Author's Note: Apologies for the delay. Life stuff. Also, I didn't think I had written enough for another chapter, but when I finally hit a stopping point it was the size of two chapters, so I've broken it up to shsaying t's a bunch more feels (they're still trying to figure it out), and building to some sexual tension ;-) ;-)
WARNING: Brief Coarse Language in this chapter.
Climbing three flights of stairs with a two-day old bullet wound to the hip probably wasn't the wisest thing Jeff had ever done. But he needed to be sure... It was just unacceptable to drop Sarah off in front of her building and not know she was settled in safe and sound.
He sighed in relief when he saw the door. Gabriela Dawson was amazing. She said she'd take care of cleaning up Sarah's place, had recruited her husband to fix the frame and replace the lock. She'd given Jeff the new set of keys when she'd stopped by the hospital to check in on the still unconscious Sarah. (Well, more to check on her old colleague than the doctor she barely knew, he suspected.)
He unlocked the door and held it open for Sarah, frowning when she hesitated, her brown eyes gone wide. Her expression became determined, however, and she went inside. Her hand shook as she reached for the light switch. And he wasn't sure if he should touch her or not; if it would reassure her or make things worse.
Her steps slowed, faltered, stopped as she passed the kitchen. He could hear her breathing become more rapid and then there was no wondering whether he should touch her or not. It was awkward, but he managed to catch her slender form with one arm wrapped about her middle, pulling her into him and stumbling back against the wall, discarding the crutch to the ground with a clatter. His hip wasn't especially happy. But it hadn't been since he'd been shot.
And Sarah was trembling all over.
She felt so slim and small when he wrapped his arms completely around her and held her close. Her breathing was alarmingly stressed; she was hyperventilating. Another panic attack. She must be remembering something. The apartment was steeped in the lost memories buried deep in her brain.
Idiot. He should've know it might be a trigger for her. She hadn't remotely begun to recover. Dr. Charles had asked him to take care of her. Some job he was doing of that.
"Sarah, it's okay. I've got you. You're safe."
She was still shaking. "I... Can't... Breathe."
This was going to suck, but she was distraught and he'd do anything, absolutely anything it took to ease her suffering. So this was nothing, really.
He scooped her up ignoring the sharpening ache in his hip, and carried her back out into the hall. It was much more difficult to set her down than to pick her up, mostly because she'd put her arms around his neck and buried her face in his chest. He opted to just sit down with her, putting his back to the wall and holding her in his lap as the trembling of her body waned and her breathing evened out.
He kissed the top of her head and the side of her face, stroked her back, unsure what else he could say besides telling her that she was safe now. After a very long couple of minutes, the grip she had on his shirt relaxed and she tried to pull away from him. He refused to let her go altogether, just loosened his hold and stared into her troubled brown eyes.
"I'm okay now," she said, touching the hand he still had on her shoulder. "Really."
"Did you remember something?" he asked.
"Just a feeling... I might not ever remember details." Her skin was still uncommonly pale, so he didn't press the matter.
"As I see it, you have two options," he said, releasing her so she could get back on her feet. The curiosity returned to her eyes and it relieved him immensely. She still looked tired, with dark circles under her eyes. And pale. But some of her natural vibrancy had returned.
"Oh really?" she asked, and then rushed to help him as he struggled to get up. Fuck, bullet wounds and hip fractures hurt like a son of a bitch. Now he was the one short on breath. And she was the one holding him, her arms snaked about his middle, her chin dug into his sternum when she looked up at him. And fuck, she was so beautiful. Emotionally and physically weary, she was still so very pretty.
"Yup." He continued on his original train of thought. Because if they weren't going to discuss her panic attack right now, then they could ignore his gimp-ness, too. "I can check you into a hotel somewhere safe. Or you can stay at my place."
She seemed to suddenly realize that she was pressed up against him and dropped her hands from his back, stepping away. She chewed her lip, not quite meeting his eyes, apparently deep in thought.
"I want to be with you." She closed her eyes, shook her head, wincing at her wording. Her flustered adorableness made him want to tease her. But she'd been through enough. She opened her eyes, daring him to say something before she tried again. "I don't want to be alone."
"Understandable." Now it was his turn to feel uncomfortable. He swiped a hand over the back of his head. "Do you want me to... um... pack you a bag?"
Sarah's eyes slid to her apartment, the door still open, the hall light on and yet, Jeff had to admit there was a certain ominous air about the place. But that could just be because his own memories of Sarah's apartment now included seeing her used in a twisted fantasy of a mentally disturbed individual... and killing a man. Oh yeah, and getting shot.
Okay, he better not dwell, or he wouldn't be able to go in, either.
"No. I can do this," she said, taking a step toward the open door, the little color she'd regained in her cheeks draining away again. He reached out and touched her shoulder, gently halting her.
"You should know better than most that sometimes we can't control how we feel." She stared into him in that penetrating, analytical way of hers. Was it obvious in his own eyes that he couldn't control how he felt about her?
She nodded. "There's a small suitcase in my bedroom closet..."
She proceeded to give him a verbal list of items she needed and he was positive he was going to forget most of them, but it was better than subjecting her to a panic attack again. He could barely withstand being in her apartment himself. Even though whoever Dawson got to clean up the 'crime scene' had done a really good job, walking through the living room still put Jeff on edge, the hair on the nape of his neck prickling.
Leaving his crutch in the hall where he'd dropped it, he hastily located Sarah's bedroom and the little suitcase in her closet, setting it open on her neatly made bed. Damn - did he have clean sheets to change out for her at his place? Well, she hadn't said... She might choose the hotel option, but that seemed silly if she was asking him to stay near her anyway, they might as well bunk down in his apartment, where he knew it was secure- Oh, fuck him!
Of course the first dresser drawer he'd opened was her underwear. It was like a forbidden treasure chest; probably cursed and he'd die a horribly death if he stuck his hand in there. Except, he had permission...
A variety of brightly colored forbidden objects teased him; cotton panties, black silky things... was that red lace? No- No, he definitely didn't see that thong.
It was just clothing. It was just clothing...
...
This man was very nearly too good to be true. Nope. Not 'nearly.' He was too good to be true. It was all in her head. She'd suffered a traumatic event and he'd been the one to comfort her, to rescue her. So it was probably just transference. She was smitten, maybe blinded by her gratitude and affection for him.
But still... Jeff Clarke was just what she needed, everything she needed. He took care of her without coddling, listened without pressuring her. He'd suggested a cup of tea after he'd given her a quick tour of his apartment, but only pointed out where the supplies were and then disappeared to 'turn down the bed for her'.
Did he know that she found the act of making a cup of tea as cathartic as (if not more than) drinking it?
He seemed to intuitively know so much about her, what she needed, what she was feeling (even when she was trying to hide it).
His home was very much as she'd expected it to be. Simple and neat, but not spartan. As she sipped her tea, she wandered about his living room, studying the framed photos on a shelf (mostly men and women in military garb or firefighter gear), the books (mostly medical texts and a few classic mysteries).
It felt sort of surreal. Two weeks ago, she barely knew the man. And now here she was, in his home, after he'd saved her from the clutches of a severely disturbed patient. He still hadn't told her everything... but she'd get it out of him. One way or another.
And that was the other thing, something she was desperately trying to get a hold on and tamp down. She was attracted to him, in a fierce kind of way she hadn't really experienced before. It was something like a teenage crush, only with a much sharper sexual edge.
But it wasn't going to happen.
For so many reasons, it wasn't.
She sat down on his couch, which she couldn't picture him stretched out on. It seemed far too short to accommodate his long, lean form. She would try to argue the point with him again, that she should be the one to sleep on the sofa. Unless he wanted to share his bed with her...
Stop it, Sarah.
The man was limping for god's sake, had taken a bullet... for her.
Wait, no. That wasn't the reason she couldn't fantasize about that nicely built, tall and strong body entwined with hers. There were so many more important reasons, primarily being that she was in the post-traumatic stage of wanting to feel alive but feeling sort of numb and like she was floating, disconnected from the world. And god, the quiet confidence of the man was a welcome anchor. His touch grounded her (while also making her insides fluttery for different reasons).
And that was another very important reason why she shouldn't lose her head. She didn't precisely know where her head was at, how she truly felt about him. It was all very confusing. And her emotions were out of control. Panic attacks, lost time, fleeting intense terror, ethereal flashes of memory, pangs of lust and the base need for human contact.
In short, she was a mess. He didn't deserve to have to deal with that. Or is that what he liked about her...? Hopefully not. Hopefully-
"Bedroom's all yours." She jumped a little as his voice cut through her thoughts despite it's soft, smooth timbre.
She set her mug of tea down. "Maybe I should take the couch."
"No," he said. "That would be bad manners. My mother would be absolutely mortified if she ever found out. You take the bed."
She studied him for a moment as he leaned against the door frame, arms casually crossed but not closed off at all. His eyes were gently, still edged with a hint of concern. But he was smirking in that way of his.
"I'll even tuck you in if you want." If she hadn't gotten to know the man, that he had a facetious side, she would've been blushing, wondering if he knew what she'd been thinking about when he'd interrupted her. "Come on. You need some rest."
"I was just in a medically induced coma for two days," she said. "Don't you think I've had enough 'rest'?"
"Then why do you look like you might pass out at any moment?" Sarah sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.
"I'm not going to win this argument, am I?" she asked, meeting his steel colored yes again. His smirk broadened into a smile.
"Nope."
...
Jeff sunk down onto the sofa, wincing at the pain in his hip. The prescription painkillers were in the kitchen, but it was too far and he wasn't in that much pain, anyway. Also, he stupidly felt tethered to his closed bedroom door, like a pathetic, needy guard dog.
He tried not to think of Sarah changing in his bedroom, what that slender, feminine body of hers looked like beneath those hospital scrubs, whether she was wearing the twin to those red lace panties he'd seen in her dresser drawer.
Wait. She probably wasn't wearing anything at all under the borrowed pair of scrubs. The clothing she'd been wearing, that the creep had dressed her in, it had all been confiscated by the police as evidence, Jeff's blood smearing the front of the dress where he'd touched her, the train soaked in the dead man's blood that had been pooling on the floor... Which he oddly couldn't make himself to regret. Even though (thank god), it had only been the man's blood on the clothing and her body and (Dead) Derek hadn't gotten around to truly violating her.
He shoved the sickening thought away, about how much worse Sarah could've been harmed. It was bad enough an emotional and mental wound as it was. Fuck, how he just wanted to make it better, wanted to hold her tight and kiss her and...
No. She was in a vulnerable place. The last thing she needed was for him to be laying his own conflicted desires on her. Poor girl. Woman. She was a woman. A naked woman in his bedroom...
He laid his head back and closed his eyes and tried not to want her so very badly. It was just a reaction to the whole ordeal; facing down a crazy person, taking out the threat, helping a young woman he'd started to care about. In a way he'd even claimed her as his by doing so, marking her as under his protection.
He was a damned guard dog; would willingly lay down his life for her, would be elated for the briefest sign of affection from her.
Okay, so it was a flaw of his. Sarah had been right. He had a Savior Complex. He'd been willing to take the fall for a murder to protect his ex-wife who'd stopped loving him and betrayed him at every turn. He'd thrown himself all-in with Natalie because he could sense that's what she needed after losing her Jeff. Like she'd said, there'd been a void in her life. And he'd filled it for her. But it hadn't been the lasting, real kind of love.
And this was just another instance of his compulsion to be a White Knight for every woman he was remotely attracted to... Wasn't it?
Well, that would explain wanting to hold her and comfort her, but as for the growing desire to kiss every inch of her naked body... Well, that was more than just from wanting to 'save' her, wasn't it?
If he were that guard dog, his ears would've pricked up (and his tail probably would've started wagging) because his bedroom door opened with a creak and revealed the young woman who had him so stirred up, so messed up, inside. She was wearing a large t-shirt that came down to her bare thighs, her figure an enticing elusive shape beneath. Her curly hair wasn't constrained at all and it was amazing; wild and bouncy. From what he'd learned about Sarah over the past couple of weeks, she was likely very much the same as her hair. Pulled back and contained at work, a little looser in a casual public setting, but when at home... she was beautiful and he imagined quite wild (something had to drive that curiosity he found in her brown eyes).
"Do you need to get ready for bed?" she asked, stepping out of the bedroom. Well, he was already wearing scrub pants and a t-shirt. He'd been wearing scrubs the past couple of days, despite not being on shift. Because jeans put undue pressure on his tender bullet wound. So, no technically, he didn't need to change... He frowned. She looked like a frightened rabbit.
"No. I'm good." He watched her face, trying to figure out what was wrong. Because something was obviously unsettling her. Despite obviously practicing a schooled expression for her work in psychiatry, the young woman's face was often like glass (at least to him). Maybe a bit hazy, but he could quite easily see the general tenor of her feelings, if not her specific thoughts.
And it looked like she was arguing with herself and, oh, had come to a decision. (He'd also learned over the past couple of weeks that it was easier to let her come around in her own time, rather than trying to push her.)
"Is it okay if I leave the door open?"
"What?" He was too bemused to swallow his shocked response. Now she looked like a frightened rabbit the split-second before it bolted.
Only she held her ground, saying in a small voice, "You make me feel safe. I need to know you're nearby."
He felt a little delighted flutter in his stomach. Idiot.
"In case I have another panic attack," she said, making him feel even more stupid. Why would she like him at all but for the fact that he'd rescued her? He was quite a bit older than her with a failed marriage (and any other number of bad relationships) behind him. Nothing about his history said he was a good romantic prospect, or the settling down type. He was up to three major career changes in his adult life. He had no kids and wasn't close to his family. And he was currently coveting a pretty young woman. He was a stereotypical 40 year old man, wasn't he?
Only, that wasn't who he was. At least, not how he thought of himself. And she hadn't ever treated him like a ridiculous annoyance. She looked at him with respect and he thought even a hint of affection. But mostly need, a need for his protection.
"Anything you need, Sarah," he said, and she smiled wearily before disappearing back into his bedroom. He tried to stretch out on the sofa, realized that he really did need to get a larger one as he was forced to curl up on his right side to fit. He tried not to think of the young woman, so soft and smelling of strawberries, sleeping in his bed.
Go to sleep, Jeff.
A/N: One more chapter of Jeff & Sarah trying to sort out their developing feelings and then some smut/resolution. Hope you all are still enjoying it, despite their refusal to just get together already! (What's the saying? The thrill is in the chase?)
