Flashpoint, rated R for language and sex. 1,618 words, a darker flipside to Jules/Sam.
Spoilers for 2x01: Eagle Two and very slight allusions to the later episodes, but nothing specific.
The first time it happens, you let him. Your touches are rough as you stumble into a room in the hotel you wanted so desperately to get away from, tearing his clothes off like it’s your lifeline.
When you touch death and the fucked up-ness of the human nature on a regular basis, sometimes all you need is to feel alive.
When it’s all over with, you sneak out of the room and set off for home. You don’t pretend that this is something it isn’t.
Need arises. Need fulfilled. Copy.
The next day at work, you pretend nothing’s happened. Between protocol and the lack of contact, you think you spy a flash of anger in his eyes.
You know that he’s just pissed off that he isn’t in control. You know, because you’d be pissed off too. You don’t try to make amends (what for?) and you don’t apologize either.
The second time it happens, the choice of location is the backseat of your car. It’s dark out and you just blew out the brains of a man who was milli-seconds away from using the team as target practice.
The interrogation lasts for what feels like a lifetime and the timing doesn’t give you the chance to reflect or to think about how the blood pools on the ground or wonder about the retching sounds you hear before you realize that it’s coming from you.
He sees you from a distance away as you emerge from the rest room, and this time you guide him into the carpark, pushing him into your car as your mouth meets his and your hand discards of the clothing on his body as you launch a frantic attempt hanging on to something that’ll make you feel again.
When it's done, you leave him on the curb as your car zooms away. You don’t look back.
Nothing changes at work. You still keep up the light banter and he returns the favour. You don’t miss the flare that glazes over his eyes when that happens, like it’s meant to make you feel fucking guilty or sorry because you’re not.
You let him drag you into the storage room the third time. It’s like he’s worked out the system and on some level, you think you’re impressed. This time, he’s the one who leaves first, and you fight the impulsive need to control; the cool draft from the air vent prickling your naked skin.
Two can play this game.
You lose track by the fourth, fifth, twelfth time it happens. It usually starts the same way; you catch his gaze right before, he comes in and you lock the door. You never speak, save for the oh god’s and fuck’s and there’s but he doesn’t shut up, not ever; always making a wise-ass crack about something after he comes.
You don’t scream his name when you fuck him. You allow yourself the liberty to pretend: he’s not Sam, he’s not your teammate, he’s not the one thing that can fuck up your career and he’s not someone you want to care about. He’s not your boyfriend and you’re not a couple and you’re not in a relationship with him.
He’s just the means to an end and you make sure he knows it, without actually saying the words.
You take painstaking efforts to ensure that this doesn’t mess up the dynamics of the team. No one will be happy if they hear about this, whatever the fuck this is, so no one ever will.
You master the art of changing into your clothes or back in your uniform in record time, smoothening down the creases that appear when the clothes are so carelessly chucked from your fingers’ grasp.
No one suspects a thing after, not even with the disheveled hair or the faint blush on your faces from the sex, and the way he refuses to look straight at you initially or the way you keep goading him.
Life’s a thrill. You intend to keep it that way.
He barges in your dressing room one day. Someone has gotten seriously injured during a mission in the afternoon and you’re less-than-pleased with the course of action he’d taken, and during the debrief you rag out on him more than you’ve ever done for anyone else on the team.
When he comes in, you slam the door shut and start to unbutton your shirt, pushing him against the wall, your nails making a mark on his back and your lips brushing against his, roughly, when he stops you.
“Damn it, Jules.”
You step away and stare at him.
“Stop doing this to me.”
“That’s never been a problem before,” you say in a voice you don’t quite recognize as your own; thickly and underlined with a tinge of playfulness.
“No. I mean it,” he starts, pacing up and down the length of the room and you lean against the dresser, your arms crossed in front of you. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“Do what?” you challenge, curious as to how he is going to classify whatever this is between the two of you. He sits down abruptly on the chair.
He actually flinches. “I can’t let you – use me like this.” He seems almost embarrassed and you have to stop yourself from laughing. It doesn’t really work, not when he’s tracing you with his eyes like a wounded puppy.
“What’s so fucking funny?” he demands, the same angry flash in his eyes that you’re accustomed to by now and you think he looks like a little boy who can’t get his favourite toy when mommy and daddy brings him to the toy store. You tilt your head at him and just continue unbuttoning your shirt.
“We do this, or we don’t. Your choice.”
It doesn’t surprise you that he takes a moment’s hesitation before he raises your arms to remove your clothes and he yanks down your pants.
This is what surprises you: you let him pin you against the wall as he slips in, and he’s in control, and he’s liking it.
Maybe that’ll get him to shut up.
Except it doesn’t; when he comes he’s still rambling about god knows fucking what and it’s not the first time you wish you have some duct tape handy.
“Shut up,” you tell him, and then you go in for round two. This time, you push him off, onto the floor and you take the lead. He grunts in frustration.
Aim. Shoot. Score.
He helps you with the renovations at your house. It’s probably more productive if you’re doing it all by yourself, and besides, it’s hard and painful to get paint off your bare skin but one time the can topples and splashes all over and neither of you really give a damn about it as you engage in fucking the sense out of yourself and him.
You know he thinks it’s some kind of relationship now, like just because you invite him over to your place and he stays over all night and you make him breakfast smoothies or buy him donuts at five in the morning while he’s still stirring around in bed means it’s something.
It’s not. You’ve convinced yourself it’s not. He’s just Sam the Teammate, Sam the Boy who has badgered you endlessly about “wooing” you (his words, not yours) since the beginning and Sam the Person you go to when the going gets tough, and it’s the only way to bring you to the present and live life again.
One of these nights, he tells you about his time in Afghanistan. Random snippets of a lifetime before, and then he starts talking about his buddy Matt and you watch the tears fill up in his eyes and you can tell how much it kills him on the inside. That night, he fucks you harder than he has ever before and you cling on to the sheets, afraid that if you let go, feeling alive might turn back to numbness and darkness and that’s the one thing you don’t want to feel.
He thanks you the morning after, his voice hoarse, and you stare at the ceiling, wondering if the system is backfiring on you after all.
It goes like this. You stop thinking about fucking him and your excuse of feeling alive and stop undressing him in your mind whenever you see him and you start thinking about how he feels and what he thinks.
It scares the fuck out of you, if you want to be honest with yourself.
You have a little routine going on now, too. He’s all but staying over your house now and you go in to work together, but never at the same time or the same entrance. When the time comes to go home, the both of you lounge around until after everyone is gone before you slip into the car, undetected by the others. Your fingers intertwine and he grasps on to yours as if he’s going to lose you through the cracks if he lets go, and you don’t stop him or shove him off or kick his ass for doing that.
You hate the way that you have a routine with him and that you might actually like the way it makes you feel safe, and you hate the way the system falls into place, but most of all you hate the way he’s able to make you feel, even without the sex.
(Especially without the sex.)
It scares the fuck out of you that you no longer stay in control when you’re feeling alive.
Life’s a thrill. Just not in the way you imagine it.