Fic: Fool’s Gold (1/1)
Title: Fool’s Gold
Rating: R
Pairing: Nathan/Sandra
Word Count: 560
Summary: She’ll go ahead and take what she can get. For missy_useless, who requested “Nathan/anybody” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. General series spoilers through S3.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For missy_useless: Because you didn't expect me to fill all of your requests without throwing something obscene, twisted, and absolutely absurd your way, did you? ;)
Fool’s Gold
She doesn’t know what she’s doing, doesn’t know how she’ll live with herself afterwards. She barely knows the man next to her, the man lying naked, his seed on the unsullied sheets of her marriage bed, her scent all around him, permeating and heady, and she feels fifteen again, couched in the backseat of Danny Sambar’s camero; it’s giddy and guilty and her heart flutters in her chest in ways it hasn’t in ages, in ways she’d thought it was too old to manage, too far gone to fathom, and he looks at her, looks at her - and when he looks at her, he sees her. She knows it.
Her husband hasn’t looked at her like that, not in years; but then, her husband doesn't look at her at all, anymore, not really - and something, she figures, is better than nothing. She’ll go ahead and take what she can get.
She looks into his eyes, clenches the muscles between her thighs, reveling, regretting the soreness, the tingle still vibrating there just a little; he touches her, palm brushing across the soft flesh, stretched and loose around her stomach, but it’s a loving touch, a reverent touch - she knows that she’s nothing special, not to him, but he respects her, adores her in the moment, and that’s all she can ask for.
And it’s all so fast with these people - so sudden, no warning. Or maybe it’s there, but she’d never been able to see it. It always happens in the blink of an eyes, built up as fast as they can tear it down. The atmosphere shifts before she can put a finger on the reason why - she feels horn-rimmed eyes on the back of her neck, and she knows that he remembers, in the very same moment, the leggy blondes and the busty brunettes and the ravenous redheads that the state tosses his way, and they both wonder why they’re here, again - why they come back to this the way they do.
Her heart’s still pounding, still unsteady as she pulls the covers of her breasts, not to hide her body, but to cover her shame. She takes her eyes away from him, unable to look into those fathomless depths, so sure and yet so lost - so scared of everything, yet unwilling to let the fear hold him back. At least, not from this.
They never speak, and she’s not sure why - neither of them are pretending the other is someone else, someone different; neither of them looks at this as anything more than it is. They’re adults; they know how the world works. Release, quiet, calm - these things are too rare to imagine away, to sacrifice to the whims of propriety, of distance; to sacrifice to any whim but the one that serves the heat between them, behind his eyes, trapped beneath her ribs.
“How could you let her go?” Sandra asks a flying man, and she knows she won’t get an answer - knows that he hears what’s said underneath the foreplay, the pretense: ‘She’ll always be more mine than yours.’
He’s lying, breathing next to her, close enough to taste, to touch; her eyes close, then open, and he’s already flown away.
Rating: R
Pairing: Nathan/Sandra
Word Count: 560
Summary: She’ll go ahead and take what she can get. For missy_useless, who requested “Nathan/anybody” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. General series spoilers through S3.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For missy_useless: Because you didn't expect me to fill all of your requests without throwing something obscene, twisted, and absolutely absurd your way, did you? ;)
Fool’s Gold
She doesn’t know what she’s doing, doesn’t know how she’ll live with herself afterwards. She barely knows the man next to her, the man lying naked, his seed on the unsullied sheets of her marriage bed, her scent all around him, permeating and heady, and she feels fifteen again, couched in the backseat of Danny Sambar’s camero; it’s giddy and guilty and her heart flutters in her chest in ways it hasn’t in ages, in ways she’d thought it was too old to manage, too far gone to fathom, and he looks at her, looks at her - and when he looks at her, he sees her. She knows it.
Her husband hasn’t looked at her like that, not in years; but then, her husband doesn't look at her at all, anymore, not really - and something, she figures, is better than nothing. She’ll go ahead and take what she can get.
She looks into his eyes, clenches the muscles between her thighs, reveling, regretting the soreness, the tingle still vibrating there just a little; he touches her, palm brushing across the soft flesh, stretched and loose around her stomach, but it’s a loving touch, a reverent touch - she knows that she’s nothing special, not to him, but he respects her, adores her in the moment, and that’s all she can ask for.
And it’s all so fast with these people - so sudden, no warning. Or maybe it’s there, but she’d never been able to see it. It always happens in the blink of an eyes, built up as fast as they can tear it down. The atmosphere shifts before she can put a finger on the reason why - she feels horn-rimmed eyes on the back of her neck, and she knows that he remembers, in the very same moment, the leggy blondes and the busty brunettes and the ravenous redheads that the state tosses his way, and they both wonder why they’re here, again - why they come back to this the way they do.
Her heart’s still pounding, still unsteady as she pulls the covers of her breasts, not to hide her body, but to cover her shame. She takes her eyes away from him, unable to look into those fathomless depths, so sure and yet so lost - so scared of everything, yet unwilling to let the fear hold him back. At least, not from this.
They never speak, and she’s not sure why - neither of them are pretending the other is someone else, someone different; neither of them looks at this as anything more than it is. They’re adults; they know how the world works. Release, quiet, calm - these things are too rare to imagine away, to sacrifice to the whims of propriety, of distance; to sacrifice to any whim but the one that serves the heat between them, behind his eyes, trapped beneath her ribs.
“How could you let her go?” Sandra asks a flying man, and she knows she won’t get an answer - knows that he hears what’s said underneath the foreplay, the pretense: ‘She’ll always be more mine than yours.’
He’s lying, breathing next to her, close enough to taste, to touch; her eyes close, then open, and he’s already flown away.