Ficlet: "A Small Crime" (TSCC, Ellison/Sarah)
I really am working on a proper fic about James Ellison, complete with theology and stuff. But the porn battle is a crazy enabler, so instead I've written more Sarah/Ellison porn. Something of a follow-up to this. Ficlet here at the Porn Battle, and below for archival purposes.
Title: A Small Crime
Fandom: Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles
Pairing: James Ellison/Sarah Connor
Rating: hard R
Prompt: Ellison/Sarah, pancakes
Notes: unbetaed commentfic
She arrives home at 7:30, the day already heating up in the morning sun. She should give the night shift to Cameron the sleepless, but Sarah likes the long, silent hours of the stakeout. The machine posing as Catherine Weaver has disappeared. Or rather, Catherine Weaver has. The machine could be anyone or anything. When Sarah sits alone in her car at night, watching ZeiraCorp, she wonders if she'll even know when it comes for her. She should put Cameron on the night shift.
The kitchen smells of pancakes. Sarah leans against the doorjamb watching John shovel the last of his breakfast into his mouth. Cameron is waiting for him in the garage, and she's impatient. Day shift. Derek is god knows where. James-she thinks of him as "James" now, as of four days ago, though she has yet to say his name aloud-stands by the stove, watching her.
"Bye, Mom," John says, perfunctory kiss to her cheek.
"Breakfast?" James asks as he leaves.
He cooks. She isn't sure where to file that information. He's been cooking for two weeks, since she snatched him from the T-1000 and yelled at him and took him to her bed. It continues to surprise her, this cooking like nothing is wrong, like his life isn't over, like she's not losing the battle with the apocalypse.
He crosses the room in three slow paces, brushes the stray hair out of her eyes. He touches her now, without permission, as of four days ago. But not in front of other people. She thinks John probably wouldn't mind; he likes James, she thinks. He likes that James is as normal as it's possible to be when you're the walking dead, that he gets up in the morning and makes pancakes. Sarah likes that James has destroyed himself; there's no more harm she can possibly inflict.
"You should eat something." His voice is soft, close to her ear. She closes her eyes.
"I think we need a new plan with ZeiraCorp," she says, focusing. Always and only on what's necessary. "No one has seen Weaver in two weeks. It could be anything now. Anywhere. We need to hit the building before it has a chance to move the AI."
He doesn't answer immediately, and she imagines him thinking. She doesn't know him well enough yet, can't quite picture what his face looks like while he's considering this. "Okay," he says after a moment, and she can't tell if it's agreement or deferral. "Now come eat breakfast."
She smiles, laughs a little, if the half-hearted exhale can be counted a laugh. "Not hungry," she says, leaning into him, resting her face against his neck. He smells like her soap. "Tired." She's not allowed to rest, but he's warm and solid and tempting, already doomed but not yet scarred.
"Hmm." His voice is noncommittal, and for a moment she expects him to sit her down at the table with a stack of pancakes.
Instead, one hand slides around her neck, his fingers threading through her hair. The other skims down her arm and back up the side of her body, his palm firm but gentle on her breast, then trailing to the waist of her jeans. She keeps her eyes closed as her body hovers in the space between sleep and arousal.
He kisses her as he works open her jeans, his lips on her forehead, eyelid, lips, as his hand slides into her panties and just holds her there for a minute.
"You going to fall asleep on me?" he asks. His voice is light, but as she opens her eyes she catches the shadowed expression on his face. She wonders, sometimes, what he was like before. The FBI agent with the fast track career, chasing a crazy woman who believed robots were going to destroy the world.
"I'm awake," she says, looping her arms around his neck and kissing him lazily. He tastes like coffee and maple syrup.
His fingers are achingly slow, sliding in and out of her, circling around her clit, finding a rhythm. His other hand is beneath her shirt now, teasing her right nipple through the fabric of her bra. She's closer than she thought, wet and warm and boneless. Her knees start to buckle, and his arm goes around her, pinning her between his body and the doorframe.
"I've got you," he breathes against her skin. "Let go, Sarah. It's okay."
And this is what he doesn't understand-not yet, but he will, eventually. There is no letting go. She catches the world, but there is no one to catch her. But she's been up all night, and the kitchen smells like pancakes, and he's there and solid and just for a minute she can pretend he's safe.
"Mmm-ahh," she cries softly as she comes. It's slow and warm, and his fingers continue gently, drawing it out as she shudders against him.
"There," he says. "Rest now."
Title: A Small Crime
Fandom: Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles
Pairing: James Ellison/Sarah Connor
Rating: hard R
Prompt: Ellison/Sarah, pancakes
Notes: unbetaed commentfic
She arrives home at 7:30, the day already heating up in the morning sun. She should give the night shift to Cameron the sleepless, but Sarah likes the long, silent hours of the stakeout. The machine posing as Catherine Weaver has disappeared. Or rather, Catherine Weaver has. The machine could be anyone or anything. When Sarah sits alone in her car at night, watching ZeiraCorp, she wonders if she'll even know when it comes for her. She should put Cameron on the night shift.
The kitchen smells of pancakes. Sarah leans against the doorjamb watching John shovel the last of his breakfast into his mouth. Cameron is waiting for him in the garage, and she's impatient. Day shift. Derek is god knows where. James-she thinks of him as "James" now, as of four days ago, though she has yet to say his name aloud-stands by the stove, watching her.
"Bye, Mom," John says, perfunctory kiss to her cheek.
"Breakfast?" James asks as he leaves.
He cooks. She isn't sure where to file that information. He's been cooking for two weeks, since she snatched him from the T-1000 and yelled at him and took him to her bed. It continues to surprise her, this cooking like nothing is wrong, like his life isn't over, like she's not losing the battle with the apocalypse.
He crosses the room in three slow paces, brushes the stray hair out of her eyes. He touches her now, without permission, as of four days ago. But not in front of other people. She thinks John probably wouldn't mind; he likes James, she thinks. He likes that James is as normal as it's possible to be when you're the walking dead, that he gets up in the morning and makes pancakes. Sarah likes that James has destroyed himself; there's no more harm she can possibly inflict.
"You should eat something." His voice is soft, close to her ear. She closes her eyes.
"I think we need a new plan with ZeiraCorp," she says, focusing. Always and only on what's necessary. "No one has seen Weaver in two weeks. It could be anything now. Anywhere. We need to hit the building before it has a chance to move the AI."
He doesn't answer immediately, and she imagines him thinking. She doesn't know him well enough yet, can't quite picture what his face looks like while he's considering this. "Okay," he says after a moment, and she can't tell if it's agreement or deferral. "Now come eat breakfast."
She smiles, laughs a little, if the half-hearted exhale can be counted a laugh. "Not hungry," she says, leaning into him, resting her face against his neck. He smells like her soap. "Tired." She's not allowed to rest, but he's warm and solid and tempting, already doomed but not yet scarred.
"Hmm." His voice is noncommittal, and for a moment she expects him to sit her down at the table with a stack of pancakes.
Instead, one hand slides around her neck, his fingers threading through her hair. The other skims down her arm and back up the side of her body, his palm firm but gentle on her breast, then trailing to the waist of her jeans. She keeps her eyes closed as her body hovers in the space between sleep and arousal.
He kisses her as he works open her jeans, his lips on her forehead, eyelid, lips, as his hand slides into her panties and just holds her there for a minute.
"You going to fall asleep on me?" he asks. His voice is light, but as she opens her eyes she catches the shadowed expression on his face. She wonders, sometimes, what he was like before. The FBI agent with the fast track career, chasing a crazy woman who believed robots were going to destroy the world.
"I'm awake," she says, looping her arms around his neck and kissing him lazily. He tastes like coffee and maple syrup.
His fingers are achingly slow, sliding in and out of her, circling around her clit, finding a rhythm. His other hand is beneath her shirt now, teasing her right nipple through the fabric of her bra. She's closer than she thought, wet and warm and boneless. Her knees start to buckle, and his arm goes around her, pinning her between his body and the doorframe.
"I've got you," he breathes against her skin. "Let go, Sarah. It's okay."
And this is what he doesn't understand-not yet, but he will, eventually. There is no letting go. She catches the world, but there is no one to catch her. But she's been up all night, and the kitchen smells like pancakes, and he's there and solid and just for a minute she can pretend he's safe.
"Mmm-ahh," she cries softly as she comes. It's slow and warm, and his fingers continue gently, drawing it out as she shudders against him.
"There," he says. "Rest now."