Disclaimer: I do not buy/sell/own this mindcrack, I just abuse the hell out of it.


John was in his living room, getting ready to power down for the night, when the warning light came on and the feed cut out from one of the rooms in the Bartowski apartment.

He swore under his breath as he went through the checklist to make sure nothing was screwy on his end. All of the plugs were in place in his surveillance feed and none of the wires were bad, so there must be something wrong with the receiver. He looked at the display panel to see which room it was. Knowing his luck, Chuck had turned it off in an attempt to get in some "quality time" with himself.

He didn't blame the kid – Sarah had been running around in that sci-fi fantasy babe get-up and most men had spent the better part of the night drooling over her cleavage and legs.

Nope, it wasn't Chuck's bedroom where the feed had been interrupted – it was Ellie and Woodcomb's.

Fuck.

His first inclination was to ignore it and go to sleep because he did not want to get anywhere near her right now when he was in this state.

Earlier that evening, Ellie had been making the rounds at her party dolled up in a skintight, but somehow at the same time, very elegant black dress, complete with clip-on ears and domino half-mask. Her hair had been done up in a pony-tail ("it doesn't have to be attached to my butt to count!") and she'd used black eyeliner to draw a feline-shaped nose on her own, and added a set of elegant whiskers, too. The effect had been that of a very stunning and shapely Catwoman.

And goddamnit all to hell in a be-ribboned handbasket, he'd had enough punch to fuck up and tell her so.

She responded by turning to him, rising up on tiptoe, and leaning her body against his while she whispered into his ear, "Does that mean that you wanna pet me?"

Jesus H. Christ, he'd been stupid enough and drunk enough to let himself say exactly what he'd have said to her if he wasn't undercover, turning his mouth towards her ear and saying in the bedroom voice, "You gonna purr for me if I do?"

"I don't know," she'd replied, her breath full of warmth and teasing as it wafted onto his neck before she nipped the skin of it gently. "We'll just have to see, won't we?"

He felt his knees buckle (damn, I thought that only happened to women in romance novels!) and he staggered back from her as she gave him a cool smile and a slow wink.

Then she was gone, melting back into the throng of people and playing hostess to the huge crowd of dear friends and slight acquaintances, most of whom were Woodcomb's frat brothers, their girlfriends or hook-ups for the night, and Chuck's buddies from the Buy More.

The crush of bodies in the house was generating enough heat to require leaving the windows open, and that helped a little, but he needed to go somewhere and cool off, stat, so he took the opportunity to migrate outside. He made his way to the fountain, sat down on the edge, took off his helmet and started gulping deep breaths of fresh, head-clearing air.

John was intoxicated enough to play the game, but not enough to break the rules.

If I'd have stayed one more second – whew! Just need a moment to collect my thoughts and sober up. Thank God I have some peace out here…

That feeling lasted for all of five seconds because that's how long it took for the strident tones of Jeff and Lester to penetrate the sound of the water splashing into the basin.

They were on the other side, dressed as Mr. Spock and Captain Kirk, respectively, and having a very intense and inebriated conversation with a bemused Anna, who was also wearing a Starfleet uniform.

"Come on, Uhura," Jeff was begging, "You were totally into Spock in the reboot!"

"I'm not Uhura," she replied haughtily. "And even if I was, that movie was just a glorified circle jerk of fanboys who were lucky enough to get paid to write, produce, and direct it. Said it before and I'll say it again, not even if you were the last men on earth!"

"What if we were the last men on...Vulcan?" Lester asked, swaying towards her. "Remember, that planet was destroyed by the evil Romulan…dude…person, so we'd best get shaggin' before the world ends, eh, Woo?"

"Excuse me, fellas," Morgan said, swooping in to take Anna's hand. "Counselor Troi and I have to go get some more of the witches' brew before it's gone."

"Thank you, Commander Riker," she cooed at him.

John's stomach roiled.

Ugh! he thought as he made a face. Being subjected to this kind of torture should merit some form of hazard pay.

He had to get out of there – fast – before he tossed his cookies.

Somehow John made it into his apartment and managed to shut the door behind him – he was finally alone, away from those idiots he worked with and far, far out of temptation's reach.

Thank you, God.

Now here he was, five hours later, all sobered up and swearing mentally as he assessed this absolutely goatfucked situation.

He was going to have to make a midnight foray into the apartment – into that woman's goddamn bedroom – to get the feed back online.

Yes, he could call Sarah and ask her to take care of it, but it was his night to be on-call and it would look very suspicious if he had to ask someone else to do what he considered to be one of his specialties, the implantation and maintenance of surveillance equipment.

Fuck you, God, he swore nastily at the deity he'd prayed to since he was old enough to go to C.C.D. That's right, you heard me: Fuck. You.

John might have been imagining it, but he thought he felt someone laughing at him.

He looked down at what he was wearing: black cargo pants and a long-sleeved black T-shirt. If he put on black boots, he could probably get in and out with a minimum of fuss and be in bed before enough time had passed for Beckman to comment on the gap in the tape.

On with the socks and the boots, then a quick stop at his coat rack for a gun with a silencer, a fresh receptor, and a spare battery pack, and he was walking out the door into the cool California night.


Much like New York, Los Angeles never really slept. There was always traffic passing on the boulevard outside of the gate, and the streetlights continually blazed throughout the hours of darkness with brilliant blue-white intensity, but tonight the courtyard was blessedly silent.

He made his way to Chuck's window, located the keypad for the magnetic release mechanism he'd installed when he'd first moved in, and released the lock.

There was his mark, passed out cold on top of his comforter, snoring softly and drooling onto his pillow.

John pulled his gun out and pressed it slowly to Chuck's temple before uncocking it and tucking it into the back of his pants. He shook his head. Sleeping deep with the curtains open…kid practically has 'shoot me' tattooed on his ass.

After checking to make sure all of the transmitters in that room were working, John made his way to the kitchen, checked the power level on the transmitters, and scoped out the parking lot through the window.

Woodcomb's parking space was empty.

Must still be at work.

He checked to make sure that the living room and the bathroom transmitters had enough juice before heading to Ellie and Woodcomb's bedroom.

John raised his hand to knock, then realized what he was about to do and grimaced.

Don't be a fucking idiot, he chided himself as he reached for the handle and turned it slowly.

He'd been in this room plenty of times before to install the transmitters and change the batteries, and even though it had always been empty, he'd felt Ellie as an almost palpable presence.

Her hand was evident in the organized state of her closet, the neatly folded clothing in her dresser drawers, the tangle of earrings and necklaces in her jewelry box. He knew that she wore body mist instead of perfume, that she favored matching bras and panties, that she slept either naked or in a pair of Eeyore pajamas, and that her vibrator was a Hello Kitty model that had been a birthday gag-gift from her best friend who happened to be living in Japan and working as a translator, and that she kept it tucked in the recesses of her sock drawer, along with her emergency cash stash.

That was more than he knew about most of the women he'd ever been attracted to, but then again, all of them had been spies, and therefore, used to lying.

Not the woman who lay slumbering on the bed. She was a complete anomaly – an innocent civilian who made him feel like he'd drunk a potent cocktail of unsolicited emotions he wasn't ever supposed to taste: peace, protectiveness, laughter, lust...

Whole lotta lust, he reminded himself as he crossed to the bad and looked down at her.

She was not wearing the Eeyore pajamas.

Lord have mercy.

She was lying on her stomach, her arms wedged up under the pillows. Her left knee was drawn up a little and lay outside the covers, which were hardly worthy of their name because they barely covered up her butt. He could see the outer swell of her left breast and the dip in her waist where it shallowed before flowing into her left hip, and it was all he could do not to start drooling on her.

…Want to pet me?

Her earlier words came back to taunt and haunt him as he crouched by the bed and gazed at the long length of her dark hair, the smooth skin of her pale back.

It would be so fuckin' easy, he thought as he put out his hand and ghosted it slowly, so very slowly, over her hair, down her back. He could smell the scent of the soap she'd used when she'd showered after the party, and the body lotion she'd used before she went to bed. Her hair was cool, her skin was warm, and he swore that he could almost feel the soft crackle of energy as the heat she was giving off mingled with his.

Baby girl, I wish to God you were mine, he thought at her with all of the silent intensity and need he was feeling as his hand hovered over the small of her back for a moment before gliding up to her hair and then back down again.

He glanced at the clock on the nightstand and scowled. It was seven minutes to three in the morning, the witching hour of the night. The feed had been down for more than five minutes. If he didn't get it back up and running, there'd be hell to pay.

John made a move to rise, but she unexpectedly shifted and he immediately stilled.

Oh, God…not good.

Ellie had rolled leisurely onto her back in her sleep, and now the soft curve of her left breast was snuggled quite securely into the shelter of his palm.

If she wakes up… He felt a cold sweat break out all over his body as he turned his head away from the sight of his hand cradling her breast and closed his eyes. Hey, God, remember when I said 'fuck you'? You know that I didn't mean it, right?

He opened his eyes, glanced at the nightstand, and breathed out a soundless sign of relief. There was a wineglass on it, an empty wineglass. In addition to all of the intimate things he knew about Ellie Bartowski, John also knew that she slept like the dead when she had wine before bedtime.

Thanks, man, I knew you understood.

He stood up slowly, opened his hand, released his fingers from their grip on her, abso-fucking-lutely grateful for this most urgently required of absolutions.

And then she opened her eyes.

He waited for her to sit up, scramble backwards from him, pull the covers up to her neck and start screaming bloody murder.

But she didn't.

"You're here," she whispered sleepily as she smiled up at him.

"Yeah," he replied, clenching his hands into fists and pressing them to his sides so that he wouldn't do something really, really wrong like use them to rip the rest of the covers from her body and look his fill.

"No," she murmured as she reached for his hands. "Not with me. Never with me…"

"What?" he asked her, helpless as she stroked his fists with the tips of her fingers.

"Hold back," she said softly as she sat up in one liquid movement. "Don't hold back with me."

And John knew in that moment that he had gotten it all wrong.

She had always the one reaching for him, and here she was, doing it again.

It wasn't that she didn't think he was good enough for her; it was that he didn't think he was good enough for her.

"You're dreaming," he told her, praying with everything he had that she believed him as he let her uncurl his fingers.

"Yes," she agreed, blinking slowly, her eyes focusing and unfocusing as she put his hands on her shoulders. "'This is a dream…it could never happen in real life'… you always say that."

"I do?" he asked her, planting a knee on the bed to get a little leverage.

She made a soft, sleepy sound of agreement.

"What else do I say?" he asked as he loomed over her.

She smiled at him, a shy, languid little crooking of the corners of her lips. "You…you tell me…that you want me…"

He shook his head as he let his thumbs stroke the skin of her throat before they started to glide lower down her body. "Baby girl, you have no fuckin' clue how much I want you."

"Yes, like that…you always say it…like…that," she murmured, closing her eyes.

"You're sure? You're sure that you want this…?" he asked her, gritting his teeth as he felt her nipples pressing against his palms.

She arched her back into his touch. "Yes…"

"You're sure that you want…me?" he demanded, his tone urgent.

"Yes, oh, yes…" She opened her mouth as she moaned silently, then she opened her eyes and stared straight into his soul. "Make me…make me say it…"

What were they, the words she thought he wanted from her?

And, as if like magic, they came to him.

He slid one hand up to grip both of her wrists.

"Tell me, baby girl," he ordered, his voice turning rough and low as he took charge, "Tell me that you want me to touch you."

"I want you to touch me…" she breathed, her eyes drifting shut again as he bent his head to kiss her collarbone.

God, she smelled like flowers and sunshine and heaven.

The words came again.

"Show me," he demanded. "Show me where you want me."

Her smile was bewitching as she took his right hand in her left, slid it slowly down her body, rotated his wrist when it passed her waist, slipped it gently between her legs.

"Here," she whispered as she pressed herself against him. "This is where I want you…this is where I need you."

"Where you 'need' me?" he asked her, keeping his hand right where she'd left it. "And just what is it that you 'need,' hmmm? This?"

He stroked his middle finger up, and then down, and she moaned into the darkness.

"That what you need, baby girl?" he muttered against her neck. He ran his finger back up again, and swirled it gently. "Or maybe it's this?"

She started to cry out, but he silenced her with his mouth.

Yes, fuckin' hell, yes! Kissing her was everything he knew it'd be. Their tongues slid together in a hot, wet tangle, and he gloried in swallowing every one of those hot little sounds she made in the back of her throat as he petted her.

God, he was so fucking hard, and, she was so damn wet, and Jesus fuckin' Christ, he wanted to be inside of her so much he thought he'd go in-fuckin'-sane.

Did she read his mind? He did wonder as she wrapped her left leg around his torso and shimmied her hips even closer into his hand.

"Please, please," she whimpered against his lips, her wrists straining against his hold.

"Like this?" He took his hands from her wrists and slid his mouth down her throat as he took one of her nipples into his mouth and slid his finger deep inside of her.

Her arms clamped around his back and her nails gripped his skin as her legs clamped around his hand and her inner muscles gripped his finger. "Yes, oh, yes!"

John barely had time to register what was happening before she started making those sounds. He knew those sounds, knew them intimately. Knew that she made them on a regular basis. Knew that she made them only when she was pleasuring herself, never with Woodcomb.

God, he loved listening to her, knowing that she was not afraid to touch herself, not afraid to let him touch her, to let him be the one to make her feel this way, to be the one making her make those sounds.

And yes, God, yes, he wanted to have her every way he possibly could, but that could wait. Right now, all he wanted to do was watch her, listen to her, feel her, inside and out, as he made her come.

He wrapped his other arm around her, put his lips to her ear and started whispering to her. "Like that, baby girl? You like that? Yeah, I know you do. I can see you shiver, I can hear you moan, I can feel you, every bit of you, and you feel so fuckin' good, honey, all hot and wet and ready for me. You want more, baby? You ready for more?"

She nodded, then gasped into his shoulder as he added a second finger.

"Fuck, baby, you're so wet for me, aren't you? You know what I want you to do?" he growled at her as she worked her hips against his hand and keened into his neck. "Do you? I want you to come for me, baby girl."

She was trembling and whimpering; he knew she was close.

"That's it, baby girl, come for me, come for me," he snarled before he hauled her up to his chest and ground his hand against her.

"Yes, oh, yes – John!"

He felt it happen, felt her body spasm as the pleasure roared through her veins, making her shudder and shake as she sobbed his name – his name.


It took her awhile to calm down and John took that time to close his eyes, bury his face into his neck, and run his free hand up and down her back as her body gradually melted into his.

Damn, she was just like a man after these kinds of orgasms – two minutes, tops, and she was out like a light.

He glanced up at the clock. Three minutes after three – God, that was fast!

She was limp and boneless against him in no time and he was careful not to injure her as he lowered her back onto the pillows and tucked the covers up around her. With any luck, she'd wake up in the morning and think that this was what she thought it was to begin with: a dream.

In the meantime, he had a job to do.

John went to the bathroom, washed his hands, and then went back into the bedroom and quickly located the malfunctioning transmitter.

He examined it carefully. It was whole, sound, and had plenty of battery power – everything appeared to be in working order. The only thing wrong with it was that the button that initiated the broadcast had been switched into the "off" position.

He looked at the transmitter, then at the woman sleeping peacefully not ten feet away, and felt the hair on the back of his neck start to rise.

Don't make too much out of this, soldier, he told himself as he switched the transmitter on. It's probably nothing.

Lights hit the windows and John hit the floor.

Woodcomb's home. Fuck.

John used his forearms to quickly crawl out the door, making sure to shut it behind him before he slipped into Chuck's room, then out into the night. He engaged the alarm system, checked to make sure it was operating, and made his way back to his own apartment just in time to see Woodcomb walk through the door.

Damn, that was close – too close! he scolded himself as the adrenaline rush caused the skin on the backs of his arms to sting and smart. He sank down into his easy chair and checked the feed to Ellie and Woodcomb's bedroom. It was working again, thank you, Jesus…


John awoke with a start and his eyes darted to the monitor. Woodcomb was already in bed and John was getting ready to do the same when something caught his eye.

Ellie was still lying in the same position, but her eyes were wide open and she was staring right into the camera.

She can't…she doesn't…

John blinked slowly. When he opened his eyes again, hers were closed.

He looked down at his feet – he'd been wearing boots, but now they were bare.

When did he have time to change out of them…?

He blinked again, shook his head.

That was weird.

He made his way up the stairs, went into his bathroom, pulled off his shirt and was about to toss it into the clothes hamper when he noticed the marks on his back.

Or, rather, the lack of marks on his back…

He expected there to be eight perfect little half moons where she'd sunk her nails into him, but there wasn't even a scratch.

He ran back down the stairs and crossed to the place where he stored the spare batteries and transmitters.

The count was the same before he'd left earlier in the evening for the party.

He checked his gun locker.

There was his Glock, in the same position he'd left it after he'd cleaned it yesterday.

He checked the monitors.

Sure enough, there was an eighteen and a half minute gap in the feed.

What the…?

And then he felt something touch his shoulder.

John turned around, but there was no one there...

And then he heard it, so faint that it sounded like it was coming from across the city, across the state, across the continent, even: laughter.

And under the laughter, John thought he heard a deep bass voice murmuring:

Fuck you, too, my son…fuck you, too…

The End.