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amalnahurriyeh Jan. 5th, 2011 12:27 am)
amalnahurriyeh Jan. 5th, 2011 12:27 am)Title: In the Face of the Wind and the Rain
Author: Amal Nahurriyeh,amalnahurriyeh/![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
amalnahurriyeh, amalnahurriyeh at gmail dot com
Summary: She isn't sure if it's him or her, but something's dead between them, and she doesn't know if it's coming back.
Pairing: MSR.
Rating: NC-17 (angsty sex)
Warnings: None.
Angst-level: Medium to medium-high, depending on how you're set.
Timeline/Spoilers: Post-ep for Kitsunegari, no spoilers past that point.
Author's Notes:
Written forindigo_inferno for the 2010 ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
xf_santa. Sorry this is so late, but I do hope you enjoy.
I'd thank my wife for the beta, but she gets points deducted for the snark.
Title from Joan Osborne's Hurricane. File here, streaming snippet here, lyrics here
She doesn't like that she's finally scared of him.
Dana Scully is not one to be intimidated by men. She learned to roll with her brothers young, to keep up with the boys on the base, to play hard and keep her chin up, no matter what. In college, she was always the one of her friends who was designated to deal with unwanted male attention; the set in her voice and the fold of her arms pushed off all but the most persistent, and she had a nasty left hook in case of emergency. She'd been more intimidating than intimidated at Quantico, walked through the autopsy bays like she owned the place from her first day. She didn't regret this, in the least; it was necessary, and she was proud of it.
Without it being intentional, it was true looking back that all of her major romantic entanglements had been with men who held power over her. Melissa had always thought it was ironic, the gasp of a spirit yearning for the dominance she'd never experienced since childhood. Scully didn't think so; to her, examining the trendline, it seemed more that she wanted the subversion of power, to be in a position where nominal authority figures were dragged down to her level, were made to follow her where she wanted to go.
She thought this because the moment when each relationship began to end, she was sure, was at the moment where the men she'd been with had tried to take back the power she'd thought they'd gotten away from, had made her realize, yet again, that they could hurt her. With Daniel, it had been the moment when he threatened, in the heat of an argument, to call the director of the emergency department to make sure she'd take the residency in cardiology instead. It had taken her two weeks to get over her shock, but every time she saw him after that, she thought: he hasn't heard a word I've said in months. With Jack, it had been saying that he'd work it out with her SAC and get her the week off for them to head out to Bermuda. She'd shaken her head and laughed, but that was when it began to crumble, when she began to see how little he cared about her career, her choices, how much happier he'd be if she'd stay at Quantico and be there for him to come home to at the end of the day. And Ethan? Well, he'd known that her parents wanted her to marry, and that he was the fiance-apparant; he'd started joking with her about how her father'd rather see him at Easter dinner than her.
This had been two weeks after she'd joined the X-Files. He hadn't lasted long.
Five and a half years with Mulder, and he'd been everything she'd wanted in a intellectual partner; they'd clicked like puzzle pieces, filled in each other's empty spaces as they walked out into the world. When they sparked against each other, it felt useful, even at the moments when the sparks burned. What she'd felt for him had shifted, techtonically, with time; she'd thought that, perhaps, she'd gotten it right this time, that his being her friend first had been the magic addition to the formula, that this time his power over her couldn't be twisted. He had the same piece of her that she had of him. Equal collateral. This time, she'd maybe gotten it right.
She hadn't counted on Mulder's immense creativity in fucking shit up.
It wasn't that his vast destructive potential was new. It had always hovered there, right below the surface, threatening to break loose in a thousand small moments. She'd seen him with Roche, with a dozen suspects over the years; when he wanted to, he could bring it to light and let it happen. (When she killed, it was--surgical was such a cliche, but what else was it?) But what she was slowly coming to realize was that he wanted to hurt people for her, thought he could channel his violence into a means for his love for her. Duane Barry's bruised face in his autopsy photos had been the foreshadowing, the barrel of his gun in a Falls Church warehouse, standing over what he thought was her body, the denouement.
Except that wasn't the whole story. He would kill anyone who hurt her, and that included herself. Oh, she could tell herself that it was the ketamine in Quonochontaug, but that wasn't it; he was taking aim for her. She was destroying herself then, dangling on the edge of oblivion, and neither of them had had any hope that she was going to recover. Someone had to pay. Somedays he was sure it should be him; others he was sure it should be her. They had not been at their best.
So he'd kill her to save her--or take things from her to save her, either way. She can't sleep without feeling the sand on her fingers again, without wanting to wake knowing where her daughter is. And Mulder knew, and Mulder knows more than he's saying, and he doesn't realize this is killing her, too, digging in deep into her gut. Can she trust him anymore? She's just not sure, and that's the most terrified she's ever been of a man she's loved.
In the warehouse, after she'd shot Linda Bowman, she'd brushed her hand against his arm, and it had been like touching a mannequin. She isn't sure if it's him or her, but something's dead between them, and she doesn't know if it's coming back.
****
She thinks at first it is the sound of the rain beating on the motel room window that has woken her. She listens to the rattle of the cheap glass, the arhythmic waves of water rushing down it, hoping that it was just a change of pattern that woke her up, and that the white noise will soothe her back down again in a moment. But as she lays there, she realizes that it wasn't the rain after all. "Go away, Mulder," she says, keeping her back to him.
He says nothing. Does nothing. Does not get up and leave.
After a minute, she rolls over. He is sitting in the chair by the window, watching her. Every hotel room has a chair just like this one, a table just like that one, a window just like this one; punched out of the same mold, variations of a theme. She stays in the same hotel room a hundred and fifty nights a year, never in the same place. "I'm fine," she says to him. "Go."
He shifts slightly in the chair. "No."
She is almost glad she can't see him clearly, can't tell what he's thinking or feeling right now. She hates that even when she closes her eyes she can feel his gaze on her. She wants a minute, that's all, without him always fucking there.
She rolls over on her back, opens her eyes to stare at the ceiling, light pulsing and shifting as the water runs down the window, as lights from passing cars flash across it. "You know," she said, "this is really creepy of you, Mulder. It's not normal to watch people sleep."
There's a sound as he shifts in the chair, almost like he's settling in. "I'm not much for normal."
She suppresses the desire to get up and shake him, and runs her hand over her face. "Is there something you needed?" She wants there to be some way to dismiss him. It's not much I need, she thinks at Mulder. I just need to preserve the illusion that I'm in charge of my life. You're not helping these days.
He doesn't answer her, but the shadow of the curtains shifts. She can wait him out, or she can fall back asleep, or she can get out of bed and try to shame him into leaving her alone, or she can--
"I couldn't sleep."
She's surprised to hear him actually voice it. "So I don't get to either?"
Again, silence. She shifts under the covers, and the noise of the sheets is soft against the rush of the rain outside. Waiting him out normally doesn't take this long; she doesn't like that this is making her soften towards him. The strange brittleness she's felt since Christmas had begun to be a refuge; sorry, Mulder, the ice is too thin, I'll have to stay over here.
"It was this or clean my gun all night."
She thinks of him in the warehouse, pulling his gun off the floor to point it at her. Scully's dead, Mulder, Linda Bowman had whispered, and she'd seen the glance he gave to the floor behind him. He shouldn't be anywhere near his weapon for a while, but they gave it back to him like nothing. She would never say it, but she's been glad every morning he's been at the office before her.
She slides over in the bed. "At least come lay down. I can't sleep if I know you're watching me."
There is another long pause, but this time it ends with him moving, standing and crossing the few feet between the chair and the bed. She rolls away from him, wondering if this is a gesture of self-protection or submission, whether she is closing herself off or presenting herself vulnerable. He slides between the sheets and the mattress moves beneath her like a live thing.
His foot brushes her calf momentarily, but he retracts it, doesn't reach for her. She takes a long slow breath: OK. Maybe he'll just lay there, and they can sleep, and if she wakes curled into his warmth in the morning, she was sleeping and can't be held responsible.
She tries. But she's uncomfortable on that side, the soft hotel pillows must have done something to her neck, and she desperately wants to roll over. Maybe he's asleep (but, no, her ability to believe in impossible things doesn't extend that far), or maybe she can risk it. She rotates as cleanly as she can, not wanting to bunch up the sheets or get too close to him. He's watching her, of course he's watching her, but now that he's not just a silhouette in the window there's something soft and fragile in it. His hand is lying between them, palm down on the mattress, and she contemplates reaching for it. This is the sort of irrational you get in the middle of the night, she tries to tell herself, when you want everything to be all right again, when you think his living skin is the answer.
Except normally when she thinks that he's in Virginia. And it's a little more skin she's imagining.
Control is all she ever wants, she thinks as she runs her hand, slowly, along his forearm, feeling the hairs snap to attention under her fingers. Just over herself, just over her life, just enough to be able to know where the next blow is coming from. And Mulder has never been controllable, not by her (so much for Blevins's attempt), not even by himself. Her eyes are closed, as if this is a nervous tic to get herself back to sleep, but the strange electric crackle is back in the contact, and it's hard to think about anything other than how he feels beneath the pads of her fingers. The tension in the small muscles of his forearm is confusing to her; shouldn't this be soothing to him, this confidence that he hasn't lost her this time?
She chances a look at him. He's watching her differently now, how can one person watch another so many different ways, he's just full of new questions, isn't he. She slides her hand up to his elbow, and he shudders slightly. It's holding back, that's what he's doing, and it nearly takes her breath away to realize it. He's as terrified of her as she is of him, so frightened that it's going to be her who drops the hammer, dumps his sorry ass, walks out into the night with her daughter's ghost and her empty ovaries and her scarred neck and her career intact. And she could. She still could, she thinks, but she never would, because then who would she be?
She pulls her hand up to his shoulder and pushes him flat onto his back. Gracelessly, she straddles him, hand still on his shoulder, keeping her body away from his for a moment still. His hands land parallel to his ears, palms up, and she puts her hands on them, pushes him into the mattress. She can barely see him in the dark, but she's fairly sure the bobbing of his adam's apple is not wholly a sign of fear. She leans in towards his face, hovers just a breath above his lips for a moment, then noses his cheek to turn his head slightly. Delicately, she bites down into his earlobe, running her tongue along the tender slice of flesh she's trapped. His gasp and the awkward stutter of his hips tell her what she needs to know, and she bears her weight through his palms and licks behind his ear. She's sure she's leaving unquestionable marks down his neck as she bites at it, thank God the case is over and they just have the flight home tomorrow, and she scrapes her teeth on the curve of his jawbone and latches on to suck. His hands push up against hers just barely, but she pushes back down and he goes limp, drops his head to give her more of his neck. She straightens up over him, still holding his hands, and examines him. Her hips have sunk to meet his, and she tries an experimental roll against him, just to feel him against her. His eyes roll back in his head and his back arches, just barely, and she knows she has him.
Her next bite is aimed at his nipple, which she can see through the fabric of his shirt; but that's not enough, she needs skin, so she chances releasing his hands. He leaves them where she put them, so she pulls up his shirt to get at his chest, which is warm beneath her searching mouth. She holds him by the elbows as she slides down him, and his hips rock up again, his cock brushing against her breasts through her pyjamas. Oh, that's enough of this, she wants to own him now, and straightens up to unbutton her shirt. He watches her, perfectly still, but the look in his eyes grows hungrier with every undone button. She pins his hands again and leans her breasts into his face, and he takes the hint, sucking with a desperation she had only been half-expecting. She halfway considers sliding up to let him taste her, but tonight is less about pleasure, she thinks, than about refashioning, and pulls away from him to pull her pants off, then his.
His released hands creep up under the pillow as she takes him in hand, and his eyes shut reflexively, hips following her rhythm. She balances herself with one hand on his chest as she slides onto his cock, moving slowly, taking a moment until she can pull her other hand away and move it to join the other. His chest shudders beneath her palms, and she slides down the last inch, and has to pause to catch her balance. Her eyes open, and he's watching her, eyes suspiciously moist but clear. His hands pull out from under the pillow, and she expects them to attach to her hips or her shoulders, but instead they come up to rest on her hands, to anchor her into him as she starts to move.
She has to close her eyes again as the sensation of it all comes over her. She can't lose Mulder, but she can't lose herself either.
She leans forward, runs her hands up to his face, feels his slide up her arms to curl lightly around her shoulder blades, then fall back down again, half-limply. Kissing him is awkward, but she needs it, now, needs them seamless in body if not in spirit, needs to know where all of him is. Their bodies rock and slide and the sweat on his chest is warm on her skin. Close, she's so close and he's holding back, waiting for her, he needs this like she does, and she pushes her hands into his for leverage and grinds into him for all she's worth. He leans up, just slightly, and attaches his mouth to her neck, and she loses her balance as she comes, as he comes, and finds she is gasping with her nose pressed against his sternum. Their fingers are as intertwined as their limbs.
She turns her head to watch the water run down the window, forming arterial patterns that reflect over their panting bodies under the sheets. She closes her eyes and wonders for how long she's kept the fear at bay this time.
Author: Amal Nahurriyeh,
amalnahurriyeh/amalnahurriyeh, amalnahurriyeh at gmail dot comSummary: She isn't sure if it's him or her, but something's dead between them, and she doesn't know if it's coming back.
Pairing: MSR.
Rating: NC-17 (angsty sex)
Warnings: None.
Angst-level: Medium to medium-high, depending on how you're set.
Timeline/Spoilers: Post-ep for Kitsunegari, no spoilers past that point.
Author's Notes:
Written for
indigo_inferno for the 2010 xf_santa. Sorry this is so late, but I do hope you enjoy.I'd thank my wife for the beta, but she gets points deducted for the snark.
Title from Joan Osborne's Hurricane. File here, streaming snippet here, lyrics here
She doesn't like that she's finally scared of him.
Dana Scully is not one to be intimidated by men. She learned to roll with her brothers young, to keep up with the boys on the base, to play hard and keep her chin up, no matter what. In college, she was always the one of her friends who was designated to deal with unwanted male attention; the set in her voice and the fold of her arms pushed off all but the most persistent, and she had a nasty left hook in case of emergency. She'd been more intimidating than intimidated at Quantico, walked through the autopsy bays like she owned the place from her first day. She didn't regret this, in the least; it was necessary, and she was proud of it.
Without it being intentional, it was true looking back that all of her major romantic entanglements had been with men who held power over her. Melissa had always thought it was ironic, the gasp of a spirit yearning for the dominance she'd never experienced since childhood. Scully didn't think so; to her, examining the trendline, it seemed more that she wanted the subversion of power, to be in a position where nominal authority figures were dragged down to her level, were made to follow her where she wanted to go.
She thought this because the moment when each relationship began to end, she was sure, was at the moment where the men she'd been with had tried to take back the power she'd thought they'd gotten away from, had made her realize, yet again, that they could hurt her. With Daniel, it had been the moment when he threatened, in the heat of an argument, to call the director of the emergency department to make sure she'd take the residency in cardiology instead. It had taken her two weeks to get over her shock, but every time she saw him after that, she thought: he hasn't heard a word I've said in months. With Jack, it had been saying that he'd work it out with her SAC and get her the week off for them to head out to Bermuda. She'd shaken her head and laughed, but that was when it began to crumble, when she began to see how little he cared about her career, her choices, how much happier he'd be if she'd stay at Quantico and be there for him to come home to at the end of the day. And Ethan? Well, he'd known that her parents wanted her to marry, and that he was the fiance-apparant; he'd started joking with her about how her father'd rather see him at Easter dinner than her.
This had been two weeks after she'd joined the X-Files. He hadn't lasted long.
Five and a half years with Mulder, and he'd been everything she'd wanted in a intellectual partner; they'd clicked like puzzle pieces, filled in each other's empty spaces as they walked out into the world. When they sparked against each other, it felt useful, even at the moments when the sparks burned. What she'd felt for him had shifted, techtonically, with time; she'd thought that, perhaps, she'd gotten it right this time, that his being her friend first had been the magic addition to the formula, that this time his power over her couldn't be twisted. He had the same piece of her that she had of him. Equal collateral. This time, she'd maybe gotten it right.
She hadn't counted on Mulder's immense creativity in fucking shit up.
It wasn't that his vast destructive potential was new. It had always hovered there, right below the surface, threatening to break loose in a thousand small moments. She'd seen him with Roche, with a dozen suspects over the years; when he wanted to, he could bring it to light and let it happen. (When she killed, it was--surgical was such a cliche, but what else was it?) But what she was slowly coming to realize was that he wanted to hurt people for her, thought he could channel his violence into a means for his love for her. Duane Barry's bruised face in his autopsy photos had been the foreshadowing, the barrel of his gun in a Falls Church warehouse, standing over what he thought was her body, the denouement.
Except that wasn't the whole story. He would kill anyone who hurt her, and that included herself. Oh, she could tell herself that it was the ketamine in Quonochontaug, but that wasn't it; he was taking aim for her. She was destroying herself then, dangling on the edge of oblivion, and neither of them had had any hope that she was going to recover. Someone had to pay. Somedays he was sure it should be him; others he was sure it should be her. They had not been at their best.
So he'd kill her to save her--or take things from her to save her, either way. She can't sleep without feeling the sand on her fingers again, without wanting to wake knowing where her daughter is. And Mulder knew, and Mulder knows more than he's saying, and he doesn't realize this is killing her, too, digging in deep into her gut. Can she trust him anymore? She's just not sure, and that's the most terrified she's ever been of a man she's loved.
In the warehouse, after she'd shot Linda Bowman, she'd brushed her hand against his arm, and it had been like touching a mannequin. She isn't sure if it's him or her, but something's dead between them, and she doesn't know if it's coming back.
****
She thinks at first it is the sound of the rain beating on the motel room window that has woken her. She listens to the rattle of the cheap glass, the arhythmic waves of water rushing down it, hoping that it was just a change of pattern that woke her up, and that the white noise will soothe her back down again in a moment. But as she lays there, she realizes that it wasn't the rain after all. "Go away, Mulder," she says, keeping her back to him.
He says nothing. Does nothing. Does not get up and leave.
After a minute, she rolls over. He is sitting in the chair by the window, watching her. Every hotel room has a chair just like this one, a table just like that one, a window just like this one; punched out of the same mold, variations of a theme. She stays in the same hotel room a hundred and fifty nights a year, never in the same place. "I'm fine," she says to him. "Go."
He shifts slightly in the chair. "No."
She is almost glad she can't see him clearly, can't tell what he's thinking or feeling right now. She hates that even when she closes her eyes she can feel his gaze on her. She wants a minute, that's all, without him always fucking there.
She rolls over on her back, opens her eyes to stare at the ceiling, light pulsing and shifting as the water runs down the window, as lights from passing cars flash across it. "You know," she said, "this is really creepy of you, Mulder. It's not normal to watch people sleep."
There's a sound as he shifts in the chair, almost like he's settling in. "I'm not much for normal."
She suppresses the desire to get up and shake him, and runs her hand over her face. "Is there something you needed?" She wants there to be some way to dismiss him. It's not much I need, she thinks at Mulder. I just need to preserve the illusion that I'm in charge of my life. You're not helping these days.
He doesn't answer her, but the shadow of the curtains shifts. She can wait him out, or she can fall back asleep, or she can get out of bed and try to shame him into leaving her alone, or she can--
"I couldn't sleep."
She's surprised to hear him actually voice it. "So I don't get to either?"
Again, silence. She shifts under the covers, and the noise of the sheets is soft against the rush of the rain outside. Waiting him out normally doesn't take this long; she doesn't like that this is making her soften towards him. The strange brittleness she's felt since Christmas had begun to be a refuge; sorry, Mulder, the ice is too thin, I'll have to stay over here.
"It was this or clean my gun all night."
She thinks of him in the warehouse, pulling his gun off the floor to point it at her. Scully's dead, Mulder, Linda Bowman had whispered, and she'd seen the glance he gave to the floor behind him. He shouldn't be anywhere near his weapon for a while, but they gave it back to him like nothing. She would never say it, but she's been glad every morning he's been at the office before her.
She slides over in the bed. "At least come lay down. I can't sleep if I know you're watching me."
There is another long pause, but this time it ends with him moving, standing and crossing the few feet between the chair and the bed. She rolls away from him, wondering if this is a gesture of self-protection or submission, whether she is closing herself off or presenting herself vulnerable. He slides between the sheets and the mattress moves beneath her like a live thing.
His foot brushes her calf momentarily, but he retracts it, doesn't reach for her. She takes a long slow breath: OK. Maybe he'll just lay there, and they can sleep, and if she wakes curled into his warmth in the morning, she was sleeping and can't be held responsible.
She tries. But she's uncomfortable on that side, the soft hotel pillows must have done something to her neck, and she desperately wants to roll over. Maybe he's asleep (but, no, her ability to believe in impossible things doesn't extend that far), or maybe she can risk it. She rotates as cleanly as she can, not wanting to bunch up the sheets or get too close to him. He's watching her, of course he's watching her, but now that he's not just a silhouette in the window there's something soft and fragile in it. His hand is lying between them, palm down on the mattress, and she contemplates reaching for it. This is the sort of irrational you get in the middle of the night, she tries to tell herself, when you want everything to be all right again, when you think his living skin is the answer.
Except normally when she thinks that he's in Virginia. And it's a little more skin she's imagining.
Control is all she ever wants, she thinks as she runs her hand, slowly, along his forearm, feeling the hairs snap to attention under her fingers. Just over herself, just over her life, just enough to be able to know where the next blow is coming from. And Mulder has never been controllable, not by her (so much for Blevins's attempt), not even by himself. Her eyes are closed, as if this is a nervous tic to get herself back to sleep, but the strange electric crackle is back in the contact, and it's hard to think about anything other than how he feels beneath the pads of her fingers. The tension in the small muscles of his forearm is confusing to her; shouldn't this be soothing to him, this confidence that he hasn't lost her this time?
She chances a look at him. He's watching her differently now, how can one person watch another so many different ways, he's just full of new questions, isn't he. She slides her hand up to his elbow, and he shudders slightly. It's holding back, that's what he's doing, and it nearly takes her breath away to realize it. He's as terrified of her as she is of him, so frightened that it's going to be her who drops the hammer, dumps his sorry ass, walks out into the night with her daughter's ghost and her empty ovaries and her scarred neck and her career intact. And she could. She still could, she thinks, but she never would, because then who would she be?
She pulls her hand up to his shoulder and pushes him flat onto his back. Gracelessly, she straddles him, hand still on his shoulder, keeping her body away from his for a moment still. His hands land parallel to his ears, palms up, and she puts her hands on them, pushes him into the mattress. She can barely see him in the dark, but she's fairly sure the bobbing of his adam's apple is not wholly a sign of fear. She leans in towards his face, hovers just a breath above his lips for a moment, then noses his cheek to turn his head slightly. Delicately, she bites down into his earlobe, running her tongue along the tender slice of flesh she's trapped. His gasp and the awkward stutter of his hips tell her what she needs to know, and she bears her weight through his palms and licks behind his ear. She's sure she's leaving unquestionable marks down his neck as she bites at it, thank God the case is over and they just have the flight home tomorrow, and she scrapes her teeth on the curve of his jawbone and latches on to suck. His hands push up against hers just barely, but she pushes back down and he goes limp, drops his head to give her more of his neck. She straightens up over him, still holding his hands, and examines him. Her hips have sunk to meet his, and she tries an experimental roll against him, just to feel him against her. His eyes roll back in his head and his back arches, just barely, and she knows she has him.
Her next bite is aimed at his nipple, which she can see through the fabric of his shirt; but that's not enough, she needs skin, so she chances releasing his hands. He leaves them where she put them, so she pulls up his shirt to get at his chest, which is warm beneath her searching mouth. She holds him by the elbows as she slides down him, and his hips rock up again, his cock brushing against her breasts through her pyjamas. Oh, that's enough of this, she wants to own him now, and straightens up to unbutton her shirt. He watches her, perfectly still, but the look in his eyes grows hungrier with every undone button. She pins his hands again and leans her breasts into his face, and he takes the hint, sucking with a desperation she had only been half-expecting. She halfway considers sliding up to let him taste her, but tonight is less about pleasure, she thinks, than about refashioning, and pulls away from him to pull her pants off, then his.
His released hands creep up under the pillow as she takes him in hand, and his eyes shut reflexively, hips following her rhythm. She balances herself with one hand on his chest as she slides onto his cock, moving slowly, taking a moment until she can pull her other hand away and move it to join the other. His chest shudders beneath her palms, and she slides down the last inch, and has to pause to catch her balance. Her eyes open, and he's watching her, eyes suspiciously moist but clear. His hands pull out from under the pillow, and she expects them to attach to her hips or her shoulders, but instead they come up to rest on her hands, to anchor her into him as she starts to move.
She has to close her eyes again as the sensation of it all comes over her. She can't lose Mulder, but she can't lose herself either.
She leans forward, runs her hands up to his face, feels his slide up her arms to curl lightly around her shoulder blades, then fall back down again, half-limply. Kissing him is awkward, but she needs it, now, needs them seamless in body if not in spirit, needs to know where all of him is. Their bodies rock and slide and the sweat on his chest is warm on her skin. Close, she's so close and he's holding back, waiting for her, he needs this like she does, and she pushes her hands into his for leverage and grinds into him for all she's worth. He leans up, just slightly, and attaches his mouth to her neck, and she loses her balance as she comes, as he comes, and finds she is gasping with her nose pressed against his sternum. Their fingers are as intertwined as their limbs.
She turns her head to watch the water run down the window, forming arterial patterns that reflect over their panting bodies under the sheets. She closes her eyes and wonders for how long she's kept the fear at bay this time.
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