Title: Drain
Rating: T/M
Summary: "I love you, and there's not a damn thing you can do about it." Written for an LJ quote challenge.
Pairing: Shannon/Boone, of course.
Drain
"Tell me," Shannon hissed into his ear as the plane lifted off.
Boone stared at the ceiling of the plane. It seemed like every surface of airplanes were covered in plastic – generic, tan plastic speckled with whitish speckles, the kind that was made to blend in with grimy kids' fingertips and coffee spills made by stressed out mothers. Who knew how long it had been since it had been cleaned, how many greasy fingernails had touched the window shade – plastic of course. It reminded Boone horribly of the time his kiddy soccer league had made a pit stop at a McDonalds in some industrial, smoggy area of Southern California (Chino, was it?), and the combination of the scent of processed meat, newly cut grass that had collected on their soccer cleats, and the sticky, slimy green linoleum with vomit colored flecks, had caused him into a fit of nausea. The scent of the bathroom hadn't helped, neither had the cashier's rotting, musky perfume.
But Shannon smelled amazing; the scent of her shampoo was familiar to him now – it reeked throughout every perfect blonde lock of hair, through the sweaty sheets on the bed she had fitfully made that morning, and all over every article of clothing he owned. Her aroma had originally leaked onto what he had been wearing, but like everything relating to Shannon, it had spread – pervading throughout his entire suitcase as if she hadn't sufficiently branded him already.
"Tell you what?" He asked, both emotionally and physically exhausted. She had drained every ounce of pride he had; drained like the water had drained down the shower that morning when he had tried to wash her away from him. It hadn't worked, it seemed like every bit of water that dribbled down the drain had bubbled right back up the moment he saw her again when she had appeared at the bathroom door – beautiful and Satanic all at once.
"Tell me what you told me last night," she murmured, resting her lips on his neck. Last night had been a tornado of hands, creeping up and down skin, lips, betraying whatever emotion they had been trying to deny, legs, twisting and tangling in between the deep sea of sheets, soft moans in the darkness that had gradually amplified as the night continued. "Please," she whined, and he tried to resist the warm touch of her lips moving against his skin – but the goose bumps appearing on his neck were stubborn, just like Shannon, and refused to lie.
He didn't know how many times he had told her he loved her last night – too many times, that was for sure. The words had raced through his head as she had tangled her hands in his hair, hoisting herself up against him. He had moaned them as she kissed him, mumbled them in between flicks of tongue against tongue, and he had shouted them when he came. He had whimpered it again to the dark room afterwards; his voice wavering and foreign, and he could have sworn he heard them back.
"I love you," he told her, defeated, drained again, like she had depleted her source of tears last night in the middle of her orgasm, like the water had drained down the shower, like the water had seeped from the bottom of the toilet when he threw up at McDonalds – like all his pride had oozed away. There wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.