Empty Inside
by ALC Punk!

Not a glass half-full man, John Danziger. Devon Adair has long since stopped blaming him, though.

The one time they checked outside, so much snow fell in they had enough water for a sketchy bath. Both of them. She tries not to remember seeing his pale skin and musculature, tries to equate it with the remote beauty of things like old Earth paintings and holo-sculptures of Michelangelo.

A week and a half later, and they're both not talking in words of more than one syllable. She knows what it is, studied way too much sociological and psychological shit in her time at school to not know.

Stir crazy. Getting on each others' nerves.

Devon breaks the silence first, but then, she knows she's weaker when it comes to things like this. "I'm sure they're all right."

"They're fine." He's moving, pacing in front of their small stove like an animal.

Don't think about animals, Adair. "They have to be fine. I can't... I can't bear the thought of losing Uly. Not like this." Which is true, but it's not what she's thinking, what she's avoiding by talking inanely about her child.

"You -- God, Adair, do you listen to yourself? Ever? You're so wrapped up in that kid you don't ever take a moment to think about yourself."

"Are you saying I should be selfish?" She wants to be angry.

He turns and glares at her, "Yeah. We all should be a little selfish sometimes."

Devon has to get up, has to move, and she does, moving away from him, swinging her arms. At the back of the dome is a series of shelves and cabinets. They've been using them to store their equipment (what little they have, and she really doesn't want to consider them not surviving although they have enough rations to last three months -- if stretched thin -- and water is never going to be a problem as long as the fuel holds out). She stops in front of one, places her hands flat on it. "I was selfish. I want my son to live."

"That's not being selfish, that's being obsessed."

He is right behind her. She can feel the heat from his body, can smell him (even with soap, she never feels clean enough). "Obsessed?!" She turns to glare at him, finding the anger she wanted, "I am *not* obsessed. I'm just trying to be a good mother to my son!"

"Right. That's why you spent five years planning and paying for this expedition. Why you've moved mountains to haul our asses halfway across this continent." Derision colors his tone.

Still too close. "You're being an ass."

"You're being blind," he counters, stepping closer.

"Fine. I'll be selfish." She expects him to run, to back away. Her hands close on his lapels, her lips close on his. He's supposed to stop this, she thinks. Any second and he will.

When his hands slide underneath her shirt, she convinces herself that this is only momentary, only temporary. He's good at this, his lips and tongue assaulting hers, and she hasn't done this in far too long, and it feels too damn good to stop him.

She doesn't notice when he stops kissing her lips and moves to her neck. Too lost in sensation, in feeling, she focuses only on that. The counter hits her low in the back, and she whimpers because his fingers have slid across her breasts. It's enough to jar her, slightly, and she pulls back. "Danziger --"

"John." His teeth close lightly on her throat. "My name is John, Adair."

"Fine." She grabs the bottom of his shirt and undershirt and tugs upwards. "Off." He pauses in kissing her neck to help, and then she's tangling her fingers through the hair on his chest, touching the skin that she can't turn into an abstract anymore.

Fingers and thumb roll one of her nipples and she arches into him. She can't convince herself this will stop anymore.

Isn't sure she wants it to.

More kisses, more caresses, and his hands are sure on her body, more sure than she'd like them to be, but she's not going to complain. Too long, she thinks, biting down on her lip and trying to stop the moan from leaving her throat. Futile though the gesture is. His hands relieve her of her shirt and the tank constricting her breasts, and then his mouth is there.

And the moan escapes, dragged out by the feel of his lips and tongue on already heated skin.

He tugs at her legs, deftly gets one boot, then the other off, and she doesn't care that it's almost too cold to be barefoot because he left her socks on. His mouth moves to her other breast and her fingers thread through his hair, holding him there. She can't speak coherently anymore, all power of thought has nearly left her. And she's stopped trying to convince herself that he's going to stop. She doesn't *want* him to stop.

Air brushes across her ass, and she realizes he's gotten her pants and underwear down her legs so she helps, kicking them to the side.

Devon doesn't have time to adjust to being naked in front of him before his hand nudges between her legs, fingers sliding across her. And she thought he'd been good with her nipples. "Jesus, Danziger --"

A grunt, and he's shifting, pulling her up and setting her ass against the counter, slipping a finger into her, causing her head to fall back at the sensation. It has been too long, and she knows it, feeling him push in with one, then two fingers, and the sensation catches her breath in her throat, forces sounds out she didn't think she was capable of.

Three fingers, and she can't help the soft cries breaking from her any more than she can stop the tremors that flutter through her. He moves, and she has time to wonder when his pants disappeared, and then he's thrusting into her, thicker than the fingers, and it almost hurts.

His lips close on her nipple again, mercilessly sucking while he moves his hips, rolling against her. And then his finger slides across her clit, and it's too much.

She didn't know she could scream like this, but she thinks it's six years (plus 22 in cold sleep) of pent-up sexual frustration, and right now she doesn't care about how it sounds because if he doesn't fucking move, she's going to kill him.

Maybe he knows that.

Again, the flash of almost-pain, and then he's moving, thrusting in and pulling out, riding the last of the spasms as she starts to come down.

Her hands move to his shoulders, back and side, caressing and touching and scraping, her nails adding an extra edge to the way his hips slam into hers. "Come on, Danziger," she can't call him John. Yet. "If I'm obsessed, what does that make you?"

This isn't love, she thinks as he jerks his head up and stares at her, eyes wide.

Good. She doesn't want love. She's had enough of fairy tales and ephemeral planes of existence and men who have loved her in dreams.

His expression changes, darkens and his hands close on her hips.

She'll have bruises, she thinks, but it's only fair after the scratches she left on his back. A shift, and he's dragged her closer, shifted so she's laying half-flat on the shelf. The angle inside is different, too, and she gasps when he pushes in again. Half-remembered instincts make her clench her inner muscles around him.

And it's his turn to groan.

Her legs lock around his hips, and she feels the ridge of the counter on the bottom of her spine. It's going to hurt any minute now, but she'll ignore it.

It doesn't take much longer before he's thrusting one last time, hard, jerking into her (slamming her head against the wall, but she doesn't notice that, can only feel him buried inside of her), and then he's crying out hoarsely and slowly falling forwards, catching himself with his hands to either side of her. He's sticky, she thinks. Her last lover was always careful to remember a sheath, to pledge his protection even as he gave her little pleasure with his body.

A shudder goes through him. "Adair." He can't look at her.

Her legs are still wrapped around him, and she refuses to make this easy on either of them. "Danziger." First names are for lovers, not enemies.

"This wasn't supposed to happen."

"Why? Because your wife is still alive?" She's taunting, now. She thinks she's won (maybe they've both lost). "She'll never recover, John." Maybe names are only a tool.

His head comes up, and he stares, "Adair..."

"Spare me your heartfelt speeches."

Something closes down in his expression. "Sure." He straightens, "So you can be selfish."

"You're just finding that out?" Her tone is light, but the feeling behind it isn't. She unlocks her knees, lets him slide out of her, lets him step away. A part of her wants to protest, wants to claw its way to the surface and stop him from leaving her, because he felt good. And she needs to feel good.

"Yeah." He runs a hand over his face, and suddenly looks almost lost. "I'll get some water melted for, uh, cleaning."

"Thanks." She drops her eyes, looks down at her legs. She's coated with bodily fluids, and just for a second she wishes she wasn't. That she could step back in time thirty minutes and redirect the conversation.

"Adair..."

"Don't. Don't make this something other than what it is."

"And what is it?" His eyes meet hers.

He's waiting, she thinks, but for what she doesn't know. "Two human animals enjoying themselves."

"So cold. Clinical."

"I was raised to be cold and clinical."

"Yeah."

There's nothing more to be said. He melts some of the snow for water, passes her the rag he used to clean himself. She wipes her legs down, the roughness of the cloth bringing out goose bumps and she closes her eyes as she slides it across herself. It's not his fingers. She stops that train of thought and tosses the rag into a corner.

He's gotten his pants back on, she goes for hers, making a face at the dampness of her underwear.

"I think the storm's let up."

She listens, notices the shift in the way the storm has sounded, and slowly nods. "Yeah. I think you're right."

Their confinement might have an end soon. It's a good thing. She feels hopeful she'll see the others again. Her son, Yale, even Morgan Martin. With the storm over, the others will start to look for them, will dig them out.

But part of her feels just a little wistful, part of her wishes this wouldn't end.

-f-

Show me how we end this alright
Show me how defenseless you really are
Satisfy an empty inside
That's alright, let's give this another try

If you find your family, don't you cry
In this land of make-believe, dead and dry

You're so cold, but you feel alive
Lay your hands on me one last time

-- So Cold, 'Breaking Benjamin'

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© 2005 ALC Punk!