A/N: Hello! If you follow my tumblr, you'll prbably wonder why i'm posting when I said I needed a break from writing. I'd written a lot of this already and just filled in the gaps today, but I will probably still be taking a short(!) break from this until i can get my wits about me again. (stressful times, loneliness, blah blah...writing sometimes helps and sometimes it makes it worse, unfortunately...the loneliness part, mostly lol)
So anyway, hope you enjoy this spicy little number. A lot happens.
Henry | Post-Extraction – 184 Hours
The storm hadn't let up at all. If anything, it became more relentless, more powerful and nerve wracking as the rain pounded against the roof and even against the windows in whooshing waves. Though the fire was still burning, illuminating the room enough for him to see the glow flickering on her hair, he knew he needed to tend to it—but she was tucked underneath his chin, his back to the fire, and he couldn't bear to move her.
She wasn't asleep, though. He could tell by the way her body tensed in his arms each time the thunder shook the house. But she hadn't spoken—neither of them had.
She hadn't let go of him once, either—not since she guided his hand over the spot in her back, over to the place she could let him feel but not tell him. He could feel the little raised mark, and he wondered how he hadn't let himself notice it before. It's not like I've seen her bare skin, he told himself once, but then he found himself thinking much too hard about her bare skin and had to force himself to think about the fact that they whipped her, instead. Her fingers had a grip on his shirt, curled up in the material there above his sternum.
He exhaled slowly, trying to let himself relax and just let himself linger here, holding her. But his mind was still speeding through everything that had happened.
Just two weeks ago, he was looking forward to being back Stateside. He didn't know what he'd do once he got here—he knew he didn't want to see his dad, which meant he couldn't go home to see his mom, either. He knew, too, if he stayed in D.C., he would find himself involved again (somehow) in the Corps. So he'd still been indecisive up until the moment that he saw Elizabeth in that closet, and something shifted inside him. He hadn't known it then, but laying here on this couch now, he knew that it was at that moment that he understood his job was her.
He'd always been a proud Marine. His job, in many ways, was his identity since graduating college and leaving his religion background within the walls of academia. He didn't get much of a chance to use his knowledge about Confucius or his thesis work on St. Augustine while flying thousands of feet in the air over the desert. For the past four years, he was a Marine first and foremost.
After leaving Lacey and Smith behind like they were just collateral damage in the grand scheme of it all, he'd immediately reconsidered his choice of identity. But he didn't have to reconsider too much because his new identity was quickly taking over—being her protector, being there for her every need. There was no good job title that described what he had been doing, but he knew he was where he'd needed to be, regardless.
The fire crackling grabbed his attention away from thinking about the Marines again. He told himself that he should get up and tend to it, shift them both so they weren't half-wrapped around each other on this couch. His leg was still draped over hers, and if Rawlins were here, he'd be telling them to get a room. But he couldn't seem to bring himself to move.
Not when she was letting him hold her like this. Not when he wanted to.
He became aware how that realization should've rattled him, how it should've made him more cautious and careful to be letting his feelings get involved like he was doing. Because this wasn't what the Marines did—he was supposed to be standing on the outside and making sure no one was infiltrating. And in a way, he is on the outside…wrapped around her body and encasing it in his while he felt her warm breath against his throat.
Her breath is against my throat.
He swallowed hard and stared over her head at the back of the couch when that realization hit him. Unintentionally, he tightened his grip around her waist, noting the way she fit against him so perfectly.
Stop it.
And then, she moved.
He felt his heart pounding in his throat again, but he refused to move first and look down at her. He told himself she was probably just adjusting—they'd been laying like this for what felt like about thirty minutes, though he hadn't looked at a clock to be sure. She probably needed to reposition to get comfortable, to get the awkwardness of her cast readjusted, to—
His breath caught in his throat when he felt it. The slow, seemingly deliberate way her lips were pressing against his collarbone. A whisper of warmth, the barest touch, as though she were testing out the waters. For a brief moment, he wondered if she were asleep and this was some sort of dream she were living.
Her fingers that were curled in his shirt relaxed just slightly, and he felt them press flat against his chest softly. He was still staring over her head with wide eyes as he felt her fingers brush over his ribs, his body going rigid as she felt like she was memorizing the shape of each one of his bones.
He swallowed hard again and tried to not react, but his trying-to-not-react caused him to react further and his breath caught in his throat when he felt her lips touch a new, cooler spot on his collarbone.
"Elizabeth," he breathed involuntarily, shutting his eyes immediately when he realized he'd said it aloud. She only hummed against his skin.
He knew he needed to stop this. Whatever this was. But she was still moving, her lips pressing slightly higher on his neck this time, and his fingers dug into her waist and gripped onto her tee. She was moving as though she wasn't afraid of this at all, yet he could hear his own heart beating in his ears. She seemed so sure of herself—like she wasn't someone who was on the run from her own government trying to kill her, like she wasn't just beaten and left alone in the dark to be blown up a week ago.
And then it hit him—she was afraid. She was afraid of the dark, afraid of the thunder, of whatever ghosts were haunting her mind. But she wasn't afraid of him.
That knowledge settled from his head deep into his chest like a boulder shifting down the side of a mountain. I don't deserve that, he thought, swallowing thick before he felt her lips against his neck again.
He exhaled and moved gently so that his face turned downward toward her, and he found his lips just less than an inch away from her temple, so he closed the tiny gap and pressed them there. She stopped her movements against his skin, and stopped her movements at all. He wasn't even sure she was breathing, and then he wondered if he'd somehow misread this entire situation. If he'd made a dire mistake.
But then from underneath him, between his body and the couch cushion, he heard something just barely over a whisper, "You don't have to stop me."
His jaw clenched tightly.
Not because he didn't want that—God did he want that. Her lips felt intoxicating against his skin, even just her breath was making him feel drunk. But no, he stopped that because he knew, with those six words, she was saying more than she was letting on.
You don't have to stop me? More like I don't have to stop you from feeling something other than the pain and fear you're feeling right now.
Slowly, he lifted his hand to her back, brushing just under the spot she'd guided him to earlier. "I know," he murmured, "I just don't think we should…" his voice trailed off because he really wasn't sure what he wanted to say. It was going against what every part of his body other than his mind told him to say that he doesn't think they should do anything. Only his mind was telling him to stop.
And only a little part of his mind, at that.
"Should what?" she asked, her voice quiet but firm. He felt her shift against him and he opened his eyes to see hers just inches away.
His throat tightened, "This."
She was silent for a moment, and the way her eyes were locked on his made him feel like he was going to give in and throw logic away and just plant his lips on hers…again. He almost got caught up in the drunkenness again, but then she said, "Why?"
Henry closed his eyes so he didn't have to look into hers while saying it, "You know why," he whispered.
"Say it anyway."
He opened them again and saw her still watching him, her eyes shifting just barely to look at each one of his more deeply. He swallowed thick. How can she make me feel like I'm a specimen she's studying? God, she's beautiful, though. I'd be under her microscope any chance I got.
But he had to reel himself in again, remembering what he's here for, why they're in this cabin. "Because you're vulnerable," he said, "Because you—we—are running on fear and adrenaline and whatever this is—" he gestured vaguely between them, only just now taking his hand off her. "It's happening because we're here, we're in this tiny space with the rain keeping us locked inside and literal killers keeping us in. Because I'm the only one around in all this, and you need something to hold on to right now. Because you're the one I rescued."
He'd word-vomited before he could stop himself, but he shut his eyes at the end and exhaled, wishing he'd stopped.
"But what if that's all true?" she asked, surprising him.
He looked at her and narrowed his eyes, and before he could answer, she continued.
"What if I do need something to hold onto?" she whispered, her fingers curling slightly into his shirt again, "What if that's messy? What if I don't know what it means yet?"
Everything in his body was telling him to take the brake off, to just let him do what his body was yearning to do. But he couldn't.
"Elizabeth…"
"I know what you're trying to do," she whispered, looking straight into his soul with those hypnotizing blue eyes, "You're trying to be the good guy, to protect me from myself. But I'm not fragile, Henry," she said, and he felt the weight of those words catapulting at him, "I don't need you to tell me what I'm feeling is just adrenaline."
His hand laid back down on her waist, ignoring the way his mind was telling him to stop—much like it does when you're about to stick your hand on a hot stove burner. He couldn't even differentiate between the two signals. "I am trying to protect you," he breathed, his breath getting more uneven before the words he'd been wanting to bring up bubbled to his mouth, "In the car, you told me we shouldn't have kissed."
Elizabeth inhaled sharply, and she looked at him as if she'd been caught. But she didn't look away. She didn't answer, either.
He exhaled and watched her closely, "I knew you were lying," he whispered, "You blinked four times," he said simply.
She froze, her lips parted from opening her mouth to argue. He waited to give her the space to deny it, but she just kept staring at him, and then he could feel her pulse in her fingertips—the ones wrapped around his shirt. "You noticed that?" she whispered.
He swallowed hard, "I notice a lot of things," he said. "About you."
The fire crackled behind him and he remembered it was dying, but he didn't care. He'd build another if he had to. The silence stretched on long enough that he wondered if she'd given up on saying anything else.
"I lied," she whispered.
"I know."
"Did you?"
He looked at her and swallowed thick, his turn to be caught. "What?" he stalled.
"Lie," she answered. "Were you lying too when you said…" her voice trailed this time—she didn't need to say it again because he'd been replaying the stupid moment in his mind.
He couldn't lie to her again. "Yes," he answered, his voice rougher than before, "I lied."
Her fingers shifted against his chest again and she lifted her head just enough that he could see the fire flickering against the blue of her eyes. She looked over his head and for a moment, he thought she was going to get up, but she looked back at him again.
Before he could say anything else, ask her what she was thinking, she leaned in. But it wasn't for a kiss—her lips didn't touch his, they didn't touch his skin at all. Instead, her nose brushed the curve of his jaw, and then her lips just barely grazed the stubble on his neck. His whole body locked up, his arm tightening around her of its own accord.
His breath became shallow again, "Elizabeth…" he warned.
"I know," she whispered against his jaw, tickling the bottom of his earlobe, "But I don't want to stop pretending yet," she said.
His chest rose and fell heavy. He knew what she meant. There were things neither of them could name yet because it was simply too messy to say out loud. But whatever this was, however messy it was, she wanted to stay in it just a bit longer.
And God help him, so did he.
So he let her linger there as he closed his eyes and turned his head just enough to let his nose nuzzle into her, too, and then he felt her shiver.
And with that shiver, it felt like everything unraveled.
He couldn't hold his kiss back anymore, and he immediately closed his eyes as he locked his lips onto hers. Her mouth opened just as their lips touched, giving him immediate access to her.
He felt her hand release his shirt and slide down his stomach, and he tensed when he felt her warm fingers on his skin just above his waistband. She slid her hand underneath his shirt and splayed her fingers across his chest, and he moaned into her mouth, his hand sliding down from her upper back across her waist, down the curve of her hip and around to her thigh. He stopped just at the crease of her hip and thigh, sliding his hand around until his fingers could curl around the inside of her thigh.
It was her turn to moan this time, and he pulled gently on her leg until he felt her cast scraping across the inside of his ankle, their legs now tangled in each other's. His hand still gripped her thigh, his fingers wrapping around to the inside and kneading as his tongue ran across hers, and she moaned once more.
His hips rolled without him meaning to, and he opened his eyes for only a moment until he saw hers were closed still. He didn't think any more about it, rolling it his hips against hers and letting himself be drunk underneath her hand playing in his chest hair.
From her thigh, he slid his hand back up her ass and her hip, mapping the curve of her waist once more and remembering every single inch. But instead of going over her shirt this time, he went under, feeling her skin and where her ribs started, where her second rib was, where her third…
He let his hand slide to the front while her tongue traced along his bottom lip, priming it to take it between her teeth as he moaned and squeezed, feeling the softness of her breast being cupped in his hand.
The thunder rolled again, but she didn't tense. She didn't budge at all. Instead, she wrapped her arm around his neck and brought herself into him even closer, and he could feel the warmth from between her legs radiating onto his hip. His mind was buzzing, the fire completely forgotten now.
Just as he was about to slide his hand underneath the band of her bra, the shrill, sharp ringing of a phone that he didn't even know existed made him jump an inch off the couch. They immediately broke apart and were staring wildly at each other, both from wondering what can of worms they'd just opened and also from the pure fear of having that phone ring.
He searched over his shoulder for a phone and finally eyed it on the kitchen counter, jumping up and waddling over to it as quickly as he could—there was a new problem in his sweatpants that kept him from moving too quickly, too obviously. He stepped behind the counter before looking at her with his hand hovering over the receiver, "I should answer it, right?"
She was sitting up and running a hand through her messy hair, her shirt caught up underneath her bra where he'd been about to slide his hand under, and he almost forgot the phone was ringing until she answered him, "Yeah," she said.
He swallowed hard and nodded, grabbing the receiver and exhaling shakily, "Hello?"
"Henry? It's Conrad," he said, and Henry mouthed Conrad in Elizabeth's direction.
"What's going on?" Henry asked. "How'd you get this number?"
"It's Rawlins' cabin," Conrad reminded, "But it's also a landline he installed specifically for these reasons."
How many freaking people has Rawlins hid in here? Henry wondered.
Elizabeth was hopping over to the counter, still disheveled and breathing hard by the time she reached him. His eyes were fixed on the bare skin of her stomach and waist as Conrad explained there was new intel from Isabelle, and Elizabeth noticed him eyeing her and pulled her shirt down.
He saw the little flash of redness rise to her cheeks even in the almost dark.
She gripped onto the counter when the thunder rumbled again, leaning close to the phone to be able to hear Conrad, too, "Isabelle's been digging through the satellite footage and the intel from the time around when Elizabeth was taken hostage in London," he started, and he watched as Elizabeth's fingernails turned white, "One of the security contractors we've been tracing—the ones working the night she was captured—was flagged for some irregularities."
"Irregularities?" Elizabeth mouthed.
Henry shrugged, but he couldn't get a question in, "He's been bouncing between shady contractors and companies linked to arms deals, and we're not sure if he's tied directly to Defense, but we know that the arms deals are the same types of deals that Hariri's men were involved in. We pulled financial records, traced them back to a company called Talon Solutions. It's been a front company for over a year—nothing major, but it is listed under the name of someone who has high security clearance at the DoD. He's got friends in multiple CIA departments, so we're combing through right now to—"
"Who was it?" Elizabeth said, speaking right into the phone.
Henry adjusted so she could speak better, but Conrad must've heard her.
"General Nolan Lark," he said, and Henry could tell Conrad had gotten closer to the phone. He shut his eyes. A general? This is deeper than we thought. "Isabelle pulled a file that showed Lark was in communication with one of Hariri's guys just days before the extraction, Elizabeth, which means he's been playing both sides. He had to have talked to someone in the CIA to find out you're my best, and I think this was all a setup from the beginning. He—or the person behind it all—wanted you out of the way."
Elizabeth swallowed thick, and Henry could see her trying to control her breaths. "But why?" she asked, and Henry wondered how she could be so innocent.
"Because you're the best," Conrad answered immediately, "They needed my best out of the way."
Henry shut his eyes and exhaled, swallowing hard and opening them again to see Elizabeth's fingers shaking against the countertop, still gripping hard. He laid his hand gently on top of hers and she took a sharp inhale. "So I was just a pawn…the entire time."
"I got played, Elizabeth," Conrad admitted, and Henry felt a rush of anger pass through him like fire. "Someone who knew me well enough, knew you well enough…"
"That could be so many people," she whispered.
Conrad cleared his throat, "I know," he said, his voice finally sounding shaken, too. "But Elizabeth? We're going to get to the bottom of this, and we're going to keep you safe." He waited a moment, the continued, "Are you sure you don't want protection?"
"How could I possibly trust CIA protection right now?" she asked, the words tumbling out so fast that she almost looked startled when she said them.
Henry bit the inside of his cheek and swallowed thick, thinking for a moment, "I don't think that's necessary, Conrad," he said, "But we'll let you know if it becomes necessary."
Elizabeth eyed him as if to say when hell freezes over, I'll trust someone else, but he mostly ignored it and took a deep breath.
"Alright," Conrad said uneasily.
"So Lark…" Henry murmured into the phone, "He's the one who orchestrated this whole thing?"
"He's just another piece in the puzzle, Henry," Conrad explained, and for once the man sounded slightly defeated, "He's one of the hands moving behind the scenes. He's the one who gave the green light from the DoD to block comms."
There's a heavy silence that passes over them all, and finally Conrad cleared his throat. "I need to get going—I don't need to look suspicious. Lydia already is wondering what's going on."
"Be good to her," Elizabeth said, then smiled a little. Henry realized it was a genuine smile, and he felt his heart lighten just slightly. She must really like Conrad and Lydia.
"You know I will," Conrad answered, his voice, too, sounding a little lighter.
When they said their goodbyes, Henry put the phone down on the hook and looked at Elizabeth.
She just stared at him, her bottom lip quivering, and he wrapped her in his arms. "It's going to be okay," he whispered, "Conrad's not going to stop until he gets to the bottom of it."
She sniffled in his neck before burying her nose down in his skin, and he ran his fingers through the ends of her hair, letting them rub circles around her back once or twice before going back up to her hair again. He closed his eyes and let her lean against him, silently praying, "Just keep her safe, God. If someone has to go, let it be me. Just keep her safe."
He pulled away after a few moments and rubbed her arms beneath his palms gently. He finally glanced at the clock and saw it was 10:58, and the storm didn't seem to be dying down. He didn't realize they'd spent so much time laying there on the couch, but he wondered how much of it was spent kissing her. "We should get some sleep," he whispered, "Maybe Isabelle will find something out overnight and we'll be able to help tomorrow." He was saying it for her, but also himself. He knew he would go stir crazy in this cabin.
She nodded, swallowing hard and pulling her leg up so that she could hop. But he didn't let her hop far before scooping her up in his arms again. She looked at him, startled, and took a sharp breath.
"No more distractions," he whispered, his heart panging as he said it.
She shook her head just barely, her mouth open before swallowing thick. "I don't know what that means."
He carried her into the bedroom and laid her gently on the bed, careful of her foot. "It means I'm clear-headed from here on," he said.
She looked at him and furrowed her brows, and Henry could see her tongue moving in her mouth. He could tell by the way her jaw was moving, the way he could see her cheeks suction and release. Finally she shook her head, "I don't…" she started, but stopped again and shut her eyes. She took a deep breath and released it slowly, then opened her eyes right at him, "I don't want that," she whispered. "I—"
"I know what you want," Henry said, swallowing thick and looking away, "And it's what I want too. But we can't be—"
"Henry," she said exasperatedly, and when he looked at her again, he saw the desperation on her face—the way her jaw was tight and her brows were knitted, her eyes squinted at him, "I don't know if I'm going to be alive by the end of the week," she whispered, her voice cracking enough to send chills down his back and arms. "I meant what I said. I'm not fragile. And if you reduce me to simple fragility, I'm going to be—"
"I'm not reducing you to it, Elizabeth," he said firmly, walking closer to the bed again and leaning his legs against the foot of it. Her legs were still out in front of her where he'd sat her down, and she was sitting up straight with her arms folded over her chest area, "I just…I don't want you to regret something because of the heat of the moment. I don't want to be your regret. I couldn't live with myself knowing that I was a regret in your life."
"Then don't be a regret in my life," she said simply.
The way her voice was so calm made it sound so easy. Yeah, like anyone wouldn't be able to see how disastrous this is. He shook his head and started to turn away, feeling like he was being tethered to her, and stopped halfway turned around, "I'm going to sleep on the couch tonight."
"Like hell you are," she snapped.
He looked at her in shock, frowning deeply at her. "I'm not going to be able to be in a bed with you without losing my damn mind, Elizabeth. It's taking all I have left in me to not…to not just…"
"Ravish me?" she provided.
Her voice barely cracked, but he heard it. His mouth went dry and he felt the air leave his lungs, struggling to get it back. The thought of ravishing her overtook him for a moment. That problem in his sweatpants, still a problem but much less so after hearing Conrad's voice on the other end of the line, throbbed. He wanted to look down, but he also didn't want to draw attention to himself if it was noticeable.
Finally, he cocked his jaw to the side and nodded as though it were against his will, "Yeah," he said in defeat, throwing his hands up in the air a little, "I can't lay beside you and pretend I don't want to feel every part of your body on mine, like I don't want to wrap you up inside me forever and just keep you safe from the world. Like I don't want to remember every single inch of your body that I can reach, inside and out, and like—"
"Stop," she demanded, her voice croaking as she looked away and took a sharp breath.
He looked at her and cocked his jaw to the side again, frustrated now because she'd gotten him going just to get him to stop. He pushed off the side of the bed with his legs and turned around, "Goodnight, Elizabeth."
"Henry," she called out as he made it to the bedroom door, and he froze still in the doorway with his hand resting on the trim. His eyes closed as he let out an exhale. "Look at me, Henry," she said again.
He swallowed thick and gritted his front teeth together, slowly swiveling around and opening his eyes to see her sitting there on the bed, her shirt on the floor next to her, and her bra on top of it. The battle with his eyes started immediately—telling himself he shouldn't look, not letting his eyes fall down to her chest and instead making them look away entirely.
"Look at me," she said once more, her voice becoming more demanding.
He dragged his tongue across his lips and took a shaky breath.
"Tell me you don't want to look at me," she whispered, "And I'll never do anything like this again. I'll cover up right now and I'll let you sleep on the couch." There was a silent moment, then she continued, "But don't lie to me."
His teeth pushed hard against each other while he felt the muscles in his neck tightening, strangling his airway enough that made him feel like he had to gasp for air through his nose. He was trying to look everywhere but at her, and finally he laid his eyes on her eyes, still standing in the doorway. "I can't tell you that," he replied, his voice rough and heavy with want.
She'd been slumped over just slightly, and at that, she straightened up with a newfound confidence while her hands fumbled with each other in her lap. "Then come here," she whispered, looking down briefly at her fingers, "And stop telling yourself it only makes you a good guy if you don't listen to what your body is telling you."
He swallowed thick, physically struggling to keep his eyes from darting down to her chest. "If I do that," he whispered, "There's no going back. And I…it's not my job to listen to my body…it's my job to protect you."
She shook her head at him, moving and crawling onto her hands and knees toward the end of the bed. He wished, then, that he hadn't moved from where he was standing. He wished he was closer. He wished he wasn't having to make himself glue his feet to the floor right now to keep himself from going over to her.
"I don't need the Marine right now, Henry," she breathed, his eyes focused so hard on hers as she blinked once, slowly, the way syrup melts out of the bottle. "I just need you."
That unraveling happened even quicker this time, and he finally let his legs out of their locked position, walking over to the edge of the bed and tilting her chin up with two fingers, laying his lips passionately on hers. She sat up on her knees to keep him from leaning over so much, and he wrapped his hand around her back, feeling the welt on her back as he passed it, and he crawled up on the bed knees-first. He took her body in his one arm, sliding her up to the top of the bed as their lips stayed together, and he opened his eyes once he'd laid her down.
Finally, he looked down at her chest, taking the first deep breath he'd taken since bringing her in here—maybe since the heaviness on the couch, even—and he leaned down and pressed a kiss into her breastbone. She let out a quiet whimper and wrapped her good leg around his waist, and he found his hips resting between her legs as she straddled him from underneath.
He kissed up her chest and her collarbone, toying there for a moment before continuing his path up her neck. "I don't need you to take it too slow, Henry," she admitted quietly, looking into his eyes and swallowing thick. He noticed that she almost looked shy, and he started to wonder why before she essentially told him without him having to ask, "I've been ready since I felt your thigh between my legs," her breath felt hot against his lips, and he didn't waste any time closing that gap between their mouths.
Sitting up quickly, he ripped his shirt over his head, stripping down to just his socks—leaving them on because there was simply no other time left to remove any more clothing after also helping her from her pants.
He rested his hands on each side of her as she looked down between his legs, her knees bent, and he watched her eyes study him. It made a shot of pride sear through his veins, and he took a deep breath, "Are you sure about this?" he asked once more, unsure of how he'd be able to stop himself if she said no. But he had to give her one more chance, one more time for him to roll away from her and banish himself to the bathroom for what he knew wouldn't be a long trip.
But she nodded, and he thought he was about to black out.