fic: The Rigelian Reproduction Ritual (The Middleman; Wendy/The Middleman; adult)
The Rigelian Reproduction Ritual
The Middleman; The Middleman/Wendy; adult; spoilers through the unaired finale; contains consent issues; 2,682 words
In which aliens make them do it.
For angelgazing on her birthday! I do it all for you, darlin'.
~*~
The Rigelian Reproduction Ritual
The first few hours of their imprisonment on Rigel XIII pass in a blur, with a lot of static as the Rigelian-to-English translator glitches and squeaks out the threats and bluster in a voice that sounds like Daffy Duck on helium. It's pretty typical "trespassers, you must pay!" stuff at first, and Wendy doesn't really need a literal translation to get the gist.
Or, maybe she does when the creepy roach-like aliens enter the glass-walled cell she and the Middleman have been thrown into and use their pincers to shred her Middle-uniform.
"Please don't tell me they want to impregnate me and make me their queen," she says softly to the Middleman, but he doesn't laugh.
"They do seem unduly interested in human procreation, Dubbie." His mouth quirks in a rueful half-smile. "Though I don't think they want to, er, participate in the process."
"Thank god for that." The probes hadn't been nearly as painful as she'd feared, but Wendy draws the line at bugs and pincers. Despite the way some of her past relationships have gone, she's not really a fan of pain.
"I wouldn't sing any psalms of gratitude yet, Dubbie." He pauses to listen to more garbled squeaking, and then says, "Story of O! Is there no end to your depravity?"
The head bug, the one with the most numerous bright green markings on his purple chitin, chitters and squeaks, mandibles clicking, and on a few seconds delay, the translator spits out, "We have a phased polaron cannon pointed at your planet. Now you must do it like they do on the Discovery Channel, or we shall blow your little world off the face of the galaxy!"
Wendy chokes back a laugh. "They can't be serious."
"I warned NASA about including those Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom episodes on the deep space broadcasts," the Middleman replies. Which is not exactly the answer she was hoping to hear.
"So not only do they want us to have sex, we have to do it with that song stuck in our heads?" She crosses her arms over her chest, wrinkling her nose at the shreds of her white shirt, and shakes her head. "That is so wrong."
"Song?"
Wendy opens her mouth and then closes it again. Sometimes, it's just not worth the effort. "Never mind."
Two of the Rigelians poke her in the back, shoving her closer to the Middleman, and she chooses not to turn around to see if it's with pincers or guns (she'd prefer guns). There's more chatter and the translator gives a staticky shriek Wendy can't quite make out. Then the Middleman says, "But if you destroy the earth, you'll be removing your favorite source of mammalian pornography."
"We'll have you," the head bug, "and our recordings of The Jersey Shore."
"This is not in accordance with the Treaty of Peripergilliam!"
"To which we are not, nor have we ever been, signatories." The head bug shakes its mandibles and points a pincer. "Prepare them."
The Rigelians produce a box containing two bottles of a thick, oily substance that might be baby oil, or possibly, lube--Wendy doesn't want to think about that too closely either way--three things that look like eggplants but are made of silicon (and she doesn't want to think about that at all), a hot pink feather boa, and a strip of condoms emblazoned with the Fat Boy logo.
"I see someone's been shopping at the Pink Pussycat," the Middleman says. Wendy glances at him in surprise, but for once, decides not to comment.
"They deliver," the head Rigelian says, "and they have a great return policy."
"So what's it going to be, boss?" Wendy asks out of the corner of her mouth. "The Devil's Dance? The River of Pain?"
There's more chatter from the bugs, and then the sound of the phased polaron cannon revving up and firing.
"Hey!" Wendy says as she watches the green laser-like beam hit the earth. "We're still negotiating here."
"That was the Fantasy Tan and Nail Parlor on Route Three in East Rutherford," the head bug says. "Keep arguing and next, we will destroy all the Waffle Houses in the Delaware-Maryland area."
"Not the Waffle House!" Wendy's gasp is less sarcastic than she'd like, but nobody else seems to notice. "Boss?" She puts a hand on his arm, feels the tension in his body through the rough wool of his jacket.
"It's going to take some time for Ida to realize we're missing and arrange a rescue for us. We just have to keep them talking until Interrodroid 9000 arrives."
"I hate to point out the obvious, but they've already stopped talking and started shooting."
"Dubbie, we can't--I won't force you to do anything you don't want to do."
"You're not the one forcing us," she answers. "You're being forced, too." She very carefully chooses not to think about whether, under other circumstances, it would be something he wanted to do. He's in love with Lacey, and he's her boss. Not even the power of Chac-Mol has changed those two things, despite what she sometimes wishes and then pretends she hasn't. She takes a deep breath and meets his concerned gaze squarely. "I guess it's the Beast with Two Backs, then."
He doesn't even crack a smile at her joke. "Are you sure?"
"We can't let them destroy all the Waffle Houses in the Mid-Atlantic region, boss. Not to mention the planet."
His jaw is set and but this time, he does smile, though it's small and sad. He reaches out and cups her chin gently. "Okay," he says softly, holding her gaze. Then he looks over her shoulder at the Rigelians. "We'll do what you say, but here are the ground rules and they're not open to negotiation. You and your guards will watch from behind the glass. There will be no interfering. We will copulate once and then you will power down your cannon and let us go."
"We will record your hookup for posterity," the head bug counters. "And if your performance does not please us, we will kill you, and the rest of your planet with you."
"I can fake it if I have to," Wendy murmurs.
"I've never had any complaints about my performance," the Middleman says, and Wendy can't help but smile. Then, in a louder voice, he says, "Let's get to it then."
"Please do."
The Rigelians withdraw from the cell, the clicking and skittering sounds making Wendy's skin crawl, and then she and the Middleman are alone. And they're about to have sex.
"This was so not covered in the employee handbook."
His answering smile is a little less melancholy. "I doubt this is an area in which you need much instruction, Dubbie."
From some people, that might have been a dig, but Wendy chooses to take it as a compliment. "Quit your grinning and drop your linen." She props one foot up on the ledge that passes for a bed in the cell, and unzips her boot.
The Middleman wraps a hand around her wrist. "Keep your boots on," he says, his voice lower and rougher.
Wendy shivers. "Okay." She unzips her pants and lets them puddle on the floor, stepping out of them without too much trouble from the boots; she thinks bare legs with ankle boots looks a little ridiculous, but if it helps him out, she's not going to complain.
He sits on the ledge and pulls her into his lap. "Let's not give them any more of a show than we have to," he says, his breath warm against her jaw as he pushes the shredded remains of her shirt off her shoulders and lets it fall to the floor; he leaves her vest and tie where they are, but gently removes her bra and drops it onto the growing pile of clothes.
She unbuttons his jacket and helps him shoulder out of it, and pulls his shirt out of his waistband so she can get her hands up beneath it. The muscles in his belly move at the touch and she feels a warm tingle of pleasure at evoking a response.
When she reaches down between them to unzip his pants, he says, "Wait, are you," he pauses and looks uncomfortable, "ready?"
Wendy bites her lip, embarrassment heating her face. "Not really? You?"
"Not exactly." He presses dry lips to her temple. "Perhaps we should engage in a little foreplay?" When she doesn't answer right away, he says, "We could use the lube in the box."
"No. No. No bug lube." She takes his hands and puts them on her breasts. They're large and warm through the slick, cool material of her vest and under other circumstances--She shakes her head. There are no other circumstances right now, only these. "Just do what you would normally do." She has to bite her lip so she doesn't start quoting that damn song.
"I would normally not be having sex with my Middleman-in-training."
"But you did sleep with your Middleman. Middleperson. Whatever."
"Yes."
"Did this ever happen to you with her?"
"Dubbie." That's his serious we're on a mission voice, so she lets it go.
Instead, she leans in and presses her mouth to his. He does have really nice lips; Lacey wasn't wrong about that. They kiss with closed mouths for a few moments, but when his thumbs sweep over her nipples, she gasps, and then his tongue is in her mouth.
With her eyes closed and his mouth against hers, for a little while, she can block out the fact that they're in a glass box, performing for bug-like aliens who've threatened to destroy to the earth if they don't cooperate. She concentrates on kissing him the way she does on painting, gives it all her focus and lets everything else recede. He's a good kisser, and he's good with his hands, too; he cups and squeezes her breasts until her nipples are hard and aching, and she's panting into his mouth. She rocks her hips down, and his hands tighten.
"Okay," she stumbles over his name, can't bring herself to use it, "boss?"
He laughs against her neck, soft puff of warm air, and slides a hand down between her thighs. "Okay, Dubbie?"
She shifts, spreading her knees a little wider, and he slides his hands along the wet crotch of her panties. She presses down into the touch, already feeling the pressure build, the need to keep moving until her whole body explodes with pleasure. He pushes aside her underwear and curls two fingers up into her cunt, his thumb brushing over her clit, and she moans softly.
"Ready?" he says.
She lets out a soft huff of incredulous laughter. "Yeah, I think I am."
He grabs a Fat Boy condom while she leans back and unzips his trousers, curling her fingers around his cock, which is warm and hard in her hand.
There's a lot of noise from the translator then, and he reaches up and turns it off. "Look at me, Dubbie," he says, tipping her face up and holding her gaze. "I'll still respect you when this is over."
She gives him a small grin. "Me, too."
He rolls the condom on and then pushes up inside her. They exchange kisses that become progressively more heated as they move together; she can taste the salt on his skin, smell the product he uses when she buries her nose in his hair. With the translator turned off, she doesn't have to listen to the Rigelians' commentary, and with her eyes closed, she can pretend they're not there. Her whole focus narrows to the aching pulse between her thighs, the sparks of pleasure lighting up under her skin when his thumb brushes over her clit. She doesn't have to fake it when she tosses her head back and urges him to go harder and deeper. She tightens around him, nails digging into his shoulders, leaving half-moon indentations in his t-shirt, and gasps as she comes, the low, slow waves of pleasure rolling over her.
He presses a kiss to her sweaty forehead. "Dubbie?"
"Yeah," she whispers, mouth up against his ear. "I'm good." Better than good, really, but she's not sure she's got enough brainpower left at the moment to say anything else.
It doesn't take him long after that, a few rapid, jerky thrusts and he's done, his body shaking in her arms as he tries to catch his breath.
They put themselves back together quickly, and Wendy tries to ignore how everything is not nearly as awkward as it could--as it probably should--be.
She's zipping up her pants when she hears a rapid clicking sound, and Wendy looks up to see the Rigelians banging on the glass with their pincers. She reaches up and snaps the translator on. "You better let us go now," she says.
"The terms of our deal are fulfilled," the head Rigelian replies. "We shall return you from whence we took you."
There's a flash of light, a puff of smoke, and Wendy and the Middleman are standing in front of The Green Door Taxidermy Shop and Massage Parlor, which is where this whole misadventure had started, seventeen hours ago.
"I guess we know what's really behind the green door, now," Wendy says, "and I for one kind of wish I didn't."
The Middleman is wearing his stoic face and it makes Wendy's heart hurt a little that something she said caused it. "I hope this won't impact our working relationship, Dubbie."
"Oh," she says, "I didn't mean--" She clasps her hands behind her back so she doesn't freak him out by grabbing him and holding on. She looks down at the toes of her boots, which she's about two seconds away from scuffing along the sidewalk. Which is so not good. "I didn't mean that. I mean the giant roach-like aliens with the poor taste in reality TV and the frequent customer discount at the Pink Pussycat."
"Oh," he says. "Of course." He's got his hands clasped behind his back, too, and she wonders if he wants to touch her now as much as she wants to touch him. "Well, we should get back to headquarters. Hit the showers. It's been a long day."
She does touch him then, puts her hand on his arm, like she did in the cell. "While I can't say that I like being held prisoner by giant roach-like aliens who made me perform sexually for their entertainment, I'm not--" She grunts in frustration. "The sex was good. The circumstances were bad, and I wish like hell that the first time we slept together wasn't because aliens made us do it, but I--Ever since Tyler and I broke up, I've wondered." She shakes her head. Usually she's better with words than this. She must be more tired than she thought. "I know you're in love with Lacey, but I think we both know that's not going anywhere anymore," she forces herself to keep going when he looks away, "so I guess what I'm trying to say is that if you want to do it again, without the coercion or giant alien roaches, I would be okay with that."
"Only okay?" He's not looking away anymore. He meets her gaze with curiosity and something that might be hope in his expression.
She shrugs one shoulder and gives him a half-smile. "More than okay, but I didn't want to oversell it."
"Okay," he says, returning her half-smile with one that's wide and bright. "It might surprise you to learn that I would be more than okay with that as well."
"It does surprise me a little, to be honest, but it's the good kind of surprise." They start walking back to where they parked the Middlemobile. She bumps her arm into his and he looks down at her, eyebrows raised inquisitively. "So when you say hit the showers do you mean..." She trails off, grinning suggestively.
He nods and laughs and takes her hand.
end
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~
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The Middleman; The Middleman/Wendy; adult; spoilers through the unaired finale; contains consent issues; 2,682 words
In which aliens make them do it.
For angelgazing on her birthday! I do it all for you, darlin'.
~*~
The Rigelian Reproduction Ritual
The first few hours of their imprisonment on Rigel XIII pass in a blur, with a lot of static as the Rigelian-to-English translator glitches and squeaks out the threats and bluster in a voice that sounds like Daffy Duck on helium. It's pretty typical "trespassers, you must pay!" stuff at first, and Wendy doesn't really need a literal translation to get the gist.
Or, maybe she does when the creepy roach-like aliens enter the glass-walled cell she and the Middleman have been thrown into and use their pincers to shred her Middle-uniform.
"Please don't tell me they want to impregnate me and make me their queen," she says softly to the Middleman, but he doesn't laugh.
"They do seem unduly interested in human procreation, Dubbie." His mouth quirks in a rueful half-smile. "Though I don't think they want to, er, participate in the process."
"Thank god for that." The probes hadn't been nearly as painful as she'd feared, but Wendy draws the line at bugs and pincers. Despite the way some of her past relationships have gone, she's not really a fan of pain.
"I wouldn't sing any psalms of gratitude yet, Dubbie." He pauses to listen to more garbled squeaking, and then says, "Story of O! Is there no end to your depravity?"
The head bug, the one with the most numerous bright green markings on his purple chitin, chitters and squeaks, mandibles clicking, and on a few seconds delay, the translator spits out, "We have a phased polaron cannon pointed at your planet. Now you must do it like they do on the Discovery Channel, or we shall blow your little world off the face of the galaxy!"
Wendy chokes back a laugh. "They can't be serious."
"I warned NASA about including those Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom episodes on the deep space broadcasts," the Middleman replies. Which is not exactly the answer she was hoping to hear.
"So not only do they want us to have sex, we have to do it with that song stuck in our heads?" She crosses her arms over her chest, wrinkling her nose at the shreds of her white shirt, and shakes her head. "That is so wrong."
"Song?"
Wendy opens her mouth and then closes it again. Sometimes, it's just not worth the effort. "Never mind."
Two of the Rigelians poke her in the back, shoving her closer to the Middleman, and she chooses not to turn around to see if it's with pincers or guns (she'd prefer guns). There's more chatter and the translator gives a staticky shriek Wendy can't quite make out. Then the Middleman says, "But if you destroy the earth, you'll be removing your favorite source of mammalian pornography."
"We'll have you," the head bug, "and our recordings of The Jersey Shore."
"This is not in accordance with the Treaty of Peripergilliam!"
"To which we are not, nor have we ever been, signatories." The head bug shakes its mandibles and points a pincer. "Prepare them."
The Rigelians produce a box containing two bottles of a thick, oily substance that might be baby oil, or possibly, lube--Wendy doesn't want to think about that too closely either way--three things that look like eggplants but are made of silicon (and she doesn't want to think about that at all), a hot pink feather boa, and a strip of condoms emblazoned with the Fat Boy logo.
"I see someone's been shopping at the Pink Pussycat," the Middleman says. Wendy glances at him in surprise, but for once, decides not to comment.
"They deliver," the head Rigelian says, "and they have a great return policy."
"So what's it going to be, boss?" Wendy asks out of the corner of her mouth. "The Devil's Dance? The River of Pain?"
There's more chatter from the bugs, and then the sound of the phased polaron cannon revving up and firing.
"Hey!" Wendy says as she watches the green laser-like beam hit the earth. "We're still negotiating here."
"That was the Fantasy Tan and Nail Parlor on Route Three in East Rutherford," the head bug says. "Keep arguing and next, we will destroy all the Waffle Houses in the Delaware-Maryland area."
"Not the Waffle House!" Wendy's gasp is less sarcastic than she'd like, but nobody else seems to notice. "Boss?" She puts a hand on his arm, feels the tension in his body through the rough wool of his jacket.
"It's going to take some time for Ida to realize we're missing and arrange a rescue for us. We just have to keep them talking until Interrodroid 9000 arrives."
"I hate to point out the obvious, but they've already stopped talking and started shooting."
"Dubbie, we can't--I won't force you to do anything you don't want to do."
"You're not the one forcing us," she answers. "You're being forced, too." She very carefully chooses not to think about whether, under other circumstances, it would be something he wanted to do. He's in love with Lacey, and he's her boss. Not even the power of Chac-Mol has changed those two things, despite what she sometimes wishes and then pretends she hasn't. She takes a deep breath and meets his concerned gaze squarely. "I guess it's the Beast with Two Backs, then."
He doesn't even crack a smile at her joke. "Are you sure?"
"We can't let them destroy all the Waffle Houses in the Mid-Atlantic region, boss. Not to mention the planet."
His jaw is set and but this time, he does smile, though it's small and sad. He reaches out and cups her chin gently. "Okay," he says softly, holding her gaze. Then he looks over her shoulder at the Rigelians. "We'll do what you say, but here are the ground rules and they're not open to negotiation. You and your guards will watch from behind the glass. There will be no interfering. We will copulate once and then you will power down your cannon and let us go."
"We will record your hookup for posterity," the head bug counters. "And if your performance does not please us, we will kill you, and the rest of your planet with you."
"I can fake it if I have to," Wendy murmurs.
"I've never had any complaints about my performance," the Middleman says, and Wendy can't help but smile. Then, in a louder voice, he says, "Let's get to it then."
"Please do."
The Rigelians withdraw from the cell, the clicking and skittering sounds making Wendy's skin crawl, and then she and the Middleman are alone. And they're about to have sex.
"This was so not covered in the employee handbook."
His answering smile is a little less melancholy. "I doubt this is an area in which you need much instruction, Dubbie."
From some people, that might have been a dig, but Wendy chooses to take it as a compliment. "Quit your grinning and drop your linen." She props one foot up on the ledge that passes for a bed in the cell, and unzips her boot.
The Middleman wraps a hand around her wrist. "Keep your boots on," he says, his voice lower and rougher.
Wendy shivers. "Okay." She unzips her pants and lets them puddle on the floor, stepping out of them without too much trouble from the boots; she thinks bare legs with ankle boots looks a little ridiculous, but if it helps him out, she's not going to complain.
He sits on the ledge and pulls her into his lap. "Let's not give them any more of a show than we have to," he says, his breath warm against her jaw as he pushes the shredded remains of her shirt off her shoulders and lets it fall to the floor; he leaves her vest and tie where they are, but gently removes her bra and drops it onto the growing pile of clothes.
She unbuttons his jacket and helps him shoulder out of it, and pulls his shirt out of his waistband so she can get her hands up beneath it. The muscles in his belly move at the touch and she feels a warm tingle of pleasure at evoking a response.
When she reaches down between them to unzip his pants, he says, "Wait, are you," he pauses and looks uncomfortable, "ready?"
Wendy bites her lip, embarrassment heating her face. "Not really? You?"
"Not exactly." He presses dry lips to her temple. "Perhaps we should engage in a little foreplay?" When she doesn't answer right away, he says, "We could use the lube in the box."
"No. No. No bug lube." She takes his hands and puts them on her breasts. They're large and warm through the slick, cool material of her vest and under other circumstances--She shakes her head. There are no other circumstances right now, only these. "Just do what you would normally do." She has to bite her lip so she doesn't start quoting that damn song.
"I would normally not be having sex with my Middleman-in-training."
"But you did sleep with your Middleman. Middleperson. Whatever."
"Yes."
"Did this ever happen to you with her?"
"Dubbie." That's his serious we're on a mission voice, so she lets it go.
Instead, she leans in and presses her mouth to his. He does have really nice lips; Lacey wasn't wrong about that. They kiss with closed mouths for a few moments, but when his thumbs sweep over her nipples, she gasps, and then his tongue is in her mouth.
With her eyes closed and his mouth against hers, for a little while, she can block out the fact that they're in a glass box, performing for bug-like aliens who've threatened to destroy to the earth if they don't cooperate. She concentrates on kissing him the way she does on painting, gives it all her focus and lets everything else recede. He's a good kisser, and he's good with his hands, too; he cups and squeezes her breasts until her nipples are hard and aching, and she's panting into his mouth. She rocks her hips down, and his hands tighten.
"Okay," she stumbles over his name, can't bring herself to use it, "boss?"
He laughs against her neck, soft puff of warm air, and slides a hand down between her thighs. "Okay, Dubbie?"
She shifts, spreading her knees a little wider, and he slides his hands along the wet crotch of her panties. She presses down into the touch, already feeling the pressure build, the need to keep moving until her whole body explodes with pleasure. He pushes aside her underwear and curls two fingers up into her cunt, his thumb brushing over her clit, and she moans softly.
"Ready?" he says.
She lets out a soft huff of incredulous laughter. "Yeah, I think I am."
He grabs a Fat Boy condom while she leans back and unzips his trousers, curling her fingers around his cock, which is warm and hard in her hand.
There's a lot of noise from the translator then, and he reaches up and turns it off. "Look at me, Dubbie," he says, tipping her face up and holding her gaze. "I'll still respect you when this is over."
She gives him a small grin. "Me, too."
He rolls the condom on and then pushes up inside her. They exchange kisses that become progressively more heated as they move together; she can taste the salt on his skin, smell the product he uses when she buries her nose in his hair. With the translator turned off, she doesn't have to listen to the Rigelians' commentary, and with her eyes closed, she can pretend they're not there. Her whole focus narrows to the aching pulse between her thighs, the sparks of pleasure lighting up under her skin when his thumb brushes over her clit. She doesn't have to fake it when she tosses her head back and urges him to go harder and deeper. She tightens around him, nails digging into his shoulders, leaving half-moon indentations in his t-shirt, and gasps as she comes, the low, slow waves of pleasure rolling over her.
He presses a kiss to her sweaty forehead. "Dubbie?"
"Yeah," she whispers, mouth up against his ear. "I'm good." Better than good, really, but she's not sure she's got enough brainpower left at the moment to say anything else.
It doesn't take him long after that, a few rapid, jerky thrusts and he's done, his body shaking in her arms as he tries to catch his breath.
They put themselves back together quickly, and Wendy tries to ignore how everything is not nearly as awkward as it could--as it probably should--be.
She's zipping up her pants when she hears a rapid clicking sound, and Wendy looks up to see the Rigelians banging on the glass with their pincers. She reaches up and snaps the translator on. "You better let us go now," she says.
"The terms of our deal are fulfilled," the head Rigelian replies. "We shall return you from whence we took you."
There's a flash of light, a puff of smoke, and Wendy and the Middleman are standing in front of The Green Door Taxidermy Shop and Massage Parlor, which is where this whole misadventure had started, seventeen hours ago.
"I guess we know what's really behind the green door, now," Wendy says, "and I for one kind of wish I didn't."
The Middleman is wearing his stoic face and it makes Wendy's heart hurt a little that something she said caused it. "I hope this won't impact our working relationship, Dubbie."
"Oh," she says, "I didn't mean--" She clasps her hands behind her back so she doesn't freak him out by grabbing him and holding on. She looks down at the toes of her boots, which she's about two seconds away from scuffing along the sidewalk. Which is so not good. "I didn't mean that. I mean the giant roach-like aliens with the poor taste in reality TV and the frequent customer discount at the Pink Pussycat."
"Oh," he says. "Of course." He's got his hands clasped behind his back, too, and she wonders if he wants to touch her now as much as she wants to touch him. "Well, we should get back to headquarters. Hit the showers. It's been a long day."
She does touch him then, puts her hand on his arm, like she did in the cell. "While I can't say that I like being held prisoner by giant roach-like aliens who made me perform sexually for their entertainment, I'm not--" She grunts in frustration. "The sex was good. The circumstances were bad, and I wish like hell that the first time we slept together wasn't because aliens made us do it, but I--Ever since Tyler and I broke up, I've wondered." She shakes her head. Usually she's better with words than this. She must be more tired than she thought. "I know you're in love with Lacey, but I think we both know that's not going anywhere anymore," she forces herself to keep going when he looks away, "so I guess what I'm trying to say is that if you want to do it again, without the coercion or giant alien roaches, I would be okay with that."
"Only okay?" He's not looking away anymore. He meets her gaze with curiosity and something that might be hope in his expression.
She shrugs one shoulder and gives him a half-smile. "More than okay, but I didn't want to oversell it."
"Okay," he says, returning her half-smile with one that's wide and bright. "It might surprise you to learn that I would be more than okay with that as well."
"It does surprise me a little, to be honest, but it's the good kind of surprise." They start walking back to where they parked the Middlemobile. She bumps her arm into his and he looks down at her, eyebrows raised inquisitively. "So when you say hit the showers do you mean..." She trails off, grinning suggestively.
He nods and laughs and takes her hand.
end
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~
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