(no subject)
Title: She Doesn't Ask
Author:
Rating:PG
Summary: June Challenge #4
A/N: This hasn't seen a beta, but I wanted to get it out there before I go on vacation. A sequel from John's point of view might follow if anybody likes this one.
It begins to dawn on her when she finds him on page seven of War and Peace. The next day, when he gives her that boyish grin he knows she has a weakness for, the rest of the pieces fall into place so fast it feels like the ground's spinning beneath her feet.
****
Twenty-five year old Elizabeth Weir pushed her dark brown curls back from her forehead. When she’d been in Europe she’d cut her hair short because someone had told her it looked more professional, and regretted it almost immediately. Now it was in that awkward stage where it fell in her eyes but couldn’t be tucked behind her ears.
A glance at the thermometer on the wall told her the temperature had risen another five degrees in the last hour. God, how hot could it really get? Nevada was the desert, but it was already 95 degrees Fahrenheit and it was noon. Fahrenheit, that was something else she’d had to get used to after studying abroad for so long.
With a sigh she capped her pen and drug herself away from the fan. Running a brush through her hair, and putting on a little make-up she wondered if it had been worth it to transfer just because Dr. Wilson taught here. Either the man was really trying to be selfless, like he said, and give his gift to those who needed it most, or he was hiding. She never had figured out which.
The knock at her door startled her even though she’d been expecting it. Language was her gift, always had been, and she’d decided to tutor for a little extra cash. Mostly because there was nothing else to do.
***
He’d spiked her blood pressure the minute she’d seen him. It didn’t matter that he was nearly five years her junior. Long, lean, and charming in an awkward sort of way, he’d been a math major who wouldn’t know his way around classic literature if it bit him in the ass, or so his lit. professor had claimed. It didn’t take her long to realize he was simply lazy.
***
“I’m telling you, Heathcliff was bipolar.”
“Yes, John,” she bit back a smile and continued to edit his essay, “but that’s not what the professor asking.”
“It’s a stupid book,” he whined, “They’re all nuttier than fruitcake and this chick wants me to tell her why it’s a classic novel and Heathcliff and what’s her name were soul mates.”
She just ignored him, hoping he had enough common sense not to call the woman that to her face, and knowing no matter what she said he’d continue to whine. It wasn’t long before John decided he didn’t like being ignored.
The pen slipped from her hand when she felt his lips on her neck; the essay lay forgotten as his hands slipped under her shirt. They never even made it to the bed.
***
In the end she doesn’t ask, and he doesn’t say, and it’s probably better that way; but sometimes, late at night, she remembers inexperienced but eager hands, mid-night motorcycle rides, and the sheer utter freedom of a young John Sheppard’s laugh.
Author:
Rating:PG
Summary: June Challenge #4
A/N: This hasn't seen a beta, but I wanted to get it out there before I go on vacation. A sequel from John's point of view might follow if anybody likes this one.
It begins to dawn on her when she finds him on page seven of War and Peace. The next day, when he gives her that boyish grin he knows she has a weakness for, the rest of the pieces fall into place so fast it feels like the ground's spinning beneath her feet.
****
Twenty-five year old Elizabeth Weir pushed her dark brown curls back from her forehead. When she’d been in Europe she’d cut her hair short because someone had told her it looked more professional, and regretted it almost immediately. Now it was in that awkward stage where it fell in her eyes but couldn’t be tucked behind her ears.
A glance at the thermometer on the wall told her the temperature had risen another five degrees in the last hour. God, how hot could it really get? Nevada was the desert, but it was already 95 degrees Fahrenheit and it was noon. Fahrenheit, that was something else she’d had to get used to after studying abroad for so long.
With a sigh she capped her pen and drug herself away from the fan. Running a brush through her hair, and putting on a little make-up she wondered if it had been worth it to transfer just because Dr. Wilson taught here. Either the man was really trying to be selfless, like he said, and give his gift to those who needed it most, or he was hiding. She never had figured out which.
The knock at her door startled her even though she’d been expecting it. Language was her gift, always had been, and she’d decided to tutor for a little extra cash. Mostly because there was nothing else to do.
***
He’d spiked her blood pressure the minute she’d seen him. It didn’t matter that he was nearly five years her junior. Long, lean, and charming in an awkward sort of way, he’d been a math major who wouldn’t know his way around classic literature if it bit him in the ass, or so his lit. professor had claimed. It didn’t take her long to realize he was simply lazy.
***
“I’m telling you, Heathcliff was bipolar.”
“Yes, John,” she bit back a smile and continued to edit his essay, “but that’s not what the professor asking.”
“It’s a stupid book,” he whined, “They’re all nuttier than fruitcake and this chick wants me to tell her why it’s a classic novel and Heathcliff and what’s her name were soul mates.”
She just ignored him, hoping he had enough common sense not to call the woman that to her face, and knowing no matter what she said he’d continue to whine. It wasn’t long before John decided he didn’t like being ignored.
The pen slipped from her hand when she felt his lips on her neck; the essay lay forgotten as his hands slipped under her shirt. They never even made it to the bed.
***
In the end she doesn’t ask, and he doesn’t say, and it’s probably better that way; but sometimes, late at night, she remembers inexperienced but eager hands, mid-night motorcycle rides, and the sheer utter freedom of a young John Sheppard’s laugh.