AN: This piece was never meant to be published, but it's taking up space on my old hard drive and it would be a shame to delete it without sharing it, so here you go. It's an incomplete one shot - will probably never be finished.
Somehow Captain James and Dawes end up sharing an intimate moment after Sohail's death.
Lacey.
Under her touch, he stilled. She could feel how taut he was, how closed off he had become, how affected by her he was. She traced a pattern of circles against the back of his neck, and he closed his eyes, exhaled slowly, controlled.
She slid her hand from his nape to his jaw, slowly moving her fingers against the stubble on his chin; her soft skin a contrast against the grain of his jawline. He took a long, slow breath and his brow dipped as he shifted slightly, uneasily, but he didn't reach for her hand, didn't protest or move away, and she thought he was probably afraid to touch her. She dragged her fingertips over his upper lip, following the shadow of his facial hair. She had stared at his face more times than she could count, but she'd never come close to touching him like this.
God, she thought, because she could feel the desperation and the fear, the anger and the frustration, the longing and the need rolling off him in waves, yet he held himself under her touch as restrained as if she'd used ties herself. She hadn't, but the threat of her murder had, and she felt a warmth behind her breast bone. She laid her palm against his cheek.
"Dawes," he said, and he sounded conflicted, confused.
"I promise," she whispered, "I won't go too far." He stared at her, jaw tightening under her palm, and she could see the internal battle swirling in his burnished pupils. "Do you trust me?" she asked, nervously, because though she knew he did, having him admit it to her was something else. He looked at her for a long time, eyes locked onto hers, as if he was trying to read her, and she was sure he could see into her soul.
"Yes," he said.
"Then trust me," she breathed, and she slid her hand down over his throat, feeling the corded muscle there – the movement as he swallowed again -and then the line where the stubble of his beard ended and the smooth skin began.
It didn't seem like a big step, but somewhere in the back of her mind she realised that she was erasing a line that maybe shouldn't be erased. And the worst part of it was that it felt organic to her; natural and unforced.
He shifted again, and in the silence of the room she heard him exhale slowly as she traced the straight edge of his collarbone.
"I can stop, if you want," she said gently. He didn't tell her to, he didn't say no. He was very still and very silent, and she could tell he was clenching his jaw tight as he tried to breathe normally, but he didn't stop her, so she continued.
She smoothed the pads of her fingers over his shoulder. In the strip of lighting lying across them, she could see the dark outline of a scar, and she ran her fingers along it's edges. She could feel every beat of her own heart, and the warm surge outward as she touched him. Her gaze tilted down, and his breath was stirring the hair on the top of her head, and when she glanced carefully up at his face, his eyes were closed again.
His body flexed and tensed, though. He is very awake.
She slid her hand over the curve of his bicep – the muscle is rock hard – and then into the valley of his elbow, and down over thickness of his forearms. She could feel each long, striated muscle there, down to his wrists, when she could feel the bulge and give of his veins.
She touched his hand, briefly, barely brushing her fingertips over the ridge of scars on his knuckles, along the length of his fingers, before heat washed over her, and she almost shivered, and she had to force her touch back up to safer territory.
She touched his chest then, and he took a deep breath until his sternum was pushing up against her hand. She slowly slid her palm down through the sparse hair on his stomach, and she heard the click of saliva in his throat. She could see by dropping her gaze that he was hard; the bulging curve of his erection barely camouflaged by his fatigues. It made the breath stop in her lungs for a moment.
She could feel the slight indentations between his abs, and he wasn't cut the way statues are cut, but he was better. He was warm and solid, tense with power, and he was real. She felt the soft, thicker line of hair running down from his navel, and she followed it under her fingers bumped the waistband of his trousers.
His knuckles cracked as he made a fist.
She was risking a lot now, and he trusted her, but she wasn't sure she could trust herself.
She hesitated, but then she slid her fingers alongside the waistband to his hip, and then he was dipping underneath the belted material, fingers skimming over the soft cotton of fitted boxers, before finding the tight, wiry skin of his thigh. She knew there was a tattoo of a lion's head there somewhere, and she thought she could feel the raised edges of it's mane, but it was all probably in her mind. He had showed it to her in the med tent at the FOB once, back before any of this became dangerous. He'd pulled his trousers down over one hip and showed her the thick lines of an old tattoo that had been done by a cheap artist, and she'd smirked at the evidence of his youthful sexuality – as if putting a tattoo next to his dick would have women dying to get in his pants. He'd grinned wolfishly at her and shrugged, and it had been hard for her to tear her eyes away from the ink. And then she hadn't been so sure he wasn't on to something.
She stopped there, just resting her fingers, and she could feel the heat of his skin and the rough scrape of the hair that starts just there, and she swallowed.
"Dawes," he said, roughly and a little breathlessly, and she heard the restraint in his voice. "You need to stop now."
She closed her eyes for a moment, the heat between her legs thrumming and her desire for him feeling like the heavy haze of an addictive drug. Maybe like the warm wash of alcohol that her father sought out daily. She felt the temptation like a physical blow.
She could touch him. And he'd probably let her do it; she'd make him come and he would enjoy it. And then…he'd never trust her again
She carefully slid her hand back and rested it on his hip, benignly.
He exhaled, hard, and his whole body slumped in relief.
She realised she'd been holding her breath, too, and she let it out, feeling the weariness leak back into her muscles.
"I'm sorry," she said, because she felt she needed to.
He made a soft, dismissive sound, and then he suddenly moved close and wrapped his arms around her, and she relaxed into him. His chest moved up and down against her, and she could still feel him, hard and aching against her belly, so she tried not to shift, not to move. She slid her arm over his waist and against his back.
"Just until sun up," he said, a whisper against the still room, and she made a sound of agreement.
They cannot ignore this, she realised. And she didn't know if she really intended for this or not.
He softened a bit against her, but she knew he wasn't sleeping; she didn't think either of them would get much sleep tonight. She tightened her hold on him and closed her eyes.