Archive of Our Own ^beta

Need sustenance, the text comes as he’s about to hand over to Robby. Samira’s gotten better at asking for things she realizes she needs; gotten better at realizing she needs them. Better at letting him offer them to her, better at accepting them. She’s got the day off — one such example of her improved capacity for recognizing when she needs, deserves, a break — and has spent who-knows-how-long of her free time working on her research. Was probably up all night, if he had to guess. Had probably a handful of sips from her water bottle and a fruit leather and maybe a coffee or a Celsius and not much else all night, if he had to put money on it.

– You at yours or mine? He responds.

Mine

Breakfast burrito pls

– And an horchata? he types out. 

it’s 6:45am i do not want an horchata

– Your blood sugar’s probably low. 

always on the clock aren’t you

– I’ll shower then head over.

just shower here

falling asleep

Jack wraps up, sloughing off the shift, feeling none of the usual ache or exhaustion that often comes at the tail end of the twelve-plus hours on his feet with his brain all wired. Picks up burritos and an horchata from the one place that she likes and makes it from the PTMC parking lot to her apartment door in fourteen minutes. Uses the key she’s given him to unlock her door, toes quietly across her threshold in case she’s dozed off. 

Indeed, dozed off is how he finds her, laying on her stomach with limbs splayed over the blue canvas of her couch, a throw blanket half covering her legs and her laptop inches from her face. Mouth half-open in sleep, phone still unlocked in her hand, open on their text message thread. Undereyes dark from fatigue, hair pulled away from her face in an unraveling bun. Beautiful.

He reaches to close her laptop, moves it over to her coffee table full of scattered papers and sticky-tabbed journals, pulls her phone out of her hand. Groans under his breath as he sits himself on the floor beside her head, places a gentle hand between her shoulder blades.

“Sweetheart.” Softens his voice because he’s nothing but so happy to see her, whatever state she’s in, always.

She doesn’t stir.

“Samira, sweetheart.” He brushes a curl dipping over the smooth plane of her forehead.

A tiny noise — of contentment, or reaction in a dream, or acknowledgement — arises from her throat.

“I have burritos and fries.”

A little sharp gasp through her nostrils, her eyes still closed.

“Jack.” She blinks blearily over at him, her eyelids so heavy, the expression on her face so soft.

“Hi, love.” The smile on his face is instinctive; he can see it reflected in her irises.

“What are you doing on the floor?” The space between her eyebrows pinches in concern even in her sleep-deprived state.

“Waking you up.” That gets her smiling finally, and she starts to stir herself up to a sitting position as Jack stands.

“Fries too? You must really like me.” She rubs the sleep from her eyes, accepts the brown paper bag he proffers.

“Got the hint finally?” he jokes. “Save me some, yeah?” He’s about to head down the hall when he feels a tug at the hem of his T-shirt.

“Wait, where are you going?” A french fry crisps between her lips. 

“Shower, sweetheart.”

“Where’s my good morning kiss?” Another tug at his shirt. He leans down over her, slowly so he can enjoy seeing her dark eyelashes blink quicker in anticipation, watching her wide eyes flit between his own and all over his face. Obsessed with the dimple that creases her cheek when he braces his hands behind her on the couch, crowds her against it.

“Good morning,” voice all kinds of raspy as he utters the words in the moment before their lips meet. Her hands tangle in his hair as she tugs him in closer, deepens the kiss, her lips tasting like peach-mango. She hums happily when he lets himself lick into her wanting mouth, just once, before straightening.

“Shower,” he repeats. “And then I’m comin’ back for you.” 

She grins playfully as she watches him walk down the hallway, dipping a fry into her salsa.

“As long as you’re coming back.”

***

After a quick shower he’s sitting on Samira’s bed fastening his prosthetic back on when a rhythmic creaking of the floorboards tells him she’s striding down the hall towards him. An ungraceful “oof” escapes him as she tackles him backwards onto the bed, settling her legs on either side of his hips, his palms like a magnet coming up to hold her to him.

“I love how my shampoo smells on you,” she tells him, running her nose along his temple. He only hums in response, letting her lips and nose and fingers roam along his face, his hairline, through his wet hair and along his arms and down the side of his neck. He’s so relaxed, so happy and pliant.

“Feeling well-nourished now?” He asks. She nods, pressing her nose into the space by his ear, taking in deep, pleased breaths.

“Much better, yes, thank you,” she whispers back. And then she’s kissing him again, lips soft and slightly spicy from the food, addictive. 

They trade kisses back and forth, pausing every now and then to fill each other in on the hours they were away from each other. He talks about a case; she asks questions and makes guesses. They kiss more, arms banded around each other, smiling the way they do for only each other. She talks about the great new source she found for her lit review; he recalls another he’d read a few months ago that could also be relevant. They wrap themselves up closer together until their breaths are heavier, their hips rocking into each other more urgently. There’s no hurry, though, no cresting need; just the persistent thrum of want that hovers under his skin whenever they’re in each other’s proximity.

“Oh, forgot to mention,” she whispers, biting at his earlobe, “Finished my application materials for that EMF grant. I submitted,” she continues, grinding down into him with a particularly precise maneuver.

“God. You’re incredible.” He gathers the curls that have escaped her bun and trail down over his cheeks so he can hold her face and look her in the eyes as he tells her, “I fuckin’ love you.”

“Yeah, I know,” she beams at him and it’s brighter than the sun streaming over their bed through a crack in the curtains. “I love you, too.”

“Well, good, as long as you know,” he returns the smile, braces his arms around her waist and flips them so he can kiss down the slender column of her throat, run his lips along her collarbone, hold her ribcage in both his hands so he can arc her chest up to his attentive, waiting mouth.

Samira’s gotten better at asking for things she wants; gotten better at realizing she wants them. Much better, he thinks, when his head is cradled in the junction of her thighs, the taste of her dancing on his tongue after her second orgasm, as she looks down at him between heavy breaths and twists her fingers harder in his hair and gasps out, “Do that again.”