Chapter Text
She’d imagined it many times. In the Infirmary, her thoughts had wandered, several times, drawn away from her tasks by his fingers or the length of demons and angels across his skin, or, she would blush to admit, by the drag of his zipper over his crotch. She wondered about him, in every way. Would he be fast, or slow? Hard or soft? Would he fill her up, stretch her wider than she ever had been? She thought with his height and the length of his arms and legs, she knew the answer to that without seeing him naked.
When he’d kissed her, she’d had a glimpse. The heat in his mouth electrified her, sweeping down her thighs and exploding in her chest, and she remembers thinking, if he kisses this well, he must make love like a master. And she even had that dream, several times.
So, now, with their combined injuries—missing toes, a somewhat healed burn, a laceration on his forearm that looked like a cat scratch next to the thread-and-needle wound that stretched from her elbow almost to her wrist, not to mention all the cuts along her back and the one under her hair on the back of her neck that she’d given herself in her first attempt at hair cutting—they had cautiously fallen to the bed in the hotel room next door to where Lincoln slept.
Sara thought that perhaps the shiver of anticipation that ran through her at his touch was tinged slightly with aftershocks of being electrocuted, but she just smiled, ignored her misfiring synapses, and tugged him closer.
She had imagined it many times. But when their kissing grew so ravenous so quickly, she knew he wouldn’t be able to wait long to be inside her, and his jerky, feverish movements showed her the sooner the better. And when her legs parted for him and he barely held back long enough to get the condom on, she knew he wouldn’t last long enough to take her with him.
Then it shifted into what she hadn’t imagined: that answering his need would be better than achieving her own satisfaction, and that by placing her hand against the back of his neck, she could drive him over the edge and he would cry out with a sound that was new to her ears. She hadn’t known that when his whispered, “I’m sorry,” touched her skin, it would be the first time those words had passed between them that she didn’t think she deserved them.
As he drew her into the curve of his body he softly intoned that if she could give him a little time, he would make it up to her.
Sara knew that he already had, and maybe she could find a way to tell him later.
She fell to sleep in his arms, her body a bit achy with wanting what she had imagined, but unimaginably gratified for what she hadn't.