Defensive Cooperation4

John groaned. He rolled onto his back. Swore. He sat, blearily eyed his room. Mind in a fog from the heavy, dreamless sleep. He looked at the bed beneath him. "Moira? Moira!" he called, voice a rasping sound. There was an awful taste in his mouth and he grimaced. He stood, swaying slightly. Moved to the bathroom.

He downed some aspirin. Scowled at the taste. Gargled some water, spit. Spit again. Ran more water to cup in his hands. To splash over his face. He eyed himself in the mirror. "God you look like hell, John," he muttered. Ran a hand over his stubbly chin. Blinked his bloodshot eyes. He yanked off his torn shirt. Turned to try to view the bandage on his back. His muscles flared in pain at the motion.

He moved back to his room. Pulled an olive green t-shirt from a drawer. Winced as he lifted his arms to yank it over his head. Smoothed it over his torso, tugging it with a curse as it snagged on his bandage. He stood, lost for a moment. Still felt the buzz from the alcohol in his system. Smiled. Tapped his earpiece. "This is Colonel Sheppard. Put me through to the infirmary. On the intercom," he ordered, keeping the slur out of his voice with an effort.

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Moira sighed. Rubbed her weary eyes. "I don't understand this, Carson. Katie. We've loooked at every sample. Even those..." She gestured towards the back room where the dead men were covered. The glass had been swept off the floor. Marines stood by the open area. A precaution.

"There's a trace, just a trace of the enzyme. A botanical organic residue. It's so small it couldn't be responsible for any of this," Katie Brown asserted. Frowned.

"What if the source isn't organic at all? What if the source wasn't without. But within," Carson posited. Stifled a yawn behind his hand.

"The moss? But Katie just said it wasn't any botanical–" Moira disagreed.

"Not the moss. Something else," Carson corrected.

"Doctor O'Meara," came John's terse voice over the intercom on the wall.

Carson glanced at her. Moved to intercept. Pressed the button. "Colonel Sheppard? Can I help you? You really should be resting, son. We're in the middle of our research. As soon as we find something, anything we will call you."

"Tell Moira O'Meara to get her pert little ass to my quarters," John said. Voice serious. Slurring a little as he stood in the center of his room.

Moira blushed. She glanced at the marines, at Katie, at Carson who was trying not to smile. She hastily moved to the intercom, shooed Carson aside. Was very aware of the marines eying her rear and she tried to turn but had to face the wall to talk into the machine. "John! What the–"

"Moira!" he exclaimed in delight. "You didn't follow through on your promise. Now get that pert, tight little piece of ass to my–"

"John! Do you know you're on the intercom!" she flared, embarrassed.

"Huh? Moira O'Meara, I need you to come here ah!" he sang. "Moira O'Meara, I need you to come here ah! Ooh, you make me har–"

"John Sheppard!" she scolded as laughter rippled behind her. "Son of a bitch!"

"And you're so sweet," he sang, laughed. "Moira," he stated in his best colonel voice, "get that pert, squeezable little ass to my quarters STAT!"

"John! All right! I'm on my way! Stand down!" she scolded, trying not to laugh.

"Moira O'Meara, that better not be any Irish blarney you're selling me 'cause I ain't buying!"

"Shut up, John! I'm on my way but stop talking!" She shut off the intercom. Turned as more laughter erupted. She laughed as well, shrugged. "I...um...he had a lot of beer so...I..."

"Go, please! If only to stop that singing!" Carson complained. More laughter.

"At least we have learned he is human like the rest of us," joked a marine. Laughter.

Amidst more merriment Moira hastened out of the medical bay. Amused and irritated. Intrigued. She reached his door. Hesitated. Knocked. "John?" His name was barely out of her mouth when the door opened. John smiled, pulled her into his arms, kissed her lengthily. Moira freed herself with an effort. Closed the door. Stepped deftly out of his reach, staring. "John, what the hell was that? Did you know you were on the intercom?" she demanded, hands on hips.

Her gaze devoured him. His rakish appearance. Dark hair wildly disheveled. Jaw shadowed by stubble. Rough. Clothes unkempt. The green t-shirt making his eyes look even greener. His intense gaze warm as it raked over her. His sensual lips as he licked them slowly. Deliberately. A smile formed as he saw through her anger to her desire.

"Sex. You promised lots," he said, voice low, husky. It sent a shiver down Moira's spine. Made her body tingle in erotic anticipation.

"You would remember that, and actually you said it," she primly corrected, causing his smile to broaden across his handsome face. "Come on!" She took his hand. Led him not to the bed but to the bathroom. "We have to get you sobered up."

"As I recall you agreed. In fact you said," he began, resisting her half-heartedly.

"Even so, I did not agree to drunken sex," she corrected. "Will you come on!" She pulled him towards the shower. "Strip to your boxers, flyboy. There's one surefire way to get you sober." She turned on the water. Adjusted the temperature. Cold, but not too cold.

John watched her. "You first," he stated.

"What?" She turned. He was standing near. Arms folded across his chest. Intractable.

"I'm not kidding, baby. I'm not going in there until you do." He smiled. "And I'm not stripping unless you do."

Exasperated she sighed. "John, I'm not drunk! You are." She caught his arm. "Now come on!" She tried to pull him but he didn't move. Didn't budge.

"No. You can't make me, baby. Unless you strip first. Then I will. Then you go in. Then I will. Repeatedly," he added with a suggestive leer.

She rolled her eyes. Turned to run her hand under the cold water. Felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature. She looked over her shoulder at him. He was waiting. Watching. Moira felt another rush of desire. "Fine, fine," she grumbled. She slipped off her shoes. After an awkward pause she pulled off her socks. Bare feet on the floor. She freed her hair from the ponytail. "The things I have to do for you, John Sheppard," she complained, turned away to hide her smile. She pulled off her t-shirt. Folded it neatly and set it on the counter. Undid her pants and wiggled out of them. Set them next to her shirt. "Well?"

He smiled. "Lavender lace...my favorite," he commented. He pulled off his t-shirt, wincing at the pain of sore, strained muscles. Removed his shoes and socks. Undid his pants and tossed them aside. "Okay. Go."

Moira hesitated. "You need to get in and sober up," she commented. "Your bandage should be fine. Carson will have to redress it anyway so there's no harm in getting it wet."

"Whatever. You first."

"John, I'm not the one who–" she protested, but his hand suddenly ran up her bare back. Giving her a gentle push.

"I won't if you won't, Moira. So go. Get that pert little ass in gear, will you?" He lightly slapped her rear. "I want that pert little ass sodden and–"

"Will you shut up about my ass!"she flared. But stepped into the water. Regretted it as the cold liquid chilled her skin. She shivered, hugged herself. "John!"

"Right on your pert little six, baby." He stepped in behind her. Nearly yelped. "Damn! That is too fucking cold!" He was about to step out of the shower.

She whirled. Caught his arm and pushed him under the spout. "Oh no you don't, colonel! Sober up, now!" She laughed at his expression. He stepped forward, angling the water off his upper back. Blocking most of it from hitting her although she was already soaked.

John smiled, wiping the water from his face. Gaze roving as her underwear became translucent. Revealing hard, rosy nipples. The dark triangle in the panties. Her wet straggling hair. Water trailing all over her body, her skin. "Moira...oh my Moira," he teased.

Moira kissed him. Ran her hands up his wet chest, fingers sliding through his hair. Catching on the dog tags before moving to his shoulders. "Now sober up, soldier! Are you sober now?" Her gaze traveled over his wet body. Water sluicing down his strong arms. His lean torso. The boxer shorts clinging to every inch of him. Every inch of his stirring arousal.

"Yes, ma'am," he teased.

"Good! Because I'm freezing!" She stepped past him, out of the shower. Grabbed a towel.

John laughed. He shut off the water. Stepped out. Snatched the towel from her. "No." He dropped the towel to the floor. Turned her wet body to his. "I'm so thirsty, Moira," he suggested. Staring at her. Wanting her with a rush of need, of lust. He fingered the straps of the bra.

"John..." Her voice quavered. From the cold or from desire she couldn't tell. Didn't care asa hot rush escalated intimately. "We need to towel off and get–"

"I know exactly what we need," he countered. "I want you exactly like this. I'm so thirsty," he stated. Kissed her as he pulled down the bra straps, the bra to uncover her breasts. He reached round, fingers sliding on her bare skin to unhook, then remove the garment. He dropped it to the floor.

Moira's body responded in a rush of desire. She pulled back to stare at him. Her gaze marveling over his handsome face. Wet hair. Water still trickling all over him. Sparkling in the light. Body hair matted down across his chest, arms, legs. "John..." she whispered. His fingers slid to her waist and he yanked down the wet panties, causing her to gasp. He kissed her again, letting his mouth persuade her as his fingers ran up her thigh. Between her legs.

Moira lost her breath, stepped out of the fallen panties as his tongue slithered in her mouth. His fingers probing every fold, every sensitive intimacy. She whimpered, catching his hand and shoving it away from her.

He smiled. Yanked down his boxers and stepped out of them. He caught her. Guided her down to the floor, onto her back. Onto the towel lying there. "Moira."

"John?" She stopped him. "Here? The bed–"

"The bed? We're soaking wet, baby, and I am so fucking thirsty I will drink you dry." He kissed her again. Then his mouth wandered over her skin. Across to her earlobe to nibble, to lick until she murmured. Body shifting under his. He slid downwards on her. Mouth wandering down her throat. Teasingly across her breasts. She arched in response, hands sliding on his shoulders, his arms. Up to tangle in his hair as he gently sucked. Moved down to the scar on her waist. Down to her hips.

"John...John...not..not again...John, John, you–" she babbled breathlessly. Lost in ecstatic anticipation, embarrassment, longing. Her body jerking, straining to meet his. To invite him. Her fingers tightened on his shoulders as his mouth ran teasingly up her thigh. As he shoved her legs father apart. Honing in on her arousal. Her need. His mouth skimmed along her. Moira's breath came out in a stuttering moan, shifting under him, so tight. Body reacting to him wildly.

John smiled. Hearing her soft whimpers, her exclamations of passion, need. Feeling his own hunger increasing, increasing. He slid up suddenly. Caught her mouth with his in a deep kiss. Sliding his hard cock between her legs. So close to her opening it was maddening. "Ah, my Moira, my Moira. Hot and cold. Wet and wetter," he teased in her ear. Easily entering her now. Groaning with pleasure. Starting a luscious rhythm. "Ow."

"Sorry," she said, gentled her hold on him. "Oh John, oh John," she moaned. The pleasure spiraling. Her body moving in tangent with his against the floor. Sliding on the towel. The water drying on them. The sensual friction building, building.

"Ah fuck," he breathed happily. He kissed her repeatedly, caressing her breasts as he prolonged the growing friction. The coming release of tension. "Almost, almost," he groaned. Began to move faster, faster. Harder. Ignoring his back pain as she squirmed under him. Clenching on each motion of his cock as it thrust deeper inside her. Her breath was quick, gasping. Mirroring his own as his body took over for him.

Moira was no longer cold. She was hot. So hot as their movements were wild, uninhibited. She forgot the feel of the damp towel under her. The feel of the hard floor beneath her even though John was all but pounding her into it now. He thrust deeply into her. She cried out, lost her breath as she climaxed into orgasm after orgasm. Flooding with pleasure. She couldn't stop saying his name, over and over.

John groaned, continued to thrust and thrust. A string of swear words erupted as he reached his own height of pleasure and felt the tension, the strain flood from him. Spasm after spasm shaking him as he jerked wildly inside her. At last he slowed. Stopped. Fell upon her.

Moira caught her breath. Stroked his hair. "John..." She paused. Her voice a soft sound. Nearly a purr. "Was that one of your kinky things?"

He laughed gently into her hair, her skin. "Hmm...was it? It was...I guess...not too kinky?"

"No! It was wonderful! So wonderful, John! You...oh John!" She showered him with kisses, capturing his mouth when he raised his head to eye her. She moved him onto his back but he groaned. "Oh! Sorry!" She pulled him onto his side as she faced him. "I'll have to be gentle with you, I guess."

He smiled. "Not too gentle," he corrected. He moved to kiss her when she suddenly sat, smacking her shoulder into his face. "Ouch!"

"Oh! Sorry, John!" she laughed. "Damn it!" She scrambled to her feet. Into her wet underwear and clothes. "I don't have time to roll around naked on the floor with you, John! I've got research to do! Oh..." She looked at him. "I forgot."

"Forgot what?" he asked, watching her. Amused and pleased.

"Forgot to add the name. Oh John Anderson. I'm sure no one overhead us but still...wait. Oh John Anderson! Oh John Anderson!" she moaned. Ignored his sudden scowl.

"Hilarious, Moira! Cut it out!"

"At least you didn't shout my name, so no one knows who you were fucking in here," she acerbically noted.

"Stop it, damn it! No, no one knows and that's the how I want it to be. So deal with it, baby!"

"Of course someone may suspect by the way you talked on the intercom. Don't make any more comments about my ass, damn it!"

"What? I did what?" he asked, genuinely puzzled.

"Hilarious, John! As if you don't know! Have Carson take a look at your back! And put that thing away, colonel!" Smirking she left him.

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John woke. He lifted his face from the towel. Squinted at the bright lights. Wondered why he was sprawled naked on the floor of his bathroom. Then memory enlightened him. He smiled. Recalling the erotic shower, the extreme pleasure of the sex. Her hasty exit. The teasing. Her ire over his insistence of discretion again. He sat. Grimaced and touched his back. Pain flared. He scowled. Moved awkwardly to his feet.

He pulled on his clothes, still scowling over her words. John Anderson. It gave him a distraction from recent events. He strode to the infirmary. Glanced at the marines. Glowered at their amused expressions. Which quickly disappeared. He wondered what he had said over the intercom. Couldn't quite remember. Was too distracted by the sexual memories now. "Carson? Anything?"

Carson turned in his chair. "Ah, colonel. I trust you are feeling better now?"

"No, I'm not. My back is bothering the hell out of me. My head feels like a brick hit it."

"Your head is your own fault. As for your back, let's take a look, shall we? I should change that bandage anyway. There."

John sat on the bed Carson indicated. Pulled off his green t-shirt with a groan. Gritted his teeth as Carson removed the soiled, wet bandage. Probed the wound. "Ouch!"

"You need to lay down."

John sighed. Reclined on his stomach. Booted feet dangling over the edge of the cot. Frowned as the doctor poked and prodded. Tended the vicious scratches. "Have you made any progress at all?"

"With the source of those things? No. They're all dormant now."

John turned his head to stare at the Wraith head on the table. Electrodes were attached to its skull. To a scanner. "Is this Frankenstein's lab now?"

"Very nearly, John. We were testing the brain waves. Trying to reproduce the synoptic charges. But to no avail."

"Moira was doing that?" he asked quietly. Wondered where she was.

"Yes. Before you interrupted on the intercom."

"Oh. I did? It's all a bit hazy. She said I made some, um, comments."

"Yes, you did. At the very least you owe her an apology, John. Almost done." Carson deftly applied a clean dressing to the wounds.

"I do? What did I say? I mean...apart from the, um, comments about her, um, her–"

"Pert little ass?" Carson helpfully supplied, making John cringe. "Wasn't that bad enough? And the rest, well...you really don't remember?"

John sighed. "Not clearly, no. She wasn't that angry with me, I mean she..." He stopped before revealing their sexual encounter.

"That may be, but you still owe her an apology. All of us, really," Carson jested. "All done."

John sat and pulled on his shirt. Ignoring the stiffness of his muscles. The pain. "What? What did I say?"

"Ask her yourself. Here." He placed a pair of pills in John's hand. "Take these for the pain. And no beer! On no account drink any beer."

"Okay. Because of the interaction with these?" He downed them. Took the cup of water Carson offered and drank it.

"Yes...but mainly because of what you might do next over the intercom." He smirked as John frowned, gaze narrowing in annoyance. "I do suggest you get something to eat. And Moira is probably famished as well. It would be nice if you had a meal with her."

"Okay, okay, I get the hint, doc. If you won't tell me what I said–"

"No. Now go. I have work to do." He watched John stand, awkwardly walk. Pause to glower at the marines. The men's smirks disappeared into dutiful, neutral expressions. "And my work does not include relationship counseling," he added with a shake of his head. Amused.