Hibernation6
Moira sat in the cafeteria, shaking her head as John quickly joined her. Balancing a tray full of food. He smiled, shrugged. Sat across from her. Placed a piece of chocolate cake onto her nearly empty tray. She smirked. "What's this? A peace offering?"
"Yeah. Sorry, sweetheart. I'm only half an hour late. Starving." He began to eat.
She smiled. Ate some of the cake. "Okay, John. Just this once I'll let you slide since you brought me cake."
"I intend to do a lot of that. Sliding, that is," he remarked with a leer. Raised a brow.
"Hilarious, John. Eat your lunch." Moira shook her head, sipped some water. Glanced round the cafeteria. Saw a blond woman staring at them. Wondered at it. She looked at John as he heartily devoured his food. "Are we a go for the mission?"
He nodded. Swallowed. Took a long drink of beer. "Yes. Two teams. Everything's in place. What do you think we'll find there?"
Moira shrugged. "I have no idea. Remember what the colonel said, John?" she asked, warming to the subject. "Fons et origo. In rerum natura. The source and origin. In the nature of things. Find the beginning to find the end, he said. Whatever is there is has something to do with the Wraith. That facility holds the key. Somehow. Although Reynolds and his team reported nothing of interest. No life whatsoever, except for Baldy. I guess Baldy mark two, since mark one was killed by those cavemen. Do you think he is the key, John? Some kind of genetic mutation? Or a clone? Is that even possible? John?"
He swallowed. Licked his lips. "Huh? You lost me at the Latin, baby. All that rambling," he teased, snorted as she kicked his ankle under the table. "What? How the hell should I know?"
"Why do I bother?" she lamented, shaking her head.
"Why? Two words."
"Two words? And what are those two words?" she asked, smiling.
He smiled. Leaned towards her. "Multiple orgasms," he said low. Raised a brow. Sat back and smugly grinned.
She laughed. "Oh. That's true," she agreed. Kicked his ankle again. "Stop that."
"Stop what?" he asked, gaze roving over her. "Primal. Animalistic. Hot."
"So fucking sweet," she rejoined softly, smirking as he laughed.
Susan stared at John and Moira. They appeared to be the happy couple. Sitting across from each other. Talking quietly. Flirting outrageously. Gazing into each other's eyes. Smiling. As if they didn't have a care in the world, except for each other. Susan's blood boiled. She stood. Smiled. Lifted a bottle and strolled over to them. Boldly she set the bottle down between them. "Honey, you forgot this. You left it in my room, although we didn't need it. Not at all."
Time froze. John froze. He tensed, stomach rolling. He slowly looked from Moira to the bottle of caramel sauce poised between them. To Susan who was smiling. Her gaze locked on Moira. A self-satisfied gleam in her blue eyes. He hated her in that moment. A hate so raw, so vivid his hands clenched into fists. He glared at her. A glare full of fury, of bitter coldness that made her smile falter as she eyed him. "Get the fuck away from us," he ordered. Voice a low snarl.
Moira was staring at the bottle of caramel sauce. Her bottle of caramel sauce. John's hesitant, convoluted words, his haphazard confession clicking into place now. The reason for his guilt. His anguish. His worry. It all made perfect sense now. What he had tried to tell her but couldn't. What had happened during his amnesia.
John looked at his wife. "Moira?" He swallowed, dismissing Susan. The other woman stared, then slowly walked away from them. Torn between triumph and dismay. "Um, Moira, it's not as bad as it looks. I wasn't myself. I swear to God everything I told you was the absolute truth. The amnesia. The–"
"When?" Her voice was taut, but soft. So soft he nearly had to strain to hear. Her gaze fixed on the bottle. As if it was her deadliest adversary.
"When what?" he asked worriedly.
"When did you remember? When did you remember me? Before, during, or after?"
John gulped. Her accuracy uncanny. "I, I, look, it's not what you're thinking! I, I don't even know why I brought that bottle, maybe subliminally I knew it would trigger me, I mean I never even took off my wedding ring although I couldn't remember why I had it on and even accused my friends of some kind of prank or joke or....it wasn't like that, Moira! I could, I could barely get it up and she had to suck it to get it to...and even then I couldn't really get it to...look, I didn't fuck her. I didn't! She, um, fucked me, just for a few minutes, I mean a few seconds, no time at all and then I saw–"
"When? Before, during, or after?" she repeated curtly. Interrupting his halting, increasingly awkward explanations.
John hesitated. Actually felt a blush warming his face. His heart skipping a beat. All the while Moira was staring at the bottle. Brown eyes harsh. "Um, um, during. But it wasn't anything! I swear! A few minutes, I mean a few seconds and it was over! I threw her off me when I saw that bottle. Remembered you! Memories of you flooded me like a physical wave. Moira? Moira?"
Moira stood. Finally met his anxious gaze. "Well, colonel, I guess we're even now, aren't we?"
"Huh?"
"Don't you remember what you said to me? Since I slept with the colonel you said you could snap your fingers and go fuck one of your lots some women to even the score?"
"Moira! I never meant it! I wouldn't do that to you! It wasn't like that, I swear!"
She shook her head, one hand raised to halt him as he was about to stand. "I know. I understand, John. Just give me...give me an hour."
"Moira, please, I swear, I tried to tell you but I couldn't, I mean I tried to–" he stammered, moving to his feet and grabbing her arm before she left. Fled.
"Let go, John," she said. Calm. Collected.
"I can't. I won't let go, Moira," he said sincerely. Nevertheless he freed her arm.
"An hour." She walked away from him. Past the tables of people staring, wondering what the conflict was. Past the table where Susan sat, a smile lining her face. Moira ignored her. Ignored all of them. Ignored John as he stood, frozen in place as he watched her leave the cafeteria. Leave him. He snatched the bottle of caramel sauce of the table. Stalked out of the room and headed for the armory. Needing to shoot something, anything. Needing something to do while he gave her the time she had requested. Dreading what he would find when he went to her.
Moira sat in the bathroom. Door locked. Quiet. Wet washcloth in her hands. Face flushed, red, wet from the water. From the copious tears she had shed. From the violent outburst of emotion that had to be released, had to be endured and expressed. The anger. Fury. Jealousy. Sorrow. Despair. Until she was calmer. Could think rationally. Consider everything in a more detached, scientific perspective. Analyze John's every word, every action. Her own. Even the other woman's motives. Desires.
She blew her nose. Wiped her face again. Froze, hearing noises in the other room. Footsteps. Frowned. Instead of an hour John had apparently decided half an hour was enough. She tensed. Unwilling to face him. Wishing he would go away. Disappear. She felt tears and forced them away once more. Kept silent although he would know where she was.
She stood. Resenting his intrusion, his impatience. She took a deep breath, released it. Moved to the door. Unlocked it. Opened it. She stepped out of the bathroom, paused. John was standing in the middle of the room. Looking at the floor. Where broken glass was crunching under his shoes. Where roses were strewn. Petals violently flung, shredded into a maze of red and pink and magenta hues like a carpet. "Um...I, I..."
"Moira storm?" he asked quietly, looking up to meet her gaze. Saw her sorrow, her anxiety. Her tears. He didn't move, uncertain. Waiting. Tension roiling.
"Yeah. Bad one, too." Her heart was hammering wildly in her chest. A wave of emotion flooding. Trembling on the brink of loss, of love. Of anger. She rushed to him. Engulfed him in an embrace. "John! John!" she muttered fiercely against his chest, hiding her face.
John relaxed, arms encircling her. He kissed her brow. "Moira, my Moira. I am sorry! So sorry! I swear, I swear, I never meant, I never ow!" He drew back as she punched him. Punched his chest again, shaking free of his embrace.
"You bastard! You fucking, fucking bastard!" But she flung herself into his arms again, clinging desperately to him. Tears falling despite herself.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he muttered into her hair. Kissing gently. Arms enfolding her once more. "Moira. I love you, Moira, I only want you, I need you, I want ow!"
She had hit him again. Pushed free of him. "No!" She moved away from him. "I, I should clean this up." She grabbed a broom, began to sweep the petals, the broken glass.
John grabbed the broom handle, halting her. "Moira. Talk to me, sweetheart." She pulled the broom free, continued sweeping. Ignoring him. Hating him. Wanting him. She swept around him, as if he was an impenetrable obstacle in her path. John watched her movements. The sweep of the broom. The twist of her hips. "Moira. Moira!" He grabbed the broom from her. "Leave it! It doesn't matter!"
She glared at him. Snatched it back from his grasp. "It does! Look at the mess I made! That you caused! You! You and your wandering cock!" She resumed sweeping. "Move! Move!" She pushed him out of the way. Swept. Turned to him suddenly, grasping the broom so tightly the whites of her knuckles showed. "Did you?"
"Did I what?" he asked, accepting her blame, her anger. Wondering how in the world to placate her. To soothe her.
"Did you use it? Did you use the caramel?" she asked. Terse.
"No."
"Well, that's something," she muttered. Relaxing. Swept the mess to one side. Sighed. "Do we have something to sweep this into? No? I guess I'll have to improvise."
John watched her. He hadn't even been aware they had a broom, much less any other housecleaning items. "Moira? Leave it! Damn it! Leave it!" He moved to her, grabbed her. Pulled her across the room to the bed.
"Let go of me! Let go of me, damn it! John, John, just let–"
He kissed her. A hard, almost brutal kiss. Tongue thrusting into her mouth. Shoving her body into his. She squirmed, fighting. Pushing but he was too strong. Holding her in place along his body. Pressing, insisting. Mouth capturing hers over and over until she murmured, yielded. Hands clutching instead of pushing now.
Moira pushed suddenly, coming up for air. Could feel his erection pressing into her. "John? John! No way! No!" She stared, appalled, aroused. Confused.
He smiled. "Baby, we need this. We so need this. You. Me."
"You...you..."
"Oh yes, baby. Me. Me." He kissed her, gently this time. Slowly. Grabbing her hips to guide her into a gyration on him. Then her rear to squeeze, slide along him. "Moira. Only you, Moira. Only you."
Moira sighed. Gently freed herself. Flustered. "John...only here can this kind of shit happen. Only in the Pegasus galaxy can I sleep with your dark side alternate reality self and you get lacunar amnesia and go sleep with a lots some woman." She moved to the table. "God I need a beer. You?"
He smiled. "Hell yes, Moira. At least two." He approached her. Touched her shoulder. "Um, Moira...are we...are we okay? I mean...um...Moira?"
She turned to him. "I...I'll go get the beers. Wait here for me, John. Oh." She crossed into his room.
John worried. He hesitated. "Moira?" He entered his room. She was gone. He looked round, curious as to what she had been doing. He moved to the dresser. Noticed his holster. His empty holster. He stared a moment. "Oh shit," he said calmly. Quickly exited to intercept her.
Moira felt oddly calm. Collected. She grasped the handgun firmly. Made sure the safety was on and slid it into her pants behind her shirt. Draped her shirt over it. Strode resolutely, considering where to find the other woman. Directed her steps as questions brought her closer. Closer as she found herself in one of the agricultural laboratories. She crossed the floor. Glancing at test tubes full of seeds and grains. She glared at the woman who was working on some intricate sorting. Seed by seed. Squinting through a lens. "Susan Williams."
The woman started, spilling seeds all across the table. She swore, turned in her chair. "Who the hell is...oh. You." She stared. Surprised.
"Yes. Me. Moira Sheppard," Moira identified, each word curt. Precise.
"Did John–"
"Oh yes. John told me. Told me everything. How you took advantage of him. No, how you ignored the fact that he is married to me and tried to fuck him anyway," she corrected.
"And I did, and he–"
"Didn't despite your best attempts, yes I know, and I really don't care. I really don't. You heard my husband earlier. Just stay the fuck away from us. Got it?"
Susan snorted. Moved to her feet to face the other woman. "Well, that depends on John, now, doesn't it? What if he suffers another bout of amnesia? Or decides he prefers my company to yours. Wants something different on the menu instead of the same old–"
"I see. Let me make myself perfectly clear." Moira drew the gun.