In the Region of Sight, chp. 7
In which a cup of tea is not to be had, but John certainly is, and Locke intends to take advantage.
If John had known the food would be like this, he might have spent more time considering the blue pill. He’s been on the ship three days, and it’s been nothing but porridge, supplemented by... more porridge. Idly, he watches it drip off the end of his spoon.
“Appalling, isn’t it?” Nicodemus scoops up a glob of the stuff and swallows it back quickly. “Can’t even wash it down with a good cup of tea these days. Hell, even a bad cup couldn’t be worse than this. It’ll be better once we finally head back to Zion, though- the hydroponics bays there keep us fairly well-stocked.”
“Yeah, if Hermes ever lets us get back to Zion,” huffs Versai, under her breath. John knows better than to ask, but it has the sound of an old frustration.
“Versai...”
“Oh, come on, Nico! We’re nearly out of supplies, we’re eating this crap every day- we should have gone home two months ago, and you know it. Hermes has his head so far up his ass on this search for the One-”
John sucks in a breath and promptly chokes on his porridge. It has the benefit of derailing the conversation, but doesn’t ease his mind any. Do they know that Hermes thinks John’s the One? Do they think so? You don’t get to be a surgeon without learning to hold up under pressure, but this is so far beyond the definition of ‘pressure’ that it may have actually escaped the dictionary.
He heads back to his cabin, mulling it over. Wouldn’t he know, if he was some sort of mystical savior? That’s the sort of thing that should make you feel- different. Special. He just feels like... himself. The same old John Watson.
He starts to enter the code for his door, but the keypad’s been disengaged; he pushes the door open to find Locke splayed out on his bed, feet bare, eyes closed. John lets the door clang shut behind him.
“I’m fairly confident I locked that.”
“You did,” Locke retorts, without so much as looking at him.
“Was there something you wanted, then?” John coughs, only hearing the double entendre after it’s far too late to correct it.
“I thought you’d want to know that we’re going back in soon. There’s someone Hermes and I want you to meet; a rather interesting program. She has data that you might find... useful. Relevant.”
“What does this woman have to do with me?” He doesn’t mean for it to come out as defensively as it does, but he can already see where this is going, and he doesn’t like it. Doesn’t want to hear any more about being the One. Refuses to accept it.
Locke rolls to his feet and leans into John, backing him up against the door. “Oh, John, don’t play coy. You want someone to tell you that we were wrong; that you’re not the One. That you’re just a tiny, ordinary man, with a tiny, ordinary life.”
The ship air is chilled, as always; Locke’s palm on his hip burns in contrast. Thin sweaters and cotton trousers do nothing to dull the press of long, solid muscle against him.
“There’s nothing ordinary about you, John. I’ve been watching you for a long time; I know. I knew it the moment I saw you.” Locke’s mouth working against John’s neck, every rasp and brush of lips, every darting hint of tongue, is threatening to drive him mad. “But the Statistician- she has access to information even Hermes and I can’t get our hands on. She sees into the Matrix itself, into the data patterns that create it- that influence it.”
This is... fuck, John should stop this. He knows Locke’s distracting him with sex, rolling past everything they ought to discuss, all the answers John needs, and he’s going to let it happen anyway. He wants to forget himself, let it all slip from him in the long lines of Locke’s body.
Locke slides to his knees in one supple, graceful fold. His eyes are riveted to John’s as his fingers work the ties of John’s trousers. The brush of his knuckles sparks along John’s nerves, lighting him up from the inside.
“She told me where to find you.”
The slick lapping of his tongue against the slit of John’s cock is... incendiary. It’s a slippery tease that has his knees weak, makes him want to take. John finds his hands tangled in Locke’s curls, watching as that mouth stretches around him.
“God, Locke, fuck-”
He can’t say he hasn’t thought about it; but the reality- Christ- he could never have imagined this. Locke’s fingers bite into his arse, coaxing his hips forward, riding his thrusts. He takes John deep, all wet lips and hot, tight throat. Tongue rolling against the underside, slipping back up towards the head until John can see the perfect way it cups his glans. The sensation is just like Locke himself; showy, precise, and devastatingly effective.
Long fingers curl around his cock and John’s head drops back against the door, the sting a sharp and delicious counterpoint to what’s building inside him. Locke’s grip is slow and firm, a thumb coaxing his foreskin back and dipping into the drop of moisture gathered there. John’s thighs tighten, shoving his cock into the slick heat of Locke’s fist.
“I didn’t believe it at first, when she told me- ah- when she told me about you.” John forces his eyes open at the break in Locke’s voice, and the sight nearly pushes him over the edge. Thighs splayed, trousers at his knees, Locke’s got his other hand wrapped around his own cock, flushed and hard, moving fast. John traces a finger across lips that are wet and pink, swollen from his prick. “She said you’d be- oh, oh- different, that you’d be interesting- fuck... That I would want you.”
He’s close, so close to it now, white-knuckled and rigid, shivering with need, every word out of Locke’s mouth tipping him nearer.
“Locke, please, please, your mouth-”
Locke takes him back in, long, hard sucks this time, a pull that reaches down to the very center of himself. He can feel Locke trembling, and the sudden clench of his fist, the low, shaky moan that vibrates around his cock as Locke comes is enough to send John flying- lost to the heat and the pure white brilliance of it.
He comes down slowly, oh, so slowly, aware only of Locke’s face, pressed to his hip.
“It’s you, John. It’s you.”
If John had known the food would be like this, he might have spent more time considering the blue pill. He’s been on the ship three days, and it’s been nothing but porridge, supplemented by... more porridge. Idly, he watches it drip off the end of his spoon.
“Appalling, isn’t it?” Nicodemus scoops up a glob of the stuff and swallows it back quickly. “Can’t even wash it down with a good cup of tea these days. Hell, even a bad cup couldn’t be worse than this. It’ll be better once we finally head back to Zion, though- the hydroponics bays there keep us fairly well-stocked.”
“Yeah, if Hermes ever lets us get back to Zion,” huffs Versai, under her breath. John knows better than to ask, but it has the sound of an old frustration.
“Versai...”
“Oh, come on, Nico! We’re nearly out of supplies, we’re eating this crap every day- we should have gone home two months ago, and you know it. Hermes has his head so far up his ass on this search for the One-”
John sucks in a breath and promptly chokes on his porridge. It has the benefit of derailing the conversation, but doesn’t ease his mind any. Do they know that Hermes thinks John’s the One? Do they think so? You don’t get to be a surgeon without learning to hold up under pressure, but this is so far beyond the definition of ‘pressure’ that it may have actually escaped the dictionary.
He heads back to his cabin, mulling it over. Wouldn’t he know, if he was some sort of mystical savior? That’s the sort of thing that should make you feel- different. Special. He just feels like... himself. The same old John Watson.
He starts to enter the code for his door, but the keypad’s been disengaged; he pushes the door open to find Locke splayed out on his bed, feet bare, eyes closed. John lets the door clang shut behind him.
“I’m fairly confident I locked that.”
“You did,” Locke retorts, without so much as looking at him.
“Was there something you wanted, then?” John coughs, only hearing the double entendre after it’s far too late to correct it.
“I thought you’d want to know that we’re going back in soon. There’s someone Hermes and I want you to meet; a rather interesting program. She has data that you might find... useful. Relevant.”
“What does this woman have to do with me?” He doesn’t mean for it to come out as defensively as it does, but he can already see where this is going, and he doesn’t like it. Doesn’t want to hear any more about being the One. Refuses to accept it.
Locke rolls to his feet and leans into John, backing him up against the door. “Oh, John, don’t play coy. You want someone to tell you that we were wrong; that you’re not the One. That you’re just a tiny, ordinary man, with a tiny, ordinary life.”
The ship air is chilled, as always; Locke’s palm on his hip burns in contrast. Thin sweaters and cotton trousers do nothing to dull the press of long, solid muscle against him.
“There’s nothing ordinary about you, John. I’ve been watching you for a long time; I know. I knew it the moment I saw you.” Locke’s mouth working against John’s neck, every rasp and brush of lips, every darting hint of tongue, is threatening to drive him mad. “But the Statistician- she has access to information even Hermes and I can’t get our hands on. She sees into the Matrix itself, into the data patterns that create it- that influence it.”
This is... fuck, John should stop this. He knows Locke’s distracting him with sex, rolling past everything they ought to discuss, all the answers John needs, and he’s going to let it happen anyway. He wants to forget himself, let it all slip from him in the long lines of Locke’s body.
Locke slides to his knees in one supple, graceful fold. His eyes are riveted to John’s as his fingers work the ties of John’s trousers. The brush of his knuckles sparks along John’s nerves, lighting him up from the inside.
“She told me where to find you.”
The slick lapping of his tongue against the slit of John’s cock is... incendiary. It’s a slippery tease that has his knees weak, makes him want to take. John finds his hands tangled in Locke’s curls, watching as that mouth stretches around him.
“God, Locke, fuck-”
He can’t say he hasn’t thought about it; but the reality- Christ- he could never have imagined this. Locke’s fingers bite into his arse, coaxing his hips forward, riding his thrusts. He takes John deep, all wet lips and hot, tight throat. Tongue rolling against the underside, slipping back up towards the head until John can see the perfect way it cups his glans. The sensation is just like Locke himself; showy, precise, and devastatingly effective.
Long fingers curl around his cock and John’s head drops back against the door, the sting a sharp and delicious counterpoint to what’s building inside him. Locke’s grip is slow and firm, a thumb coaxing his foreskin back and dipping into the drop of moisture gathered there. John’s thighs tighten, shoving his cock into the slick heat of Locke’s fist.
“I didn’t believe it at first, when she told me- ah- when she told me about you.” John forces his eyes open at the break in Locke’s voice, and the sight nearly pushes him over the edge. Thighs splayed, trousers at his knees, Locke’s got his other hand wrapped around his own cock, flushed and hard, moving fast. John traces a finger across lips that are wet and pink, swollen from his prick. “She said you’d be- oh, oh- different, that you’d be interesting- fuck... That I would want you.”
He’s close, so close to it now, white-knuckled and rigid, shivering with need, every word out of Locke’s mouth tipping him nearer.
“Locke, please, please, your mouth-”
Locke takes him back in, long, hard sucks this time, a pull that reaches down to the very center of himself. He can feel Locke trembling, and the sudden clench of his fist, the low, shaky moan that vibrates around his cock as Locke comes is enough to send John flying- lost to the heat and the pure white brilliance of it.
He comes down slowly, oh, so slowly, aware only of Locke’s face, pressed to his hip.
“It’s you, John. It’s you.”