Author's Note: This is more shippy than my usual stuff, but I liked the idea, so I wrote it. That being said, constructive criticism would be appreciated.
He is so used to the feeling of the rough woven cloth against his skin that when he feels something else, he starts, and he can't place any thought in its proper corner. He saw the gag in her hands, and imagined it to be around his head a second later, but it isn't. This isn't right, he thinks. She should have gagged him by now.
But it's different this time. His senses are picking up information that his brain has no way of classifying. There's pressure against his lips, but it's not scratchy like the muffler. It's warm and soft and smooth and ...pleasant. When had they last felt something pleasant? There's pressure on his scalp, too, though not so pleasant and more violent, a hand grabbing at his hair.
He can see a face. The nose is especially clear, and familiar, and he knows that he's safe but still very confused. He can smell disinfectant and something fragrant and light, but he can never put a finger on it, though he knows that it's what his doctor smells like. And the face must be his doctor's, and the hand must belong to the owner of the face, and by the time he determines that the lips against his own are hers as well, the muffler is in their place and he can't speak.
He struggles, and thrashes, and tries to remove it from his mouth. He wants to say something- anything- to her, and all the words in his mind are ridiculous and inexplicable. If he had succeeded he would have said something about the moon and a juicy orange and the most lovely flower he could think of, but he would have said them to an empty room. She is weeks ahead.