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creature comforts

Creature Comforts
by Molly
April 2000

In the darkest hours, the fear came back. Just before dawn, creeping in with a stifling panic he hadn't known so familiarly since his very first days of combat, coming at him in slow rush of breathless terror.

Kisses smoothed it away, as always, as Daniel woke along with him and got him through the worst of it, his quiet savior. Lips on fire across his skin, hands spreading sweat and comfort and delicious warmth into his core, easing him out of the grip of memory and back into the satiated lull of companionship.

Muscles rippled under seeking fingers; *his* muscles, not in betrayal but in full acquiescence to the temptation of what was offered. Never one to resist, never one to hold back from this type of unconditional surrender, not when he could drown in the simple luxury of mindless devotion. Only as a notion, a capricious inkling of things forgotten, did the fear linger in the back of his mind, the sense that this sort of stability was, in some sense, an illusion.

Precarious, at best. Questionable, and yet a thing to ponder at other times, times when Daniel wasn't whispering soothing words into his ear, wasn't doing *things* with his tongue that no person should be so adept at doing. Rushes of blood revived him, brought him back to full awareness along with the rutting force of all the heat Daniel's body could release at once. Still more came, always more radiating out, filling the miniscule spaces between them and enveloping Jack in a moist blanket of distraction.

Together they moved, one unit, one force, one single blended idea of need and intent. Ubiquitous desire and a pervading sense of mutual gratification turned soft slaps of flesh on flesh into a roaring din of all the information he could ever need. Volumes of seldom-spoken desperation being finally put into silent words, then and there, the desperation to be understood boiling up and out, all through a kiss, a touch, errant grazes of skin.

Withstand all things too foreign to be accepted, they say. Xenophobia is a matter of course, under any other name. Yesterday's friend can be tomorrow's enemy quick as a flash, and then the fear will be back, the sickening twist of reality that steals stability in quick snatches of fate.

Zero hour had come. An alarming juxtaposition of necessity and choice, clamoring for him to admit it, one way or another. Better it be necessity, for sure; better it be the need making the decisions if there were decisions to be made. Certainly he was not any more fit to make them. Define choice, anyway, or at least try. "Es muss sein," after all; either way, it would end in relinquishing the self, voluntarily or otherwise, to the allure of what must be.

Forever, and that was the way it *should* be. Gently prodding hands easing him into the anxious tension that came just before divine release, and he understood yet again, with a clarity so startling one would think he'd never known before, just how much he loved this man.

Helpless to it, in the end he gave in, arched up with a cry and let the apprehension go along with everything else, and then sleep could come once again.