Kylie Lee | Slash fan fiction

She was a shield, Kolya's arm strong around her, dragging her back, and she wasn't strong enough. She wasn't heavy enough. She couldn't fight free. She didn't struggle much, because she was afraid that if she tried, he would use his gun to shoot someone under her command, someone like John Sheppard. She was less afraid of Kolya's weapon than she was quite simply, afraid of him, because he was implacable, and although he listened to reason, she had run out of reasons. If he decided to do something, he would simply do it. He would take her through the Gate. She would be a prisoner of the Genii, who had plotted a sneak attack and who had killed many good people, some senselessly. She could be next. The nonstop hours of stress had numbed her, but when he grabbed her, the panic hit again, visceral and red, because she was going to die.

Kolya held her, and he dragged her toward the Gate, and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. He would not listen to words. She was trapped in a man's arms, pressed against a man's body, and she was helpless. And someone with a gun, someone she trusted, someone she had to trust right now, took aim.

"I will shoot you if you don't let her go."

She heard the words, but she also felt them through her body as a low rumble. "And risk hurting Dr. Weir?" Everything seemed to be moving very slowly. She pushed, she struggled, and all he did was pull her closer. She hated being helpless. But more than that, she hated Kolya.

"I'm not aiming at her." I'm aiming at you, Kolya.

She stared at John Sheppard, trying to communicate with him with her eyes. Shoot him, she screamed inside her head. Shoot him now, because there is no way I'm getting out of this, and we both know it. John's eyes flicked to her, then back to Kolya.

And the shot. She heard it as a low thump as it hit Kolya, and just like that, he let her go and stumbled back into the active wormhole.

Dead. He was probably dead. Probably.

She turned to face John, another man with a gun, another implacable man, a man who did what he had to do, and until this moment, she had had no idea how far that went. Kolya had been able to manipulate John by threatening her. Before she had been a shield, she had been a bargaining chip. She was no longer a person but a thing.

"Sorry about that. I had to…um…Are you okay?"

Elizabeth Weir shook her head. "No," she said shakily.

"You will be," he said confidently.

He thought she was a shield too, someone to protect them all, which was why he had protected her. He had been told that she was important, crucially important, to the success of their mission. Right now, it didn't seem like it. He took her hand, and she made herself walk up the steps to the control area, to where Rodney McKay was, Rodney, who had schemed and lied and broken things and then fixed them and made up stories, all to keep them—her—safe. She made herself walk because she didn't want to collapse, didn't want to fall in front of everyone, didn't want John to put his arm around her and steady her, or worse yet, pick her up and carry her. She had to be a soldier too. She had lived, and she had her duty.

And now, hours later, it was over, all over. She walked the corridors, unable to sleep, because when she shut her eyes, she heard the report, the thud of the bullet, and she felt Kolya fall back, taking her with him, taking her through the wormhole to be a prisoner, or taking her to her death. Because of her position, Kolya had taken her to be his shield. By dint of skill, John had become hers.

He'd taken her hand, and she'd wanted nothing more than to dissolve into him and let him carry her, because John wasn't afraid. Instead, he was angry. Anger didn't leave room for terror. She wanted that anger back, the anger she'd felt at the beginning of the endless hours she'd spent with Rodney in the cold, driving rain. But then she knew that words meant nothing, and that's all she was: words. John took action, Rodney fixed things, and she tried to use words to negotiate with someone who wouldn't negotiate.

"I'm not aiming at her," she whispered.

Her feet had taken her to the military officers' quarters, ranged down one of the many corridors, nice and close to the control room so they could report quickly if needed. She knew which room was John's. She'd been inside it.

She stared at the closed door. It betrayed nothing of the man behind it, just as the room, spartan, like everybody else's, because nobody had brought anything to decorate rooms with, betrayed nothing of the man who lived there. She had an overwhelming urge, like a rush of heat in her stomach, to knock on his door. After a long delay—it was really late at night, after all—he would answer the door. He'd be in his pajamas. He'd open the door, and he would immediately see she was upset.

He would say, "Sorry about that. I had to…um…Are you okay?"

"No," she would say.

"You will be," he would reply, and he would step aside so she could walk inside. He would make it okay, because he was her shield.

And she would look at him, and he would look at her, and what they felt between them, that tension, would rise, and he would cock his head and smile, and he would reach for her like a lover. They wouldn't need to speak. Just as her eyes had pleaded with him—"shoot him, shoot Kolya, shoot him now"—now they would tell him what she needed. He would give it to her.

"No," she whispered, and she stepped away from his door, from where her knuckles had been turned to gently rap. She turned and walked away, turned blindly at the first crossing, and leaned against the wall. She felt hollow.

She opened her eyes when she heard a noise. How long had she been here? She had no idea. She couldn't be found wandering around so late at night. She paused, undecided, and John Sheppard, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, walked by. He must not have sensed her consternation, her need, her mixture of fear and desire, because he breezed past the corridor's mouth, just a few feet from her.

It was ridiculously easy to follow him. He strode along confidently, making no attempt to be quiet. His boots trod heavily. She would run silently down a corridor after him, duck into an alcove or the junction of another corridor, and listen. After only a few minutes, she knew where he was going: the shuttle bay.

He might have been a hotshot pilot and a wizard of Ancient technology, but nobody knew Atlantis better than she did. She darted down a side corridor, took stairs down two at a time, careful not to clatter too much, and cut through one of the areas with only sporadic power. She came up the other side, and there it was, the door, and she was through. The puddle jumpers had been locked down, which was standard procedure, in place mostly to keep the equipment inside from walking away with the scientists who "borrowed" it for their pet projects. A jumble of equipment in a corner provided ample cover. She huddled down, trying not to think about what she was doing, because she was behaving irrationally. John had probably thought of something he'd forgotten to do in one of the jumpers, and he couldn't sleep until he'd taken care of it. But she'd been wanting and needing him. Unaccountably, she didn't want to let him out of her sight.

"Major? You here?" a man's voice called as the door opened. "Oh, hey."

"You're late," John told Aiden Ford as they both stepped into the hold.

"So're you."

"Yeah, well, busy day."

"John," Aiden admonished.

"What?"

"Are you okay? Because I don't think you're okay, after what you did."

John laughed, and Elizabeth slid on her side until she had a clear view of them between some heavy cylinders. Her heart had started to beat fast. What were they up to? Was there some kind of plot going on, some kind of military something that she'd been deliberately kept out of the loop about? Some plot that involved secret postmidnight meetings? Was John really a traitor?

"You know, I said that to Elizabeth. I shot Kolya, and afterward, I said, 'Are you okay?' And she said no."

"Are you telling me no? That you're not okay?"

Her shield, who had saved her life, said, "Yeah, Aiden. That's what I'm telling you."

Aiden took a step, and Elizabeth could suddenly see his face, lit by the soft overhead lights, impossibly young, impossibly beautiful. "Let's go to my quarters," he suggested. "We can talk there."

"No."

"Okay, let's go to yours."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because then it's official. And because I don't want to talk."

Aiden held up his hands in surrender. "Fine. Fine. What do you feel like doing?"

"Being," John said.

His hands reached, and in a rush, in that split second before John unbuttoned himself, before he unzipped his fly, Elizabeth got it. She pressed her hands to her mouth because she didn't want to make any noise. She couldn't say it out loud, the "no," the denial that still echoed in response to the question, "Are you okay?" She hadn't been okay before, and she was definitely not okay now, not okay at all as John pushed his pants down to his knees. She hadn't wanted to know this about him. She hadn't wanted to see that look on his face, that look of need, because she was the one who needed. He was the one who gave.

"John—"

"Please." John put one hand on Aiden's neck. "Aiden. Please."

John's hand stayed where it was as Aiden knelt, and even from the few yards' distance, Elizabeth could see what Aiden was faced with: John's half-rigid penis, red and veined, nestled in a thatch of coarse, dark hair, large, soft-looking balls underneath. Aiden wrapped his hand around the base of John's penis and looked up at John, all sensuous lips and smooth mocha-colored skin and dark eyes. Elizabeth could see John get harder, could see his dick lengthen, could see how it skewed to one side. She had never let herself imagine this, what that part of John looked like naked. She had never imagined that John would look at Aiden, or any man, and literally grow hard. She had thought that he would enjoy driving himself into soft femininity, a foil to his own strength, but now she knew he wanted to match his hard edge against another hard edge. It made sense to her, even as her own dreams now sickened her with their ridiculousness and futility. He needed too, and Aiden Ford would give him what he needed.

"Please, Lieutenant."

John pulled Aiden's head toward his dick, and Elizabeth's breath stopped as Aiden drew John inside his mouth. She felt it viscerally. She knew she should look away and cover her ears, to give the men privacy, because others should not witness this kind of intimacy, but it was far too late for that. John threw his head back and let his hand rest on Aiden's head as Aiden sucked. Aiden's head pulled back, exposing John's slick penis, purple-red and now fully, hugely erect. Aiden slid his mouth forward, until his lips kissed the hand still at the base of John's penis. And then he did it all again, and again.

John moaned a little, fingers clenching, and his hips rocked forward. "Oh, Jesus," John gasped, and Aiden sped up. Now when his mouth trailed up, his hand followed, rotating. Elizabeth could almost feel John's penis in her hands, the friction exquisite. She knew exactly what it would be like: slick saliva, hot skin, musky taste, and underneath it all, the throbbing power of arousal. But Aiden, not Elizabeth, drove John relentlessly toward orgasm. Elizabeth's own breath came in little pants as John grabbed Aiden's head and began thrusting blindly, face transcendent. When he came, head thrown back, saying, "Jesus," Aiden, eyes shut, was whimpering. The taste—oh, the taste. Elizabeth touched her lips. She felt hot.

"Jesus," John repeated, staggering back. Aiden grabbed his hand and pulled him onto his knees, so they were face to face. "Oh, god, Aiden."

"Take it off, sir," Aiden said, pulling at John's shirt.

Elizabeth saw black hair against pale skin. The beauty of his body couldn't match the expression on his face, though: he looked at Aiden with absolute trust and desire. And when she could look away, when she could take in Aiden, Aiden's face mirrored John's expression. Aiden had taken off his T-shirt, and he'd undone his trousers and pulled them down. His hard penis almost brushed his sculpted stomach. Beautiful—Aiden was beautiful, and he was so excited, because of what he'd done to John, that he panted.

"Come here," Aiden said.

They shuffled forward on their knees, both hampered by their pants, and John put both arms around Aiden. Aiden wound one arm around John's neck, and the other hand went to his dick. Their noses bumped. Aiden eyes looked directly into John's for a long second. He tilted his head and bit John's top lip before their mouths fit together. Elizabeth could see Aiden's upper arm and shoulder move as he stroked himself. The kisses grew in intensity as Aiden's excitement rose, until Aiden was making little desperate noises in the back of his throat. John's arms descended, and he grabbed Aiden's ass and began kneading it hard. Elizabeth could feel John against her body, grabbing her butt, his touch hard and confident. After one last open-mouthed, scorching kiss, John dropped his head to the curve of Aiden's neck, where it met his shoulder, and bit and licked.

"Oh, fuck, now," Aiden sobbed, and he pushed John hard, so John sprawled clumsily backward. Aiden reared over him, and now Elizabeth could see Aiden frantically rubbing his shaft. "Now," Aiden repeated, and he pressed the tip of his engorged penis against John's stomach and came, gasping for air. White semen spurted out again and again as Aiden groaned. Elizabeth, hot between her legs, breasts tight, found that her breathing matched his. She could imagine John's body under that dick, warm and alive and trembling with breath. She could see how that vitality could overwhelm.

When the jets had stopped, Aiden trailed his penis along John's stomach as he caught his breath, then flopped on his side.

"I love it when you do that, Lieutenant," John said, touching Aiden's face. "I love to see you come."

"I'd love to see you come in a bed," Aiden said. "Just a suggestion. Sir." John took Aiden's hand, kissed his palm, and entwined their fingers. Their hands rested on John's chest. That kind of intimacy spoke volumes to her. It wasn't just sex, then. Just sex was bad enough, but emotional connection was worse, somehow. She didn't know what men were like together, but she hadn't really imagined tenderness. "Are you okay, Major?"

John considered. "No," he said at last. "I did what I had to do. I thought Elizabeth was dead. He told me she was dead. I was supposed to save her and protect her, but I—"

He broke off. Elizabeth, hearing her name, spread her arms. Everything had gone too far, she'd found out something she didn't want to know, and now she had to listen to them talk about her.

John went on, voice rough. "And then she wasn't dead, but I'd have to watch him kill her. She's the one who has to hold us all together—the scientists, the civilians, the military guys. Forget mediating with aliens—she mediates us. Anything happens to her, and not only have I failed in my mission, but I've screwed up the power structure here, our ability to get things done. And right now, our stability is the only thing keeping us alive."

"I don't think a military mission would be a bad thing," Aiden said. Implicit in all this was the fact that if something happened to Elizabeth, John would assume command.

"You'd be wrong," John said. "Can you imagine trying to make Rodney do what you want? Or Zelenka? We can all agree on Dr. Weir."

"Well, she wasn't dead. And she held it together. That was some close shooting. The bullet was, like, inches from her ear. She didn't even flinch."

"She flinched, all right," John said. "You just couldn't see it."

"What are you saying?"

There was a pause. "I didn't want to see her flinch," John said at last. "She can't doubt. And she can't doubt me. We're in a galaxy far, far away, and we've got really bad bad guys. We do what we have to. She has to trust that I wouldn't let her die. And I failed."

"You didn't fail," Aiden said. "She wasn't really dead."

"I didn't know that." John sounded exasperated. "Trust. It's all about trust. And now maybe she can't trust me, because of how I did my job. And I don't think she trusted me when I shot Kolya. I think she thought she was going to die anyway."

"Yeah," Aiden murmured, putting his head on John's chest, and they stayed that way for a while.

When John finally shifted, he said, "You did good, by the way. With Dr. Beckett and Teyla. And you stood up for them when Rodney was ready to shut them out."

"Thanks," Aiden said, not sounding pleased. "I'm thinking military techniques don't work too well on nonmilitary personnel."

"So think of some other techniques, Lieutenant," John said. "Sorry, here."

Elizabeth watched as John handed Aiden his T-shirt. The men dressed quickly. John wiped at his stomach with what looked like a wadded-up Kleenex. They didn't kiss each other goodbye.

Aiden left first. John leaned against a puddle jumper and stared into space, counting down the minutes, Elizabeth imagined, before he could leave, putting some distance between them. How long had they been lovers? How long had they been meeting each other? Why did they call each other by their ranks when they were alone together, when they called each other by their first names every day?

And then John left, without a backward glance, and Elizabeth, aroused and alone, closed her eyes, because there was nothing to be done. Aiden gave John something she couldn't. He was a part of John's world. Maybe it was some kind of posttraumatic stress disorder, but she'd behaved irrationally. Her near brush with death had made her want to reach out to someone. Instead, she'd found out things she didn't want to know.

But mostly, she was a fool.

"I'm not aiming at her," she whispered.

She wasn't all right.

But she would be.