War
Deslea R. Judd
Copyright 2011
Fandom: Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles
Character/Pairing: Sarah/Derek
Rating: NC17 for explicit sexual references.
Spoilers/Timeframe: Set after Desert Cantos.
Summary: He thinks if she was a man, they'd have a knock-out, drag-down fistfight and be done with it. She might be amenable to that, but he isn't.
Disclaimer: Characters not mine. Interpretation mine.
Feedback: deslea at deslea dot com.
More fic: http://fiction.deslea.com
Author's note: A very long time ago, I read an explicit letter to a men's magazine with this general theme, from a female point of view. (This story is from a masculine POV). The letter obviously made an impression because I still remember it many years on, and I was quite taken by how effectively the relationship angle was played out in the sexual content. When I was re-watching Desert Cantos recently, I saw this whole fic unfold in my mind.
"What are you doing here?"
Her tone is quite mild. Curious, not hostile. He hasn't heard her like that for a while now. There isn't much mildness between them of late.
As for her question, he hasn't a clue what to say. He could say that he lives there, but that isn't really true. He could say that he likes spending time there, but that isn't true either (although perversely, he can't seem to keep away). Finally, he says, "I don't follow."
She doesn't answer at first. Just looks down into her beer. Sitting there on the step with her shoulders hunched, she looks tense, but it's hard to know if it's him or just the wound. She covers well but he knows she's still in a lot of pain.
He moves from his stance behind her, leaning against the French doors, and sits down on the couch so he can see her side-on. It's a nice little spot out here, slate floor and shelter but the night sky and the city lights as well. It's a nice place for shooting the breeze over a beer. They don't take time to enjoy it much, any of them. Saving the world will do that.
"You've been riding me a lot lately."
There's a double-meaning there and the image that impresses itself on his brain is fleeting but powerful. He pushes it aside, cursing mentally. Sometimes his libido is a distraction he could live without. Especially lately. He knows he's making questionable decisions and he knows they need to stop, but he doesn't know how.
"I don't follow," he says again, but this time it's a lie. He has been riding her - riding her pretty hard, actually. Most recently today at the funeral. *I'll take care of it,* she'd said, and he'd said grimly, *You always do,* like it was a bad thing. They're soldiers, for fuck's sake, they're *meant* to count on each other. So why was he needling her for it?
"Oh, please," she snaps, turning to face him. There it is - that edge in her voice, just for him. How fucking special.
"All right, yes. I have been riding you. I don't know why. I'm sorry." It's on the tip of his tongue to say that it's not her, it's him, but part from being a bad cliche, it's also not true. He *doesn't* know why, but he knows it's very much about her. Something about her seems to bring up every raw nerve.
She leans back against the brick pillar, stretching her legs out before her. Winces a little. He's surprised she lets him see it. "Have you got something to say to me, Derek? Because if you do, let's get it out there."
He looks at her steadily. There are a hundred things, he thinks, but they all defy speech. He thinks if she were a man they'd have a knock-out, drag-down fistfight and be done with it. She'd probably be amenable to that, but he wouldn't. Even in the moments when he feels like he could cheerfully kill her, he knows he could never really hurt her. He could never wilfully draw blood, or dig as deep as he'd have to in order to purge whatever it is between them. Even in the alley, before he knew her, he pulled his punches a little. He could have killed her, he thinks, although it's equally possible she could have killed him. But he went hard enough to get away with all his workings intact and no further. And he doesn't pull his punches for just anyone. He thinks - *thinks* - it was because she was Sarah Connor, nothing more complicated than that, but he's still not completely sure.
All of this passes through his mind, and like the rest of it, it defies speech.
She presses, "You said you didn't need an explanation about your brother. Why did you say that? It's obviously on your mind."
She's right, it is. He'd needled her about Kyle that day, too. About that damn name, Reese. He shrugs. "I was angry, I guess. I hoped one day you'd tell me on your own. I was angry that it came out the way it did."
"You already knew," she says in realisation. "John told you?"
He shakes his head. "I knew the moment I set eyes on him. He looks just like Kyle did at that age. I was lying there, half-dead, and John was telling me about him - that he died fighting, that he was a hero. And then you came in. And Kyle - he was in the room with us."
She nods. "Yes, he was."
Thoughtfully, he says, "We've got this whole love-hate thing going, don't we, Connor?" She glances up at him quickly, then gives a grudging half-smile of agreement with a sideways flick of her head. "Is that how it was with you and Kyle?"
She looks shocked. "No. God, no. We were - we were just kids, Derek. I wasn't - I wasn't like this. I was young."
The image of a young Sarah rises up with surprising ease. He doesn't know how he can pencil in the innocence and the openness, but he does. He can see it like he was there.
"How long did you have? Did he live to see John?" He thinks he already knows the answer. What were the chances of Kyle living very long in this world? The fact that he himself has lived for any length of time can be attributed to Sarah - *this* Sarah - having his back. Kyle didn't have that.
Sarah shakes her head. "Not long. But it was survival. You know?"
He nods. He and Jesse only had six weeks between when they rescued Sydney Fields and when he jumped. Sometimes how long had very little to do with how you felt. "Yeah."
"Why don't you like me calling you Reese?" she asks abruptly.
"Because I don't want to be your surrogate Kyle."
"And I don't want to be yours." She levels her gaze squarely on him. "What *do* you want?"
"I want you to feel!" he snaps. It comes out totally on reflex.
Her voice is full of warning. "Are you in love with me, Derek? Is that what this is? Because that's a complication I don't fucking need."
"I'm not telling you that," he flares, and it's the truth. He thinks it's far simpler than that. Dimly, he perceives that he cannot let Jesse go unless his new family is secure. "Where the hell did *that* come from?"
"Well, you're pretty touchy about that whole Resse thing, for starters."
Abruptly, he gets up and clatters down the stairs away from her with a roaring sound of frustration. Disgusted by his complete inability to have any sort of a conversation with her anymore. "Jesus, Sarah, whatever," he says over his shoulder. "What the fuck ever." He makes for the garage in long, aggravated strides, and the first thing he sees is the punching bag hanging down, scene of half a dozen equally frustrating discussions. He throws a couple of half-hearted punches at it, but they don't even begin to scratch the surface. Suddenly, in white-hot fury, he hurls his beer bottle against the wall. It shatters into a thousand pieces. They scatter on the ground.
Sarah says drily from behind him, "That's real mature, Derek. Riley parks her bike there when it rains. She'll get a puncture."
She *would* have to follow him. "If that's the worst that happens to her in this house, she's going okay," he counters, turning to face her. "Who's riding who now?"
She growls in aggravation. "What expectation did you have here that I'm not fulfilling, huh? Did you think I'd have my shit together? Because I don't. Did you think I'd be easy to live with? Because I'm not. I didn't get to be whatever fucking legend I am in your time by being those things. I did it by doing a job, that's all. It's what I do. It's all I do." She shakes her head. "You're such an asshole." She pushes past him to go.
Completely on impulse, he grabs her by the shoulders and kisses her hard on the lips. Wonders in that split second whether she'll punch his lights out, but she grabs his shoulder and his chest, fingers digging into him compulsively. Her kiss is hungry and urgent and has nothing at all to do with love. It's war-like, claiming him, subjugating him to her will.
She shoves him hard against the wall with a hiss. "You fucking men are all the same," she growls, tugging at his belt. "You think everything's about sex. Did it ever occur to you that maybe you just really piss me off?"
"And yet look who's unzipping who," he taunts, dragging her tank top out of her jeans.
"Fuck you, Derek," she says in a hiss, but just at that second his hand finds her warmth. She's ready and amazingly wet, and he realises it was that time for her anyway. Wonders if that's why they've been pacing around each other like a pair of highly-strung cats.
"Yes," he whispers as his mouth closes over hers. As his fingers curl up inside her. She lets out a soft whimper and he seizes the advantage, pushing her backwards to the worktable, pushing her firmly back onto it. Urgently, she unzips her jeans, and he drags them down her legs to the tops of her boots, panties and all. "Damn you, woman, what is with you and skin-tight jeans?"
"Are you going to talk all through this?" she demands, arching her back as he drags her tank top halfway down her body to reveal her breasts, small and round and if he was rock hard before he's twice as hard now. Seeing her stretched out like that, exposed and splayed out in front of him, makes him feel predatory and hungry. No one really dominates Sarah, he knows, but the illusion does some insanely delicious things to the caveman part of his brain.
She sees it, and struggles up onto one arm and tugs him down to her by the neck. Her fingers dig into his shoulder and she hisses, "You better make this good, Derek, or I swear to God I'll bust your head."
"Fast or slow?" he asks, although he knows the answer, and her only reply is a contemptuous look as she leans back.
He grasps her by the hips and tugs her forward to meet him. Her calves are held fast by her jeans so she opens her knees and clenches them around his thighs. Grasping his cock, slowly, deliberately, he pushes the head down over her opening, over her clit, then just inside her. She strains hard against him, trying to push all the way onto him, but she's pinned and she can't do it. She gives a cry of frustration. "Just *fuck* me, dammit."
He does, pushing into her, the first couple of strokes slow while he gets to know her body and the way they fit together, then hard. Hard and fast. Rubbing her clit relentlessly with his thumb. She puts her hands above her head, seeming to invite him, and he leans forward and grasps her forearms, holding her down. Surprised by her gasp of delight and the way she pushes up at him. He hadn't expected her to let him do that.
He realises his mistake a second too late when she gives a sly grin and flips him over, leveraging off his own strength. A sound of amusement escapes him as she sinks down onto him. She's tight, still half-restrained by the jeans, and although she's small, she's heavy with muscle, substantial and strong against his thighs. She pulls open his shirt, deliberately ripping buttonholes with a satisfied look, and leans over him to suck hard on his neck. She's going to leave a mark and he should care but he doesn't.
He runs his hand down onto her hip and grips her there. Travels further, down her thigh, smiling up at her as she rocks against him. She draws up a little and flinches when he accidentally brushes her wound, and he lets go, concern rippling through him. But she kisses him and draws his hand back to touch her once more.
His hands find her breasts and he presses her, testing her for how hard he should go. She pushes them hard against him and he presses harder, then squeezes as she moans and shifts against him, grinding harder onto his cock. Her hand slips between them and he can feel her curling it against her clit. She's getting herself off on him and it's the hottest fucking thing he's seen in his life. He kisses her hard as she comes, and it's all he can do not to come with her, but he isn't finished with her yet.
He takes advantage of her softened limbs and turns her back over, dropping to his knees before her. Kisses her thighs and then deep into her folds as he tugs each boot off and her jeans with them. She tastes sweet and she smells like sex and her clit is hard and round under his tongue, and her cries come to him in short, rasping sounds.
Abruptly, she sits up and edges him back a little. Leans forward to take him in her mouth, running her tongue over his head and teasing the underside mercilessly. He hangs on for as long as he can manage, but she's good, and before long he pulls out, saying, "I'm not going to last if you keep doing that."
He tugs her off the table and turns her to face it, grasping her hips and tugging her back onto him. She gasps and leans forwards, bracing herself.
Then she stands up to lean back against him, and he feels it. An infitesimal shift in whatever forces have drawn them together. Feels the twin fires between them, fury and passion, both fall away. One purged, the other temporarily at bay. She arches and sighs as he thrusts up into her, holding her close with crossed arms that are unexpectly tender. She crosses hers over him and covers his hands with hers, and for a moment he thinks they're in the eye of a storm, as she lets him hold her and comes in deep, silent shudders.
"You don't have to be anything," he whispers into her hair. "Just be here."
The fragile moment dissolves, but he has to face her, needs to be body to body with her. He turns her, and she comes willingly, leaning in to kiss him, long and deep. Leans back on the table again, and this time he leans down to cover her. Joins with her in slow, even strokes that bring her up again. This time, he lets go, spilling over inside her with nonsense words whispered into her hair. She lets out a string of half-words and non-words of her own. None of them are Reese.
He wants to rest his head against her, but she's already sitting up, already shifting him aside and straightening herself out. She does it gently, at least. Unselfconsciously, she tugs her tank top back up to cover her and pulls on her panties and jeans.
"I'm having first shower," she says tersely, but without rancour. "Clean up that glass before you come back in."
Yes, ma'am, he thinks, but he only nods.
She pauses at the door. He waits.
"I'm here, Derek," she says quietly. "I'm always here."
He nods. "Okay." He knows how much that concession costs her. He offers one of his own. "You can call me Reese if you want."
She nods too. "Thanks. Derek."
"Truce?" he wonders.
A smile flickers over her features. "For now."
She turns and leaves him, the sounds of her bootheels fading away in the dark.
END
|
|
|