He'd gone to drag Jackson home from Camelot (that would never get old) and wound up getting stuck there longer than he'd expected, pressed into service as fetch-and-carry guy even though the villagers wouldn't quite meet his eyes anymore. By the time they get home, get showered, and get cleared, it's well past two in the morning and he'd been running since oh-five-hundred. His eyes are blurry with exhaustion, and he drives five miles an hour under the speed limit the whole time, the window rolled down for the brace and shock of the cold air and his hands trembling on the wheel.
It takes him three tries to fit his key into the lock when he reaches his apartment, and he drops it off the side of his stoop once. For a second he contemplates breaking down his own door instead of looking for it, because it'd be easier, but he doesn't want to deal with the hassle and the paperwork afterwards. There's an extra pair of shoes in his foyer when he finally stumbles in. He stares at them for a minute, trying to figure out where they came from, before shaking his head and giving himself another mental slap. He doesn't bother turning on any lights; there's enough coming in from the courtyard and he knows where everything is, anyway.
She takes up three-quarters of the bed, but he's getting used to that. He scatters bits and pieces of clothing across the bedroom haphazardly, where he'll no doubt trip himself in the morning, and pries one corner of the comforter loose from her death grip upon it. She murmurs something in her sleep and rolls, suddenly and explosively, to cling to the far edge of the bed.
Making room. He smiles, tasting the shape of it through the dark and exhaustion, and slides in behind her to spoon up against her warm and naked back, nuzzle at the tiny prickle of hair underneath her ear. She breathes out and tucks the curve of her ass back up against him, right where it fits in the hollow of his hip and groin. The soft and worn rasp of his ancient pair of flannel boxers she's stolen for pajamas is sweet and familiar.
They don't, can't, do this often. He's starting to realize just how much leeway SG-1 gets -- way more than he'd have expected -- but there's a limit to how far it extends. Still, there's some room. Everyone knows they've been friends for years; everyone knows about her thing for her last CO, and, well, he might not be her new CO in anything but name, but nobody thinks she'd be dumb enough to make the same mistake twice. They're covered, a little. Enough.
He throws his arm over her stomach, strokes his fingers absently along her belly, right where her body swells just a shade, the curse of getting older and that extra chocolate bar always smuggled along off-world. He's heard her bemoan the extra five pounds more times than he can count, but he likes how solid she is under his hand. He can wrap his hand around her hip and dig his fingers in and not have to worry about leaving behind bruised smudges of fingerprints as evidence. She rolls her head back, and he ducks out of the way just in time to avoid his nose colliding with the back of her skull, slides his other arm under the pillow and under her head and settles himself more firmly.
It's amazing how well she fits up against him; it's like they were made for this. She hooks her foot over his legs, drags her toes up his calves and pulls him close. She only does this when she's asleep; awake, she's fastidiously courteous about personal space, enough so that he keeps wanting to touch her just to remind himself he can and not caring who sees. Asleep, she tries to drape him over her like a blanket. He knows he can maneuver her, pliant and boneless, into a position where he's not putting this much weight on his neck and shoulder, but there'll be time enough for that soon.
For now, he palms her belly, sweeps his hand up to cup one perfect breast and down to dip his fingertips beneath the waistband of the boxers -- her boxers, now; he's given up title. She mutters hazy assent and wiggles her ass back up against him; his dick twitches a little, just to remind him it's there.
"Time's it?" she slurs, still hazy with dreams. He gives into impulse and kisses the skin behind her ear.
"Oh-two-thirty, give or take. Go back to sleep, baby."
"Hn," she says, and wiggles her ass again. "Daniel back?"
"Safe as houses. Babbling about old books. It's okay; go back to sleep." He closes his eyes; the world is starting to swim from the lack of sleep, fading in and out and back again. He hadn't quite realized how tired he is until he got horizontal.
"Sleep's boring," she says. The impact of it is lessened by the jaw-splitting yawn that follows, but she rocks her hips in a circle again, experimentally, and he might have gone past "tired" and into the realm of "fucking exhausted", but the day he fails to respond to that is the day they start taking his measurements for a nice suit and a pine box.
He puts his hand on her hip anyway, rubs it in quiet circles to take away the sting of any potential rejection. "Sleep, baby," he says for a third time, his breath huffing along the back of her neck.
She shivers a little at the touch of it, makes a nondescript noise. He's expecting an argument, but instead she flails one hand behind her, clumsily; it lands on his hip and for a minute he thinks she just wanted to touch him, have as much of her skin as possible pressed against as much of his as she can reach. Until she rolls forward a little, just enough to make room, and reaches between them to cup his dick through his boxer-briefs. The sharp sudden spike of wanting burns through a bit of the growing sleep-haze and he rocks into her touch, once, before he can help himself.
"Hn," she says again, soft and content, and -- her hand still behind her, between them -- hooks her thumb into the waistband of her boxers and tugs them down. Tries to, at least; it seems to be too much effort for her to get more than about an inch.
The room's washed with moonlight and streetlight; it turns everything grey and gold. He closes his eyes, because he can't keep them open anymore. "Baby, I'm wiped," he says, but his hand is brushing by hers, sliding underneath the waistband and palming the glorious curve of her ass underneath the fabric, nudging the boxers down inch by fractional inch with the backs of his knuckles. His hand is smarter than he is, sometimes.
She slides her leg further up his, parting her thighs, making room for him. "Don't care," she says, and it comes out clear and bright before she relaxes against him again. His palm descends further, finds her warm and wet beneath him. She makes another little sound, half moan, half exhale, and cants her hips to push against his hand.
He'll never admit it, but sometimes he prefers her like this, sleepy and sensual. She rubs against him like a cat wanting to be petted. He drags the boxers further out of the way. She stirs enough to kick them free and then hooks her knee up over his thighs -- he's always admired her flexibility -- and rocks back against him, sweet and slow. Moving is starting to become way too much effort; he rubs two fingers against her clit, the barest of teases, just the way she likes it. The sound she makes this time has worked its way up to at least three-quarters moan, and she's so hot beneath his hand he thinks it might be scorching his palm.
His fingers must have stilled, because she makes another noise and wiggles her hips again, twice against him and then still. He jerks himself back up the ladder of consciousness and slides those two fingers inside her. The angle's wrong, but her thighs tense anyway as she flutters around him, takes him deep. "Mm," she says against the pillow, a sigh of satisfaction. He fucking loves the noises she makes when he's inside her.
It's enough to wake him, or at least convince him it's worth staying awake for, so he pushes himself up on his other elbow a little, tucks his forehead up against her shoulder and lets his lips dance briefly against her skin. Her breath hitches as he crooks his fingers, sounds out her shape and nestles his knuckles right up against the spot that always makes her hum a downward scale and bottom out in a range he'd never known she could reach. His wrist is starting to ache from the angle, and he wants his fingers on her clit and can't reach, and he can suddenly imagine the taste of her so sharply it makes his mouth water.
He's about to roll her over on her back, shove the covers aside and settle between her knees, when she pushes back against him, sucks in a breath through her nose, and comes so gently he wouldn't be able to tell if it weren't for the way she clutches his fingers inside her. She isn't showy, not like some of the women he's known. It's taken him a long time to learn what set of signals mean 'more please' and which mean 'done now', but oh, did he ever enjoy the lessons.
She works herself backwards against his hand, and her own fingers twitch again into the waistband of the underwear he's still wearing. He'd be more than content to just stay here, sleepy and half-dozing, and let her ride the wave for as long as she'd like -- he's not the kind of guy who needs to get off every time he touches a woman, spent a long time making himself be not that kind of guy and now it's second nature -- but she snaps the waistband against his skin, once, a wordless order.
It's so much goddamn effort to peel himself out of his shorts. She makes a tiny unhappy noise when he slips his fingers free so he can wrangle them, but it turns into a soft happy rumble when he fits himself back against her. He's intending to just let his dick rub along her, tease her a little for as long as she'll put up with it, but she rolls her hips with that little shimmy that always makes him suspect her joints are liquid naquadah or something and before he can catch his breath he's sliding inside.
She makes a round open noise as he shivers against her curves. Beautiful, so beautiful; warm and wet and welcoming. His fingers seize at her hip and for a minute he forgets about wanting to make it good for her, forgets about patience and self-control and discipline and wants to just bury himself deep and never come up for air. She rests her hand over his, squeezing once, and makes soft encouraging noises in the back of her throat.
God, he loves this woman; it scares him how much his heart cracks open whenever she so much as smiles at him.
She bumps her ass back against him, shifting and rearranging herself in tiny fractional increments until she's satisfied with the angle. Once she is, or seems to be, she drags their joined hands around until his palm is resting against her pubic bone, cupping her the way he knows she likes, and lets go. He can't tell how awake she is by now, how far she's gotten on the route to "conscious"; all he knows is how soft and strong she is as she tenses up against him and then relaxes, again and again.
He could probably come from nothing but this, but it'd take a while and he figures even odds on him falling asleep instead, so he parts his fingers and rests them on either side of her clit, then sets a slow and lazy pace. She sighs with satisfaction, and then it turns into a drawn-out hum that's more than half moan and her body stretches to meet him long and deep. She slides her hand along his arm, then lets it rest on the back of his hand and hums again.
He closes his eyes. The world's starting to feel like a dream, smudged around the edges, but the feel of her body is in perfect sharp focus. He's not sure how long they rock together until she's suddenly holding her breath, tightening and then unfolding beside him, her fingers skimming over his. Once, twice -- he surfaces from it enough to remember to run the pad of his finger over her clit, and is rewarded with a gasp and another shudder as her spine curves back, curls in. The way she clutches him is what makes him finally bury his face against the back of her neck and come, a quick explosion that should, somehow, be more profound than it actually is.
"Mm," she says, as punctuation, and twines her fingers with his again, bringing his arm up and nestling it under her breasts, holding it against her like she usually clutches the blankets. His heart is still racing as her breathing evens out, and he imagines he can feel the moment she slips over the edge back into sleep.
He lies there for a few minutes, satisfied, replete, feeling the low, even thump of her heart underneath his arm. As he's drifting off, he mouths love you against her spine, right at the base of her neck, where he'll see the memory of the words in the morning and smile.
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