Title: Litmus Test 
Author: A.j. 
Rating: NC-17 (and how!) 
Spoilers: Grace, Chimera 
Pairing: S/O (Pete), S/J 
 
*** 
 
You dream of the Colonel sometimes. Not often, but it happens. 
 
It's a strange sort of thing because despite the freeing nature of the 
subconscious, yours seems inordinately trained to avoid such topics. So, it's 
always rare and completely unexpected when you dream of him. Especially now. 
 
You have a lover. A man who warms your bed and makes your life so much 
brighter than it was five months ago. You will never admit it out loud, but 
your inner hallucinatory father gives good advice. 
 
You have more now. The weekends and nights when you're home and he's 
visiting, you can curl into him. Wake up smelling of him. Feel him in your 
space, and after such emptiness for so long, it's beautiful.  
 
There are problems, of course, because this is life and not a trashy romance 
novel (of which you never read and have hidden in the closet under the winter 
clothing and keep |meaning| to give away.) He steals your last beer and 
leaves his socks tucked into the couch cushions, but he is something so much 
better than what you had before. So you're always very, very angry when you 
dream of the other one.  
 
More so when Pete is snoring softly beside you.  
 
The dream always starts out the same. You're lying on a soft surface. 
Sometimes it's a bed, others it's a padded table or a barca lounger. That's 
always been strange because you have no recollection of ever being face down 
in a barca lounger, and it always makes you wonder how you know how it feels.  
 
You're not alone. 
 
You know this because you can feel a smile on your back. Weight pressing you 
down, but not scary. Not frightening at all. Warm and solid, you're pinned. 
His chest hair wonderfully scratchy against you because you're both naked and 
very very happy about it. 
 
You can't see him. You've never actually |seen| him in these dreams. That 
makes it even more frustrating when you wake up, because you |know| who it 
is. 
 
It's been him for years, and you've always known. 
 
Stubble on your bare shoulders makes you shiver. Left to right. Right to 
left. Tiny little tickling prickles leave you gasping and smiling into the 
pillow/pad/cushion. His hands sweep across your breasts, tweaking the 
occasional nipple, but more kneading. Touching. 
 
Your breath is already stuck in your throat. 
 
He's smiling. Lips brushing, teeth nipping. The shifting of muscle and the 
|drag| on your spine. Oh, your stomach feels that. Hell, your toenails feel 
that.  
 
Down your spine he goes, dragging that jaw and smile and tongue. You're 
shivering like a leaf in high wind. His hands are on your sides, stroking. 
Gliding. Scratching just a little bit. You can feel his breath on you. Over 
you. Everywhere.  
 
Your legs are weak, and it's a damn good thing you don't need them right now. 
You will later. You know that because this is a common, if rare adventure. 
It's always the same and always provokes the same reaction.  
 
But that's after, and this is now, and his mouth is on the base of your spine 
sucking, and his hands are spreading your thighs and |fuck|, it doesn't 
matter. Nothing else matters.  
 
One, then two, then three, stroking and touching. You've been wet and his 
fingers find no resistance. Move, stretch, stroke, rub. Never exactly where 
you need them. Not yet. This is for you, and no, he never says a word, but 
you |know| this is for you. Because you know him, and this is what he would 
do.  
 
And then his fingers aren't alone down there anymore.  
 
Strong and warm and wet and |godholyfuck|. You aren't screaming. If this 
weren't a dream, you would be, but it is, so you're not. 
 
Your hands are grasping now. Trying to find something to hold and rend and 
break because this shouldn't be this good. Clasp release. Clasp release. In 
your head he's good at this. So good. 
 
Tongue exactly right and moving like a demon up and down, side to side. His 
fingers are sure and |ohgodohgodohgod| so fucking close... 
 
Mewling now, you try and make him understand. You want more. You want 
different. You want everything. 
 
Your hands grab behind you now. Warm skin, slick with sweat, and you're 
pulling at his arms, his hair, everything you can touch. 
 
He understands. Here, indream, he can read your mind because it |is| your 
mind and you feel him slide back up you. Friction and wet and hot. Tongue 
gone, but fingers still working. His other arm is pulling you now, and your 
legs move up. Supporting yourself, you stretch your body like a bow, up and 
perfect and wanting. No dignity. You beg in every way but verbal, for his 
dick in you |rightnowrightnowrightnow| and he's kissing your neck now, biting 
slightly. 
 
His fingers leave you. It's okay. Totally, completely okay because of the 
rough hair on your thighs, scratching, and you feel him press and the hand 
not bracing himself on the bed/table/chair runs down your arm, clasping your 
fingers and you're rocking. 
 
Back. Forth. Guuuuhhh... 
 
Want it so much, and then he's moving back and in and that first slow 
sliiide... 
 
You wake up gasping and mewling and crying and moaning and totally pissed 
off.  
 
It's fine if you're alone. Oh, you're still mad as a wet hen and ready to do 
serious damage, but your fingers and your dildo are enough to slake the edge. 
Anger is the other side of passion, and you push and pinch and touch and 
scream when you cum. Hard and red you pound into yourself and rub until 
you're raw, but that's fine. That's life. 
 
But with Pete just behind you, so warm and so there and so goddamn willing, 
you're too weak to do anything else but go down on him long enough to wake 
him up.  
 
He likes these dreams. Has told you that over coffee the next morning. Eyes 
warm sexy-sated, voice low in your ear, whispering about how fucking hot you 
were last night. He never sees the little bit of hate in your eye, and if he 
ever did, he'd never know what it was for.  
 
You hate yourself after these dreams.  
 
A lot.  
 
Because as Pete's pounding into you from behind, you're screaming and yelling 
your head off. Unintelligible things because you're so fucking scared that if 
you start yelling words, his name won't be the one on your tongue. 
 
It's always rough after these dreams. By yourself or with Pete, you don't 
want tenderness. Slamming, biting, rutting. Nothing gentle or sweet will do 
for this |thing| that haunts you. You want his fingers on your hips bruising. 
It's a fight that Pete won't remember having. He isn't the other combatant. 
And that's the big problem. 
 
In the stroke-like orgasm you always |always| have, Pete's aren't the eyes 
you don't see. His isn't the breath making your spine tingle. His isn't the 
presence that makes you want to run out into the street and scream until 
everything ends, burning around you. 
 
You love Pete. You find him slowly seeping into your life like rain in the 
desert. Making things bloom and making you happy.  
 
Staring off in the lab while numbers are compiling, you can picture growing 
old with this man. Your lover. Walking in the park across the street from 
your house with a child or two swinging between you. For the first time in 
seven years, you're happy. Satisfied.  
 
But you still dream. 
 
And deep down, you know that you won't have that life with Pete. It's real 
and possible and so bright and shiny it makes your heart hurt with the 
promise of hope. 
 
You've just never been good at lying to yourself. 
 
After the ship and the hallucinations, you needed to know what was real in 
your head. If what you felt for the one you can't have is what you feel or if 
it's just convenience wrapped up in your neuroses. 
 
Last night, at exactly 11:47pm, you realized that it isn't the latter. Lazy 
and almost crying with Pete snuggling your neck, you blinked and felt your 
world shift. Pete's weren't the eyes you saw in your mind, and his name 
wasn't the one you knew you were screaming for. 
 
But it doesn't matter right now. Not really. 
 
Nothing has changed. 
 
You won't be breaking up with Pete any time soon. He's a good man. He knows 
about your life and world. Hasn't left you. He's wonderful in bed. He makes 
you coffee and waffles, and is actually managing to teach you the basics of 
cooking. 
 
You love him. You want him. 
 
You will leave him. 
 
But not right now. 
 
-fin-