Tension

Title: Tension
Rating: R
Time Frame: A Human Reaction Season I
Summary: I always wondered what happened after that kiss. This is my idea... from Aeryn's point of view.

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It must have been the rain, the way it tattooed heavy and smooth against the roof, its rhythm an odd counterpoint to their current situation. Or maybe it was the liquid he called "beer," its dark heavy taste sliding smoothly against her tongue and slowing her brain. Or maybe it had been the battle fatigue, felt in the hopelessness of his sigh and the warmth of his skin as it rested against her shoulder. Whatever the reason, when he'd brushed first his nose, then his lips lightly against hers, she'd let him.

The tension in her body had lessened when she deepened the kiss. And she was glad of the reaction because in this day when so much had been new and frightening, it was at least something she understood.

His hand had left her shoulder, coming up to frame one ear, a finger lightly tracing the shell before threading its way into her hair. She'd tried to push him down then, the light caress sending urgency straight to her belly, her heart pumping with the need to let it out, get it over with, to sink into the emptiness that was after.

Because that's what this was, wasn't it? A tension breaker, a release, a letting loose of the fear and the pain, a detachment from the present to clear your head for the future. Two comrades fulfilling a biological need, so they could plan, sleep and survive.

But he had fought back against her arms and flipped her, and when she'd looked into his eyes she'd been a bit frightened because they asked a question she did not know the answer to.

"What do you want?"

Her confusion must have shown in her face because he'd bent over her, his lips denches above hers and whispered it again.

"What do you want? Tell me."

His breath sent light vibrations through her, so she'd turned her head away because if he kept looking at her he might see her fear, and you never showed weakness, especially in this.

He must have taken it as a challenge, her silence, because then his mouth was on her neck, his kisses peppered with little darts of his tongue against the quickening pulse point at her throat. And her fingers had gripped his involuntarily where they rested on either side of her head, the only other connection between them as he knelt above her, and she'd resisted the urge to writhe against the growing tension in her body, praying that if she held still he'd get the point and move on.

His hands had left hers and she'd started to relax, thinking he was moving to facilitate the necessary removal of clothing. But before she could sit up to release her pants fastenings, she'd felt them again underneath the edge of her shirt. The unexpected touch made her jump and she'd heard his soft laughter in the growing dark.

"Didn't mean to scare you."

She'd never understood his species' need for non-essential communication. This was no time for talking, not when there was action to be completed, and she'd squirmed her displeasure, her hips knocking against his knees where they rested against her sides.

He'd laughed again and when she'd stared up at him she'd frozen, the expression on his face one she'd seen only once before: A child at a party for his birth cycle, half glimpsed through some window her regiment had been marching past. The child had been sitting there, present in hand, and she'd known even with that brief look that whatever had been in the box had been his heart's desire. She'd seen it in his eyes, in the way his hands were gently removing the wrappings. That gift had been for him and him alone and whatever the contents, he would cherish them forever.

She saw that look in Crichton's eyes and she'd closed hers against it because it was wrong. He shouldn't look at her like that as he slowly peeled her clothes from her body and the exposed flesh goose bumped in the cooler air. He shouldn't have that birth cycle party look on his face, because she was no one's gift, no one's present to be opened and this wasn't about dreams or desires at all. Those things were for children, not soldiers. This was about need.

And what she'd needed was for him to stop. Stop resting his head against her stomach, the soft weight of it making her muscles tighten involuntarily. Needed him to stop running his nose along the underside of one breast, his lips finally encircling the nipple and his tongue laving the sensitive flesh until it was taut and distended and she gripped the bed covers to keep from crying out. He needed to stop making her sweat... making her feel, making her arch against him in an attempt to feed him more. She'd needed him to move, thrust, bruise, end the tension that was building in her belly, burning its way down to her groin, making her tremble and shake.

She'd needed him to finish it.

So she'd pushed at him, struggled to put distance between them. Get room to move, to think. Let him know she was tired of his games.

But he'd pressed her back down and levered himself up to look at her again.

"No," he'd said in a voice that was both gentle and rough. "My world, my way."

Something in his tone had made her stop. Relax beneath his grip, her fingers slipping open where he held her pinned by her wrists. Relax despite the fear and the doubt. He had gotten her out of the military base. Left his people and hidden them in this place. He was Crichton, she knew him. He would not hurt her. He would not leave her. His world, his way. She owed him that at least.

So... she'd relaxed and let his tongue lick the sweat from her navel and his hands part her thighs, his fingertips leaving trails of sensation that caused her to shiver.

"Hold still," he'd whispered and then his mouth found her and she'd bucked against him half in surprise and half trying to escape a feeling that was too intense for words.

He'd looked up at her in surprise. "Your men, they don't do this?"

She'd managed to make her head signal the negative, her body still shaken from that first touch, and his expression had changed from amused to sad.

"A gift then," he'd said and lowered his head to her again.

She'd felt a hand on her stomach, half soothing, half restraint and then his mouth was on her again, lips moving, probing, making her. ...clench... shudder.... feel, in deep places she hadn't known she had. His tongue encircling her, sucking, pulling, sending her...up, making her .... arch against him, into him, her whole body a bow, rising up, straining, the muscles in her feet stiffening... arching... pushing against his back. Fighting the tension, the pleasure that was swirling, building, filling her, everywhere, her body, her mind, her heart and she clutched at the covers in an attempt to stay down because it was too much, too... full... she was too....connected..... to this moment.... to him, and if she didn't get free she thought she might break.

So she'd bucked up and pushed him away.

There was silence for a moment and when he'd spoken his voice had been soft and contrite and his face in the half-light from the window had been wreathed in concern.

"Did I hurt you?"

She'd jerked her head no. He didn't understand. Her body was instinctively trying to calm her breathing, her heart, clear her mind, but everything was muddled and confused and she still... wanted.

"Then what is it? What's wrong?"

And she'd shaken her head again because she didn't know how to tell him all of it was wrong. That this was recreation and it was supposed to be about emptying, not filling, taking, not giving. And he was wrong for making her full... making her feel, making her soft when survival demanded she be hard and calculating. And they would die if they kept on this way, kept doing this thing, whatever it was, because it was binding her to him in a way that she didn't understand, a way that frightened her. But what frightened her more was that she couldn't stop it. Didn't want to stop it and she didn't know how to ask him to finish it because there were no words for what she wanted. Her heart knew but it couldn't speak so she'd opened her mouth and given him what she could. One word, a plea, she who had been taught to die rather than beg.

"Please."

He'd stared at her for a microt, his thumbs tracing small circles in the wetness of her inner thighs, and then after a pause to remove the rest of his clothes he'd moved up her body and kissed her again, tasting of something she'd instinctively known was her. And she'd let herself moan into his mouth because it was better than crying, better than giving in to the urge to wrap herself around him and never let go.

"Slowly," he'd whispered as he'd slid his hands along her thighs, drawing her legs up until she wrapped them around his waist. Then he'd framed her face with his hands so she couldn't look away.

"You are so beautiful."

Her heart had frozen then because his words had burned their way into it, and she'd buried her face in his neck and begged him again.

"Please."

And then he'd felt him, smooth and warm at her entrance and her body had opened and she'd gasped because it had been so long and it had never been like this, this stretching and giving. He filled her to the point of pain and she'd welcomed it, digging her heels into his thighs, arching up to take more, pull him deeper, the connection swirling between them like a living thing, and she understood now why his kind called it making love, because she could see it, feel it, taste it all around them, everywhere.

"Oh god baby."

He'd started to shudder and some half remembered instinct brought her hands to his shoulders, her fingers slipping a little in the sweat as they stroked down his back.

And then he'd moved inside her and she'd clamped her lips shut to hold in the cry and hold herself still, but her body had betrayed her and moved with him anyway.

"Yes," he'd half sobbed, and the sound had sent fire straight to her womb and the slick friction of him within her was making the tension swirl again and she'd felt herself start to drown in it, everything drawing down to some elusive place inside. And she'd tried to fight against it, the pounding of her blood, the thickness of her breathing, the deep driving pleasure that was coursing through every vein in her body, sending her up to the top of some dizzying height from which there was no return. And she'd stiffened and pushed against him because whatever was building was too much to take, the pressure threatening to overwhelm her completely.

"Let it go, Aeryn," he'd breathed into her ear. "Let it go,"

She'd stiffened even further but he hadn't let her loose.

"Let it go, Aeryn," he'd said again, and then graced her with another stroke.

And she'd started to cry, the tears coursing their way soundlessly down her face, because part of her knew that if she did this it would change everything.

He'd grabbed at her hands then, gripping them hard and looked into her face, his eyes dark with passion and barely-checked control.

"Let it go, Aeryn. I'm with you. Let it go."

And everything had stopped for a microt. Her body, her mind, her heart, everything had just hovered there still and crystal clear.

Then it hit her like a rushing wind, the sensation pulling inward and then exploding out in a wave that reached her every extremity. And the cry came up from some deep primal place inside and she couldn't keep this one in, Oh, no. Not when her body was pulsing, not when he was pulsing inside her, not when everything was right, everything was perfect. Not when light was filling her soul, her mind, and she knew then that everything would be different after this. She would be different after this.

And she didn't care.

It ended slowly. Piece by piece things came back. The sound of the rain on the roof. The taste of his sweat on her tongue, the rhythm of her heart. The weight of his body on hers.

She'd tried to stop him when he pulled away, but he'd been stronger and rolled them, her face coming to rest over his heart.

And she'd listened to its slowing rhythm, the steady beat calming her, leading her down towards sleep.

He was silent a while, and then he'd said, "Tomorrow we'll get a map. Move inland where it's harder to track us. I'll see what I can find out about D'Argo."

Tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow they would have to think, have to plan. Tomorrow they'd have to put this behind them. But for now his hands were in her hair and she'd thought it might be O.K. to pretend that tomorrow wasn't coming.

"Thank you," she'd managed to get out before sleep claimed her completely.

"For what?"

"For staying. For not leaving me to do this alone."

He hadn't replied at first and when he had she'd been so close to sleep she wasn't sure if what he'd said had been real or imagined. But if it had been real then maybe they stood a chance of getting off this planet alive.

"I'd never leave you."