Etymology
by Midnight Caller
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Friendly Skies
Summary: It was just one particular word that in one moment managed to change everything. (J/S)
Notes:
Thanks to my always amazing support team: M, M, D & A.
The air was hot, stuffy, the molecules of humidity suspended in the tight space like heavy orbs of lead. They pushed and poked his body as Jack moved slowly across the floor.
In just a few steps he reached his destination, and pressed his body against the one already there waiting for him.
She was always so warm. It didn't matter how cold it was outside, or what she was wearing… when he touched her she was always warm. And now, as their bodies tangled together and wrestled with the oppressive, stuffy air, the chemicals flooded his brain, and blood pumped furiously through his veins, nourishing the skin that so desperately wanted to be next to hers.
He thought he heard her whisper his name as his lips brushed past hers on the way to her neck. His mouth paused, hovering just above her skin, loving the softness, the aroma, the subtle, throbbing pulse that ran just below the surface. When he finally pressed his lips against her, the heat almost burned him.
Somewhere amidst the rushing of blood through his ears, he heard a sound from her, a quiet whimper that was two seconds away from becoming a moan. He could feel the growl vibrate in her throat, her skin coming even more alive beneath his lips as he applied slight suction.
A few moments managed to click past, although neither one of them could have cared, or would have even noticed the passage of time. Somewhere in the floating ether that seemed to suspend them, she reached down and grabbed his hair, gripping the short black strands in her small, slender fingers. Once she had managed to get a substantial hold, she pulled him up, their noses now touching, their mouths mere breaths apart. Their eyes found each other's in the darkness, quickly stealing a glance before she closed the distance between them.
Their mouths finally clashed, their teeth and tongues sliding against each other with an animalistic roughness and need, their faces rubbing together as they both sought to be impossibly closer.
When she moaned into his mouth and grinded against his body, he almost entirely forgot how they had ever gotten to be so erotically entangled.
Sam stood in his office, her eyes wide, her mouth attempting to both suppress a smile and watch her words at the same time.
The word had been so easy to say before. Now... it was almost too surreal, and was caught somewhere in her throat. She couldn't contain her excitement, but at the same time didn't quite know how to demonstrate it.
"... Divorced..."
Her voice hung in the air after it left her lips. It wasn't a question, or even a statement. It was just one particular word that in one moment managed to change everything.
When she saw his expression, it changed even more.
He was smiling.
Smiling.
Not a huge smile, but the edges of his mouth were turned up in such a way that it couldn't be anything else.
And it didn't seem to be for show.
Perhaps he was in denial, or hadn't yet realized what this word really meant, but when he pressed against her in the dim light of the stairwell on their way to the conference room, it felt too good to let meaning or consequence interfere.
And when she inconspicuously slipped into the back storage closet just a few hours later, it was almost impossible to consider what it all meant, or if any of it mattered, if that one, particular word was really a concrete fact, or if it was just a desperate wish that wanted to be the truth.
The only truth at the moment was that their bodies tensed and pushed together while their hands and mouths clung desperately to whatever was in reach. It was wrong to do this here, but it felt more wrong to ignore the desire, to push it aside, to go through the day pretending that the urge to touch and feel and love didn't exist.
The wall pressed against her back when he pushed himself to her once more. Oh, God, he was warm, his hands, his lips, the growing heat and firmness coming from his body. She wanted it around her, inside her, touching her, loving her. She never wanted to doubt him. Never wanted him to stop, to walk away, to say it didn't mean anything, to say he didn't care.
Her fears subsided slightly when he suddenly gripped her hips and pulled her to him forcefully. She felt his need against hers and it pushed aside every coherent thought she could possibly form. All she could do was grab and kiss, touch and hold, love and hope, and assure herself that this moment was all that mattered, not the fears that wanted to lead her astray.
They were in dangerous territory, so close to not being able to stop, but not knowing if they really wanted to. He pressed his hips to hers again and grunted, his breathing becoming more ragged and labored.
"Sam..." he managed to whisper, his voice raspy and desperate.
She told herself to hold back, to ignore the inferno burning deep within her like a greedy, nagging hunger, but it wouldn't go away. Her hips acted on their own, moving forward and meeting his, and then she knew it was too late; her will dissolved in favor of lust.
The first time he had ever touched her, it was a shock of electricity to her system, a buzzing current of excitement that warmed her entire body. They were in his office. It was late. They were seemingly alone. Blinds drawn. Lights low. Curiosity suppressed reason. And he was so very warm.
The second time he touched her, the electricity caused her flesh to quiver with anticipation and the overwhelming desire to relive the first time. They were in his car. It was raining. The cold fogged the windshield. Water pelted the car. The seats were closer than they thought. And he was so very warm.
And now, as he touched her, and they grinded against each other, the current of electricity flowed once again, more a part of her than an outside element. She gave in to it, welcomed it, beckoned it to possess her entire being.
They were at work.
They were touching.
It was wrong.
They didn't care.
Somehow, they had managed to escape the confines of the closet without notice.
He smoothed down his suit and she attempted to calm her hair, but they never were able to recreate how they had appeared before they had stepped through the door. She would have fixed his hair for him, but found herself rather taken with the slightly disheveled strands as they stuck up from his head. Or maybe she was taken with the look in his glazed eyes, eyes that were at once endlessly dark, but full of promise and hope. They were directed at her, so perhaps it didn't really matter what meaning they held.
He had an interrogation to supervise, and she had to interview a past victim of the suspect's. Work. Yes. They were at work. She smoothed down her shirt again.
In the emptiness of the hallway, before they returned to the commotion of the office, he caught up with her rapid stride and brushed her shoulder with his own, just like he always did. Almost in slow-motion, her head turned, her eyes found his, and his fingers just barely touched hers.
As they rounded the corner, he took one last look, slid his skin against hers one last time, and then turned and walked toward his office.
(fin.)