Conditioned Aversion8
John sat on the love seat. Poured more wine into the two empty goblets he had brought with him. He took a long drink, staring at the fake fire fluttering in the hearth. Orange and yellow flames licking the screen, but it was all an artful illusion. Even the sounds of crackling logs had been added to complete the scene. He looked over as Moira joined him. "You know, this is pretty good but I prefer–"
"Beer? That was a no-brainer," she acerbically commented, sipping at her wine.
"I was going to say a fine Scotch," he added slyly. "Drink. Look at that. You'd think they would have real fireplaces, wouldn't you?" He reclined lazily on the love seat.
"You'd think. But this place isn't exactly rustic, is it?"
"No." He took their glasses, set them aside. Sat back, drawing her against him. Touched her thigh with his other hand. Moved the robe aside to expose the four cuts on her skin. "So...I'm guessing six months and this go together?"
"Yes."
He kissed her, gently caressed the scratches. "How?"
She sighed. Rested her head on his shoulder. Hand sliding into his robe to caress his chest. "I, I was engaged for six months. To the day. Exactly when...it happened. The cuts...I...it helped me. Relieve stress, despair, guilt. When you think you can't endure any more torturing guilt or thoughts or memories..."
"Okay. That makes sense. I get that. And you thought the same thing was happening again?"
"Yes. Not the same thing, but yes. I know it doesn't make sense but that's how it works."
"Yeah, I know. So..." he considered, choosing his words, his approach carefully, "you were with this guy six months total?"
"Yes. You and I have been together longer," she asserted, as if he would refute it.
"Yes, we have," he assured. "And on that particular day he died?" He held her closer, as if he could shield her. He kissed her brow, her cheek. Stroking her thigh. The cuts over and over, as if he could erase them, erase the pain. His voice was low, quiet. Soothing.
"Yes."
"He didn't just die, did he?"
"No." She sighed. Fingers sliding to his arm to clutch the muscles, to feel his strength. His gentleness. "John, I know you think you've done things. Terrible things, failing in your responsibility to, to others. I've done worse."
"I don't believe that, Moira." He kissed her brow, her hair. Stroked her back as she nestled.
"It's true. That, that's why I become so upset when you say those things. You say that you would die for me, if you had to, to save me. Because I've seen it. I saw someone die for me, to, to save me...and it was all my fault. I let it happen. I couldn't stop it. No, I could have stopped it but I was too late. Too late..." she mourned, closing her eyes.
He kissed her brow. "Moira, it can't have been your fault. I don't care what you believe, it wasn't your fault."
"Really?" She sat to meet his serious gaze. "Was it yours, John? Was any of it your fault? Were you too late?"
He tensed. Replied. "Yes. And it was my fault. All of it. I was too late, too selfish. And Afghanistan? Negligent. Reckless. And Antarctica? Just plain stupid."
She shook her head. "It was my fault. I put us into that place, into that untenable position. He, he tried to warn me but I wouldn't listen. I was so intent upon the discovery, the science, the...I may as well have killed him myself."
He kissed her gently, drew her against him. "No. I'll never believe that. It wasn't like you meant to cause harm, or pain, or suffering. But I understand those feelings. Feeling you are responsible. For neglecting the warning signs. For not following orders. For being so caught up in yourself you were too late to stop the..." He broke off, sighed. "Shit, Moy, we are fucked up. Aren't we? But we are the only ones who can understand this crap."
"Yes." She sat. "I'm sorry, John. We shouldn't be spending our time like this."
"I don't know. Maybe you were right. Maybe we need to, Moy. To finally get this crap out in the open with the one person who would understand it. We need more wine," he decided.
"No." She stopped him from leaving. Caught his arm. "John...who, who was she?" She knew the answer from the dark side version of himself, but had never inquired, had never revealed her scant knowledge. But he was slowly opening up to her. "Your mother? That's, that's what your darker self said. Nothing else, just that."
"Yes." He stared at the flames. So tense his hands curled into fists, but oddly calm since it was Moira asking. Understanding. Stroking his arm. Offering sympathy, love.
"I'm sorry. You must have been a child, John. You can't hold yourself accountable," she reasoned. Voice soft, gentle. Approaching the topic very, very carefully.
"I was. But old enough. I am accountable." His terse words were harsh. Unforgiving. He looked at her. Saw the depth of concern, of love, of empathy in her brown eyes. "What was his name?"
She lowered her gaze to the floor. "James."
"And he was killed? Murdered?" John was guessing, based on her words, her reactions.
"Yes."
"And the other thing you mentioned? In your past. Your parents?" Another guess as he considered her previous words. Remembered her aunt and uncle.
"Yes. I wasn't really responsible for that but I felt like I was. If I hadn't have been away, hadn't have needed them to come get me to...like your Afghanistan. Wrong place, wrong time."
"Yeah. But you were a child, then, right?" She nodded. "You're not responsible for an accident. An accident?"
"Yes. Accident."
"I was. Responsible. In Afghanistan. Went against direct orders to rescue Captain Holland A guy from my squad. Crashed the damn helicopter, was shot down. Lucky shot. He, he didn't make it. Died on the way back to safety. Black mark on my record. I thought I was doing the right thing, leaving no one behind. But I went against orders and lost valuable equipment. Such a fuck-up. After that I was posted to Antarctica. Guess they figured I couldn't kill anyone there. They were wrong."
She looked at him. He was staring at his hands, now open, on his lap. She touched them, kissed his brow. "You screwed up, but not deliberately. You had the best intentions. To save another."
"Try telling my CO that. Or the Air Force," he grumbled. "They were right to post me somewhere else. You know the funny part? If I had left Holland, had waited for sufficient back-up he would have made it out alive."
"What happened in Antarctica?" she softly asked.
"Stupid. All those dangerous flights to and from, not a machine but a man down this time. One fucking trip ice-fishing and I lose one guy! Swallowed by the ice. I watched him float under it, almost fell in myself. The ice froze so fast there wasn't time to pull him out. He was dead from the water before the ice closed over him."
"An accident, then. You can't blame yourself for that," she reasoned.
"I can. You blame yourself for your parents, right? Even though you shouldn't. I blame myself, for Murphy. It was my fucking idea! I shouldn't have let him stay out there. Should have made him come back with the rest of us." He sat back, rubbed his eyes. "Shit, Moy, I haven't talked about all of this crap in years. Not to anyone."
"Me neither, John."
He lowered his arms, met her worried, sorrowful gaze. Touched her thigh. "I don't want to go into details. Not yet. Okay? I mean about...the worst..."
She nodded. "Okay, John. I'd rather not either. Not now. I...we...have to do this slowly, I think."
He watched her as she looked at the fire. Hair falling softly around her. A brown wave with glints of red in the light. The robe was opening slightly to give him a teasing glimpse of one bare breast. Open still at her thigh to reveal the cuts. So close to revealing much, much more. He licked his lips. Wanting.
Moira met his gaze. Saw the motion of his tongue. The wet lower lip. His wandering, sensual appraisal. She slowly smiled, ran her hand up his thigh. Into the robe. Gently grasped as he softly moaned. "John..." She leaned close to kiss him. Nibbled, sucked his lower lip. His hand slip up her thigh, into her robe to stroke her hip. Stroke lower. She slid onto his lap, straddling him. Facing him as she kissed him repeatedly. Hands roaming across his chest as she opened the robe. He caressed her back, then untied her robe. Opened it to expose her body to him.
He smiled. "Hang on, baby."
She gasped, scrambling but clung as he got up, lifting her. Carried her to the bed and set her gently down to stand. He slid the robe off her. Slid off his and kissed her. Moved her back onto the bed, but paused. "John?"
He smiled. "What do you want, Moira? I'm in the mood for a little kinky. I want that pert little ass and a wall. There's no headboard so we will have to improvise."
She smiled. "Okay, John. I want a double. Full fucking throttle, colonel."
"Okay, baby, that sounds good. Very good." He got up, pulled her to her feet and to the wall near the window.
Moira peered out at the sleety snowfall. "Maybe we'll be snowed in," she mused, murmured as he scooted her from the window to face the wall. Pressed her against it and swept her hair aside to run his mouth down the curves of her back. "Oh John, oh John," she breathed.
He squeezed her rear, gently kissed, bit until she moaned, shifting. Legs spreading. "Pert little ass, finest in two galaxies," he teased. He slid his hand between her legs, testing. Found her wet, hot. She whimpered at his touch. He kissed her shoulder, drew her out a bit from the wall. A bit more. Positioning. Entered carefully. Groaned at the pleasure, the love, the relief.
Moira moaned, grabbed the curtain as he began to thrust, thrust, shoving her into an odd lean towards the wall. He caught her breasts, cupping, gently kneading the hard nipples. One hand slid down to her mound. Probing the opening, the cleft. "Oh John! Oh John, John!"she enthused, arching. Tensing over him, feeling tears as the pleasure doubled, doubled.
He moaned in appreciation, as she tightly enfolded him, drew him deeper, deeper. Reveling in the trust, the closeness. The sexual pleasure. The comfort after all the talk, confessions, bad memories. Wanting to make it all go away, all of it. To only have this, this sexual, mindless bliss. Intimate trust. He groaned, moving faster, harder. Fingers rubbing roughly, probing to find the place to make her squirm, cry out, squeal in pleasure. Intent solely on the sex now. He kissed her shoulder, nibbled her throat.
Moira rocked up and down, up and down on the wall. Its rough surface scratching a breast not covered by his other hand. Scratching John's hand as it covered the other breast, but it was a welcome addition to the slightly rougher sex they were having. An antidote to the confessions, the guilt, the shared pain and bad memories. She welcomed it, clenching to make him grunt in pure pleasure. Make him thrust harder, faster, deeper. She clung to the curtains next to her, whimpering as the orgasms were coming, coming. "John! Oh John, John, fuck me, just fuck me!" she whispered hotly.
"Moira, I am fucking you, baby, fucking you and that sweetness!" he growled, groaned, coming quickly now. Wrapped up in the sheer physical sensations, exertions. The agony of holding back until he couldn't any longer.
"John!" she cried, fingers yanking at the curtains. "Harder! Harder, John! Fuck me! Fuck me!" she all but screamed.
John wondered at her tone, her insistence, but knew only too well the demons clawing at her. The ones that had clawed at him. He altered position slightly, determined to bring her hard. Rough, but not to hurt her. He increased the tempo, the depth. Practically ramming her into the wall but catching himself before he did so. "Fuck! Oh baby, I am fucking you! Fucking you into tomorrow!" he growled. Fingers prying ruthlessly now as well.
Moira's soft cries caught in her throat. Until his name was torn from her lips as the climax burst wildly, doubly. "John! Oh John, John, John!" she nearly screamed, tensing, sobbing as the vivid pleasure nearly knocked her off her feet. As John nearly did with his frenzied thrusting and forceful fingers. If not for the wall she would have fallen. She ripped the curtain off one hook, arching with inarticulate pleasure, passion.
"Fuck! Oh fuck, fuck, fuck!" he exulted, coming with quick spasms. Nearly losing his footing as she squirmed, rear shoving into him. He pulled her back, hauled her onto him with the last, sharp thrusts as he expended the last of his energy, his need. "Fuck!"
Moira was sobbing against her arm as the pleasure flooded. His cock feeling enormous inside her, still so hard. The wall abrasive on her naked skin. She gulped, gasped, breath coming hard and fast. Chest heaving, sweat slick on her skin. His fingers sliding off her, finally freeing her as he slowly, so slowly slid his cock out of her. She fell against the wall, freed the curtain. "John," she rasped.
He leaned against her, breathing hard. Sweaty. Spent. Replete with sexual satisfaction, passion. "Fuck. Oh fuck...damn..." He swallowed. Straightened. Roughly turned her to him. Shoved her into the wall and kissed her. Again. Again. Pulled back to frown, touch her breast were a faint scratch ran down to one rosy nipple. "Shit! Moira!"
"The wall, John, the wall," she explained, touching his arm. Feeling the strength. The gentleness.
He kissed her. Ran his mouth down her breast over the scratch. Making her moan as he mouthed the nipple, gently nibbling.
"John, please, oh John, please," she begged, helpless.
He straightened, kissed her mouth. Drew her to the bed. "Get in." He followed, reclined on his side. "Shit, Moira," he complained, "I don't want you hurt in any way."
She snuggled close, pressing against him. "You didn't, John! The wall...the wall was rough. So rough...oh God. Oh God...you...John, John, I needed...you..."
"I know, like I did. I know." He kissed her. Pulled the covers over them. Closed his eyes. "Sleep."
"After that? I can still feel you!"
He had to smile. "I know. My cock still feels like it's in you, baby, so fucking deep and tight."
"John, John," she stammered, embarrassed at the rough, rough sex.
"It's all right, Moira. It's a release. Like I did before. As long as you're not hurt. Are you? Apart from the wall, I mean?"
"No. I'm fine. I...." She closed her eyes, clasping his arm. "John..."
"Ssh, we're fine. We'll be fine. It's all this crap we're sharing, sweetheart. Go to sleep." He considered. "Fuck. We may have to pay for that curtain, though."
"What? Oh..." She recalled the ripping sound. Could feel his proud smirk. "Shut up, John!"
He laughed. "It's true, Moira. They'll add it to our bill. One curtain ripped by an overly enthusiastic sexual act."
"Hilarious, John. No post-coital talking, remember?"
"Oh. Right. Sleep. I'm right here, Moira. And no one, nothing is going to take you away from me. Not even me," he muttered under his breath, keeping her pressed to him.