Happy Birthday, Mari!
I love timezones, because they gave me an extra 8 hours to wish
geeky_apple a wonderful birthday and to finish her present...
Title: Contact
Author: The Evil Pigeon Lady
Pairing: Max/Logan
Rating: R for adult themes and situations
Genre: Angst/Romance (Depressing smut?)
Spoilers: Female Trouble
Disclaimer: I don’t own Dark Angel and nobody has ever offered to pay me for any of this.
Summary: When there was nothing left to hope for, she appeared in his doorway.
Author’s Notes: This fic was written especially for Mari. A while back she was nice enough to look over a very desperate/wallow-y/run-on-sentence-y/needy/smutty/angsty fic that I wrote, and she liked it (or kindly pretended to like it) so much that she asked me if I would duplicate the mood and style in a Max/Logan story for her. Then she reminded me that she had a birthday coming up. How could I say no?
This is also a response to the Nekkid 40 prompt “chair”, because I’m efficient that way.
And please ignore the weird computer glitch thingy half way through, I can't figure out how to fix it. :-P
It’s a dark and stormy night. That doesn’t surprise him. All his nights are dark and stormy lately, and the days too, so much so that it’s hard to tell when the sun finally retreats and gives way to evening. The chaos raging outside matches the destructive thoughts swirling in his mind, and he sits at the window watching rivulets of rain water travel down the glass, and he has spent more night than he can remember doing exactly this same thing.
He knows he needs to sleep. He’s so tired he can’t think straight anymore, completely drained from the push of the therapy. He’s mentally exhausted from disappointment, and he’s worn out by all those extra hours he forced himself to stay awake to feel every last sensation in his legs, knowing that soon it would all be gone forever.
The wind picks up, and he hears its howl above the gentle humming of the computer which he runs continuously, faithfully searching for a solution that he knows isn’t there.
It’s like it’s happening to him all over again, like he’s waking up in that cold, sterile hospital room, panicking because he can’t feel his feet or move his legs. But this time there’s no panic or fear, only the dread of knowing exactly what will inevitably happen to him and the helplessness of knowing it he can’t stop it. In many respects, it’s worse the second time around, because this time there’s no miracle left to hope for. He knows what it will be like, and he has no optimistic outlook for his prognosis.
On impulse, he swings his chair around to bang his leg into the window. He’s been doing that a lot lately. At first he did it to relive that blissful moment when he discovered that his spine had started to mend, but now he just wants to feel anything he can. It’s only a hint of pressure, a meager taste of pain, and if it weren’t for the loud noise his knee makes when it hits the glass, he wonders if he might just be imagining feeling anything at all.
And he’s too tired to fight it anymore. He’s almost too tired to care.
And the gun is back in the drawer.
He wonders if he would have gone through with it, if he might have taken that final, permanent step had leaking roofs and distressed neighbors not intervened. He doubts it, because he’s never been one to take the coward’s way out, and he remembers all the faceless strangers who depend on him…even though they don’t realize it, or thank him, or notice if he stops. Still, he’s not convinced the world will be worse off without him; it might just be less crowded.
It’s many long, thoughtful moments after midnight before he surrenders his vigil at the window and retreats to his bedroom, tired and unable to fight it anymore. He lies there with his eyes closed, too worn out to move but unable to sleep, no matter how exhausted he is. It’s as though his mind knows that he can still feel soft sheets against the back of his legs, and won’t allow his body to sleep because it knows that this last bit of sensation might be gone by morning.
He’s still waiting for unconsciousness to claim him when he hears the noise. The softest sound, so small he might have missed it, and he’s suddenly alert again, holding perfectly still and straining to make out the source of that rustling that was too uncommon to ignore.
She’s watching him; she has been for awhile. She knows he’s not sleeping, that he hears her. She can sense it in the way he breathes, the way his muscles fight to remain still as he tries to play opossum, waiting to find out if she’s friend or foe. He has more reason than most to be wary of intruders; they each have more than a healthy number of enemies, and bumps in the night often mean danger. She knows that he’ll discover her presence soon enough and there’s no turning back now.
He cautiously opens his eyes. She’s in his bedroom, standing in his doorway as if she had always been there, bathed in the city lights that shine through his windows. She leans against the frame and radiates attitude as if lingering in his hallway watching him sleep is the most natural thing in the world.
He’s not surprised to see her there. He merely wonders how long she’s been lurking, silent as the grave, watching him fighting for sleep while fighting to stay awake. “Max. What are you doing here? Are you alright?”
She tries to keep it casual, even though she’s uncomfortably aware that if she leaves him alone to sleep, he might do something under night’s cover that would never let him wake up again. She knows there is a bottle of sleeping pills in the bathroom and a gun in the nightstand, both of which might temp him so much in the lonely night he would never see morning. She’s not willing to let him go.
“Didn’t feel like going home, and didn’t want a hassle with the Sector Cops for being out past curfew. I figured I’d just kick it here tonight.”
He knows her well enough to understand that her indifference is carefully crafted, and it doesn’t escape his notice that she failed to answer his second question. There’s a shadow of masked resentment in the look she gives him that makes him realize it was the wrong thing to ask. She’s not here because she’s not alright, she’s here because he’s not alright, and he wonders if it irritates her that she has to care about that.
He moves to sit up but she goes to him instead. She sits on the edge of his bed, up against his leg. He tells himself that he would do the right thing and shift away from her if he still had the ability, but he knows he’s lying to himself. He doesn’t have the strength to kick her out of his bed, not when he’s wanted her there for so long, when only days ago he thought she might accept an invitation, back when he thought they might have a future together. Now he can only secretly revel in the feeling of her body pressed up against him, reminding him how long he’s been desperate for any sort of physical contact, how starved for human touch he’s been since the shooting. He’s longing to be touched and comforted, but too proud to ask for it and ashamed of his need.
“Logan,” she whispers, “I want to ask you something.”
He’s been dreading the questions. What was he doing with that gun? What will he do now? Isn’t life still worth it? How could he think about leaving her? He’s too tired to make her understand. He can’t think clearly enough to argue with her, and he figures it’s not worth it to try.
Instead she says, “Can you still feel anything?”
He’s surprised by this, and a little irritated. He doesn’t want to talk about it with her, doesn’t want to have a lengthy discussion about it in his bedroom in the middle of the night.
“Not much,” he answers, and it hurts to say it aloud. “It’s almost gone.”
“Almost? Can you feel this?” Her hand is on his leg, circling around his ankle. It’s barely a hint of sensation where there should be lots of pressure, but he feels it, and he closes his eyes to concentrate on the feeling, barely there but electrifying at the same time. He nods.
Her hand moves higher up his leg and she asks, “How about this?” She adds her other hand, moving over his knee, squeezing gently, watching his face for a reaction. He lets out a little gasp, answering her question. It’s a whisper of sensation for him, a mere tickle where he should be feeling a firm caress, but it’s definitely there, and his nerves reach out to pick up every beautiful sensation.
“Max,” he cautions her as her hands continue to travel up his leg, firm and soft at the same time. Her hands sneak up his thighs, fanning upwards and outwards in firm caresses that test his will power just as much as his tactical response. He reaches out to still her movements, but instead she twines her fingers around his, pinning his hands at his sides. She leans in to him, bringing her face closer to his, still watching his expression intently while their joined hands rest near his shoulders. The answer is obvious, but he can’t figure out why, so he asks her anyway. “What are you doing?”
She knows it’s probably not the right way to comfort him. She’s not good with things like this. She needs to be close to him, to have his wordless promise that he’ll never abandon her, and this was the only way she can think to get it. She whispers so low he has to strain to hear her, and there’s a strange, anxious look on her face, because it means something to her. “I want you to feel it, Logan.”
And before there can be anymore confusion, any more misinterpretation, before he has time to reject her or think too much, she kisses him, leaning over him with her legs pressed firmly against his, their hands still joined together.
“Max, wait,” he chokes out.
She knows what he’s going to say, but she doesn’t want to hear about his pride or self-pity or logic or morality or excuses, so she kisses him again, a sudden, hungry, passionate kiss to silence his all his protests.
It’s not that he doesn’t want her, he does. From the first moment she crossed his path he hasn’t wanted anyone else, and he’s been drowning in need for so long, he’s forgotten what anything else feels like. He wonders if he can he receive her altruism, like a dying man requesting a last meal? Is he low enough to accept her merciful touch? But she kisses him with such ferocity that it makes him hope and almost believe that she wants this too, that it’s not just an act of kindness but something more, for her as well as him, so he kisses her back.
Her lips are hot and so, so soft. Her whole body is burning against his skin, and he’s starting to feel feverish himself, as though it’s contagious. She releases his hands and he reaches out to run his fingers through her hair. He holds her to him like she’s his lifeline while he tries to drown in her determined kiss, like somehow that will be his salvation.
It’s nothing like a daydream. This is real and solid and tangible, and she’s perfection in his arms. Max is there, warm, and offering all the closeness he’s been craving, and he takes it gratefully. Her hands entice fire under his skin, and her fingers leave trails of heat and energy as they pass over his body.
She strays away to nip at his neck, shoulders, chest, collarbone. He doesn’t let her wander far before her grips her hard and pulls her to his mouth again and again for drugging kisses that make his head spin. He’s suffocating in her and he doesn’t care, he welcomes it.
Sensitivity is fleeting; it’s like she’s touching him through water, but he feels it and his body cries out for more of the blessed, muted sensations and his brain wants to memorize every last feeling he’ll ever experience. Then she pulls off the last of her clothing and it’s all skin and warmth and heat and soft curves that fit perfectly in his hands. As Max slides over him, his body is more alert than it’s ever been, existing in a state of hyper-aware bliss.
She’s everywhere, surrounding him and covering him and encompassing him, and he never thought he would feel her like this, and he’s never been so connected to anyone before. The blood starts to pound in his ears and pulse through his body. He feels the rhythmic beating course through him, although it gets lost somewhere on the way to his toes. He feels it enough everywhere else to make up for it. His heart‘s going to burst and he’s nothing but over sensitized nerve endings.
She gives him one final, frenzied kiss and holds him close as lights begin to burst behind his eyes and together they’re a million tiny explosions and every touch is combustible. He’s trembling, but he feels complete for the first time in a long, long time. They finally collapse, entangled in each other, amalgamated and complete.
He tries to stay awake a little longer. He still wants to hold on to this feeling, now more than ever, but now it’s a hope instead of a desperation. He knows he can finally rest, finally relax into unconsciousness, secure that if his body has failed him before he wakes up, the last sensations his body will experience is Max pressing against him and surrounding him and merging into him until he’s not sure through the haze where he ends and she begins.
And he knows he’s not alone anymore.
Final Author’s Note: I realize that this idea has been done a million times already, but at this point in the fandom, hasn’t everything? If the lack of originality bothers you, I apologize.
geeky_apple a wonderful birthday and to finish her present...
Title: Contact
Author: The Evil Pigeon Lady
Pairing: Max/Logan
Rating: R for adult themes and situations
Genre: Angst/Romance (Depressing smut?)
Spoilers: Female Trouble
Disclaimer: I don’t own Dark Angel and nobody has ever offered to pay me for any of this.
Summary: When there was nothing left to hope for, she appeared in his doorway.
Author’s Notes: This fic was written especially for Mari. A while back she was nice enough to look over a very desperate/wallow-y/run-on-sentence-y/needy/smutty/angsty fic that I wrote, and she liked it (or kindly pretended to like it) so much that she asked me if I would duplicate the mood and style in a Max/Logan story for her. Then she reminded me that she had a birthday coming up. How could I say no?
This is also a response to the Nekkid 40 prompt “chair”, because I’m efficient that way.
And please ignore the weird computer glitch thingy half way through, I can't figure out how to fix it. :-P
It’s a dark and stormy night. That doesn’t surprise him. All his nights are dark and stormy lately, and the days too, so much so that it’s hard to tell when the sun finally retreats and gives way to evening. The chaos raging outside matches the destructive thoughts swirling in his mind, and he sits at the window watching rivulets of rain water travel down the glass, and he has spent more night than he can remember doing exactly this same thing.
He knows he needs to sleep. He’s so tired he can’t think straight anymore, completely drained from the push of the therapy. He’s mentally exhausted from disappointment, and he’s worn out by all those extra hours he forced himself to stay awake to feel every last sensation in his legs, knowing that soon it would all be gone forever.
The wind picks up, and he hears its howl above the gentle humming of the computer which he runs continuously, faithfully searching for a solution that he knows isn’t there.
It’s like it’s happening to him all over again, like he’s waking up in that cold, sterile hospital room, panicking because he can’t feel his feet or move his legs. But this time there’s no panic or fear, only the dread of knowing exactly what will inevitably happen to him and the helplessness of knowing it he can’t stop it. In many respects, it’s worse the second time around, because this time there’s no miracle left to hope for. He knows what it will be like, and he has no optimistic outlook for his prognosis.
On impulse, he swings his chair around to bang his leg into the window. He’s been doing that a lot lately. At first he did it to relive that blissful moment when he discovered that his spine had started to mend, but now he just wants to feel anything he can. It’s only a hint of pressure, a meager taste of pain, and if it weren’t for the loud noise his knee makes when it hits the glass, he wonders if he might just be imagining feeling anything at all.
And he’s too tired to fight it anymore. He’s almost too tired to care.
And the gun is back in the drawer.
He wonders if he would have gone through with it, if he might have taken that final, permanent step had leaking roofs and distressed neighbors not intervened. He doubts it, because he’s never been one to take the coward’s way out, and he remembers all the faceless strangers who depend on him…even though they don’t realize it, or thank him, or notice if he stops. Still, he’s not convinced the world will be worse off without him; it might just be less crowded.
It’s many long, thoughtful moments after midnight before he surrenders his vigil at the window and retreats to his bedroom, tired and unable to fight it anymore. He lies there with his eyes closed, too worn out to move but unable to sleep, no matter how exhausted he is. It’s as though his mind knows that he can still feel soft sheets against the back of his legs, and won’t allow his body to sleep because it knows that this last bit of sensation might be gone by morning.
He’s still waiting for unconsciousness to claim him when he hears the noise. The softest sound, so small he might have missed it, and he’s suddenly alert again, holding perfectly still and straining to make out the source of that rustling that was too uncommon to ignore.
She’s watching him; she has been for awhile. She knows he’s not sleeping, that he hears her. She can sense it in the way he breathes, the way his muscles fight to remain still as he tries to play opossum, waiting to find out if she’s friend or foe. He has more reason than most to be wary of intruders; they each have more than a healthy number of enemies, and bumps in the night often mean danger. She knows that he’ll discover her presence soon enough and there’s no turning back now.
He cautiously opens his eyes. She’s in his bedroom, standing in his doorway as if she had always been there, bathed in the city lights that shine through his windows. She leans against the frame and radiates attitude as if lingering in his hallway watching him sleep is the most natural thing in the world.
He’s not surprised to see her there. He merely wonders how long she’s been lurking, silent as the grave, watching him fighting for sleep while fighting to stay awake. “Max. What are you doing here? Are you alright?”
She tries to keep it casual, even though she’s uncomfortably aware that if she leaves him alone to sleep, he might do something under night’s cover that would never let him wake up again. She knows there is a bottle of sleeping pills in the bathroom and a gun in the nightstand, both of which might temp him so much in the lonely night he would never see morning. She’s not willing to let him go.
“Didn’t feel like going home, and didn’t want a hassle with the Sector Cops for being out past curfew. I figured I’d just kick it here tonight.”
He knows her well enough to understand that her indifference is carefully crafted, and it doesn’t escape his notice that she failed to answer his second question. There’s a shadow of masked resentment in the look she gives him that makes him realize it was the wrong thing to ask. She’s not here because she’s not alright, she’s here because he’s not alright, and he wonders if it irritates her that she has to care about that.
He moves to sit up but she goes to him instead. She sits on the edge of his bed, up against his leg. He tells himself that he would do the right thing and shift away from her if he still had the ability, but he knows he’s lying to himself. He doesn’t have the strength to kick her out of his bed, not when he’s wanted her there for so long, when only days ago he thought she might accept an invitation, back when he thought they might have a future together. Now he can only secretly revel in the feeling of her body pressed up against him, reminding him how long he’s been desperate for any sort of physical contact, how starved for human touch he’s been since the shooting. He’s longing to be touched and comforted, but too proud to ask for it and ashamed of his need.
“Logan,” she whispers, “I want to ask you something.”
He’s been dreading the questions. What was he doing with that gun? What will he do now? Isn’t life still worth it? How could he think about leaving her? He’s too tired to make her understand. He can’t think clearly enough to argue with her, and he figures it’s not worth it to try.
Instead she says, “Can you still feel anything?”
He’s surprised by this, and a little irritated. He doesn’t want to talk about it with her, doesn’t want to have a lengthy discussion about it in his bedroom in the middle of the night.
“Not much,” he answers, and it hurts to say it aloud. “It’s almost gone.”
“Almost? Can you feel this?” Her hand is on his leg, circling around his ankle. It’s barely a hint of sensation where there should be lots of pressure, but he feels it, and he closes his eyes to concentrate on the feeling, barely there but electrifying at the same time. He nods.
Her hand moves higher up his leg and she asks, “How about this?” She adds her other hand, moving over his knee, squeezing gently, watching his face for a reaction. He lets out a little gasp, answering her question. It’s a whisper of sensation for him, a mere tickle where he should be feeling a firm caress, but it’s definitely there, and his nerves reach out to pick up every beautiful sensation.
“Max,” he cautions her as her hands continue to travel up his leg, firm and soft at the same time. Her hands sneak up his thighs, fanning upwards and outwards in firm caresses that test his will power just as much as his tactical response. He reaches out to still her movements, but instead she twines her fingers around his, pinning his hands at his sides. She leans in to him, bringing her face closer to his, still watching his expression intently while their joined hands rest near his shoulders. The answer is obvious, but he can’t figure out why, so he asks her anyway. “What are you doing?”
She knows it’s probably not the right way to comfort him. She’s not good with things like this. She needs to be close to him, to have his wordless promise that he’ll never abandon her, and this was the only way she can think to get it. She whispers so low he has to strain to hear her, and there’s a strange, anxious look on her face, because it means something to her. “I want you to feel it, Logan.”
And before there can be anymore confusion, any more misinterpretation, before he has time to reject her or think too much, she kisses him, leaning over him with her legs pressed firmly against his, their hands still joined together.
“Max, wait,” he chokes out.
She knows what he’s going to say, but she doesn’t want to hear about his pride or self-pity or logic or morality or excuses, so she kisses him again, a sudden, hungry, passionate kiss to silence his all his protests.
It’s not that he doesn’t want her, he does. From the first moment she crossed his path he hasn’t wanted anyone else, and he’s been drowning in need for so long, he’s forgotten what anything else feels like. He wonders if he can he receive her altruism, like a dying man requesting a last meal? Is he low enough to accept her merciful touch? But she kisses him with such ferocity that it makes him hope and almost believe that she wants this too, that it’s not just an act of kindness but something more, for her as well as him, so he kisses her back.
Her lips are hot and so, so soft. Her whole body is burning against his skin, and he’s starting to feel feverish himself, as though it’s contagious. She releases his hands and he reaches out to run his fingers through her hair. He holds her to him like she’s his lifeline while he tries to drown in her determined kiss, like somehow that will be his salvation.
It’s nothing like a daydream. This is real and solid and tangible, and she’s perfection in his arms. Max is there, warm, and offering all the closeness he’s been craving, and he takes it gratefully. Her hands entice fire under his skin, and her fingers leave trails of heat and energy as they pass over his body.
She strays away to nip at his neck, shoulders, chest, collarbone. He doesn’t let her wander far before her grips her hard and pulls her to his mouth again and again for drugging kisses that make his head spin. He’s suffocating in her and he doesn’t care, he welcomes it.
Sensitivity is fleeting; it’s like she’s touching him through water, but he feels it and his body cries out for more of the blessed, muted sensations and his brain wants to memorize every last feeling he’ll ever experience. Then she pulls off the last of her clothing and it’s all skin and warmth and heat and soft curves that fit perfectly in his hands. As Max slides over him, his body is more alert than it’s ever been, existing in a state of hyper-aware bliss.
She’s everywhere, surrounding him and covering him and encompassing him, and he never thought he would feel her like this, and he’s never been so connected to anyone before. The blood starts to pound in his ears and pulse through his body. He feels the rhythmic beating course through him, although it gets lost somewhere on the way to his toes. He feels it enough everywhere else to make up for it. His heart‘s going to burst and he’s nothing but over sensitized nerve endings.
She gives him one final, frenzied kiss and holds him close as lights begin to burst behind his eyes and together they’re a million tiny explosions and every touch is combustible. He’s trembling, but he feels complete for the first time in a long, long time. They finally collapse, entangled in each other, amalgamated and complete.
He tries to stay awake a little longer. He still wants to hold on to this feeling, now more than ever, but now it’s a hope instead of a desperation. He knows he can finally rest, finally relax into unconsciousness, secure that if his body has failed him before he wakes up, the last sensations his body will experience is Max pressing against him and surrounding him and merging into him until he’s not sure through the haze where he ends and she begins.
And he knows he’s not alone anymore.
Final Author’s Note: I realize that this idea has been done a million times already, but at this point in the fandom, hasn’t everything? If the lack of originality bothers you, I apologize.