Loran's insistent calling wakes you from a deep dream filled sleep.
"Help him, something's wrong."
You drag yourself to your feet and stumble after him to the outer room where O'Neill slept. He was in the throes of what seemed like a grand mal seizure.
"He's too far." Loran whines.
You each grab a corner of the sleeping bag and thanks to the polished marble floors drag him to the light room. You wipe the froth from his mouth and help hold his limbs still as the last of the tremors rack his body. You can tell he is better already, trying to sit up while still trembling.
You tell Loran to go back to sleep so O'Neill will not be subjected to his worried searching eyes.
But you stay, you know you should go but you need to know that he is really all right.
And your hand that has just wiped his face and held down his arm reminds you of something.
Was it your dreams?
There are no words exchanged but you find you are both sitting close and you've not taken your hands off of him. Your sense of touch is in overdrive you want to touch him, his hair, his skin, with your hands, with your mouth, with your body.
Your other senses want their share of the feast.
You don't know how but you are lying down and he is touching and looking. You search his face. It is as if he were looking at some beautiful, rare, delicate thing, almost afraid to touch it with nothing but his eyes but too irresistible not to caress.
And now you are the caresser, you are looking and touching. And you almost laugh; you are taking off his sock and touching his feet and his toes, his ankles and strong calves. Oh and his knees, you kiss the spot the surgeon cut him and you leave a tear on the scar from Netu.
There is something about the scent of the man, uniquely O'Neill. He is not one for perfumed soaps or aftershave, especially on mission. You find it heady and intoxicating.
And now you want to taste him. You feel him buck and groan and you feel more powerful than you have ever in you life. This man you would follow to hell and back, this strong powerful warrior, he is writhing in pleasure at your touch. You feel him lift you, draw you up along his body so that he can give you the same, so that perhaps he can reclaim some of the power ceded to you. You feel caught in a ripe tide. Pulled out to the deep water, way out over your head then caught in the undertow. Caught now in the breakers, spiraling totally out of control as wave after wave crash down on you. Barely able to breathe you know just know that he is happy and sated and yours for the asking.
Now you wake, looking at his back, your hand on his shoulder, velvety skin under your fingertips. He turns toward you brushing your breasts with his arm.
You understand now why he slept so far from the light so far from the rest of you, maybe just from you.
But you glad it was him, not Daniel and not the boy.
O'Neill will forgive you (but not himself). Today you will turn the apparatus down a degree. Tonight you will seek a secluded spot to sleep away from the others but not too far from the light room. Tonight you secretly hope that you will find each other again and pray that you don't. Tonight you will dig your nails into your leg as you go through withdrawal.