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Title: Listless Rain
Category: Romance, Angst, smut.
Pairing: Sam/Jack
Rating: NC-17
Summary: You want to
feel alive.
Disclaimer: Don’t own them, never will. Promise to put them back in the state I found them. Song isn’t
mine either.
Author’s notes: Twinnie said “silent, emotional sex is all I challenge you to” so here it
is. Eva, I hope this lives up to your expectations.
Feedback: Hell yeah! Don’t make me beg, hit reply and stroke
my ego please.
Dedication: As always, for LEW. For Eva, for challenging me and believing in me. And for Jo, because I love
her.
Date: 07/02/05
Copyright © to Venom, 2005
***
Suddenly I know I’m not sleeping
Hello, I’m
still here
All that’s left of yesterday
***
You know that you’re doing this to feel alive.
The
need to have something real in this destitute world has overcome you, and that’s why you’re doing this. It’s
why you’re briskly walking to his house, anxious to know that he is alive.
That you are alive.
Heavy
rain pelts down on you, coating your skin in slick moisture and mingling with the tears that trickle hotly down your cheeks.
The wind is high and fast and the trees around you are blowing their leaves in a violent protest. You’re cold, but you
don’t feel it anymore.
You don’t feel alive anymore.
You feel cold and dead and apathetic.
It
doesn’t feel right anymore- did it ever?- this battle that you fight each day. You don’t remember the point anymore.
You know that you tell yourself it is for the good of humanity; but if humanity really wanted to be saved, why would they
continue to fight amongst themselves?
Why the killing, the rape, the bombing, the destruction?
Why?
If
humanity is so hell bent on wiping themselves out, why do you bother to try and save them? Why pour everything of yourself
into a worthless cause? Half of the population wants to solve their battles with guns and weapons, the other half wants to
remain oblivious and absorbed in their own lives.
Would they really notice if the cities started being destroyed? Would
they notice if their brothers and sisters were being enslaved?
Or would the wonder why their morning paper wasn’t
delivered? Why the girl behind the counter at Starbucks seems a little sadder than the day before?
Would anyone notice
if you died?
Mark would. His kids too, but they don’t know you.
They don’t know what you see, what
you do. You pull idea after idea out of your ass and it never seems to be enough. You saved the world yesterday, you prevented
a possible attack today, what will tomorrow bring? Will it bring more disappointment and bitterness? More fights for your
life?
Will it be the end?
The streets are silent as you walk them. You’ve passed only a few people since
you left your house. And it scares you that you looked at them with a critical eye, wondering which one of them would be the
one to hold a knife to your neck and demand your money? Which one would want to rape you in the park and leave your broken
soul and abused body in tatters?
You want more faith in humanity. You want to believe that the work you’re doing
day in and day out will be put to good use. You work with people who put their life on the line on a daily basis, you put
your life on the line on a daily basis.
But the man with the knife or the hard-on doesn’t see that. All he sees
is an easy target.
Because you’re a woman? Maybe.
Because you’re alone? Possibly.
Because
you’re human? Definitely.
Humans are weak.
They are weak and pathetic and so fucking sure of themselves.
Their bodies are fragile, you’ve heard enough ‘Gods’ say that in the past four years. And yet, despite the
weakness and the arrogance and the apathy, they are so highly coveted as hosts.
Odd, that.
A dog barks loudly
from somewhere behind you but you don’t turn around and look. You have to get there, you have to see him and feel him
and know that after everything, after today, he is still alive. Because if he is alive, then maybe you are too.
If
he can survive, then maybe you can too.
Turning the corner, you find yourself on his street, unable to remember most
of the journey. That scares you, that you walked almost a mile and remember so little of it.
But in a surreal sort
of way it also comforts you, that even without prompting from your mind, your body was able to safely find it’s was
to his neighborhood, his street, his house, him.
Your languid emotional state won’t allow you to feel nerves
as you walk up his driveway, but on any other day you know that you would.
Then again, on any other day, you wouldn’t
be here. It’s the unspoken of your relationship. You don’t see each other alone outside of the base and you don’t
acknowledge that there is something between you.
That something could have cost him his life today, and that something
is costing you your sanity.
Which is why, at almost 2 am in the morning, you are knocking on his front door.
He’s
awake, which doesn’t surprise you. He regards you silently and opens the door wider for you to enter.
You hesitate
though, knowing that you’re dripping from the heavy fall of water you’ve walked through to get here. With a small,
acknowledging nod, he takes your hand and pulls you inside.
The click of the door closing behind you echoes throughout
the otherwise silent house and he leads you up the two stairs of his home and down the hallway towards the bathroom.
Expecting
him to leave you alone, you’re mildly surprised when he starts to undo the buttons on your shirt.
As he peels
the saturated material from your damp shoulders and tosses it in the bathtub, you shiver, your nipples puckering as the cool
air assaults them through the thin lace covering you. His touch is not sexual, it’s soothing, but that knowledge doesn’t
serve to quell the swell of arousal that begins deep in your lower belly.
He reaches behind you in an almost-hug and
unhooks your bra, pulling it off and flinging it to land on your shirt. Your jeans are next, and he pops each button carefully,
finally bending down in front of you to remove your shoes and socks before pulling your jeans down your legs. He brings your
hands to his shoulders to steady you and pulls your feet out of the damp material one at a time.
The jeans join the
pile of soaked clothes in the bathtub. Your panties are next, he pulls them down slowly and the fire within you is beginning
to grow hotter. He isn’t trying to arouse, you know, but it’s an erotic experience, being undressed by him with
such precision and care.
Panties now gone, he stands. He doesn’t stare at your body, doesn’t even appear
to notice that you’re naked, even though he is the one that undressed you. Just turns the shower on and makes sure the
waters nice and hot before ushering you in. It doesn’t unnerve you that you’re naked in front of your commanding
officer. Because he isn’t your CO right now.
He’s your friend, the man you… care about.
He’s
a man.
You’re a naked woman.
You don’t need to do the math.
Hearing his belt come undone
doesn’t surprise you. It takes only a few moments, but he joins you in the shower. You love that he didn’t ask,
just assumed that it would be ok. Because he knows you, and he knows the things you see.
He sees it too.
All
of it.
Reaching behind you, he grabs the soap and lathers his hands. Pulling you too him, you bury your face in his
neck while he runs his lubricated fingers up and down your back, caressing your spine, putting pressure on each individual
vertebra. It’s more for comfort than your need to feel clean, and you can’t help but let out a choked sob against
the skin of his collar.
“Let it out,” he tells you, quietly speaking into your neck. The first words either
of you have spoken.
You do, crying against his skin while strong arms hold you to his body. You cry for the lost souls,
for everything you’ve seen. You cry for the man with the gun or the hard-on who both have no clue that there is more
out there. You cry for the corrupted innocence of the universe. You cry for the fact that you are so close to this man and
yet still so far away from him.
You cry for yourself.
He holds you through twenty minutes of solid sobbing.
Rubbing soothing hands up and down your back as you cry for the unfairness of it all.
The soap has been long forgotten,
but he runs his hands along your skin to make sure it’s all gone before her shuts off the water. Your nipples tighten
even more without the warmth of the shower or his arms as he leaves you to get a towel.
You don’t move as he
steps back into the stall and runs the towel over your body. He dries you gently, treating you like the porcelain that you’re
not. His towel-covered hands trail your body, rubbing the water from your skin with more soothing circles.
Only when
he’s sure that you’re dry does he step back. Taking your hand, he leads you to his bedroom. He pulls a large shirt
from one of the drawers near his bed and hands it to you.
Staring at the fabric in your hands blankly, you flinch slightly
when he lightly touches your arm. Dismissing the concern shining in his eyes with a weak and barely there smile, you quickly
pull the shirt over your head. The long material reaches down to your knees and it smells faintly of his cologne.
Only
now do you notice that he’s pulled some boxer shorts on.
Taking your hand again, he leads you to the living room.
Pulling you down on to his sofa, you immediately snuggle up to him, uncaring of how uncharacteristic it is of you. “Do
you want to talk?” He asks quietly.
You’re not sure how to answer him. Would he understand about the man
with the gun or the hard-on? Would he understand your feeling of desperation? Your desires to know that he is alive so that
you can know you are?
“I don’t know what to say anymore.” You answer honestly, and another tear falls
down your right cheek.
What would you do if that ‘something’ between you had killed him? How would you
explain it to the General, to the rest of SG-1? You feel like you don’t know much of anything anymore, but you don’t
tell him that.
You suspect he knows anyway.
“Neither do I.” He admits quietly.
Instead of
nodding, or giving a non-committal response, you do what you really came here to do. You do the one thing that could end your
career; you straddle his waist, plant yourself firmly in his lap with your legs tucked under yourself, press your bodies flush
together and you kiss him.
It’s everything and nothing that you expected. He tastes you, feasts on you, and brings
forth every emotion that you’ve buried in the last five years. Every emotion that The Man says you can’t have.
You
try to tell yourself that this is wrong, that you shouldn’t do it. You try to tell yourself to think of the Oath that
you took what seems like a millennia ago. You try to tell yourself that this will only fuck things up at work. That it will
only make you love him more.
But none of it works.
The fact that this man has his tongue in your mouth is
squashing the voice of sensibility with ease.
As you shift your weight above him to press your groins closer, his hands
impulsively move to your hips. His grip is firm, but not demanding, and the tenderness in his lips against yours brings even
more tears to your eyes.
You want to scream at the unfairness of this. Why did you deny yourself, and him, this pleasure
for so long?
He pulls back from you, his teeth giving your bottom lip a parting nibble. “This is a bad idea.”
There
is absolutely no doubt in your mind that he is right.
How could he be wrong?
This, the way you are with him
now, is everything that you both tried so hard to avoid for five years. This is everything that you thought of as wrong, everything
that you painstakingly ran from.
You take a deep shuddering breath and bite your bottom lip before answering. “Then
why does it feel so right?”
He doesn’t answer, and you suspect that it’s because he doesn’t
have the words.
He simply leans forward again, bringing your lips back together where they belong and you know without
a shadow of a doubt that nothing ever felt this good and nothing ever will again.
You are his, no questions asked.
Hands
that are not your own caress your spine once more. This time his touch is arousing, and you feel it in every fiber of your
being.
These hands know their way around a woman’s body, they are sure of themselves, as is the man that controls
them. They know how to tease, to arouse, to pleasure. It does embarrassing things to your insides to know that you’re
the focus of those skillful hands.
The shirt that you slipped on not long ago is pulled from you, and you whimper as
your lips separate from his to pull the garment over your head.
You wont remember until tomorrow, but somehow his
boxer shorts leave his body and you’re impaled on him. He didn’t ask you if you were sure, he didn’t say
anything.
Words aren’t needed now, not here.
A whimper bubbles up in your throat. It’s been too
long since you’ve been with a man like this and your muscles are contracting painfully at the intrusion. The pain is
a welcome reminder of life.
He holds himself still, feeling your insides flutter, waiting for your body to adapt. You
see a flash of pleasure cross his features; he knows you haven’t done this in a while and it pleases him.
You
move slowly, up and down in a delicious tangle of lust, thighs twitching with the controlled effort. He is hot and hard inside
of you, everything you expected and so much more.
Silent tears continue to travel their way down your cheek, a glimmering
path of wetness left in their wake as you continue your movements. One of his hands comes to wipe them away, while the other
reaches between you to find your clitoris.
His touch is sure, firm.
He strokes you confidently, winding your
body up only to let it unravel again. You want to beg, but your mouth just opens and closes as you gulp air desperately. Every
pant and moan is echoed in the silence of the house.
Your body is tingling and sparks of electricity flow through you.
Beads
of sweat have started to form on both of you, and you press your lips to his in desperation as orgasm grips you, pulling you
over the edge in a burst of intense emotion.
He holds you to him tightly as his own release follows yours.
You
grip each other desperately as your tears continue to fall, aftershocks still making your body tremble.
The world isn’t
perfect.
Nothing much has changed and apathy still grips you as it did an hour ago.
But you know you’re
alive.
And, more importantly, safe.
***
End
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