(FYI? Not even looked at by a beta.)
Pairing: Doggett & Reyes, friendship/UST.
Spoilers: None. Season 9 cast.
Rating: PG-13 for the usual X-Files violence and goings-on.
The knife tip presses into her neck, testing, pricking blood. Her senses are on fire, the weight and shape and smell of the man pinning her against the streetlight, the taste of dirt and grime and gasoline in the air, her heart pounding a mile a minute, ready to bleed her out faster when he slits her throat.
The child is safe. She told him to run and he did, ten years old, blonde, hungry, not so scared that he didn't take off the second Monica dropped her gun and made the trade.
Monica closes her eyes. She always thought, in theory, that she would face death with her eyes wide open, but now that it's here, she doesn't want to see.
Blonde, ten years old, wearing a dirty baseball jersey. Mother had said, sobbing during her questioning, that Michael wanted to play in the majors. Might, too, now that he'll live through the night.
Small price to pay.
When she starts bleeding, it's in her chest, not her throat, and it feels and sounds more like a gunshot than a knife.
Her eyes open, but she can't see a thing.
She wakes up.
She can't breathe.
"Cough," someone is telling her, someone else holding her down. Monica sucks in air but there's something in a way, and when she finally coughs as ordered, it feels like her lungs are being torn out through her mouth.
There's water, and air, and when her vision clears there's a man in white, a woman, and... Scully.
"I'm alive," she tries to say, but gasps and coughs instead.
"Easy," says Scully, hand on her ribcage, another on her forehead. "You're lucky to be here."
There's a penlight in her eyes, some questions Monica can't get enough air to answer. She feels cold, like there's ice flowing through her veins. She breathes slowly. She hears the heart monitors, feels the telltale metal railing of a hospital bed, sees the ventilator next to her and begins to piece it together.
"How long?" is the first question she gets out clearly.
"Thirty-six hours," Scully tells her. "They performed emergency surgery. You're going to be all right."
There's something heavy on her chest. Bandages.
The knife was at her throat...
"John?" Monica asks.
Scully looks sideways, at nothing, then smiles a clinical smile and pats Monica's shoulder. "I'll tell him you're awake. He'll be very relieved to hear it."
John doesn't come while she's awake.
She knows he comes, though, because she can smell him when she first wakes up, feels his fingerprints on her hospital sheets, sees how the plastic have moved since she fell asleep.
She doesn't ask for him. She asks for Scully.
Dana explained the details of her surgery, elaborating on the overview the hospital doctor gave her. Reinflate her right lung, arterial reconstruction, stop the bleeding.
"The boy wasn't hurt. He's already home with his mother."
Monica smiles. It hurts, pulls at her skin, like she's been placed back in a body that doesn't quite fit. "What about Levins?"
The kidnapper. Her attacker. She made a trade. She didn't even have to think about it.
Scully frowns. "Dead."
Monica can't quite figure out how all that happened, but she suspects it has something to do with John.
Dana fills in the blanks, but not really. "Agent Doggett shot him. Unfortunately, you were wounded in the process."
Monica's chest hurts where hands knit her back together.
And now he won't even come see her.
"John," she mutters, almost like a curse.
Dana rolls her eyes. "I'll tell him you said that."
Monica thinks she probably understands.
Monica has never been the sort of person to need a watch, or an alarm clock. She's spent her life training her internal body clock for just this moment, when she wakes up at three A.M. in an observation ward of Our Lady of Mercy and lies in wait.
It doesn't take long for John to show up, set his cup of coffee on the nightstand, take a seat and bury his head in his hands.
She opens her eyes and thinks, if he knew she was awake, he'd bolt. "Don't move," she orders.
He smirks at her, doesn't meet her eyes. "You're supposed to be sleeping."
"If I did that, I'd probably never see you again."
"I know," she says, and tries not to sound hurt. She's supposed to be the understanding one, but she was shot and she can't help feeling a little abandoned. "You're busy."
John doesn't say a thing. He looks miserable in the grey light coming from the door and the monitors. Monica shifts a little in the bed, tries to turn on her side, gasps when it pulls at the stitches in her chest.
"Are we going to talk about this?" she asks.
John kicks the leg of his plastic chair. "What's to talk about? I shot you, Monica."
Monica can picture the scene now, how Levins had her pinned up against a post, about to snap out her life. John must've been behind her -- that's the only way he could have had access. He shot her to get to Levins. Probably aimed for her shoulder, but it was dark and he couldn't risk hitting her head so he aimed low...
"Some might say you saved my life."
She can see John grinding his jaw, even in the dark. Monica wonders how long this will last, this near-death sensory overload. She imagines she can hear what he's saying in his head, all the ways he's cursing himself.
If she died...
Tears fill her throat. She doesn't want to cause him pain. "John-"
"Don't, Monica. Just..."
She knows him. Knows there's nothing she can say to make it any less his fault.
"Thank you," she finally says, after a long silence. They're good at being quiet together, because there's so much they don't say.
"I'll make it up to you," he promises, the same thing she thinks so often about him.
She sighs, braves the ache in her chest to reach an IV-bound hand toward him. "Don't."
He takes it. Smiles halfway. Squeezes her hand fiercely, maybe until he can feel her pulse.
"We're okay," she tells him.
All he says is, "Okay."
Pairing: Sam Carter/John Sheppard, UST
Spoilers: None. You can pretend this happened before "Intruder," though.
Not surprisingly, Sam Carter doesn't give him the time of day.
Perhaps, Sheppard thinks, he should've come up with a better opening line than "I've heard a lot about you from Rodney McKay."
Or maybe he shouldn't have interrupted her in her lab in the first place.
It's possible he shouldn't be wandering the SGC at all between Atlantis debriefings. There were reports to review, stories to straighten, politics to wrangle.
But he absolutely had to see what Rodney had been going on about all year.
He wasn't disappointed.
When they get stuck in an elevator together between sub-levels 18 and 19, he says, "I swear it's not my fault."
He doesn't mind, though, because she pulls her jacket off as she rewires the guts of the elevator to bypass the problem.
Unfortunately, she's very good at rewiring the guts of the elevator, and they're underway in less than five minutes.
He just says, "I'm impressed."
She says, "Feel free to tell Doctor McKay."
He begs along on a mission while they're waiting for the Daedalus refit. General Landry has reservations. Elizabeth has reservations. Sam Carter has reservations. Colonel Mitchell could not care less.
There's a closed-door discussion that lasts about five minutes and then they agree. Later, Elizabeth will tell him it's because he was getting stir-crazy, and they'd rather he do damage on a planet that isn't Earth.
This time it's not an elevator, but he and Sam Carter get trapped in a box that's about the size and shape of an elevator.
"It's really not my fault," Sheppard insists.
Sam checks something. "Actually, it is."
He's used to McKay, so he doesn't even need her to translate her scientific babbling to interpret that he stepped on some kind of trigger.
"I think it's a bear trap," Daniel Jackson yells from outside the box. "Or, the planet's equivalent, anyway."
He tries to look sheepish, but really can't, because Sam takes her jacket off again.
John knows about eight things about the Pegasus DHDs (size, shape, color, frequency of energy emission detectable on the Ancient emission-detector thing, when to dial 0, etc), but manages to work them into the conversation at the right time, while Colonel Carter is examining the Milky Way DHD on the planet they 'gated to.
She looks him over. "Impressive," she says.
He puffs out his chest reflexively. "Well..."
Colonel Carter rolls her eyes.
He's got a fairly reasonable ratio of suave moments to embarrassing moments by the time the Daedalus is hyperdrive-worthy, so he takes his chances.
"Have dinner with me tonight?"
Sam -- she told him to call her Sam in one of the moments in the 'suave' column -- pauses, looks awkward.
"I've actually already got plans," she says. "With Daniel and Cassie." There's a pause. "You're welcome to join us, though, Colonel. I think we're going to Ethiopian food."
Oh well, Sheppard thinks. He hasn't been shot down in a while. A bit of Earth nostalgia for the road. "That's fine," he says, grinning, doing his best to recover in the smoothest way possible. "I should really look over the Atlantis inventory, anyway."
He backs toward the door. He's definitely not telling McKay about this moment. Or, if he does, it's going to sound a little different.
He makes it to the hallway and almost to the elevator before Colonel Carter calls his name.
He turns around. "Colonel?" If she asks him an inventory question, it will just be adding insult to injury.
"Next time you're in the area," she starts.
"In the galaxy?"
"In the galaxy... ask me again."
Sheppard grins and gets on the elevator.
Maybe he'll have to mention this to McKay after all.
Rating: NC-17. Ish.
She's ripping off his shirt as she kisses him on the neck, his neck, the spot on his neck that Stacey Collins found in the tenth grade and that he has never ever been able to come up with a defense for. Ever.
Elizabeth touches the spot, just touches it, with her teeth, then sloooooooowly bites, and he moans and almost drops to his knees.
Stacey Collins never figured that out.
And Elizabeth Weir is ripping off his shirt. Ripping. Off. His shirt.
It's alien fabric, sure, especially delicate and silly-looking and probably tears like kleenex, but John Sheppard is not at all about to quibble with details here. Elizabeth Weir.
"Stop, stop for a sec," he gasps, because he can't quite figure out how his limbs go and he needs to get all their collective clothes off this instant and he needs to take a few seconds to make sure this is actually happening.
Because it's Elizabeth Weir, and it's been one and a half -- two -- three years of waiting and wanting and flirting and just-barely-touching and now he's here.
"I'm not drunk," Elizabeth tells him. It's her brook-no-arguments voice, but her eyes are hazy and he drank just as much as she did at the Iruk harvest festival.
His arms tangle in the seams of his sleeves, and she tries to free him, laughing when the sleeve slaps her in the face.
"Yes, you are." He doesn't say it like it's a bad thing. "I'm drunk, too."
"Good. Then we're even." Elizabeth giggles and goes for the spot again.
He moans preemptively and stabs a hand to her shoulder to push her off. "No, no, no. Your turn."
They're in her quarters and he can't find a clear path to the bed fast enough, so he backs her up against the nearest dresser. She draws in a breath.
"Handle's cold," she says. "Feels good." Licks her lips. Kisses him.
Good. Lord. If John had known that she could kiss like this, if he'd known the city leader and his boss and his friend could do this to him...
She's warm. Strong. Determined. It surprises the heck out of him, and also not at all. She kisses just like Elizabeth.
He's got one knee between her legs, pinning her against the dresser. She hums and it goes right down through him, hitting all the right places, drawing his hips toward hers. He has no chance.
She licks her lips again. "What are you waiting for?"
He's got her right where he wants her.
He wants her.
He waited too long, and now she's looking at him. "Are you having second thoughts?"
He doesn't actually remember who dragged whom away from the festivities after a conversation they never should have started, but they both faked sobriety and sanity as they strolled through the control tower and she didn't even have to invite him in. Hands and arms and lips and jackets dropped and now he's here, in Elizabeth's quarters, about to do...
... something he never thought he'd ever get the chance to do, and Elizabeth wants to know if he's having second thoughts.
"I don't know," he admits, and something other than passion grips his chest. Fear. Something like fear.
He needs Elizabeth to mean this, because their lives are about to get very, very complicated, and if this is just some thing he accidentally talked her into-
Elizabeth rubs up against him. Moans.
She's evil. Evil. His hands fumble for her breasts, pushes her up against the dresser. Her body fits perfectly against him, all lines and curves and the cold metal of her belt buckle through his clothes.
"It's because you don't really want me," Elizabeth suggests, pressing her chest against his. She's wearing an alien kleenex-top too, and the delicate fabric sets all the hair on his chest on end.
She's teasing him. Baiting him. He can't figure it out when all the blood has drained out of his brain.
"I want you," he assures her, biting her neck.
"Take it off," she whispers. She grabs his crotch with one hand, and he can't think at all, anything beyond now, now, now.
Her shirt's off -- he's not quite sure how. He unclasps her bra, but it's still tangled around her shoulders.
"It's because I didn't agree to that Keltrani mission," Elizabeth says. She's deliberately squirming between him and the dresser, and wraps one leg around his hips.
"You want to talk missions?" he gapes.
She's tugging on his belt buckle, trying to unclasp it with one hand. He's not helping, bucking into her hand, desperate for sensation, too much not enough-
"I put a reprimand in your file," she says.
- because he overruled her, it all went to hell, Caldwell bailed him out and Elizabeth said, Elizabeth said -
"I trust you," he tells her, like he didn't tell her back then. He wants to pull away from her hand, say that when she'll really listen, but the feeling of her fingers through the fabric makes it all the more real. He kisses her neck. She smells perfect, sweat and skin and lavender and lemon, smoke from the alien bonfire, that quiet scent that's her shampoo or her perfume or whatever it is that drives him crazy in the briefing room when he's not paying attention.
She had to know, all along, how badly he's wanted her.
"This is such a bad idea." He doesn't mean to say it aloud, but it's mostly muffled in her hair anyway. She yankes his belt free, slips a hand inside and he bites down on her shoulder. His dick throbs in her hand and he wants more, more-
"Your turn," he reminds her, pushing back. He'd do this anywhere, given the chance, but since he has the choice, he wants to do this in a bed.
Elizabeth wraps her other leg around him, using the dresser for leverage. "I don't pick up my clothes."
"Don't care," he says, carries her halfway to the bed, careful of wayward socks. She slips down his body as he goes until she's standing on her own. Drops her pants.
She's smiling, positively grinning at whatever the expression is on his face. "I'll never call you baby."
He laughs. Elizabeth shouldn't be calling anyone baby, unless maybe it's a dog, and probably a small one.
They give up on undressing each other and just race for the bed, his clothes mixing with hers on the floor. He'll find them later. That's the least of his concerns about the morning after.
And when she stretches out next to him on the bed, pale and sexy and funny and Elizabeth, she looks like everything he wants, and he wants her to stop talking.
She smiles, lazy and sultry, one hand trailing down her own body. "I still don't like football."
He grabs her hand. Pins her down. He's on top of her, but right now, she looks anything but submissive. "I'm not really thinking about football right now, Elizabeth."
She touches a hand to his chest. She doesn't look like she's teasing anymore. "What are you thinking about?"
He rubs against her thigh once, for emphasis, and has to clench his jaw to keep from moaning. "That's a stupid question."
She smirks. "Humor me."
He's thinking a whole lot of things, but he's not going to say any of them without a good long time to think them over first.
"I always talk this much when I'm drunk," she says, a warning.
Now he has a question. "So what happens when you sober up?"
He's still pressed up against her, but he almost stops noticing as he watches expressions play off her face. He holds his breath. It feels like something important, really important, is hanging in the balance of whatever she says next.
"You'll probably have to chase me down," she says.
"I'll give you every excuse in the book to try and end this."
"I won't be as careful with your feelings as I should."
She says your feelings like she already knows everything he's not saying.
She smirks devilishly. "I'm on the pill."
Before she can close her mouth, he grabs her in a kiss, swallowing her words. She wiggles her hips, bringing all his attention back to her bare skin beneath him, and he kisses down her throat, trying to find her spot.
When he does, she comes halfway off the bed.
He dips his fingers between her legs, something he never in a million years thought he'd actually get to do to Elizabeth Weir, and she stops talking all together.
He's the one who says, "I want you."
She ends up on top. He isn't surprised, and puts up only a token struggle. He'll get her next time.
There will be a next time, because he's just as damned stubborn as she is.
When she sinks on to him, painfully slowly, he stops thinking about tactics and plans and mornings after, and can only think about this, about his hands on her hips and her body around him, warm and tight and here and real.
He wants to say her name but she doesn't let him, kissing him when he tries, and it feels like every part of his body is trying to escape.
He's not going to last long. He's been drinking, and she's all over him, naked and beautiful and warm and hands on his chest and lips against his and when she grabs his hand and guides it between them he acts on nothing but instinct because his mind can't process that Elizabeth Weir is helping him get her off. Showing him how. Taking him with her.
Her lips go slack against his and she gasps, and he takes her moment of distraction to grab her hips and roll her over into the bed. Her back arches upward, both hands grabbing his arms for grip or balance or closeness and she gasps low in her throat as every muscle in her body shudders.
He's not thinking anymore, only moving into her as deep as he can, every sensation in his body distracted between the claws in his arm and the feeling between them and it isn't until he thinks he will never breathe again that Elizabeth tightens one last time and he's gone.
When he pulls himself together, she's laughing. His first thought is to wonder whether she always laughs when she comes down, or if he said something ridiculous he doesn't remember.
He doesn't want to move yet, and she doesn't push him off.
"Three years," she says. Her cheeks are flushed, damp, hair everywhere.
He's never seen anything more beautiful in his life.
"I don't think I expected it to happen like this," she tells him.
He's too warm and comfortable to be worried. She wriggles underneath him and he obligingly shifts, settling against her side. "Are you disappointed?"
She brushes one hand over his cheek. She doesn't usually look this vulnerable. "Never."
"Don't go," he murmurs, wrapping one arm around her to hold her close.
She sighs, rests her head against his shoulder. It takes a moment for her to answer, "It's my bed."
"Oh. Don't kick me out."
"Do you always talk this much after sex?" She's teasing again.
He kisses her shoulder and hopes for... something. Lethargy is taking over and he wants to sleep like this, with Elizabeth at his side.
"I eat crackers in bed," she declares.
He opens one eye. "Shut up."
She snuggles closer. "Good answer, Sheppard."
He thinks so, too.
Spoilers: Set in season 1. No spoilers.
At first, he doesn't think she's doing it on purpose.
Elizabeth leans a little closer to him when she wants something -- a report in on time, help dealing with McKay and his band of quarrelling scientists, a concession to her point of view. She dips a finger under her collar. Touches his arm.
He actually doesn't even notice. He notices, because she's easy on the eyes when she's not yelling at him, and he really doesn't mind having her in his personal space, but he -- perhaps foolishly -- just assumes she flirts with him because of his own personal animal magnetism. He doesn't suspect ulterior motives.
The others figure it out first. He comes across Ford spending his day off guarding some science geeks -- all of whom are speaking in Russian, no less -- and the Lieutenant just shrugs and says, without sounding annoyed, even, "Doctor Weir tricked me into it."
"Oh, yeah, she does that." It isn't until the words are out of his mouth that he realizes exactly how often, well, she does that. The looks, the touches, that smile. She tricks him into doing all kinds of things when he's not paying attention. Officer training never prepared him for this.
Devil woman, he thinks with something like pride. He respects her more and more, the longer they're out here. The respect might be grudging at times -- he hasn't known her long enough to give her the complete trust she seems so intent on demanding from him -- but the more he learns, the more he's glad she's on their side.
"Carry on," he tells Ford, laughing at the poor young man's plight as the Russian scientists start yelling hyper things to each other across the Ancient lab.
John heads back to the control room, trying to think of a way to kill time. He figures he'll drop by Doctor Weir's office and bother her again about that "too risky" mission to M8X-381 -- if he drives her crazy enough, she'll send him just about anywhere he wants to go, just to be rid of him. She's not the only one with tricks up her sleeve.
He's on to her now. He'll be damned if he falls for her charms again. He's an Air Force Major. He can handle one diplomat.
It isn't until three hours later, when he's halfway through a food supply inventory he had no desire to do, that he realizes he might be in serious trouble.