Breathing
Author: wanderingsmith
Feb 2009
Summary: for anuna_81's Shep-a-thon,
Prompt: Breathing
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: I ain't got no money, and nobody'd be daft enough to pay me
for this. As it is thought, so let it be said; you make the toys, I
play with 'em.
AN: Scent is the sense most closely tied to memory. The most
primitive.
The crystal clear atmosphere in the aftermath of the storm conflicted
with the terror leftover from the Genii attack. No matter how
deeply Elizabeth breathed of the wonderful salt air, her lungs still
felt constricted and her body shivery, shocky. Cold in so many
more ways than one.
Her closed eyes into the bright sun, she took another breath; and found
a new scent on the breeze. One that suddenly opened her
chest. Her whole body filled with oxygen, both waking, at the
primitive cellular level, and going into a mental drowse in response to
it.
"Elizabeth?"
It took a conscious effort to fight off the primeval absorption in the
scent of clean male that had slowed her thoughts to a crawl.
Elizabeth turned her head, blinking the sunspots out of her eyes to
look at the tired man stepping besides her. Even now that she was
thinking instead of reacting, she still felt rejuvenated, still had a
disconnected urge to get closer and bury herself in that scent.
She remembered the moment when he'd reached for her after releasing her
from her captor, both of them soaked to the skin, the air filled with
ozone, gunpowder and terror. Not only her own; she remembered now
that she'd felt it from him too. As cold as they'd been, the
stress had made them sweat, and the fear was in that smell. Just
a few moments ago, that memory was part of what was weighing against
her skin and organs, what made her feel small and weak and alone; fear
without comfort, pain in both of them, with nothing to heal it.
But now. She recognized that it was only soap on skin that she
smelled, but deep inside, it resonated with an intrinsic safety.
And though she wanted to deny it, she was too tired to: she recognized
the man. Not as a random protector, but as the man who cared
enough to kill to avenge her, to save her. Whom she cared for and
felt connected to.
"I'm alright." And she was. Freshly showered and in dry
clothe, with warm sunshine on her skin; and now she could finally
relax, watching him watching her, a sad half-smile on his lips.
There were new ghosts behind his eyes, but he stood straight and at
ease besides her, and Elizabeth felt only calmness from him.
Intrinsic safety, communicated in the most primitive way, right to the
bottom of her soul.
He trusted her word without question and closed his eyes, facing the
sun himself and breathing deeply.
####
When John woke, he knew where he was. Without opening his eyes,
without moving a muscle. The breath he took in the instant his
mind became conscious was all he needed. The air was chilled from
night, charged as though rain was on the horizon again; and it carried
the smell of the room to him with crystalline quality. Even down
to the tint of iron from his filthy uniform in the laundry pile.
The strongest scent, though, was that of them, the two of them,
together.
Dried sweat, warm sex, lavender soap, IrishSping, citrus shampoo, musk
deodorant and vanilla perfume. Hair that was damp when it came to
leave its scent on the pillow, skin that had rested against another all
night and altered its scent from the extended contact.
Home for his mendicant soul. Joy that came straight from the most
primitive caveman at the back of his mind, possessive of all that made
her his mate and wanting nothing but to have her presence, her safety
and her returned love for him embedded in him.
Even that first day, a week after the Great Storm, John had awoken and
recognized his new place at the deepest level of his awareness.
Consciously, he wanted to deny that he deserved it; but he'd
physically, viscerally, felt the belonging, felt Elizabeth's hold on
him, and the way she needed him as strongly as he did her. His
body went with the evidence of his senses over the arguments of his
mind and refused to let go, instead nuzzling into the soft flesh he
cradled. Warm, sleepy Elizabeth; marked with *his* scent.
Heaven in his arms.
Never to be let go of, lest he slip into a senseless hell.
Though even as the thought went through his mind, John sighed, and with
a last, lingering kiss to her shoulder, made himself scoot out of
bed. A quick shower and he pulled a clean uniform from the closet
before going by her side of the bed to give her a good-morning kiss,
and let her have her own nuzzle into *his* skin as he smiled with
pleasure. Then he left her, *their*, quarters, a lifesigns
detector in his hand to make sure no one saw the door he came out of
and his schedule for the day beginning to make itself heard over his
absorption with his home.
In 12 or so hours, he'd be back, baring trouble, and so would
Elizabeth. Together again, to breathe life into each other for
another day.
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