by Suz email@example.com
Disclaimer - MGM/Gekko/Double Secret own them.
I'm rating this R just in case anyone's easily offended. Iím not sure, but I think nanda inspired this one. If you like it thank her; it you hate it blame me.
She likes it when she dies.
She realises it after the forth time it happens; when she screams back into life again, when the air pounds in and out of her lungs, when her throat is sore from the tube Janet forced there, when her heart is thudding red blood cells around her body.
When he hovers by her bedside, trying not to show how worried he is. When he's so concerned about not showing how worried he is, that it seems he doesn't care at all.
She knows better.
She doesn't touch his hand, doesn't offer him any sign of comfort.
They converse for a while: matters of work and recovery. He throws in a joke occasionally; she smiles because it's expected.
Janet chases him away.
She spends a lot of time on her back. Ironic. The infirmary is the only place that happens.
She spends a lot of time thinking that she likes it when she dies. Not that she hates life, not that she wants to die and stay dead...but she likes the sensation. The rush. Especially when she's aware of it. The sudden split-second feeling that *this is it*.
Horrifying, terrifying, skin tingling.
In that moment, she feels more alive than she has in years.
The others visit. They say nothing about her preoccupation, and why would they? She just had a closer than usual (for them, anyway) brush with death. Musing over mortality is an expected course of action.
She's released from the infirmary but given a week's downtime and driven home. She thanks the driver, and walks into the house.
There's no one waiting for her.
She prefers it that way.
The shower is turned on, her throat still sore as she stands under the water. A power shower is a wonderful thing.
Her fingers rub over her body, between her legs and eventually she stumbles out of the shower with damp hair. Though she's more than capable of satisfying herself that way, it's not what she craves tonight.
She knows she'll need help for what she wants.
Picking up the phone, she dials a number that - were he anyone except her CO - would be the first one in her speed dial. She doesn't tell him anything; just that she needs him.
He arrives and it's bad, it'll look bad if anyone sees his truck outside her house but she doesn't really care.
He does, objecting when she makes it clear what she wants, concerned only about her career.
She finds ways to silence him.
On her bed later, she strains, gasps, clutches. "Kill me," She whispers, pleading, unable to feel embarrassed or ashamed. Feeling anything *but* embarrassed or ashamed. "Kill me."
He does, for a while.
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