and you can't deny
Brennan doesn't think there's anything worse than waiting around Sanctuary for the others to call for help - unless it's waiting and not having them call at all. The lack of activity is slowly driving him insane, and if he doesn't do something other than bounce the damn tennis ball against the wall, he'll-
"Spar with me?" Emma calls from the top of the dojo, and almost before she's finished asking the question, he's off the couch and up the stairs.
"Bored, huh?" she says, then unbuttons her shirt. His jaw drops as her shirt slips open and reveals smooth, creamy skin that just begs to be touched. He wonders if her breasts could possibly be as soft and full as they look, but before he has a chance to test it out, she's shrugged out of the shirt and pulled a tank top on.
He manages to swallow his disappointment - barely - and says, "Uh, Emma? What's going on?"
She smiles; a slow curve of moist, pink lips that look entirely too kissable for a man to resist. "I couldn't train in that shirt, could I? And it seemed silly to go all the way downstairs to change into something I had right here."
Something about her explanation sounds a little off, but logic has never been Brennan's strong suit, particularly not when faced with a nearly-naked woman. A nearly-naked Emma -- which for some reason makes it even more difficult to think clearly -- and before his stupid, wayward mouth can ask any more questions, he catches her watching him from beneath her lashes.
And this, this he understands; this he knows. It's all part of Flirtation 101, or would be, if Emma were a little more coy.
So he strips off his shirt, stretches to loosen his muscles in preparation for... something, and watches Emma watching him.
"You need to limber up," he tells her, and moves behind her to slowly raise her arms above her head. It isn't exactly stretching, but it's as good an excuse to get his hands on her as any, and maybe it'll give him some indication as to whether she really wants this, or if it's just been one huge misunderstanding on his part. God, he really, really hopes it hasn't been, because acknowledged or not, he's kind of had a thing for Emma since they first met.
"You're really good at this," she says, and leans her head against his chest, tilts her face up to look at him, and he'd almost forgotten how blue her eyes are; like something bright and hot and dangerous; like electricity, and his heart thunders in his ears until he can't concentrate on her words.
He makes some noncomittal sound as he turns her round to face him, doesn't really care what either of them of are saying when he leans down to kiss her, and she softly touches her lips to his.
She tastes like young plums, warm and sweet with a bit of a bite, and when he deepens the kiss, she moans into his mouth, and winds her arms around his neck.
Through some miracle or previously-undiscovered mutant power, they end up naked and on the floor of the dojo with minimal fuss, and they're still kissing; wet, frantic kisses that make him slide a hand down between her legs to see if she's ready for him, to pray desperately that she is, because he doesn't think he can wait any longer.
Then he doesn't have to; she pushes him down and slips on top of him, sinks down in a slow, sinuous motion that makes him lose any last vestige of control he might've had left.
And when he's inside her, so deep he doesn't remember being anywhere else but here, like this, with her, he watches her riding him; the way her eyelashes flutter when his thumb brushes her clit, the way she arches her back when he does something that feels especially good, the way she licks her upper lip when he thrusts into her and their eyes meet.
Whatever this is, it's more than friendship, and more than lust. He's just not sure he can handle it... whatever 'this' is.
Emma comes into his room one night, dressed in some sort of short, black thing that makes her look amazing, and asks him to zip up her dress.
"Sure," he says agreeably, and when she presents him with her back and all that pale, silken skin... well, only a eunuch wouldn't react. This is what he tells himself as he draws the material together and slowly tugs the zipper up, valiently resisting the temptation to rip that little nothing of a dress from her body and tumble them both onto the bed behind him.
"Bren, have you ever been with someone who didn't know who you are?" she asks, pivoting on strappy heels that draw his attention to her gorgeous legs, and remind Brennan of those little sounds she had made when he'd kissed and licked his way up her inner thighs.
He shoots her a sardonic look, and she flashes him one of those too- bright smiles he's been getting from her lately. "Not in that way," she says, and her smile fades. "I mean, have you ever been in a relationship where the person you were involved with didn't know certain things about you?"
"Things like mutations and leather-clad superheroes?" he replies, and when she nods, asks casually, "Why do you want to know?"
"I have a date tonight, and I'm not sure how I feel about keeping him in the dark. You know?"
"He doesn't need to know everything on your first date, Emma," Brennan says tightly, very carefully not thinking about Emma going out with some stranger to do... things, some nameless, faceless man who could never really appreciate her because he doesn't know her.
"But it's not our first date," she says, flooring him, then checks her watch and sighs. "I have to go or I'll be late. Again."
And she leaves before Brennan can convince her not to go, can say anything at all, and he sinks to the bed, a surprisingly intense feeling of possession overwhelming him. Surprising and unfair, he knows, because Emma isn't his. Could've been, if he hadn't pulled the friendship card, if he'd understood what was really going on, and how it'd feel to have her, and then lose her...
Lose her, to some idiot she thinks she wants because she doesn't know he -- they -- are the alternative, some slimeball who'll think he can touch that body and kiss that mouth and hear that voice without Brennan smashing his slimeball teeth to the back of his slimeball throat.
Who knows what a man like that could do to her? It doesn't take much more persuasion for him to decide to follow Emma... and check out the competition.
He finds them easily enough, thanks to Emma's commlink, only to be forced to watch them dance together, watch the creep's hands slide down Emma's back until they rest just above her ass. She doesn't look all that comfortable, and Brennan can't help but smirk a little when she nudges his slimy hands to less dangerous territory.
Out and out grins when the song ends, and they head for the door that leads to the parking lot.
Everything seems to be going well enough as Emma bends slightly to unlock her car door, until Brennan notices the creep staring down the front of her dress, and then he can't help but act.
He moves a little closer, aims for the creep's shoes, and zaps him.
Just a little. Not enough to hurt him, just... give his hair a frizz. More of a warning than anything else, he thinks, and is about to slip away when Emma, trying to steady her date, catches sight of him.
Her mouth firms, and if the sparks shooting from her eyes were any hotter, he'd burn to a crisp.
"Brennan!" she shouts, and it's a tribute to his feelings for her that he doesn't run in the opposite direction.
Instead he walks towards her, and helps her 'friend' find a cab -- a cab Brennan apparently has to pay for, according to Emma. He doesn't complain all that much about it, which you'd think would cool the fires a little, but he thinks the normal things maybe don't work in this kind of situation.
"What's going on, Brennan?" she asks, when they've reached her car again.
The parking lot's so quiet he can almost hear those busy Emma-wheels spinning in her mind, and he drags a hand through his hair, leans against her car and hopes she's remembered to disarm the alarm.
She has, and he says in frustration, "He was looking down your dress! At your... Your..."
"Breasts? You've seen them, touched them, you should be able to say the word, at least."
"Saying the word's always been my problem," he mutters, and she looks at him as though she knows what he's trying to say, as though she gets it.
Her eyes are alight with humour, and he can tell she's trying not to smile -- really smile, this time -- when she asks, "What problem do you have?"
And dammit, she's going to make him say it. He supposes after everything he's put her through recently, she deserves it, and he discovers he kind of wants to say it. It's as though the words will somehow make everything more real, harder to break out of. And he wants it. Wants this.
He takes her hands, sucks in a breath, then dives into the murky waters of declaration. "The ways things've been... I can't do it anymore."
"What do you mean?"
"This... not being with you, thing."
And her eyes look suspiciously moist as she says, "I don't think I can, either. But Brennan, being with you and not actually having you... I don't think I can do that, either."
"I know, and that's not what I mean. I'm trying to say that I love you, Emma," he says, and wills her to understand everything those three words imply, because mushy speeches really aren't his thing. Well, not in public parking lots, anyway.
And she must, because she smiles -- suddenly, beautifully -- and leans forward to kiss him, whispering that she loves him against his mouth.
"That, I knew," he says, and she laughs a little, is still laughing when he kisses her again, and this time, she tastes sweetly familiar.
Like Emma. Exactly right.