Title: You Let the Devils Draw Near
Circumstance had drawn them together but it is not what has kept them so. She has options, she is aware of this, as much so as he is (his dislike of Tom Zarek does not stem solely from the latter's past). There are a number of ship's captains who have openly flirted with her (at her—she does not flirt back, not with them). And she is aware of the eyes that track him on the rare occasions he is present at Quorum (she tells herself that she is not unduly tough on the Aerelon delegate). The nurse that tends her IV when Cottle is unavailable has made it blindingly clear that she is available. They have options. They have choices. They have chosen each other. It is the existence of such options that makes what they have all the better. That are not together because they have no one else to turn to, they are not together because there is no one else. There are together because there is no one else they want (they desire, they love).
It does not stop her rationale from unhinging. It does not stop the argument from unfolding.
--
She is not a jealous woman, at least she had not been a jealous woman (you cannot willingly be a mistress with jealousy in your veins—but she has cancer in them now, one fueling the other). But she sees that other women see him as she does. Other women who are apparently unaffected and not dissuaded by her presence in his quarters, by her hand on his arm, by her smiles directed at him (or by her title, which she had thought would have at least given them pause). She knows better than this. She does. But frustration and fear are reshaping her thoughts, her vision—she is seeing more than what is there and it is leaking into reality, soaking her words as she hurls them at him.
--
He has never known her to be jealous (he is aware of her past, thinks that a mistress—though he loathes the word—cannot really be so). It is why her tone and her implications now are so surprising. He had not imagined that she would ever doubt his heart (though he comes to realise that it is herself she is doubting).
"I see how she looks at you, Bill...Reza Chronides." She fairly spits the name, all venom and distaste.
He takes a moment to place a name with a face. "Reza... the Aerelon delegate?"
Her eyes become slits and he has never seen this look on her face before. "I won't be made a fool of." (it is the cancer talking, he knows, seeping from her breast to her voice—airing thoughts that she fears, not facts that she knows)
"Laura, what are you talking about?" He regards her as steadily as he can. She is still and silent, but he knows she could strike at any second—she is a snake in this moment, all coils and winding movements, her words twisting what is real into what is imagined, wrapping around their love and squeezing out hate.
He is genuine in his confusion as to the cause of her wrath, allows this confusion to surface on his face, open and honest (as he always is with her).
"Reza has been throwing herself at you." Her words are slithering through dirt, gathering momentum and grime, propelled by fear—he sees the markings they leave in their wake. (Reza with her own hair, with her cancer-free breasts, with a lifespan that is not measured in months and hope, Reza who Laura thinks is chasing undauntedly, flaunting and offering all which she fears she is no longer)
His own ire is rising, though it is abstract in its focus. "Set her up with Tom Zarek—maybe then he'd take his eyes off your legs for five frakking minutes."
He is not angry with her (he is angry with doubt, with cancer, with having to court the woman he loves in a frakking life station and never having more than ten damn minutes with her without the fleet clambering for their attention)
The problem lies within the definitions. She is talking about a woman and he is talking about a delegate. He sees distinctions where she sees connections. She sees what he doesn't, while he sees only her. She is the only woman that he is ever in a room with (all others are daughters, are crew, are delegates, are civilians. Female yes, but not women).
In any room, she is the only woman in it.
"You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?"
"None."
She is ablaze with fury as an unfounded and aberrant jealousy (like a new form of cancer) pounds in her blood. He can practically see it seething in her, all amber flames and dangerous hues, blurring her around her edges. He thinks his confusion has somehow incited it further. It is a split-second, barely the blink of an eye (a snake striking), during which she has launched herself at him, her mouth on target as she attacks his.
He has her backed into his desk just as quickly. Silently cursing that she is in pants and not a skirt, but before he can begin to rectify the situation she has already managed to divest him of his belt, undone his pants and reached in to take him in her hand. He is hard already (there are reasons she is the only woman in any room for him).
She strokes and rakes nails, tightens her grip, increases her pace. Her mouth assaults his—she is feral, wild, she will not break even to allow him to undress her, instead keeping hold. Her tongue is savage against his. This is not her, it is not, but he cannot think straight as she circles his tip, spreading moisture. He cannot think as she bites his lower lip, dragging it between her teeth, letting go only to reclaim it with her mouth.
His hands grip her thighs, for balance, for purchase. He should be concerned about bruises, but she has cupped his balls and he can think of nothing but her and the pads of her fingertips and her touch that is all but burning. He drags his mouth from hers, her name a guttural rumble as he tries to still her, to tell her he is close. But she ignores, wraps a hand around his shoulders to block his moves, the other stroking him again, faster.
His head falls to her shoulder, pushing aside and into her shirt, seeking out skin. Her fingers reach to grip into his hair as he comes in her hand. He bites down on her collarbone so that it is she who cries out. They both still, their breathing ragged, uneven. She withdraws her hand, reaching for a tissue, cleaning herself and him.
He feels her stiffen in his grasp (his hands still clutching her thighs) as she begins to register her aggression. "Oh Gods," slips from her mouth like an apology (for what he cannot imagine). She tries to move away.
His hands push her down firmly before traversing the length of her body, sliding over hips and ribs, passing her breasts (pausing briefly to caress her, eliciting a soft moan), stopping at her face. He brings his forehead to hers, resting momentarily before tilting her head back (his hands, his fingers, all tender touches). He kisses her (slowly, softly, soothing), his tongue caressing where hers had attacked, loosening all the cords of her body through one point.
She sags against him, like a snake shedding its skin, revealing the new (unmarred) layer beneath, abandoning the old at her feet. The fight gone, the jealousy forgotten, the aggression dissipating. She slides from the desk to press the length of herself flush against him, arms winding around his neck as his hands reverse their previous path and trail back down to her waist, drawing her closer as they both sink into this kiss (all leisure and ease and deep deep arousal).
This is not an inferno scorching, leaving ashes and ruin in its wake. It is a home-fire burning, soft glows and warming colours, chasing out the darks of anxiety and resentment.
Their kisses slow, moving from languorous and consuming to playful and delicate. He kisses her mouth into a smile, drawing it out of her as only he can. She is liquid in his arms—he wants to pour her into their bed, wants to take a day (a week, a month) to re-form her with love.
She whispers his name, her tone no longer seeping with poison, but dripping with honey and ardour (and contrition).
"No-one else, Laura." (for him, for her, for ever)