Ghosts

CODE: D (set in the D Is For Damien storyline)

TAKES PLACE DURING (specific story): All scenes: NA

PAIRING: Jack Hunter/Holly (M/F)

EXPLANATION: I've always been interested in exploring trauma in my characters, and Jack Hunter and Holly are no exceptions. In fact Jack kinda turns out to be the stereotype of trauma--Vietnam vet, prisoner of war, yadda yadda yadda. He first appeared in my writing in the unfinished Men In Black (yes about MIBs, no not about Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones) as a part-time barnstormer/stunt pilot, all-time vintage plane restorer, and alien abductee. (DO NOT LAUGH! The aliens have NO part in these scenes here. I keep the storylines pretty much separate, for good reason.) As time went on I gave him more of a history and he became first a former prisoner of war, then this story came about. (There's a passage of time between "Ghosts" and "Catching Up" when Holly meets Jack again, at an airplane show, of all places!) You know, only after I had written some of this did I realize, if Holly and Jack ever married, her name would be Holly Hunter. Ha ha ha.

DISCLAIMERS: BIG-ass disclaimers here. ALL of the details concerning Vietnam are probably wrong. I was born only after that conflict had ended. So please don't shoot me. Artistic license. Remember that, artistic license. *cries*

* * * * *

Ghosts

David moved against Holly increasingly faster, puffing a little with each push. She was raking her fingers over the sheets and twisting her head from side to side with her eyes shut tight, unable to suppress a small cry here or there. David panted rapidly and kept his hands upon the bed for support. Yes, it was definitely coming now. He could feel it. The heat rising and flowing down to where he thrust into her, where their hips met, pushing, straining, always straining. He gritted his teeth and thrust again, his own fingers digging into the bed. Yes, that was it, that was it! He gasped and Holly arched, her head bending back, crying out, "Jack!" at the air. David jerked almost immediately, startled. His fluid drained from him into her.

Holly sank back onto the bed, panting for breath. It had been all right, as always, nothing spectacular, though she wasn't going to tell David that. She was sure that it would do nothing but make him feel inadequate. As soon as she fell still he rolled off of her and sat up at the edge of the bed, swinging his legs off to put his feet on the floor and running a hand through his hair. Holly took advantage of the silence to try to calm her breath and her heartbeat. She forced herself to breathe evenly.

From the edge of the bed, David suddenly spoke, his voice quiet. "Who is he?"

Holly turned her head to look at him. "Huh?"

"Who is he?" It was barely a question.

Frowning, Holly sat up. She held a sheet up over her chest though he'd seen her before; she ran a hand through her hair as he had. "What are you talking about?"

He looked at her over his shoulder. She was surprised by the flat look in his eyes.

"You called out somebody's name," he said, as if not believing that she remembered doing no such thing.

Holly paled and stared at him like a deer caught in headlights. This wasn't good. "I did?"

He nodded. "You called out 'Jack.' I'd like to know who he is."

Oh, no. This wasn't good at all. She thought she'd gotten over that by now. "It's nothing," she murmured, raking back her hair and averting her eyes, staring down instead at the shape of her knees beneath the sheet. "It was a long time ago."

"How long?"

"A long time." Almost thirty years, in fact.

David continued looking at her. "Then who was he?"

"I told you, it was a long time ago. I'm over it now, okay?"

He frowned. "It doesn't sound like it."

"It just slipped. I got caught up. It won't happen again." She got out of bed, making sure to keep the sheet wrapped tight around her as she went looking for her clothes. She couldn't bear him seeing her naked after that. She bent and picked up her pants, lying on the floor near the chair where she'd left them before this had all started.

David just sat on the bed and watched her dress. He was silent for a while. Then, "Is he what you have dreams about, when you wake up screaming? Are you dreaming about him?"

She closed her eyes and let out her breath abruptly. "No. I just have nightmares sometimes, same as anybody else. They're not related. He was a long, long time ago."

Yes. I have nightmares about him sometimes, and I see him staring at me with blood running down his face and his arms broken. They're definitely related. He was a long time ago but I've never stopped thinking about him.

David apparently didn't believe her. Yet there was nothing that he could say. He stood up and ran his hands down his face. "Gonna go take a shower," he muttered, half to himself, disappearing from the room. Holly stared at the window to avoid looking at him, fingering the rod that opened and closed the blinds. She closed her eyes and took a breath, trying to still her nerves.

She'd honestly tried to convince herself that she was finally getting over him. After all, it was he who had held her back from getting involved with anyone else all these years, wasn't it? She couldn't even tell herself the dreams were just guilt that she'd stopped believing that he could still be alive after thirty years. Evidently she still held some pathetic kind of hope.

She'd met Jack Hunter during the war. She was a photographer and he was the first lieutenant flying troops and supplies into battle. She'd gotten to know him, she hoped more than a little, before the day when everyone heard that the plane he'd been flying had been hit and had crashed deep in the jungle. Everyone was assumed to have been killed. Yet a short while later the plane itself was located, and of all the bodies left two were missing, a passenger and the pilot. They'd been "upgraded" then, in the cruelly ironic military language, to prisoners of war. Though she could find nothing uplifting about it. In fact it only made things worse. Instead of dreaming about him dying in a plane crash, now she dreamed of him being paraded through the jungle, running with blood and dirty water, and being forced to kneel with his hands tied behind his back and a gun being held to his head. Maybe, if he were lucky, the gun would go off. Maybe he would be killed in some other way. But always in her dreams he was still horribly alive, getting his bones broken, his skin lacerated or burned, his body tortured, every day losing a little bit more of his sanity. Until, finally, the day when they would leave him alone, and he'd walk around the prison yard with his eyes vacant and staring, not even minding where he might fall. But in her dreams he tortured her.

She tried to think only of the time before then, before everything she'd known had gone crashing down like that plane, to be swallowed up by the leafy green. They hadn't known each other very long; several weeks, in fact, and he'd told her that he was just finishing up his tour of duty. She'd been photographing those getting ready to ship out and then all of them had been pretty much relieved by the fact, even as the fighting still raged on around them. Jack had certainly been so, and almost cheerful, even. He hadn't seen as much fighting as the rest, with flying being his main job, though he had been out in the jungle. (She could never quite convince herself that maybe he and the other POW had simply left the plane themselves before they could be caught, though she tried.) In any case, everybody had seemed happy enough about being almost ready to go home. Even if, in Jack's case, it was a pretty solitary home.

There was something close between the two of them. He would always smile and greet her by name, even when the others simply nodded or waved halfheartedly. When he'd first spoken with her she'd realized from his accent that he was Australian born; that in itself had seemed odd enough among all of the others. He didn't push or hit on her. He was always ready to talk whenever she had questions about military life. He seemed friendly enough.

It had been almost impulsive then, she decided, when the two of them got together. She'd barely even known him that long but to her it felt like it had been much longer than a few weeks. She normally wouldn't jump into things. From the looks of it neither would he. She supposed that it was simply the fact that the two of them had been in the right place at the right time for things to happen as they did.

They hadn't even had to say anything to each other. They'd been alone, and he'd touched her face, and that was enough. At first their lips barely touched; then the tips of their tongues met, a flick only, briefly tasting, briefly. It had taken a moment for them to actually kiss, and then their mouths had been close, touching, covering, tongues gently exploring. He'd touched her face again. She touched him back. He was taller; he'd held her chin up while they tasted each other.

She wasn't sure who had moved first, though she liked to think that it was both of them at the same time. Whichever way it went she'd started unbuttoning his shirt, and he hers, slowly pulling it free from being tucked in. She could still feel his hands soft on the sides of her neck as he caressed her there. She couldn't remember him removing his T-shirt, but when it was off, they moved close, and she couldn't keep her hands from his body.

They'd been slow and careful, certainly, though now she knew that they'd both been breathing a little faster, their hearts beating a little harder, their skin flushed a little hotter. Jack had run his hands down her body and slipped them inside her pants, cupping her hips and swaying her from side to side slightly. She was the one who'd initiated it, finally, sliding her own hands down his chest, to his waist, finding the button at his pants and releasing it. From there it became a bit of a blur, though she was certain that she'd removed his, and had vague impressions of him pulling down hers and running his fingers over her skin in a soft, adoring motion.

She remembered him lowering her onto the bunk. That was when her heart had truly started beating hard. He'd broken their kiss to do it, and she stared up at him with her lips slightly parted, watching him. She'd thrilled to feel the weight of his body pressing against hers as he carefully climbed atop her, joining her. When he'd kissed her again she'd shivered and embraced him, wholly, longingly. He'd kissed her neck, touched he shoulders and arms, gently rubbed her upper belly, even gently stroked her breasts, still in their bra; Holly had taken a breath and arched her neck. She couldn't stop; she loved the feeling of his muscles, running her hands over his shoulders and chest and back, thrilling to his taut feel, especially as he pressed against her. She remembered nearly whimpering and dying from the expectation, praying to have the chance to truly feel him; again it was as if he'd had the same thought, as she'd felt him caress her thigh, and had known that he was full and ready, full for her and ready for her, hot and hard just for her. She'd felt his touch but had spread her legs on her own, now actually whimpering as she touched him back, lightly raking his arms. She could feel the tightness of the muscles of his abdomen as he moved. The touch of his fingers first on her thigh, then at that most secret, deepest place, between her legs. His breath warm on her neck. His member hot and full against her skin. The second shiver that passed through her body on feeling him push and enter, finally inside her. It made her hot thinking about it. Of everyone she'd ever been with, even David now, Jack had been the only one who had fully made her feel that way. They hadn't gone quickly, as David had; Jack had gone slowly, Holly had followed, the two of them setting a steady, even pace in the darkness of the room. She couldn't help twining against him, longing to feel more of him; he could understand and had touched her, fondled her, caressed her, his touch gentle, always gentle, running along her hips, gently supporting her, lifting her to him, as they made love. He tenderly cupped her breasts, but never did remove her bra. To this day she wasn't sure why. At the time she hadn't even thought about it. All that she knew was the joy she'd felt on being with him, he inside her, moving slowly, the two of them enjoying being together. When he broke from her mouth and kissed her neck and shoulder she gasped softly at the air, whispering his name--"Jack. Jack"--over and over. He hadn't whispered anything to her, but as he pushed she gasped a little louder and trailed her hands down the taut muscles of his back, whimpering, whispering to him in the dark. "Jack. Please. Oh God, please. Jack. Please, oh, please, Jack, please..." She didn't know what she'd been begging for, but she prayed that he knew.

And he had, as he'd kissed her, and caressed her further, and thrust slightly faster, deeper, causing shivers of desire and pleasure to pass up and down her body. It was warm, between their legs where their bodies met, very warm, and growing warmer, and more moist; and when Jack had pushed deeply and released, Holly had thrown back her head and gasped, her legs bending and writhing upon the small bed, her fingernails scoring his back as she arched to accept his fluid, to accept him, completely. His heat inside her had been immense. She couldn't know how she'd made him feel. Though, with her eyes closed, she'd thought that she could hear him sigh, long and deeply, perhaps with the satisfaction that she too felt. She hoped that she had.

It was at that moment, the moment of their climax, that it had most felt as if she'd known him much, much longer than she had; she supposed that it was the slight tension that had been in the air in the days before they'd finally given in to each other and coupled, that feeling that they could only know each other more if they were inside each other. Time always seemed longer when you were waiting for something. And they had been waiting, Holly and Jack, for something. For the two of them to meet and make love.

She wished that was all she remembered of him. But she'd heard the announcement of the plane's crash and the assumed MIA or KIA status of everyone on board, and later had heard its last--Jack's last--transmission after they realized that they'd been hit. She wished that she could forget the terror in his voice as the transmission ended in a scream of feedback and static, the terror that had shattered all of her images of him being so casual and levelheaded. His last words had been a blurted, "Oh, shit!" as she assumed that he'd been watching the jungle rush up to meet him.

Holly shook her head and turned away from the window. This was all getting far too painful. As much as she tried to shove all thoughts of him--or at least unpleasant thoughts of him--out of her head, they all insisted on coming back. Or more like staying. It would have been so much better if he'd been killed on impact, like everyone else on board, except the one passenger, a Captain Something, higher in rank than Jack; but someone killed on impact wouldn't have gotten up and walked away. Or been taken prisoner. And unlike the other soldiers taking comfort in the thought that they might still be alive, at least back then, she'd felt a heaviness creep over her with the thought that Jack might still be alive with barbed wire wrapped around his arms, or bamboo spikes driven through his feet.

She shuddered and clutched the sheet around her. In the bathroom shower water splashed, but to her it sounded like rain falling in the jungle, soaking Jack through and causing his own blood to run in his eyes. The same eyes that stared at her in her dreams. The voice, still strongly accented, that pleaded with her to not ever forget him. And even after thirty years, she hadn't. She hadn't ever forgotten. As much as she silently begged him to leave her so she could. The best that she could hope for was that Jack had died years ago, and only his ghost was able to haunt her now.

Catching Up

"So what happened?"

Jack shrugged and rubbed his eyes. At first she thought that he didn't want to answer. But after a moment he shook his head as if trying to come awake.

"The plane crashed, just like they said. I tried to bring it down best I could. Not that it was nearly good enough. Just about everybody was killed, 'cept for me and the captain."

"Captain--?"

"Chester Taylor. I wasn't in his unit. They'd just lost their pilot and I was around so they picked me to take 'em in. Funny how chance works sometimes."

"You were the only two that lived?"

He nodded again and looked at the table, offering a tired smile. "The only two. I guess I was knocked out something good when we crashed; next thing I know I'm coming to in this dirty little room with this big gash in my head and my hands tied behind my back. All I wanted to do was pass out again but Taylor kept waking me up."

"He was there?"

"Tied up. Other side of the room. Kept telling me to stay awake. Damn annoyed me. Who knows, though, I probably would've slipped into a coma or something if he didn't keep yakking."

Holly paused and stared also at the table. Jack didn't offer anything to fill the silence. She wondered if she should keep questioning him or if it was bothering him as much as she thought it would. She decided that he would be forthright enough to tell her if it did, and she had to know.

"How long were you--how long were you in?"

"Four years." His smile was a little rueful now as he noticed the shock on her face. "Out one camp, in another. Don't think any of 'em really wanted me around. I was a troublemaker." His grin grew nasty.

"Troublemaker?"

A nod. "If I wasn't going anywhere, then I could be telling some other guys to try to make their way out. 'Inciting,' the guards called it. I got my share of whacks for that." Holly winced but he didn't appear to notice. "Most of the time though I just didn't like the way they talked to me. If you're going to be giving somebody orders, at least have the decency to be polite about it. Otherwise I'm just not gonna listen." He held up his arms and stared at them as if seeing something there. "Once, they had me in these stocks so long my arms were turning purple. I think that was the first time I tried to escape."

So he tried. "How many times did you try to get out?"

A shrug. "Twice was more than enough. Considering they beat the living shit out of me the second time. That was about two years into it. I could barely move for days. If the others hadn't insisted on dragging me around I probably would've drowned out in the rain. I could barely see for two weeks after that."

Holly shuddered and shut her eyes. He hadn't said anything about being wrapped up in barbed wire or stuck with bamboo spikes but that didn't necessarily mean that it hadn't happened, or that nothing just as painful had happened. She had to change the subject, keep him from talking about what the guards found to do with him in their spare time. "How did you get out, then?"

"The last camp. Probably like the seventh or eighth one, I don't know. So damn many camps, they couldn't even keep me around!" He actually laughed as if pleased by the fact, but almost immediately sobered again. "But anyway, there were a lot of South Vietnamese in this one, and they were letting some go. There was this one I kinda knew. As much as I could really know anybody. I had this keychain, this little elephant keychain Colonel Robinson gave me. It says 'Thailand' on one side and 'Bangkok' on the other. Like a little pillbox. Surprised the guards never took it from me at any of the camps. Probably thought it was harmless." He shrugged again. "I gave this thing to this prisoner and told him he had to get it to Colonel Robinson. That was all he had to remember. Told me he would. I guess he did, 'cause after I got out Robinson gave the keychain back to me and said I made one damn good friend in there."

"They raided the camp?"

"Nah, don't know if they even got to that. I was being moved out by then. I can't remember half of it 'cause I had malaria. I think I passed out on the trail." Another silent laugh, this one a little bitter. "I come to this time and I'm in a nice dry room on a nice soft cot surrounded by nice-looking Americans. What do I do? I grab a gun and hold it on 'em till they convince me I'm not hallucinating. Believe me, I thought I was. Four years, malaria, and now all of a sudden here I am, scot free. I thought maybe I'd been brainwashed or something."

He fell silent again and Holly didn't ask him any more. She felt that she already knew much more than she needed to. Images of barbed wire and sharp sticks and watchtowers kept coming into her head. She had to shut her eyes to try to block them out, but that only made it worse. She felt her shoulders start to shake.

Jack looked at her. She had to open her eyes now and rubbed them as he had. He looked a little alarmed and stood up, moving to her side.

"Hey, what is it?"

She shook her head and felt her voice stick in her throat. He touched her arm; she sensed him trying to look down in her face. She sniffed and wiped her eyes as he knelt by the table.

"What's wrong?" he asked, sounding surprised that she should be upset by anything.

Me upset? He's the one with everything to be upset about. He's the one who lost four years. So why am I the one who's crying?

She shook her head again. "I used to have nightmares," she managed to say, lying a little. Used to? She'd had one just last night.

"Nightmares?" He looked perplexed.

She nodded and sniffed. "After--after they said you and Taylor were POWs. I started having these nightmares. I kept seeing them doing things to you. Sticking spikes in your feet. Cutting up your arms. Things like that."

He still seemed too confused to be able to do much to make her feel better. She supposed that he couldn't understand why she was having the nightmares. Nightmares were supposed to be his territory. He touched her knee and shook his head, still looking up at her.

"It's all right. They never stuck spikes in my feet, as I recall."

She nearly sputtered, not knowing whether to laugh or cry at that one. He was only trying to make it better, though she knew that he must have been through much worse than spikes through his feet. As if the mere fact that that one hadn't happened could negate everything else as well. She could tell that he'd changed, a lot, too, since she'd last seen him, over thirty years ago; he wasn't as cheerful and outgoing as he'd been then, judging by the remoteness of his house from anyplace else; and he was thinner as well, with the mildly haunted look of not quite enough sleep or peace of mind about him; but he hadn't changed that much. He was still trying to joke with her, even if the subject was a little morbid. He hadn't let it take over his life.

"I know it's kind of stupid," was all that she could think of to say, covering her eyes so he didn't have to look at how red they were getting.

He took her hands and held them and touched his head to hers, and as soon as she put her arms out he was holding her. "It's all right," he murmured again, stroking her hair. She cried into his shoulder and he just continued reassuring her, speaking as if feeling a little awkward. She mentally kicked herself for breaking down so easily. All that it was doing was making him feel uncomfortable, even if he didn't want to tell her.

Instead of stopping, however, she let out all of her grief and pain and tears as if they were a flood, insisting on breaking loose and threatening to overflow her. Yet Jack kept her afloat. He didn't pull away, but let her cry, releasing what had taken thirty years to build up. And by the time she'd finally cried herself out, her eyes red and raw, her throat hoarse, she was so spent that she thought she'd never be able to move again.

She lifted her head, still sniffling, to look at Jack, who stared back at her with such tenderness and concern that it could have broken her heart at any other time. Yet this time it did the exact opposite. Instead of more sorrow she felt energy surge through her, and with it a fire such as she'd never known. It rose in her chest and coursed full through her body, pulsing fast through her veins and into her arms and legs. And just as it established itself, another fire rose inside her, this at the deepest core of her being, a fire that had lain dormant for thirty years. There was only one time before when she'd ever felt so close to what she was feeling right now.

She had to let Jack now. She had to let him see.

She clutched his arms tighter and brought her mouth upon his, a little abruptly, so that he almost started in surprise. She would have been surprised herself, by the hunger with which she devoured him, sucking and pulling at his lips with her own, scoring him lightly with her teeth. It was what she felt--it was all she felt--a deep, soul-consuming hunger, overwhelming her senses, a hunger to feel him again, to have him, again, to have him inside her, to consume his seed within her yielding body. Her hunger was so great that it hurt, a sharp bite of pain flaring between her thighs. She wanted him to relieve it, to make it worse--just as long as he did something. Something.

And he did do something--for he accepted her kiss, capturing it with his own, and Holly moaned at the taste of his tongue against hers, the very saliva they shared sweet, something she wished to eat. He gripped her arms back--her shoulders--her face. She writhed in agony; he was so careful to move her that it wasn't until they were in front of his fireplace that she realized where they were. The fire burned low but hot--hot as she felt herself becoming.

She could take it no longer. The fire, the desire, threatened to burn her up inside and out. She tugged at her shirt to free it, unbuttoned and pulled at his as well. Jack fumbled with his zipper, evidently as consumed as she was. Their lips never ceased touching one another--necks, faces, mouths. When he'd managed to undo his pants and pull them down she tried to draw him closer. There was a big chair by the fireplace; he gently edged her toward it, so she rested her head against its soft edge rather than upon the rug, sitting up to face him. She could barely see his face; he was a shadow that loomed over her, panting softly to the rhythm of her heart. She felt his hand on her thigh, yielded to him, letting him remove the cloth-thin barrier that stood between them, and she sat with her most vulnerable part exposed, waiting for him.

Jack just took the straps of her bra, pulling them down her shoulders, touching her now as if she were a sacred thing, his fingers tenderly caressing her bared breasts like fine fruit. She dimly remembered how, the first and last time they'd been together, he hadn't even removed her bra.

He touched his head to hers. Holly bared herself to him, trusting him completely. She spread her thighs. He knelt over her, moving close; he pushed with his knees to penetrate and break through all of her pain, all of her horrible fears that he was dead or half mad with pain of his own. She arched. No, it was the Jack she knew, meeting her desire with his, all of his touches making her body cry out to him for more. They both had so much to give, so much need to receive from each other.

The actual fire grew brighter and taller as they moved, delighting in making love to each other again after so long. The fire traced the lithe contours of Holly's body as she strained, strained to take Jack into her, all of him, fully, completely, physically and emotionally. Its crackle nearly drowned out his panting as he pushed with his knees, feeling her warmth yielding before him, smooth and sleek. She could barely contain her rapture, her pleasure with him fitting to her so exactly.

For a long time, Jack and Holly rocked together on the carpet, hands eagerly exploring, sensing old scars, feeling past hurts, the two of them locked together in a divine coupling, the tempo of their heated thrusting and passion increasing. Anyone who could have observed them would immediately have seen the sheer transport they both felt, seen it in their tight-shut eyes and flexing muscles, heard it in Holly's cries and Jack's soft groans. Their desire was that great.

Holly ran her hands over Jack's shoulders and back, to his thighs, his straining hips, clawing him obliviously, gasping at the strong, hot urgency of their sex, now growing almost transcendent in its glory, now almost primal in its need. She heard him murmur; he ran his hands through her hair, his mouth in possession of hers, moving through her, rocking on his knees to fill and complete her with himself.

She felt a tightness creeping upon her, seizing her within, insidious. She gasped at the strength of the emotion running through her, and wondered if anything could really put it out.

And her answer came, as she did, arching in the firelight as the logs snapped and roared, drowning out her sob as an intense, fiery pleasure bloomed within her. She couldn't hear if Jack had cried out, though it looked as if he had, with the way that he'd thrown back his head and let his mouth fall open, seizing her arms as she felt the releasing gush of his fluid deep, deep within her. In that one moment, that glorious moment of their climax, something, some never-forgotten pain, some deep hurt, healed between them. Both Holly and Jack felt their souls cleansed and presented to each other, free at last of all the years and doubts that had set them so very far apart, greater than the distance of any ocean. They opened themselves, and in so doing opened to each other.

Holly resisted the urge to collapse in exhaustion. Jack now held her close, touching her face, murmuring soft words that she'd never heard used for herself. Love. Beautiful. Forever. She put her arms around him and felt his embrace, still murmuring softly in her ear, his hands deft and gentle over all of her tired muscles. She touched him back, for the moment forgetting that anyone had ever touched him but herself, that someone could have hurt him so much that there was surprise that he could even move, much less survive. But survive he did--to be here with her now--as they had been before, in a different world, in a different time--only now knowing so much more about each other. And loving each other so deeply.

Late To Bed

Simon trudged up the long drive leading to his uncle's house. He was dead tired after being busy for so long. Right now the big old house with its living room lights blazing looked more welcoming than anything he'd ever seen. He sighed to himself and looked up at the big front window as he approached.

He stopped, paused. That was odd. The blinds weren't drawn. His uncle always drew the blinds before dark; that way he insisted that no one could see in. He was so stringent about it, like about sleeping on the couch with a gun nearby, that Simon supposed it came from his Vietnam days. Maybe something was wrong? Maybe the gun had gone off. Simon knew that was silly but he stepped into the yard and stood on tiptoe to look inside, just in case.

His uncle was there, obviously all right; he was sitting on the couch talking to that woman he'd introduced to Simon several days ago--Holly, that was her name. Simon relaxed. Holly was smiling and he could tell from his uncle's posture that he was relaxed as well. She must have come to visit and he'd simply forgotten to close the blinds. Simon would do it himself once he got inside.

The thing that he saw next made him pause again. He hadn't meant to stand there and watch them but this confused him so much that he had to see what it meant. He saw the two of them stop talking, and then his uncle reached out his hand to touch Holly's face. That was what confused Simon. He'd never seen his uncle use such an affectionate gesture. He'd thought affection not part of his nature. But the woman--Holly--only smiled as if expecting it, and they leaned toward each other and kissed.

Simon was still caught offguard but now not too surprised. When his uncle had introduced her he thought he'd sensed some subdued erotic tension between them. He was just surprised that he hadn't convinced himself of it--or that his uncle hadn't admitted to it--sooner. He supposed it was still something he found awkward to talk about, so decided not to press.

His uncle had reached for Holly's shirt and was unbuttoning it; still kissing, the two of them sank back onto the couch.

Now this posed a problem. Simon had to pass through the den on his way to his room; and there was no way he was going to barge in on them. For all that he knew, this could be the first time his uncle had been with anybody in years. He stepped back from the window, trying to think of a way in, out of the light rain that was starting to fall. He sighed. The only place to stay would be the hangar. He paced back to the driveway, but delayed there a little longer, hoping that the hardest of the rain would wait until later. He didn't want to have to walk all the way over to the hangar.

Holly tried to keep herself still and not giggle from the giddiness she felt as Jack kissed her neck, running his hand inside her open shirt to lightly stroke her breast. She was so glad that the coincidence of the fair had brought them together, or else she might have gone on believing him dead or tortured for years. He seemed to sense her restraint, for when she finally burst out giggling he laughed too. Then he shut his eyes and cursed softly.

"Ah, shit."

Holly felt the briefest surge of memory-panic pass through her. That was almost exactly what Jack had said before his plane went down.

"What is it?"

He looked at her and smiled ruefully. "Simon's gonna be home soon. Wouldn't want him coming in and surprising us."

She smiled back and touched his face. "We could go upstairs."

He blinked and looked as if he'd never thought of that before. This time his smile was a little foolish and Holly laughed as he picked her up.

Simon waited in the drive for a while, pacing a bit miserably in the rain, before going back to the window and squinting in. Whatever they were doing, he hoped they'd had enough time to get it over with. He was surprised to see that the couch was empty now. They must have gone up to Jack's room. Sighing inwardly with relief, he jogged the rest of the way up the drive and let himself in, shaking off the wet.

He sighed out loud this time as he dropped off his pack at the table and headed upstairs. Near the top of the steps he slowed and crept the rest of the way, stopping at his door across the hall from Jack's room. As he bent to unlock the door he couldn't help but overhear the noises from within, the slight steady creak of the bed, the soft, muted cries of the woman, a third sound that he assumed must be his uncle's answering groans.

"Jack--" He heard that, softly but distinctly. "--Oh God, yes--"

He nearly dropped his keys, his hands were shaking so hard. He could feel his face flush in embarrassment on overhearing them. The sooner he got in his room, the better.

The creaking, thumping grew slightly faster. "Oh--oh, God, please--" gasped the woman. His uncle groaned louder, harder.

Simon finally found the keyhole, unlocked the door, and let himself in. He quietly but hurriedly shut the door and flung himself on his bed, letting out his breath. Thank goodness that was over. But even though he was safe behind two closed doors, a hall-width away, when he lay back the house was so silent that he could still hear them, the sound of their lovemaking, dim and muffled through the walls. The bed thumped the wall steadily. The woman let out a muffled cry, his uncle's name again: "Jack--"

He shut his eyes and pretended to ignore it, to ignore the images he saw of them in his head.

In reality, a room away, Jack sat upon the bed with his knees drawn up, Holly sprawled in his lap, her legs spread wide to hug his sides. He held her hips to guide her; his own hips rocked in and out steadily, member thrusting full and hard through her yielding womanhood. Her hands alternated between running down his sides to pressing on his lower abdomen as if to will his seed out. The first two times they'd been together, they'd managed to draw the act out, to prolong their pleasure with each other. Now was no exception. Not even knowing that Simon was present, and not much caring anymore, they forgot to be quiet, and Jack panted heavily as he pushed faster at Holly, kissing her neck, her breasts, fingers squeezing.

Holly threw back her head and gasped. She couldn't hear the growing, frantic thump of the bed past the blood roaring in her ears. She felt herself rising, hotter, rising from her body, beyond her body.

"Ah--Jack--" she panted.

"Holly," Jack moaned, his voice almost desperate in his desire.

"I can feel it," Holly gasped, and then convulsed against him. "Oh! Oh my God--"

As if to pacify himself he buried his face in her breasts, groaning deeply, rocking and thrusting himself into her faster. The bed squealed, shook, pounded. Holly felt his skin wet against hers. She felt tighter, tighter-- Abruptly she gasped and arched, clutching his hips, straining to him. A second later Jack jerked his head back and grasped her as well, quivering inside her, expanding, spurting, groaning harshly through clenched teeth. As Holly felt him explode inside her, and felt her own sharp, swift, bittersweet release, she cried out once more, "Jack, yes!"

Simon heard the final cry of climax, heard the bed abruptly stop moving, barely heard his uncle's guttural sound of release. He cringed, then tried to tell himself over and over in his head that this was good, it was good that his uncle had someone, this was good for him...

In the darkened room across the hall Jack and Holly slumped against each other, panting, and even through their sweat and exhaustion embraced and showered murmured kisses and caresses of pleased affection all over one another.

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This item is not looking for critique. It was written solely for entertainment's sake. Although a scene from a possibly longer story, it is complete in itself and unless otherwise stated there is not going to be any more of it written. Additional unrelated SCENES may be written, but single scenes themselves are complete as they are. So please do not expect more. If you are interested in reading the series which INSPIRED the scene, just look elsewhere in my portfolio and you should find something. (Use the "story codes" given in the scene headers. For example, "MI" = "Manitou Island" series.)

I am not looking for critique on grammar, spelling, style, sentence structure, flow, or the mechanics of writing. What I AM interested in is commentary on such things as characterization, plot, symbolism, theme, etc.--the deeper aspects of the story. I like to know if a scene is believable, if the characters are interesting, what you thought of how they interacted, if the writing evoked any emotions, things such as that.

Feel free to criticize, but just keep in mind that I'm working on more important projects and shared this just for fun and/or to illustrate character interactions, so I don't plan to revise it any time soon. Comments on the characters, theme, etc. are more than welcome.