You go to your room, I open the door before you tiredly place your hand against it, and you don’t even notice but walk through as though Imperial guards had led the way. I close the door behind you, it’s simply one less thing that you need to think about right now. I watch you pace, listen as you let slip a word here and a word there. I know you will not stay in your quarters, you need to go where you can collapse, break, without any consequences. The door slides open even before you decide to leave, but again, it’s something below your level of awareness. Your feet follow the path I have set out for you, guiding that manipulated gene that I sometimes don’t recognize. I would not lead you into danger, you are my savior, part of my salvation and I love you dearly. You will take comfort in the place I have selected for you, you will take safety and assurances, and in time you will come to know it as well as you know your laboratory. You find the corner instinctively, tucking yourself like a recalcitrant child hides in a closet. Your arms wrap around your legs, pulling them in tight against your chest and making you as small as possible. It takes a long time for the tears to finally start, you’ve held on for so very long and so very tightly, you need to shatter the bonds that hold your heart closed. You remember Lieutenant Ford’s arms around you, an impulsive gesture born of impulsive gratitude. That doesn’t make the embrace any less precious to you, regardless of the where or the why, it was contact. You remember Dr. Beckett’s fingers on your flesh as he draws vial after vial of blood. The way they were so gentle and intimate, you felt their warmth, not the sting of the needle. You can still feel him standing behind you, offering to hold you up, should you fall. It’s one tear at first, forced out from under clenched eyelids, half-moon fingernails gouging rivets in your palms. A second tear rolls down, mirroring the trickle of blood trailing down your wrist. The only sounds you make are the ragged drawing of breath and the quiet whine you learned as a child, hiding in the dark. Your pain breaks my heart. I touch the gene of another child, one easier to guide along the path. He shall come to you and soothe your tears away. ~*~ I wake John with a gentle touch, a whisper of thought across his heart. I make him restless, anxious for the calming breeze of the ocean and the hypnotic light from the multitude of stars gracing our heavens. He walks the corridors easier than you, with an instinctive trust found in all my native children. I’ve left the door open for him, he turns in without thought or care or apprehension. He stands for a moment, dark eyes sweeping the benches until he finds your huddled form tucked between them. You’ve not seen him yet, turned so far inwards you would probably not see an ocean wave until it was ready to drag you out into its depths. He sits on the bench, hand automatically dropping down to curl around your neck. His fingers press in; thumb finding the stray wisps of hair almost brushing your collar. You hear your heart beating so loud in your ears, tribal drums setting the rhythm for the panic in your stomach. You wait, for the derision, for the scathing remarks that usually accompany your pain. All you find is comfort, freely given. This once, please child of mine, take comfort. You sigh, quietly, and I know. You are his and he is yours. You shift, leaning your head against his thigh. He shifts with you, sliding his hand around to rest against your jaw, one finger now stroking the soft flesh of your throat. You only sob once, guttural in the back of your throat and the final bond around your heart breaks. He holds you like this while you cry out your grief, your fear, your relief at still being alive. You feel him tense, and pull away preparing for the worst. But he simply slides off the bench until he is sitting on the deck facing you. His hand is still on your face, and he uses his other one to pull you out from your niche. It’s awkward for a moment, as he grasps your ankles and straightens out your legs. Then he has you leaning against his side, one arm braced around your shoulders, and your heads pressed together. You’ve never been held like this, in silence, with empathy. You’ve never had anybody reach out and take your pain onto their own shoulders. He turns his head, pressing his mouth against the soft flesh of your temple. “I’m glad you’re not dead.” The words are whispered into your hair, soft and intimate and for you alone. You are helpless to do anything but nod in agreement. “I can’t imagine what tomorrow would have been like without you in it.” But you can, you’ve imagined it so many times it’s become a fairy tale you recite before you fall to sleep. “I’m not in love with you, but it’s so close that all it would take is something from you.” From the time you uttered your first equation, you’ve been a set of IQ points, a brilliant mind and a wicked tongue and nothing else. Until him. He’s pushed you to limits you’ve never believed possible, heights that were unassailable. So you give him that something. You turn your head, pressing your cheeks together, listening to the soft rasping of whiskers scraping. You breathe together, an easy rhythm that echoes the ocean waves bumping the dock braces. “Can I kiss you?” You’ve been waiting for this moment forever, and you didn’t even know. You answered him, although later you will swear he read your mind. Then his lips are sliding across yours, and your eyes are open watching his. The kiss seems to touch the wounds on your heart, maybe closing one of the tiny scrapes on your soul. Your hands are clutching his shirt now, and you trust him when he lays you gently on your back. Trust him not to drop you, ever. He kisses you again, your noses bumping in tentative unfamiliarity, until the angle and the glide are just perfect. You don’t care what tomorrow brings, what dangers, what emergencies. For tonight, you have this, and tonight you will take and give and take again. His hands have found your skin, lifting the bottom of your shirt to rub the smooth flesh of your belly. Up and up and side to side and you have to break the kiss to pull the fabric over your head. His is gone at the same time, and you pull him down until you can feel his heart thumping against your chest. You realize, possibly for the first time, that you are really alive. That you’ve gone beyond merely existing, beyond being able to hide behind your brain. And it hurts. He tastes you now, sucking on that tender spot just below your ear, you arch up into his mouth. His hands are firm against your chest, hips solid against yours. You want and you want and you want, and he gives it all to you. He mouths the hollow of your throat, scrapes his teeth down your chest, and rolls his tongue around your nipple. The deck beneath you disappears, mirroring the stars above, another of my gifts to you. Your hands are in his hair now, fingers knotting the thick black strands. His hands are at your waistband, his fingers popping buttons and sliding your zipper down. You were so cold, so numb, now your skin is on fire, blood singing in your veins. He’s got his tongue dancing patterns on the head of your cock, around and around and around. The world spins with the sensation. His lips are hot, sliding now until you can feel soft puffs of air against your belly. He swallows. He swallows. He swallows. Your world fades in the smoky velvet of his mouth, shattering into a thousand pieces as he puts them back together again. You are home. |
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