SUMMARY: Maybe it's time for an experiment.
RATING: R for language and themes (gen fic).
WARNINGS: Details the aftermath of events in Bad Company, a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
NOTES: The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in Bad Company; the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.
A Pleasure Suspended
Wilson sits on the toilet, his towel falling from its wrap to drape loosely over his thighs. He braces both elbows on his knees and revels in the fact that he doesn't need the damn shower sling anymore. Instead, he regards his newest molded plastic hand brace curiously.
Tomlinson has been putting his left hand in different custom-molded braces for weeks now. She'd said it was to improve his chances at regaining full range of motion with his fingers. This new one is comfortable, but for the first time Wilson wonders what the techs were thinking when they molded it.
His fingers and thumb are curled gently inwards, resulting in a loose fist. A...potentially lewd loose fist, if one looks at it from the right angle.
When he'd burned the therapist's card, he had expected to feel...something. Less directionless, maybe, or healed, somehow. Instead he's felt...not much. He rubs at his lips and frowns, thinking that maybe it's time for an experiment.
Wilson has tried masturbating with his right hand a few times in his life, and they had almost always been unsatisfactory experiences. Lately, he'd had no desire to even try, let alone try right-handed. But now...
The plastic brace is smooth, but not the kind of smooth that will easily glide over skin. He needs something to go between—a washcloth? Too rough. Wilson grins when his eyes light on the shower sling, hanging on the back of the door. Perfect, so long as he doesn't look at the damned thing.
After a moment he's settled back on the toilet seat, spandex in place and ready to start. He leans back against the tank and looks up at the ceiling so he doesn't have to see that awful fabric.
He tries rubbing gently at first, just to see if the physical stimulation will be enough. When that doesn't get a response, he starts calling up some of his favorite fantasies: his first wife Elen, with her long red hair and naughty outfits. Cuddy, in nothing but her fuck-me shoes. Aeryn Sun, with leather and guns and growling orders in his ear.
This is working—he's swelling, growing into the space created by the curl of his braced fingers, responding as always. He smiles, half in pleasure and half in relief. In his mind Elen kneels in front of him, her hair brushing his knees as she moves to wrap her full lips around him. He closes his eyes and sighs.
The darkness takes him.
Suddenly it isn't Elen kneeling in front of him; he can't see but he knows she's gone, replaced by someone else. He can't see but maybe he catches a flash of colorless silver eyes looking up at him through the blackness. He hears nothing but his own ragged breath; tastes blood and silk and feels an encouraging little pat on the hip.
He swallows hard, swallowing a scream, as he sits forward and opens his eyes. The budding erection is gone. He throws the sling in the corner and drops his head against his hands. He doesn't know how long he sits, trembling, staring at the bathroom floor.
If ever you were going to let yourself cry, Jimmy, he thinks, now would be a good time.