The Cosmic Law of French Toast by Meowser Hotchner
A different kind of raincheck. Tag to 4x14: Slow Burn.
Melinda's lips pressed to his, and Sam felt something...new awaken.
His lips remembered this. He had a keen sense that this had happened before. It had to have happened before.
And yet. It hadn't. There was no way. He refused to believe that Melinda had cheated on her husband. She wasn't that kind of woman.
ANd oh god. His hands were moving. They were moving like he'd done this before a million times, like only his brain doubted, in this moment, what the right move was.
He rested his hands on her shoulders, and they were shaking from the terror.
His heart beat in his throat. He moved ever closer to her, feeling the heat of her body.
No. No, he couldn't do this. Melinda wasn't ready.
She so obviously couldn't be...ready...to start dating again, so soon after her husband's death.
Jim.
Jim's death.
Sam felt his fingers itching. He felt his body stir to life. He felt feelings he hadn't been able to bring to life for a long, long time now...they were returning.
His hands swept around to her bare back above her strapless dress.
Oh, god. She was as soft as she looked.
She whimpered slightly, like she was about to pull away.
But something inside of him took over then. His mind was being overruled by something much stronger...sense memory.
He took control of the kiss, somehow knowing exactly how and where to probe with his tongue to get Melinda to open up to him.
And she was whimpering again, but now her hands were curling around his neck; her fingernails were biting into him.
She was moving towards him in a restless, slinking motion.
His hands came around, caressing the skin above her dress in the front now. He knew...somehow he knew how her breasts would feel. And it terrified him.
His hands moved again, clasping her at the waist; tight, tighter, moving her against his raging erection.
Oh god. Melinda.
She was...she was exactly how he knew she'd be.
But he didn't know how he knew.
Her hair was done in loose waves. He moved his hands up to her neck, pulling the hair up and aside. His lips fell away from her lips; she tilted her head and he kissed the skin of her neck, nipped at it, sucked on it.
He came to the ribbon of her necklace and he, dropping her hair, untied it.
It felt like a ceremony. He felt like he was taking something away from her as he pulled the ribbon from her neck. It was just a piece of jewelry. He'd never seen her wear it before and he doubted it meant something to her.
But it somehow felt significant.
The ribbon, so light, seemed to weigh in his hands. He dropped it; it fluttered to the ground at their feet.
She was staring at him, a little bit dazed. He'd pulled back to look at the ribbon and now he just wasn't sure again. His mind was taking over, shouting no, saying that he needed to wait, Melinda should wait.
But his heart...his hands...his legs...they were moving to another's memories, another's orders, someone else's directions.
He was sliding his arms around her in a move you'd only find in a 1940s war movie: he was swinging her around and dipping her over one arm and her neck was so there, so exposed.
The skin above her neckline called to him. He had a feeling that the low cut dress...it couldn't hold out anymore.
It shouldn't.
Her clothes were still on the floor, they were too far for her to reach without making a fool or a whore out of herself.
Sam wished she didn't have to feel like that but he didn't know what else to do at this point. Had he been somewhat of a ladies man? Certain people, like his sister, seemed to think that.
But he didn't...he didn't know what to do about this. He'd bet millions of dollars that he'd never before had an encounter as good as this one had been and yet...it had happened a thousand times before, a thousand nights.
He finally handed her one of his plaid shirts and she looked away as she slid it on. It fell to her thighs as she stood up and slowly buttoned his shirt.
"I...I'm sorry," she said slowly. "I pushed you."
"No, it was all me," he protested. "I've been told by my sister that I was quite a ladies man at times in my life. I guess my memories just took over when you...kissed me."
She couldn't even look at him. "It wasn't just that," she said, her voice raw and her tone one of begging, pleading. "Surely there was something else to it."
"Yeah, there was something else," he managed to say, staring at her. "There was this other sense...I knew exactly what to do, Mel."
Her eyes widened.
"Mel?" She whispered.
"Yeah," he returned, and then ducked his head. "Sorry. That was what your husband called you...right?"
"Yeah, him and a few close friends," Melinda managed. "Not that you can't call me Mel too. I...please do."
"Aren't we moving too fast?" Sam finally said, voicing his concerns. "I mean, my brain says one thing and it's like my whole entire body just contradicts it, just throws it out the window. It doesn't care what my brain says. It moves of its own accord. I...I've worked out since the accident. My body remembers the moves...the motions of a hard workout. I know how to do a clean and jerk. I can perform a perfect pushup or manage a free throw in basketball without even blinking an eye. It was like that, Mel...inda. It was like..."
"Sense memory," she whispered. "That's what it's called."
"Then tell me this," he managed to say. "Mel...inda."
"What?" She asked, moving restlessly.
"Where are those memories from?" He asked. "How does my body know how to do that?"
"It's your psyche, not your body, it's your...soul," she said, gesticulating wildly. "Please believe me, Sam. I did not cheat on my husband. Ever. But there are ways...there are other explanations, I don't know."
There were tears in her eyes.
He knew what to do for those too.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
"What?" She asked.
"I made you cry," he said, moving behind her and stripping the stained quilt off of the bed.
"What are you doing?" She asked, pressing a hand to her mouth as if trying to suppress the sobs.
"I'm making my bed so we can sleep in it," he said. "We can talk about this in the morning."
"We could...go up to my room, it's a better bed," she whispered.
He wanted to say that it would be too weird. God, it was her marriage bed. He couldn't sleep in a dead man's bed.
But it doesn't feel like that at all. It feels right.
He picks her up, swings her into his arms in a princess carry. Her legs are soft, silky. Her thighs drape on his arms in a way that makes his mind begin to stir with possibilities again.
He carries her from the garage to the back door; it's locked so they have to go back and he squats down so that she can grab her keys from the bureau.
They don't speak; they don't say a word. They're both way too scared of breaking the spell that's come over them.
She unlocks the door and he carries her inside; up the stairs.
They're nearing the bedroom.
Sense memory takes over again.
He's walking faster.
They've made it over the threshold. He feels everything come crashing into him and he's laying her out on the bed.
He can't wait to get this man's shirt off of her.
The thought puzzles him...it's his shirt, after all...
But it goes away as he again discovers her skin, her scent, her motions and responses.
He's felt it a thousand times before, this he's now completely sure of. It's the only possible solution. When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Like usual since his accident, he has no idea what that quote is from.
But no matter what the truth of it is...no matter how many times he's thrusted against her, spilled into her...every time feels like the first.
A/N: I have an EXTREMELY extended version up on ao3 up separately under the title "Sense Memory". You get 2x the amount of Jimel sexytimes.