her down, to press her against his hardening, needy body. They both moan and she holds onto him desperately.
“Please, Aaron,” she says, and he knows what she's asking, he knows that she needs the same thing he does. “I want you -”
“-Want you too,” he manages and she reaches between them to unbutton his pants. Her hands are shaking, they're both shaking and he's barely thinking straight. “Marta, I don't have -,” he hisses as she undoes the last button and reaches inside to wrap her hand around him. “God, Marta. No, uh, no protection,” he manages finally as her hands strokes him slowly and he knows there's no chance he'll last long.
“I have,” she says as she kisses his face and smiles. “An implant,” she explains and he nods. “It's okay, we're okay,” she assures and oh God, his heart is going to burst out of his chest. She stands up to unfasten her pants and push them down her hips, and he just looks at her. She's amazing, better than anything his mind ever conjured. He tells her so and as she touches him and tells him he's beautiful, standing over him, touching his face. He's kissing her hands and fumbling with his jeans and underwear, finally kicking it away from his legs. Then he pulls her and maybe he's too rough, but she comes to him, straddles him just like she did before, only there's nothing between them now. No barriers, no masks, no duties; just them.
She grasps him and he presses his face against her breasts when she lowers herself down on him. Then she holds onto him, and God, he can't even move. He just exists, suspended in this moment, breathing, heart beating and gripping her as she moves above him. It's slow, agonizing, perfect. He holds onto her hips and pushes, groans against her skin.
“Is this okay?” he asks and she nods. She looks breathless, just like he feels and they kiss and fumble to find a rhythm.
“It's good,” she says and moans with his every thrust. “It's great. Oh, Aaron,” she says. “Yes. Don't stop, don't stop -”
He doesn't. He wants to take it slow, but he can't. It's been a long time, and he's been so alone, and she's so gorgeous, wet and hot around him and the pressure builds steadily until he can't think any more, he can't control his movement, he just has to do this, have her; her heartbeat under his palm and her moans in his ears. He comes suddenly, so hard he can see stars behind his eyelids, and thinks he might fly apart if she weren’t holding him together.
“I'm sorry,” he says, panting.
“Don't be,” she kisses the skin of his shoulder. Then she kisses his mouth and she's pulling him to lay down on the narrow bed next to her. She spreads her legs and guides his hand between them, urges his fingers inside of her. “Touch me,” she says, and she shows him. “Touch me like that.”
He does, just as she demonstartes, and she asks more, harder and loses herself in everything he's doing to her. It doesn't take long and she is so fucking gorgeous when she shatters under his hand.
*
Later, they talk. They touch and kiss and talk, like it’s something they’ve done a million times before, and they stay together, bodies and fingers and palms, until the morning comes.