PROJECT ARCHIMEDES
A "Way of the Gun" Sequel
3. LOST LOVES
November 15, 2010
Late Evening
Jack came back down the stairs, a satisfied smile on his face. Allison looked up from her contemplation of the photo album she'd been looking at, and closed the book.
"She's out, finally." He said.
"We'll see if that lasts long. I'm not relishing the thought of another 3AM drive around town." She sighed and used both hands to rub her temples.
"Yeah, well it's my day off tomorrow so if she wakes up and needs that I can do it. When do you have to be in tomorrow?" He moved up behind her and wrapped her in a soft embrace. She smiled and leaned back into him, enjoying his touch and proximity. They kissed briefly.
"Too early!" she replied. "I'm taking over observation of the project at six thirty. This thing is going to kill me!" she groaned.
He laughed a little, then guided her down to the couch and sat beside her. Gently he moved her so her back was to his and started massaging her shoulders. She groaned a different groan this time and relaxed into his powerful ministrations.
"Oh God, that feels heavenly, Jack!" she enthused, assuming the characteristics of a rag doll.
"I told you I'm good with my hands," he preened quietly.
"As if there was any doubt after that first night!" she said heatedly.
He continued the massage, but started adding a more sensual gestures to it, a caress here, and soft touch there, the occasional kiss so some part of her coffee coloroed skin. "Let's finish this upstairs," he suggested softly, his voice rich with desire.
She agreed, giving him a burning kiss and and sparred tongues with him for a short while, letting her own hands roam across his body. The two of them retired to the master bedroom.
A long while later they rested from their mutual exertions, content in the afterglow. He was propped up slightly against the padded headboard, arm around her shoulders. She was pressed to him pleasingly, head resting on his chest, one arm wrapped around his midsection, their legs entangled.
"See?" he prodded.
She laughed and kissed his chest, "Uh huh. Like I said, no doubt. Not just your hands you're good with though, sheriff."
He smiled broadly, altogether pleased with himself, and kissed the top of her head. He was glad she'd decided to upgrade the mattress to the same prototype wonder bed that'd been installed in his bunker. Aside from being extraordinarily comfortable, the damn things breathed so well that it was actually enjoyable to cuddle afterward and not swill in your own sweat. It had never quite occurred to him that this fantastic property would mean much for sex, but he didn't mind at all.
Plus the look on Fargo's face when Jack decided to embarrass the hell out of him and explain the wondrous nature of the bed. He hadn't been sure if Douglas was going to have an apoplectic fit or what!
He thought for a bit before broaching the next subject. This probably wasn't the best time for it, but some urge in him practically demanded he ask the questions.
"Allie?" he asked quietly.
"Hm?" she responded. She was still alert.
"Have you thought any more about it?" he asked.
"About what?" she responded, acting clueless, but he could tell from the tone in her voice and the subtle shift in her breathing that she knew exactly what he was talking about. It bugged him that she'd be evasive on it, still.
"You know what I mean, honey. You, me, some friends, something old, something new, something-" he began, trying for a teasing tone, but against his best control a little bit of his irritation crept in.
"Jack!" she protested, burying her face in his chest and heaving a sigh. That did interesting things, he though, feeling her breasts press against him and move like that… He forced himself back on track.
"Come on, Allie," he said, a note of pleading in his voice. "We've been at this for months, I've been living her for four of them, and we never find time to talk about this."
She sighed again into his chest. "Tomorrow," she said, resignedly. "I'll talk to you about it tomorrow."
"What's wrong with right now?" he asked, and immediately chastised himself for being childish, but that part of him that rebelled against he Bohemian nature of his family at large was insistent. This was the responsible thing to do!
"I'm tired," she said weakly. "I just want to sleep." She was lying and he could tell. Her breathing had shifted slightly, her tone had little stress marks in it. He cursed his cop instincts, and more aptly himself for doggedly pursuing this after such mind blowing sex!
"No, it's not that," he said, his voice distant.
'Dammit, Carter, shut up!' he yelled in his own head at the cop inside.
She blew out a breath and disengaged from him, moving across the bed more toward her side. 'Well, so much for drifting off in each others arms, way to go Sheriff Jackass!' he railed against his ego. He half envisioned the cartoon devil and angel appearing on his shoulders...
"Allie-" he protested as she moved away. She said nothing.
"Honey," he tried again. "It's not a terrible thing, I just-"
She shook her head, and for the first time he noticed that his chest was a little wet. He saw in the dim shadow light that there was wetness on her cheeks. She was crying.
"I… I just…" he tried to form the words but gave up, she rolled over, her back to him.
In a quiet little voice she whispered, "I need to sleep, Jack." Her voice was wracked with sorrow, and he felt like an utter heel.
"I'm sorry, Allie," he said, feeling as lame and ineffectual as he thought he ever had.
He got up out of the bed and left her some space, retreating from the bedroom. As he was shutting the door behind him he heard her soft voice whispering something he couldn't make out, and then she broke into soft sobs.
He retreated downstairs after retrieving a bathrobe from the linen closet in the hallway, and paced the living room for a while. What was the problem? They fit so well, they worked together like anything. They laughed together, cried together when necessary, sacrificed for each other… had the most amazing sex together!
He rubbed at the back of his neck, staring at the room. Not sure what else to do he went to the refrigerator and pulled out a beer without looking at the label. He missed having the beer tap, but without a home A.I. to monitor its consumption didn't really trust such a thing here. Not that Allie would have permitted it anyway. After taking a long pull from the bottle he walked slowly back to the living room.
It was obvious to him at this point that she simply didn't want to talk about marriage. The big M word. Part of him understood, he guessed, but she'd been willing to marry Nathan for a second time! Was he not good enough for marriage? Did that mean she only wanted him for a while? Did she think he wasn't good enough for her kids?
He loved her desperately, like a drowning man loves air! She made everything better, every time he looked at her he felt like he could be a better man, no should be one, just to make her happy. Didn't she feel the same way? Didn't she feel the same spark he'd felt that first night?
He'd never been one for self-aware romanticism, but it had felt to him like he'd found the other half of himself, after almost half his life searching he'd discovered that she really was the one, the only one. He'd never felt that way about Abby, he realized. It was sad in a way because Abby really was a fine woman, smart and funny, and all the rest, but they just didn't fit, and never really had. They'd confused the fire they felt when they argued for passion, and while the sex was good it really was just sex.
Maybe it was a product of him getting older, but every time he had sex with Allie it felt like he was touching the divine, like they were making holy communion in some ancient pagan tradition. Even calling it sex did the experience an injustice!
Didn't she love him back?
He sighed and softly hit his head with the heel of his hand. "Yes, she does, you moron. Stop questioning it!" he growled at himself, quietly.
'Then what?' his inner self demanded, 'What's the problem?'
Whatever it was, it was beyond him at the moment. He sighed, went to the small gun safe in the front closet and pulled out his service pistol. While he didn't have the same religious fervor about weapon maintenance that Jo did, every gun needed it's care, and besides, the monotony of cleaning the gun would help him order his thoughts before trying to sleep in the recliner tonight.
He was so focused on his task that he completely failed to notice the photo album sitting on the edge of the coffee table, or the date.
The cover read:
The Wedding of Donald and Allison Aimes
November 15, 1996