Time Stamp Meme #2
So pdxscaper wanted Floodlights on the Highway (the SG-1/SPN story), the next morning. And technically, I'd already written this as part of continuing that story. I'm not entirely sure that I'll finish this story, although I think it'd be fun to write an adventure, but my time is so limited these days and I'd have to watch a lot more Supernatural in order to catch up and I don't have time for that either.
I've also decided to change the premise of this so that Cam actually goes to the police station to bail some of his soldiers out of jail (and then that idea shifted to just going down to the bar where the boys got into a fight with Dean Winchester and I'd have to do all sorts of research to justify that scenario - military boys fighting with the hunting boys) instead of Dean. But until I work that out in my head, I'm just going to leave this drabble (so not a drabble, more of a next section) as is.
***
The sharp pain in his ankle wakes him up. He's groggy and cotton-mouthed and confused and so he doesn't really think twice when her husky voice says, "Your pants are ringing," and then a warm body curls into his space as he sits up, fumbles for his Levis on the floor.
"What," he growls into the cell phone because the ring is official, but it's still three o' clock in the fucking morning and he's just had sex with a member of his team and he's pretty damned sure that those are going to be the highlights of his month and it wasn't even supposed to happen.
"Colonel Mitchell?"
"Yeah," he says, and scrubs at his face and tries not to care that there's a smooth warm hip pressed against the small of his back, that he's half-hard and not sure if he should be thinking flowers or regrets.
Phone calls in the middle of the night are never good news, and he strains to get his attention back to the current bearer of misfortune. He hopes to god this isn't about Jackson.
It isn't.
Cam gets dressed in the dark, pulling on his boxers and jeans and then stares at the woman in his bed. Black hair spills over his pillows, and he can see the pale curve of her neck, the join of her shoulder as she burrows further into the covers. He kneels on the bed, runs his hand down her back and she rolls over, one arm over her head, eyes heavy with sleep. The motion displaces the covers, pulling them down over her breasts and he has trouble breathing.
"You've gotta get up," he says, soft as he can, but it's still an order. She blinks, stretches, back arching and her nipples harden in the cool air. He can't quite help himself, or maybe doesn't want to, riding the situation to the end of its possibility. He cups one heavy breast in his palm and she gives a small hum of pleasure. Her arm falls gracefully behind his knee and she brushes up, over his ass and wriggles her fingers into the back of his jeans.
"Not yet," she says and he flicks his thumb over her nipple.
"No," he sighs. "Really. I've gotta go to the police station."
She blinks and catches his eye and they have a whole silent conversation about him leaving her there in his bed - an alien, and his responsibility, his charge and his duty - and finally she rolls away from him and climbs out of the bed.
He pulls his sweater on and finds his shoes, sits down on the bed to tie them and notices her shivering in her thin shirt. It was sunny when they'd left the base and now it's genuinely cold. He gets up and finds a heavy knitted sweater, a gift from his mom that he's worn exactly twice over the past five years and always at family events but Vala puts it on and looks small, looks tired and swallowed up, but she stops shivering.
They're quiet in the car and Cam's a little surprised, thought she'd maybe ask why the police station. She doesn't. She looks out the window, her breath fogging the glass and eventually closes her eyes. When they get to the police station, the parking lot is empty, sodium lights reflecting on black asphalt and the crunchy remains of the snow.
He leaves the car running with the heat on and locks the doors and doesn't ask himself if it’s a concession. Cam's pretty sure he trusts her to not steal his car, run off to Vegas, try and take over the world. Mostly, he just doesn't want to wake her up again.
Inside, it's the same detective that they met when Vala was kidnapped. The man doesn't look terribly happy to see him, but Cam chalks that up to it being the middle of the night and the weird liverwurst and gun oil smell that lingers in the station.
"I don't know why I bothered calling you," the detective says, "but it's weird. The whole thing is weird, and the last case I had that was this weird was your fault."
Cam shrugs his shoulders. "Not exactly my fault," he says and the detective waves his hand dismissively. "Maybe not your fault but he knew your car. Gave me the make, model and license plate but didn't know your name. Figured he was practically family."
Cam shrugs again, not quite willing to give anything away.
"C'mon," the detective sighs, gets up out of his seat, "You can see him now."
They walk through the lobby to get to the lockup, passing by a long-limbed kid rocking edgily on the narrow visitor's bench.
"His brother," the detective says as the pass through the swinging doors. He runs a key card through the slot and step into the lockup area.
Dean sleeps with his face pressed against the bench, one arm tucked underneath his body and his foot balanced against the floor. His hair is mussed up on one side and he looks young, looks terribly vulnerable to Cam asleep in the musty jail cell.
"Hey kid," he says, loud and a little boisterous. "Wake the hell up." The guard keys in the code to open the cell door and Cam steps through, staying near the edge as Dean blinks and paws at his face a little with a bandaged hand. He shuffles his body into sitting and glares up at Cam.
"Huh," he says, and then smiles. "Nice hickey."
It takes every ounce of Air Force training, of fighter jock confidence to not reach up to his neck.
"Nice head wound," he counters. "Musta been one hell of a cat."
"Just playin' with a little pussy," Dean smirks, "And I'm clearly not the only one."
Cam reminds himself that he's in charge of saving the world and doesn't have time to smack a smart-ass kid upside the head.
"What're the terms?" Cam asks, looking over his shoulder at the detective.
"He stays in your custody for the next 48 hours until the arraignment."
"And by custody you mean…"
"He doesn't leave your sight."
Cam looks at Dean. "It's your choice, kid. With me or in here."
"Dude, you call that a choice?"
Cam shrugs. "I've got cable and my house doesn't smell like beer filtered through urine. But you know, everyone's gotta make their own decisions in life."
"So I stay in here, or I go with some dude I don't know?"
"Yup."
Dean's eyes get hard, serious. "Fine, but my brother goes with me."
"Fine."
This is a bad idea. He knows it, the kid knows it. "C'mon," he says and they go out to do the paperwork. The detective hands him the lo-jack key.
God, I so want to actually write this story. Somewhere out there is an SPN and SG-1 viewer/writer who wants to help me. Right?!?!
I've also decided to change the premise of this so that Cam actually goes to the police station to bail some of his soldiers out of jail (and then that idea shifted to just going down to the bar where the boys got into a fight with Dean Winchester and I'd have to do all sorts of research to justify that scenario - military boys fighting with the hunting boys) instead of Dean. But until I work that out in my head, I'm just going to leave this drabble (so not a drabble, more of a next section) as is.
***
The sharp pain in his ankle wakes him up. He's groggy and cotton-mouthed and confused and so he doesn't really think twice when her husky voice says, "Your pants are ringing," and then a warm body curls into his space as he sits up, fumbles for his Levis on the floor.
"What," he growls into the cell phone because the ring is official, but it's still three o' clock in the fucking morning and he's just had sex with a member of his team and he's pretty damned sure that those are going to be the highlights of his month and it wasn't even supposed to happen.
"Colonel Mitchell?"
"Yeah," he says, and scrubs at his face and tries not to care that there's a smooth warm hip pressed against the small of his back, that he's half-hard and not sure if he should be thinking flowers or regrets.
Phone calls in the middle of the night are never good news, and he strains to get his attention back to the current bearer of misfortune. He hopes to god this isn't about Jackson.
It isn't.
Cam gets dressed in the dark, pulling on his boxers and jeans and then stares at the woman in his bed. Black hair spills over his pillows, and he can see the pale curve of her neck, the join of her shoulder as she burrows further into the covers. He kneels on the bed, runs his hand down her back and she rolls over, one arm over her head, eyes heavy with sleep. The motion displaces the covers, pulling them down over her breasts and he has trouble breathing.
"You've gotta get up," he says, soft as he can, but it's still an order. She blinks, stretches, back arching and her nipples harden in the cool air. He can't quite help himself, or maybe doesn't want to, riding the situation to the end of its possibility. He cups one heavy breast in his palm and she gives a small hum of pleasure. Her arm falls gracefully behind his knee and she brushes up, over his ass and wriggles her fingers into the back of his jeans.
"Not yet," she says and he flicks his thumb over her nipple.
"No," he sighs. "Really. I've gotta go to the police station."
She blinks and catches his eye and they have a whole silent conversation about him leaving her there in his bed - an alien, and his responsibility, his charge and his duty - and finally she rolls away from him and climbs out of the bed.
He pulls his sweater on and finds his shoes, sits down on the bed to tie them and notices her shivering in her thin shirt. It was sunny when they'd left the base and now it's genuinely cold. He gets up and finds a heavy knitted sweater, a gift from his mom that he's worn exactly twice over the past five years and always at family events but Vala puts it on and looks small, looks tired and swallowed up, but she stops shivering.
They're quiet in the car and Cam's a little surprised, thought she'd maybe ask why the police station. She doesn't. She looks out the window, her breath fogging the glass and eventually closes her eyes. When they get to the police station, the parking lot is empty, sodium lights reflecting on black asphalt and the crunchy remains of the snow.
He leaves the car running with the heat on and locks the doors and doesn't ask himself if it’s a concession. Cam's pretty sure he trusts her to not steal his car, run off to Vegas, try and take over the world. Mostly, he just doesn't want to wake her up again.
Inside, it's the same detective that they met when Vala was kidnapped. The man doesn't look terribly happy to see him, but Cam chalks that up to it being the middle of the night and the weird liverwurst and gun oil smell that lingers in the station.
"I don't know why I bothered calling you," the detective says, "but it's weird. The whole thing is weird, and the last case I had that was this weird was your fault."
Cam shrugs his shoulders. "Not exactly my fault," he says and the detective waves his hand dismissively. "Maybe not your fault but he knew your car. Gave me the make, model and license plate but didn't know your name. Figured he was practically family."
Cam shrugs again, not quite willing to give anything away.
"C'mon," the detective sighs, gets up out of his seat, "You can see him now."
They walk through the lobby to get to the lockup, passing by a long-limbed kid rocking edgily on the narrow visitor's bench.
"His brother," the detective says as the pass through the swinging doors. He runs a key card through the slot and step into the lockup area.
Dean sleeps with his face pressed against the bench, one arm tucked underneath his body and his foot balanced against the floor. His hair is mussed up on one side and he looks young, looks terribly vulnerable to Cam asleep in the musty jail cell.
"Hey kid," he says, loud and a little boisterous. "Wake the hell up." The guard keys in the code to open the cell door and Cam steps through, staying near the edge as Dean blinks and paws at his face a little with a bandaged hand. He shuffles his body into sitting and glares up at Cam.
"Huh," he says, and then smiles. "Nice hickey."
It takes every ounce of Air Force training, of fighter jock confidence to not reach up to his neck.
"Nice head wound," he counters. "Musta been one hell of a cat."
"Just playin' with a little pussy," Dean smirks, "And I'm clearly not the only one."
Cam reminds himself that he's in charge of saving the world and doesn't have time to smack a smart-ass kid upside the head.
"What're the terms?" Cam asks, looking over his shoulder at the detective.
"He stays in your custody for the next 48 hours until the arraignment."
"And by custody you mean…"
"He doesn't leave your sight."
Cam looks at Dean. "It's your choice, kid. With me or in here."
"Dude, you call that a choice?"
Cam shrugs. "I've got cable and my house doesn't smell like beer filtered through urine. But you know, everyone's gotta make their own decisions in life."
"So I stay in here, or I go with some dude I don't know?"
"Yup."
Dean's eyes get hard, serious. "Fine, but my brother goes with me."
"Fine."
This is a bad idea. He knows it, the kid knows it. "C'mon," he says and they go out to do the paperwork. The detective hands him the lo-jack key.
God, I so want to actually write this story. Somewhere out there is an SPN and SG-1 viewer/writer who wants to help me. Right?!?!