And Think Of England
It's Simon. It should be Simon. It must be Simon. The ceiling she is staring at is a million years old and the mouth between her legs belongs to Simon.
As he moves up her body she is careful not to notice that he is younger and fitter than Simon ought to be. She stares through him at that too-old ceiling and spreads her legs a little wider. This is mere convenience.
Elizabeth isn't military, so this isn't wrong, just unwise. But he said it himself, a year ago; she has needs and "if God didn't want us to have sex for fun he wouldn't've invented the orgasm." Besides, he's a whore.
Not, of course, in the literal sense. They had to leave capitalism back in the Milky Way. In the colloquial sense, Sheppard is a whore, a slut, the cheapest date that ever was. She knows he's fucking Teyla, and she's wondered about McKay. Simon would understand.
Elizabeth closes her eyes and (Simon) slides into her.
"Oh, hail fucking Mary..." he says, and she lifts her hips up to meet his, and doesn't feel bad about that because she read in Cosmo that this age is her sexual peak. (Simon's) pubic bone presses against her clitoris and she moans deliberate incoherence. In the self-constructed darkness her other senses call her traitor; this scent is not Simon, these sounds are too low, her fingertips trace too much muscle.
(Simon) finds a perfect angle and she parts her lips, lets him kiss her. She thinks of this as his reward, because it doesn't fit her imagined scenario - this isn't Simon, and guilt and stubble tear her apart between them. She tastes home-made gin on his breath and she's pretty sure he hasn't seen sober in the last six months. Part of her is waiting for him to fuck up so she can remind him who's in charge. Another part of her can't blame him for killing himself the slow way.
Simon would never drink like that. Simon would never get so close to losing his mind. She needs to think about Simon.
Her mind is making love to Simon, who calls her Elizabeth; her body is fucking John Sheppard, who calls her Lizzie because it pisses her off.
Another "Lizzie" then, and she retaliates with fingernails over his back, digging in and taking skin. (Simon) chokes out something between a moan and a growl and the bed thuds against a soundproofed wall.
The name she exhales at the end is not sibilant, or even that of a deity she's never really believed in. What he makes her say (because it could not be her fault, could not possibly be her own free will in action) is not "Simon" or "God" but - harsh and desperate - "John". She hates them both in that instant, detests the base male egotism that makes him orgasm at the sound of his own name. He gasps out something that might be "fuck" and she is blanketed by a weight of muscle and bone.
Their breathing slows and against her ear he whispers, "It's been two years," tender and low. "You did good."
"I think you should probably go." She closes her eyes and it's pointless, because she can feel his weight shifting off her, the pitch and fall of the mattress as he moves away. She pretends to fall asleep to the rustle of fabric-on-flesh and does not move - does nothing at all - when his lips press against hers far too briefly and not briefly enough.
She's certain that he knows she's awake because, as it turns out, she's not that good at pretending.