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Title: In the quiet
Rating:12A (mentions of sex and one use of a swearword)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
anillogicalmind
Summary:There's a lot left unspoken.
Word Count:608
A/N: I've been hovering over posting this for the last few days. Then I got sick of staring at it, so decided to post it anyway. It wasn't supposed to exist in the first place, but I got an attack of the rabid plot bunnies. You know how it is. It may still be... squiffy. Massive thanks tolar_laughs for reminding me that sentences need to end every once in a while. I'll be in the corner.
Sometimes she lies awake at night, listening to his steady breathing next to her.
And sometimes he does the same, turning on his side to watch her as she lives out her other life inside her mind.
They never intended to share a bed, in so much as it was never discussed. An unspoken agreement, a spillover from partnered missions where their prime objective was keeping warm, or maintaining cover.
It became a habit though, and although habits were dangerous in their line of work, anyone that made it into the room while they were sleeping was unlikely to leave there alive anyway.
So they let it slide. And when they woke up in one anothers arms, he would simply stretch and lumber into the bathroom, and she would pretend she wasn’t watching the play of muscles across his back.
They wouldn’t speak about it, but it became a habit nonetheless.
When he wakes, gasping for air, shoulders heaving and drenched in a film of cold sweat, she says nothing. She pulls him down to her chest instead, wrapping herself around him and letting him be soothed by the steady rhythm of her heart matched by the long strokes of her hands against his back.
And when she rises, skin flushed and hot from the exertion of fighting her demons, limbs trembling from struggling against the fetters of her past, he remains silent. He tugs her back to his chest, covers her hands with his own and anchors her to a new reality.
Over time, the embraces seep out from their unconscious activities. She will insert herself underneath his arm before they sleep, settling in to him, and he will pull her closer, rolling her so she is almost on top of him, sprawled against his chest.
So on one otherwise inconsequential Wednesday morning, when they are nestled together within the apartment he brought for downtime, after three weeks of not-sleeping in separate beds, he does not stretch and roll away.
He kisses her forehead instead, and so she simply leans up and kisses him right back.
That becomes a habit too.
It goes on slowly, the silent progression of their relationship. They do not give it a label, but the foundation is solid -- built on trust and admiration, respect and dedication, hope and attraction.
When they first make love - for that’s what she knows it is, because she has had sex and been fucked and everything in between and none of it ever feels like this - the quiet is disturbed by soft moans and whispered names as they both spiral towards completion.
They make each other whole.
So when an alien god comes and takes him, and when she goes and gets him back, the thunderous silence in the aftermath of a battle to save their world -- after she’s already saved her own -- becomes unbearable.
He tries to sleep on the couch, and she drags him into their bedroom.
(For it has become theirs now, in the same way that they share a wardrobe and split the food bills and still don’t say a word in amongst all that they say to one another.)
She pins him in the middle of their bed and talks. She says all of the words she didn’t dare to acknowledge - all of the things he only hoped to hear, the final sensory confirmation completed - and a weight is removed from their chests and settles comfortably between them, solid and real.
The silence is broken. They are secured by the most honest words she’s ever uttered, and tied by his in return.
Rating:12A (mentions of sex and one use of a swearword)
Author:
anillogicalmindSummary:There's a lot left unspoken.
Word Count:608
A/N: I've been hovering over posting this for the last few days. Then I got sick of staring at it, so decided to post it anyway. It wasn't supposed to exist in the first place, but I got an attack of the rabid plot bunnies. You know how it is. It may still be... squiffy. Massive thanks to
lar_laughs for reminding me that sentences need to end every once in a while. I'll be in the corner. Sometimes she lies awake at night, listening to his steady breathing next to her.
And sometimes he does the same, turning on his side to watch her as she lives out her other life inside her mind.
They never intended to share a bed, in so much as it was never discussed. An unspoken agreement, a spillover from partnered missions where their prime objective was keeping warm, or maintaining cover.
It became a habit though, and although habits were dangerous in their line of work, anyone that made it into the room while they were sleeping was unlikely to leave there alive anyway.
So they let it slide. And when they woke up in one anothers arms, he would simply stretch and lumber into the bathroom, and she would pretend she wasn’t watching the play of muscles across his back.
They wouldn’t speak about it, but it became a habit nonetheless.
When he wakes, gasping for air, shoulders heaving and drenched in a film of cold sweat, she says nothing. She pulls him down to her chest instead, wrapping herself around him and letting him be soothed by the steady rhythm of her heart matched by the long strokes of her hands against his back.
And when she rises, skin flushed and hot from the exertion of fighting her demons, limbs trembling from struggling against the fetters of her past, he remains silent. He tugs her back to his chest, covers her hands with his own and anchors her to a new reality.
Over time, the embraces seep out from their unconscious activities. She will insert herself underneath his arm before they sleep, settling in to him, and he will pull her closer, rolling her so she is almost on top of him, sprawled against his chest.
So on one otherwise inconsequential Wednesday morning, when they are nestled together within the apartment he brought for downtime, after three weeks of not-sleeping in separate beds, he does not stretch and roll away.
He kisses her forehead instead, and so she simply leans up and kisses him right back.
That becomes a habit too.
It goes on slowly, the silent progression of their relationship. They do not give it a label, but the foundation is solid -- built on trust and admiration, respect and dedication, hope and attraction.
When they first make love - for that’s what she knows it is, because she has had sex and been fucked and everything in between and none of it ever feels like this - the quiet is disturbed by soft moans and whispered names as they both spiral towards completion.
They make each other whole.
So when an alien god comes and takes him, and when she goes and gets him back, the thunderous silence in the aftermath of a battle to save their world -- after she’s already saved her own -- becomes unbearable.
He tries to sleep on the couch, and she drags him into their bedroom.
(For it has become theirs now, in the same way that they share a wardrobe and split the food bills and still don’t say a word in amongst all that they say to one another.)
She pins him in the middle of their bed and talks. She says all of the words she didn’t dare to acknowledge - all of the things he only hoped to hear, the final sensory confirmation completed - and a weight is removed from their chests and settles comfortably between them, solid and real.
The silence is broken. They are secured by the most honest words she’s ever uttered, and tied by his in return.
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