Fic: Five Times John Touches Elizabeth
Title: Five Times John Touches Elizabeth
Rating: PG13
Pairing: John/Elizabeth
A/N: So... in an attempt to jump-start my muse, I gave myself a five things prompt. The first one was a bomb (there was a very odd fanged animal and I'm not sure where it was going), and the second one resulted in three different John deaths. After the response to my killing of Lorne in a fic, I figured no one would want to read a whole bunch of different ways of offing the Lt. Colonel - no matter how valiant the method. I now bring you my third attempt and first (and last?) completed five things...
--1
“John,” Elizabeth says in the tone she usually reserves for his rank, “I really do need to work now.” She taps her knuckles on a large stack of reports that sits to her right.
He makes no move to detach himself from her desk. “Elizabeth, it’s Saturday.”
She cracks an indulgent smile. “In the three years we’ve been in Atlantis have we ever recognized weekends?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “You’re making my case for me,” he counters, sounding pleased with himself.
“John -”
He cuts her off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You need a break, Elizabeth. We all do. Just put the,” he reaches across her desk and grabs the top file, flipping it open and reading the heading, “‘Current Fiscal Allocations within the Science Departments and Their Obvious Implications of Favoritism’ aside and come with me to the mainland.” He closes the folder and taps it on the desk. “The marines said the Athosians have set up an archery range. I bet you’re a natural.”
She rolls her eyes and reaches for the file. “John, as much as I appreciate the offer, these things need to be taken care of.”
“This can wait,” he insists, tugging on the folder like a petulant child. “You need a break.”
Elizabeth narrows her eyes to a glare but John holds fast. “Give me back the file, John.” She’s beginning to sound exasperated.
“Only if you agree to put it aside.”
“John,” she tries again, yanking harder. “You’re being an - ouch,” she hisses and jerks her hand away.
“What happened?” he asks, immediately concerned. He slides off her desk and skirts around to her side. “You okay?”
“Fine,” she says sharply, examining her finger, “just a paper cut.” She sticks the wounded digit in her mouth and John fights the urge to smile at the picture.
“Band-Aids?” he asks and she nods to her drawer. He rifles through it and finds a box in the back. He settles himself on the desk in front of her before holding out his hand expectantly, palm up.
He can tell she’s trying not to roll her eyes as she removes her finger to speak. “I don’t need medical attention.”
John says nothing but leaves his hand where it is. Elizabeth glares at him again before sighing in defeat and dropping her hand into his.
“You realize what this means, of course,” he states matter-of-factly as he places the bandage over her cut.
“That I’m working with a four year old?”
He continues as if she hadn’t spoken. “That you need to take the rest of the day off.”
Her eyes narrow with mock suspicion. “Oh, I do?”
He nods.
“Because I’m injured?” she guesses.
“Because you’re injured,” he affirms, securing the adhesive. Her hand is warm in his and he finds he’s unable to let go right away. Instead, almost experimentally, he tightens his grip then loosens it, brushing his thumb carefully along the line of her palm.
He doesn’t raise his head to look at her. “Elizabeth,” he says in his most serious tone, “come with me.”
When he finally meets her eyes she turns her hand over in his and squeezes gently, gracing him with the slightest of smiles. “It is Saturday.”
--2
“Holy shit a talking muffin!” Lorne exclaims dramatically, causing Elizabeth to burst into laughter and nearly lose her precarious footing.
“That’s it?” Rodney asks in disbelief from his place on the sideline. “That’s the funniest joke you’ve ever heard?”
Elizabeth’s laughter finally dies down sufficiently for her to speak and she twists to look up at Rodney. “It was certainly funnier than yours.”
“Please,” he scoffs, draining the last of his beer before flicking the spinner forcefully. “Mine was much funnier. Left foot yellow.”
Elizabeth complies immediately and both Ronon and Lorne follow suit. John hesitates a moment. The only available space is about six inches further than he’s thinks he’s capable of stretching.
“Next time we order ‘entertainment’ to be shipped to us, we ought to be more specific,” Rodney advises the four hopelessly tangled participants. “I was anticipating something more along the lines of DVDs or a PlayStation.”
“Seriously?” John asks, his left foot hovering above the mat. “Yellow?” He glances down and catches sight of Elizabeth’s bare feet. She’s wearing a toe ring and he finds it incredibly distracting.
Rodney nods briskly and twists off the cap of another beer. “Yellow. Canary. Lemon. Amarillo for our Spanish speaking friends.”
“McKay?” John drawls absently, his brow furrowing in concentration.
“Yes?”
“Shut up.”
The major laughs and John extends to his full length, slipping his leg under Ronon’s. He already has the other under Lorne.
Rodney spins again. “Right hand red.”
Ronon’s advantage is glaringly obvious as he reaches his long arm across the mat and rests it easily on a red circle. Lorne struggles slightly, but manages to land in place without toppling. John snakes his hand around his own leg and puts his palm down clumsily. Elizabeth manages to wind her way under Ronon, past one of Lorne’s legs and between John’s arms to reach her target, stopping halfway to grab her beer and take a pull before dropping her hand to the mat.
“Ma’am,” Lorne says with touch of awe, “you’re impressively bendy.”
Elizabeth beams.
“Teyla is even bendier,” Ronon interjects knowingly. In response to raised eyebrows he only shrugs.
John wonders at how he manages the feat while his body is twisted like a pretzel.
“Left hand green,” Rodney instructs.
John’s not entirely sure how or when Elizabeth ended up underneath him, spread out on all fours with her back to the mat, but he’s suddenly very aware of it. She waggles her eyebrows in challenge and he smiles gamely before reaching across her for the green circle, bringing his left hand to rest to her immediate right. As his palm hits the mat his chest brushes lightly against hers. Her features are flushed from alcohol and he’s almost certain he can feel the ghost of her breath on his cheek. A small smile escapes before he can stop it and he struggles not to tilt his face ever so slightly to press his nose into the spot of negative space between her shoulder and her neck. He’s always liked that spot. Rodney calls out the next move but the only thing John can hear clearly is the sound of the blood pounding in his ears.
Whatever Rodney’s instructions were, they’ve caused Lorne and Ronon to pitch forward into John and he can’t maintain his balance. In a last ditch effort to maintain his equilibrium, John throws his arms around Elizabeth’s waist, eliciting a squeal as he twists and drags her down on top of him in a fit of laughter.
Of its own accord, his hand clutches at the curve of her waist and his fingers clench reflexively.
--3
The deafening sound of C4 exploding pulses through the narrow hallway. Heat flares, nipping at their heels and pressing against their backs. Through the comm link Major Lorne’s voice shouts that they have a little under two minutes before there will be no way out.
His feet push harder against the cement, propelling him forward and into the haze.
“There,” Ronon grunts through heavy breaths, nodding his head to the left. His blaster makes quick work of the lock. As John pushes past the bars he feels like his heart has been ripped from his chest and shoved back down his throat.
Elizabeth is huddled in the back corner of the small cell, bound, gagged and wild-eyed. Blood cakes her face, tangling with dirt and mud to stain her blanched features.
“Elizabeth,” he breathes as he crouches down and begins to work at her bindings. He’s afraid to ask if she’s all right. Afraid to hear her voice. Afraid of what she might say.
He removes the cloth from her mouth and his name cracks as she utters it, painfully small and faint.
The last seven weeks have been the worst form of hell - not knowing where she was or what was happening to her. His mind has been offering horrible, gut-wrenching possibilities. Now he believes every one of them.
She repeats his name and bile rises from his gut, its nauseating wave threatening to envelop him completely.
“We need to get you out of here,” he tells her as Lorne’s countdown echoes in his ear. He nods to Ronon, who scoops up her feeble form with a warrior’s grace.
Silent tears well in her eyes and cause another surge of guilt to sluice down his spine. You did this to her, he reminds himself. This is your fault.
He covers her hand where it rests on Ronon’s broad shoulder and squeezes once before diving back toward the flames. As she buries her head in Ronon’s chest he forces himself to memorize the cold of her skin, the fleeting look of betrayal that even the most disciplined negotiator couldn’t hide.
John vows he will never make the same mistake again.
--4
John steps up behind Elizabeth and pauses to drink in the evening. Before him the night sky blankets the mainland, its brilliance rivaled only by the smiles of the revelers dancing by firelight. He breathes deeply, inhaling the scent of wood smoke and ocean and magic. Even here, music finds its way to his ears - dissonant and unfamiliar while paradoxically heartwarming. He’s never quite become used to Athosian folk songs, finds it hard to isolate the melody. Just one of the many things in this galaxy that remains unreachable.
He can’t keep his eyes from drifting to Elizabeth.
“That was unlike anything I’ve ever seen,” he says quietly.
She turns and smiles at him then, her lips quirking slightly at the corners. She eases her shawl back onto her shoulders and looks away. “The Athosians certainly know how to celebrate,” she agrees wistfully.
“If this is the engagement party, I’m almost afraid to see the wedding.”
She chuckles lightly, the kind of halfhearted laugh one uses when they’re not really listening. He’d be hurt if he wasn’t already troubled by the distant look he’s seen in her eyes all evening.
He studies her, searching for hints in the firelight’s shadows. “Something wrong?” he asks, stepping closer. The smell of her shampoo catches in the breeze, teasing his senses with the hint of intimate details he will never truly know.
She shakes her head and secures the material of her wrap more tightly around her arms.
“Elizabeth,” he prompts. “Don’t you know you can’t lie to me?”
She quirks her head toward him and raises an eyebrow.
“Shouldn’t,” he corrects. “Shouldn’t lie to me.”
She grins and turns her gaze back to the party. Letting her breath out slowly she nods at the dancers. “Does it ever bother you,” she starts, then bites her lip. “Do you ever wonder what life would have been like if we had stayed on Earth?”
He thinks for a minute. “Boring?”
The side of her mouth tilts in a muted half-smile. “I was going more along the lines of stable.”
“They aren’t synonymous?”
She takes a deep breath and releases it but doesn’t speak.
He knows what she means to say - he’s felt it too. Especially on nights like this, nights when they celebrate marriages and births. Each time he’s reminded of a part of life he isn’t afforded the luxury of experiencing. There are times when that doesn’t bother him - times when he feels the tremendous pride that comes from calling an entire expedition family. But sometimes, when he lies alone in bed at night, he wishes he could get closer. He wishes that there was a time to just be John and not Colonel Sheppard.
“Would you like to dance?” he asks softly. She turns to look at him, her face washed in light and shadow. She nods hesitantly and he slips his hand into hers, gently tugging her into his arms.
He tucks her body into his and she’s warmer and softer than he had ever imagined. The music is a little louder now, the fire a little bigger. Overhead, the stars are beginning to appear. Her head comes to rest on his shoulder, the weight of it somehow exactly what his life has been missing. This is what he wants - to be able to wrap himself around her. This is what he needs.
He pulls her closer.
--5
“So, this one,” she points with a dirt caked finger, “is about the second prophesy.” Her eyes are wide and bright and she’s sitting cross-legged in the soil like a child in a sandbox. She continues talking as she digs, uncovering what’s turning out to be a somewhat large pyramid of etched rock.
Really, he should have sent Lieutenant Baker or even Lorne to accompany Elizabeth. The natives were correct in their claim - there is absolutely no indication of danger. He could probably even take his hands off his P90 and actually start helping her dig. But, as he’s finally allowed himself to admit, he’s a little overprotective when it comes to his expedition leader’s safety. (When he makes the confession in his head he always refers to her by her title. It makes him feel a little more justified.)
He doesn’t mind the menial task of guard dog. This is especially true when he considers that the alternative is another male spending the better part of a day miles from civilization and alone with Elizabeth. The implications of that thought are somewhat harder to classify as concern for his superior, but he’s surprisingly willing to not dwell on that issue.
Elizabeth shifts to her hands and knees in order to get more leverage and uses her fingers to work the earth away from the text she’s attempting to translate. As she leans forward a stray curl falls across her face. He watches from his place on the ground beside her as she swipes at it with the back of her wrist - possibly the only part of her not covered in dirt - and it tumbles back down to tickle her nose.
She blows a stream of air from her mouth and sends the offending curl flying, only to have it return to exactly where it had settled before. She tries again with the same result. The look of frustration on her face is so endearing he almost wants to leave it there, but instead he takes pity on her. Reaching for her face, he drops his fingers gently on her forehead and sweeps them across her brow, guiding the wisp of hair from her eyes and tucking it securely behind her ear.
“Better?” he asks as she turns her head toward him.
She nods in response. “Thanks.”
It isn’t until her hand comes to rest on his that he realizes he hasn’t removed it.
Before he even knows what he’s doing his lips are on hers. The kiss is sweet and brief - nothing like he’s imagined but ten million times better. The taste and feel of her fills his senses, sends blood coursing through his veins, and he wonders if he will ever be able to think of anything other than how many different ways he wants to kiss her.
She pulls back, a soft smile on her lips that quickly turns into outright laughter - not exactly what he wanted her reaction to be.
“Elizabeth?” he questions, her name quieter than he intended.
Her laughing tapers off slowly and she settles into a grin. “Sorry, it’s just,” she points to his face, “I got you all muddy.”
He puts his hand to his cheek and brushes at the soil her hands left behind.
“I guess you’ll have to make it up to me,” he decides.
Her eyes sparkle with mischief. “I guess I will.”
Rating: PG13
Pairing: John/Elizabeth
A/N: So... in an attempt to jump-start my muse, I gave myself a five things prompt. The first one was a bomb (there was a very odd fanged animal and I'm not sure where it was going), and the second one resulted in three different John deaths. After the response to my killing of Lorne in a fic, I figured no one would want to read a whole bunch of different ways of offing the Lt. Colonel - no matter how valiant the method. I now bring you my third attempt and first (and last?) completed five things...
--1
“John,” Elizabeth says in the tone she usually reserves for his rank, “I really do need to work now.” She taps her knuckles on a large stack of reports that sits to her right.
He makes no move to detach himself from her desk. “Elizabeth, it’s Saturday.”
She cracks an indulgent smile. “In the three years we’ve been in Atlantis have we ever recognized weekends?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “You’re making my case for me,” he counters, sounding pleased with himself.
“John -”
He cuts her off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You need a break, Elizabeth. We all do. Just put the,” he reaches across her desk and grabs the top file, flipping it open and reading the heading, “‘Current Fiscal Allocations within the Science Departments and Their Obvious Implications of Favoritism’ aside and come with me to the mainland.” He closes the folder and taps it on the desk. “The marines said the Athosians have set up an archery range. I bet you’re a natural.”
She rolls her eyes and reaches for the file. “John, as much as I appreciate the offer, these things need to be taken care of.”
“This can wait,” he insists, tugging on the folder like a petulant child. “You need a break.”
Elizabeth narrows her eyes to a glare but John holds fast. “Give me back the file, John.” She’s beginning to sound exasperated.
“Only if you agree to put it aside.”
“John,” she tries again, yanking harder. “You’re being an - ouch,” she hisses and jerks her hand away.
“What happened?” he asks, immediately concerned. He slides off her desk and skirts around to her side. “You okay?”
“Fine,” she says sharply, examining her finger, “just a paper cut.” She sticks the wounded digit in her mouth and John fights the urge to smile at the picture.
“Band-Aids?” he asks and she nods to her drawer. He rifles through it and finds a box in the back. He settles himself on the desk in front of her before holding out his hand expectantly, palm up.
He can tell she’s trying not to roll her eyes as she removes her finger to speak. “I don’t need medical attention.”
John says nothing but leaves his hand where it is. Elizabeth glares at him again before sighing in defeat and dropping her hand into his.
“You realize what this means, of course,” he states matter-of-factly as he places the bandage over her cut.
“That I’m working with a four year old?”
He continues as if she hadn’t spoken. “That you need to take the rest of the day off.”
Her eyes narrow with mock suspicion. “Oh, I do?”
He nods.
“Because I’m injured?” she guesses.
“Because you’re injured,” he affirms, securing the adhesive. Her hand is warm in his and he finds he’s unable to let go right away. Instead, almost experimentally, he tightens his grip then loosens it, brushing his thumb carefully along the line of her palm.
He doesn’t raise his head to look at her. “Elizabeth,” he says in his most serious tone, “come with me.”
When he finally meets her eyes she turns her hand over in his and squeezes gently, gracing him with the slightest of smiles. “It is Saturday.”
--2
“Holy shit a talking muffin!” Lorne exclaims dramatically, causing Elizabeth to burst into laughter and nearly lose her precarious footing.
“That’s it?” Rodney asks in disbelief from his place on the sideline. “That’s the funniest joke you’ve ever heard?”
Elizabeth’s laughter finally dies down sufficiently for her to speak and she twists to look up at Rodney. “It was certainly funnier than yours.”
“Please,” he scoffs, draining the last of his beer before flicking the spinner forcefully. “Mine was much funnier. Left foot yellow.”
Elizabeth complies immediately and both Ronon and Lorne follow suit. John hesitates a moment. The only available space is about six inches further than he’s thinks he’s capable of stretching.
“Next time we order ‘entertainment’ to be shipped to us, we ought to be more specific,” Rodney advises the four hopelessly tangled participants. “I was anticipating something more along the lines of DVDs or a PlayStation.”
“Seriously?” John asks, his left foot hovering above the mat. “Yellow?” He glances down and catches sight of Elizabeth’s bare feet. She’s wearing a toe ring and he finds it incredibly distracting.
Rodney nods briskly and twists off the cap of another beer. “Yellow. Canary. Lemon. Amarillo for our Spanish speaking friends.”
“McKay?” John drawls absently, his brow furrowing in concentration.
“Yes?”
“Shut up.”
The major laughs and John extends to his full length, slipping his leg under Ronon’s. He already has the other under Lorne.
Rodney spins again. “Right hand red.”
Ronon’s advantage is glaringly obvious as he reaches his long arm across the mat and rests it easily on a red circle. Lorne struggles slightly, but manages to land in place without toppling. John snakes his hand around his own leg and puts his palm down clumsily. Elizabeth manages to wind her way under Ronon, past one of Lorne’s legs and between John’s arms to reach her target, stopping halfway to grab her beer and take a pull before dropping her hand to the mat.
“Ma’am,” Lorne says with touch of awe, “you’re impressively bendy.”
Elizabeth beams.
“Teyla is even bendier,” Ronon interjects knowingly. In response to raised eyebrows he only shrugs.
John wonders at how he manages the feat while his body is twisted like a pretzel.
“Left hand green,” Rodney instructs.
John’s not entirely sure how or when Elizabeth ended up underneath him, spread out on all fours with her back to the mat, but he’s suddenly very aware of it. She waggles her eyebrows in challenge and he smiles gamely before reaching across her for the green circle, bringing his left hand to rest to her immediate right. As his palm hits the mat his chest brushes lightly against hers. Her features are flushed from alcohol and he’s almost certain he can feel the ghost of her breath on his cheek. A small smile escapes before he can stop it and he struggles not to tilt his face ever so slightly to press his nose into the spot of negative space between her shoulder and her neck. He’s always liked that spot. Rodney calls out the next move but the only thing John can hear clearly is the sound of the blood pounding in his ears.
Whatever Rodney’s instructions were, they’ve caused Lorne and Ronon to pitch forward into John and he can’t maintain his balance. In a last ditch effort to maintain his equilibrium, John throws his arms around Elizabeth’s waist, eliciting a squeal as he twists and drags her down on top of him in a fit of laughter.
Of its own accord, his hand clutches at the curve of her waist and his fingers clench reflexively.
--3
The deafening sound of C4 exploding pulses through the narrow hallway. Heat flares, nipping at their heels and pressing against their backs. Through the comm link Major Lorne’s voice shouts that they have a little under two minutes before there will be no way out.
His feet push harder against the cement, propelling him forward and into the haze.
“There,” Ronon grunts through heavy breaths, nodding his head to the left. His blaster makes quick work of the lock. As John pushes past the bars he feels like his heart has been ripped from his chest and shoved back down his throat.
Elizabeth is huddled in the back corner of the small cell, bound, gagged and wild-eyed. Blood cakes her face, tangling with dirt and mud to stain her blanched features.
“Elizabeth,” he breathes as he crouches down and begins to work at her bindings. He’s afraid to ask if she’s all right. Afraid to hear her voice. Afraid of what she might say.
He removes the cloth from her mouth and his name cracks as she utters it, painfully small and faint.
The last seven weeks have been the worst form of hell - not knowing where she was or what was happening to her. His mind has been offering horrible, gut-wrenching possibilities. Now he believes every one of them.
She repeats his name and bile rises from his gut, its nauseating wave threatening to envelop him completely.
“We need to get you out of here,” he tells her as Lorne’s countdown echoes in his ear. He nods to Ronon, who scoops up her feeble form with a warrior’s grace.
Silent tears well in her eyes and cause another surge of guilt to sluice down his spine. You did this to her, he reminds himself. This is your fault.
He covers her hand where it rests on Ronon’s broad shoulder and squeezes once before diving back toward the flames. As she buries her head in Ronon’s chest he forces himself to memorize the cold of her skin, the fleeting look of betrayal that even the most disciplined negotiator couldn’t hide.
John vows he will never make the same mistake again.
--4
John steps up behind Elizabeth and pauses to drink in the evening. Before him the night sky blankets the mainland, its brilliance rivaled only by the smiles of the revelers dancing by firelight. He breathes deeply, inhaling the scent of wood smoke and ocean and magic. Even here, music finds its way to his ears - dissonant and unfamiliar while paradoxically heartwarming. He’s never quite become used to Athosian folk songs, finds it hard to isolate the melody. Just one of the many things in this galaxy that remains unreachable.
He can’t keep his eyes from drifting to Elizabeth.
“That was unlike anything I’ve ever seen,” he says quietly.
She turns and smiles at him then, her lips quirking slightly at the corners. She eases her shawl back onto her shoulders and looks away. “The Athosians certainly know how to celebrate,” she agrees wistfully.
“If this is the engagement party, I’m almost afraid to see the wedding.”
She chuckles lightly, the kind of halfhearted laugh one uses when they’re not really listening. He’d be hurt if he wasn’t already troubled by the distant look he’s seen in her eyes all evening.
He studies her, searching for hints in the firelight’s shadows. “Something wrong?” he asks, stepping closer. The smell of her shampoo catches in the breeze, teasing his senses with the hint of intimate details he will never truly know.
She shakes her head and secures the material of her wrap more tightly around her arms.
“Elizabeth,” he prompts. “Don’t you know you can’t lie to me?”
She quirks her head toward him and raises an eyebrow.
“Shouldn’t,” he corrects. “Shouldn’t lie to me.”
She grins and turns her gaze back to the party. Letting her breath out slowly she nods at the dancers. “Does it ever bother you,” she starts, then bites her lip. “Do you ever wonder what life would have been like if we had stayed on Earth?”
He thinks for a minute. “Boring?”
The side of her mouth tilts in a muted half-smile. “I was going more along the lines of stable.”
“They aren’t synonymous?”
She takes a deep breath and releases it but doesn’t speak.
He knows what she means to say - he’s felt it too. Especially on nights like this, nights when they celebrate marriages and births. Each time he’s reminded of a part of life he isn’t afforded the luxury of experiencing. There are times when that doesn’t bother him - times when he feels the tremendous pride that comes from calling an entire expedition family. But sometimes, when he lies alone in bed at night, he wishes he could get closer. He wishes that there was a time to just be John and not Colonel Sheppard.
“Would you like to dance?” he asks softly. She turns to look at him, her face washed in light and shadow. She nods hesitantly and he slips his hand into hers, gently tugging her into his arms.
He tucks her body into his and she’s warmer and softer than he had ever imagined. The music is a little louder now, the fire a little bigger. Overhead, the stars are beginning to appear. Her head comes to rest on his shoulder, the weight of it somehow exactly what his life has been missing. This is what he wants - to be able to wrap himself around her. This is what he needs.
He pulls her closer.
--5
“So, this one,” she points with a dirt caked finger, “is about the second prophesy.” Her eyes are wide and bright and she’s sitting cross-legged in the soil like a child in a sandbox. She continues talking as she digs, uncovering what’s turning out to be a somewhat large pyramid of etched rock.
Really, he should have sent Lieutenant Baker or even Lorne to accompany Elizabeth. The natives were correct in their claim - there is absolutely no indication of danger. He could probably even take his hands off his P90 and actually start helping her dig. But, as he’s finally allowed himself to admit, he’s a little overprotective when it comes to his expedition leader’s safety. (When he makes the confession in his head he always refers to her by her title. It makes him feel a little more justified.)
He doesn’t mind the menial task of guard dog. This is especially true when he considers that the alternative is another male spending the better part of a day miles from civilization and alone with Elizabeth. The implications of that thought are somewhat harder to classify as concern for his superior, but he’s surprisingly willing to not dwell on that issue.
Elizabeth shifts to her hands and knees in order to get more leverage and uses her fingers to work the earth away from the text she’s attempting to translate. As she leans forward a stray curl falls across her face. He watches from his place on the ground beside her as she swipes at it with the back of her wrist - possibly the only part of her not covered in dirt - and it tumbles back down to tickle her nose.
She blows a stream of air from her mouth and sends the offending curl flying, only to have it return to exactly where it had settled before. She tries again with the same result. The look of frustration on her face is so endearing he almost wants to leave it there, but instead he takes pity on her. Reaching for her face, he drops his fingers gently on her forehead and sweeps them across her brow, guiding the wisp of hair from her eyes and tucking it securely behind her ear.
“Better?” he asks as she turns her head toward him.
She nods in response. “Thanks.”
It isn’t until her hand comes to rest on his that he realizes he hasn’t removed it.
Before he even knows what he’s doing his lips are on hers. The kiss is sweet and brief - nothing like he’s imagined but ten million times better. The taste and feel of her fills his senses, sends blood coursing through his veins, and he wonders if he will ever be able to think of anything other than how many different ways he wants to kiss her.
She pulls back, a soft smile on her lips that quickly turns into outright laughter - not exactly what he wanted her reaction to be.
“Elizabeth?” he questions, her name quieter than he intended.
Her laughing tapers off slowly and she settles into a grin. “Sorry, it’s just,” she points to his face, “I got you all muddy.”
He puts his hand to his cheek and brushes at the soil her hands left behind.
“I guess you’ll have to make it up to me,” he decides.
Her eyes sparkle with mischief. “I guess I will.”