Simplicity
by Nancy Brown (nancyelizabrown@aol.com)
Copyright 2004
NC-17 

Disclaimer: Not mine.  DC and Warner Brothers would be
very mad at me if they knew about this. 

Feedback: Please?

Note: Companion piece to "These Things".
Spoilers up through "The Return."

*

It wasn't home, but it would do.  She'd kept the
decorations simple, as she had in every other place
she'd inhabited since her arrival on Earth.  Simple
meant not leaving much behind when she inevitably did
leave.  Simple was easy, and simple was safe, and
simple was not looking at things that might remind her
of what she'd lost.

Shayera liked simple.

Simple meant rising in the morning when she desired,
breakfasting on Inza's delicious food (although she
couldn't recall ever having seen Inza actually cook or
bake) then spending the day reading, or wandering the
strange environment that was both her temporary home
and voluntary prison, or just thinking.  She would eat
dinner, often after a handful of reminders from her
hostess, and she would retire to her room, and this was
her existence.  They asked nothing of her, these two
who had saved her life, and she gave little, wondered
at times what she could give to one who had the
powers of the universe.  She did not dwell on the
matter.

Simple meant peaceful, and this was something new.

Fate brought news from time to time.  She listened, did
not often volunteer comment.  He was accepted among her
former friends, and she was not, and that was the end
of it.  Hearing of this adventure and that, of the new
liaisons and new friendships, these rubbed wounds
already scabbed over.

At night, it was worse.  Without the small distractions
of her day, her mind spiraled into familiar territory:
her mission, her past, her lovers, and always a wonder
what she could have done differently that would have
made any of these things better.  She could have told
the League about her mission, and violated her oath to
her people.  She could have told John about Hro, and
then tried to explain how, despite being separated from
him for five years, she knew he would return for her. 
She could have ...  Too many things she could have
done, and the only comfort was the knowledge that, had
she not sided against her new friends during the
initial battle, she'd never have known the real plan,
nor how to foil it.

There was less comfort for the other situation.

She opened her eyes, stared into the deep darkness that
was her room.  No windows and thus no streetlights or
moonlight or starlight, nothing to break up the
blackness in her vision or her heart.  Maybe she'd ask
for a night light.

As if that would help.

She missed him.  Knowing which one she missed didn't
make things better.  She missed having him at her back,
both in a fight and in his bed.  He was warm, always
warm, and he soothed her.

She'd always considered herself to be a good person, a
good soldier, a good woman.  She'd performed her
mission because she'd been assigned to perform it,
because that was what a good soldier and citizen did. 
She had fallen in love with Hro because he was strong,
and he was handsome, and he was brave, and he was
appropriate, and he loved her too.  She'd remained
faithful for almost five years when she did not
entirely believe she'd ever see him again.

Almost faithful.

John had been strong, and handsome, and brave, and not
at all appropriate, and she had tried, oh she had tried
to think of him as just another friend, or on her worse
days, just another Earthling to dupe.  Sometimes it
worked, and other times, she was weak.

The Thanagarian Authority had very strict views on
certain activities.  Relations between soldiers were
not forbidden; nor were they encouraged.  It was
understood that, from time to time, warriors would take
lovers among their own, and these relationships were
seen as potentially building ties within the units,
although units had also been known to implode because
of them.  The release of certain tensions by one's
self, that was a different matter.  Soldiers were
encouraged not to indulge, in the hopes that they would
channel those urges into more fierce combat.

What would the Earthlings think, were they to discover
their latest enemies' ferocity came not only from a
natural animosity, but also a great deal of pent-up
frustration?

For Earth was a different matter.  She had learned, in
a very roundabout fashion, that while relationships
were ticklish things, and confusing, almost everyone
yielded to, er, tension release, whether they admitted
it or not.  While investigating the computer systems of
the Watchtower, she had discovered the files Flash
hadn't hidden well, and the files Batman had triple-
encrypted, and the files Superman and John both thought
they'd deleted, and files Diana didn't bother hiding at
all.  Only J'onn appeared never to use the computer
system for extracurricular searches during long, quiet
watches alone, and he was a telepath; he could probably
tap into someone's stash directly inside his or her
mind.

These discoveries had been illuminating.  Also weird.

But Shayera had been good, a good woman and a good
fiancee, to use their word.  Thinking back now, maybe
if she had been less good on that particular point, she
wouldn't have been forced to notice how good John
smelled, notice the roll of his muscles as he moved in
his uniform.  And she'd been lonely, and his heart was
kind.

John probably hated her now.  When she'd left him,
she'd told him the only thing she'd had left, that she
loved him, and it was true.  And he'd said nothing, and
she couldn't bear to hear him say nothing.

Hro did hate her. That was simple.  She'd gone
away on her mission and she'd taken a new lover and
she'd betrayed their people and now billions would die,
and it was all her fault.  The shock would be if he
didn't hate her, but no danger there.

She'd gone to his bed during the invasion, because she
was a good woman.  She was Promised to him, and he
deserved for her to act as she should, deserved for her
to make an attempt at becoming his wife.

She lay on her stomach, face pressed into the furs
and blankets, and his kiss to her shoulders was her
only warning before he thrust inside her.  She was wet,
thankfully, and he was hard and huge and she moaned as
she stretched.

"Shayera!"  He shuddered his climax into her — five
years was a long time, and they both thought there
would be a lifetime of chances for more — and as he
spasmed, her imagination gave her another name, another
face, and she took her thin pleasure from the fantasy,
knowing he would never know.

And now she was alone, would be ever alone except for
the oddly comforting presence of the Nelsons, and she
was awake because of thoughts she could never escape.

Good Thanagarian women did not slide their hands under
the pretty nightgowns given by their hostesses (white
with no frill or pattern, already modified  to
accommodate her wings).  They did not pull up on the
gowns to stroke their breasts, or try to recall the
feel of other hands there, or slide hands down their
own bodies.  Alternately, good women did not cheat on
their fiances with alien lovers, they did not fall in
love with those aliens, they did not betray their
people to destruction.

She'd left "good" behind a long time ago.  Now she was
left with simple, and simple meant finding sleep.

"Ah!"  She bit her lip to quiet herself.  Too much, too
soon and always too fast.  Her hand moved back up her
body, touched her nipple.  Slower now, she could try to
remember what this was like when there was another hand
here, another face here.

She closed her eyes against the darkness.

Starlight streamed into the med lab, and his mouth
was warm against hers.  His eyes opened, such a soft
brown without the ring's influence, and she wondered
how to tell him that on her world, green eyes were not
a thing to be prized, but had to be hidden away.

Not that this mattered to him.  His hands roamed over
her arms, and she sighed at the touch.  He had touched
her as a friend many times, had carried her when she
was unconscious, but now his fingers moved across her
flesh and she trembled.

It had been so long, and he was right there in her
arms, and wanted her.  Which, sadly, begged the
question of what that entailed.  John was familiar with
taking alien lovers, as she suspected many of the Corps
did, but she had loved only two men prior, and both had
been Thanagarian.  Certainly she had seen her friends'
hidden files, and others like them, and so she
understood the mechanics were similar, but ...

He brushed his thumbs against the back of her neck

The sense-memory made her gasp.  Her own fingers on her
neck did nothing, but John's had been like fire, and
she remembered so well.

His mouth followed his fingers and now she was
pooling inside herself, trying not to wiggle as he bit
her lightly and licked at the spot.

"You have to stop," she breathed, eventually.

He pulled away.  "Sorry.  I thought you were enjoying
that."

"I was.  Too much."  She kissed him quickly, fiercely,
trying to indicate he had not done wrong.

She had to stop kissing him.  She really did.  She had
to pull back, apologize, had to tell him there was
someone else, and the words melted in her throat with
the brush of his mouth against hers.

It didn't have to mean anything, this kissing, this
touching.  She could stay faithful to Hro in her soul,
and still fulfill the needs of her body.  Hro would
have to understand.  Just because she was pressing her
lips against John's, just because her hands were moving
almost on their own over John's shoulders, down his
back, to his waist, these actions didn't mean she was
in love with him.  If her heart reminded her that she
had lost all rational thought when she'd thought John
was dead, that she'd spared not a single thought for
the mission nor for Hro when all she could do was
whatever it took to bring John back, then obviously her
heart was simply not with the rest of the program.

Her heart raced, and she paused.  She knew J'onn's mind
could not find a way into hers, but Inza was an
unknown.  Still, had the other woman known Shayera's
thoughts, surely she would have called her out the
first time they'd met, for the mission had been firmly
on her mind that day.

Telepaths were new to her still, and surprising, and
sad.  In her calm seclusion, she watched Inza with her
husband, watched the dance of hand and arm and voice,
and the bond between two souls who needed no words.

Of course she was jealous.

She'd been so grateful when she'd learned of her
immunity to J'onn's gifts, when she'd been assured her
secrets were safe.  And then there were other times,
when she could see that J'onn had reached out to touch
the minds of the rest, that she felt the loss.  As much
as the humans might find his abilities an encroachment,
she could see they also found him comforting.

Not for her.  It was better this way, to be alone
inside her own mind.  Liberating.  Lonely.

"I don't want to be alone," she whispered into his
stubbled cheek.  Morning had not crept into his
apartment, and he dozed beside her, and here she was
safe and warm.  She had to rise and clothe herself, had
to ensure they did not arrive together, lest the others
discover their delightful secret too soon.  But she did
not want to leave.

The gown slipped over her head, pulling her hair,
tugging at her wings, and flowed to the floor.  She
hated sleeping clothed.

Her hands were on his briefs, and she needed to
stop, and then she was tugging at the small bit of
clothing, her mouth suddenly gone dry.  He was bruised
and tired from the explosion, and he winced as he moved
his hips and allowed her to remove them.  He was ... 
She had seen pictures, movies, and she was not
surprised, she told herself.

Later, he would tell her that human males often had the
first bit of skin removed when they were infants, and
she would understand more of the differences between
their species.  Now she was not prepared even to ask,
and instead she kissed him again.  His knees pulled up,
and his hands were at her back, seeking out the
fastening to her bodice.

The sudden loss of pressure on her chest made her gasp,
and then she did almost stop.  This was crazy, this was
wrong, this was ...  His hands were hot on her bare back,
and he chuckled very softly.

"What?" she asked against his chin.

"Your feathers are tickling my arms."

"Then you should move."

He hooked his thumbs at her waistband, began sliding
her pants down, and she whimpered.

"You're not," he said, in a half-kiss, "not wearing any
panties."

"Never do."  She didn't see the point of more clothing
than what she needed.

"Oh yeah, now I'm going to ever pay attention in staff
meetings again."  His hand cupped around her
bottom.

Her hand massaged her breast lightly, but its mate slid
down to her bottom, grasped it as he always did.

She pressed fully against him, skin matching to skin
everyplace they could touch, sweet and messy kisses on
her cheek as she breathed into his ear, nibbled at the
sensitive lobe and heard him moan in response.

Moaning, and he was pushing her gently from him.

"Are you hurt?"

"I was dead earlier tonight, remember?"  Guilt flooded
her.  He was injured, and here she was mauling him.

"I'm sorry," she stammered.  "We should ... "

He grasped her wrist, kissed the pulse down to her
elbow.  Her head swam.

"We should go slow," he said, and kissed his way back
up to her hand.  His tongue traced a pattern in the
middle of her palm.

She tasted the center of her hand, felt the thrill of
her own breath on her skin.  She slipped two fingers
between her lips.

Slow, yes.  They had to be slow, had to learn each
other.  Nor could she be careless with him, or she
would injure him further.  But perhaps she could do
something else.  For him.

"Lay back."  She pushed him against the bed, knowing he
was too tired to struggle much.  She kissed his throat,
kissed his left nipple and his right as he made pleased
noises.  She kissed his navel.  His breath caught, and
he tried to sit up.

"You don't have to ... "  He wasn't completely hard, not
yet, and she could take him entirely into her mouth.

"Oh god."  His head hit the pillow as she swallowed him whole.

It was not exactly like when she had done this for Hro. 
John's skin was less sweet, and all her people were
hairless here.  Tiny hairs tickled her lips, her face. 
Most unusual.

He stiffened with hot blood as she pulled her mouth up
his length, and that was not unusual at all.  She
smiled around him as she pulled her lips away.  She
found a bead of wet salt at the tip and delicately
licked it clean before she engulfed him again.  John
made strangled noises in his throat.

Her fingers went deep into her throat; she remembered
this feeling, although the taste was wrong.  

He bucked against her, deep into her throat, and
she struggled to breathe around him, to keep her teeth
covered with her lips.  Then his hands were on her,
tugging at her desperately, maneuvering her.

Annoyed, a little, she batted his hands away — she
liked to concentrate on this work — but he insisted,
and he guided her waist to his chest.  He spread her
thighs with his thumbs, and she whimpered around his
shaft, dipping her head.

Her hands switched places, and now her other hand was
in her mouth, thrusting gently.  Her fingers, slick with
her own saliva, moved between her legs, spread herself
open.  Touched.

His finger slid against her most sensitive place.  She
pulled off him to cry out.

"Like that, do you?"  Damn him, he sounded far too
pleased with himself.

Instead of answering, she took him into her mouth
again, and then she sucked, was rewarded with a loud
moan that could have been her name.  The finger was
removed.

He licked a stripe all the way along her throbbing
central ridge.  She screamed.

It could have been a competition, but she was far
too occupied with pleasuring him, and from the
delicious things he continued to do with his tongue,
John was more than happy to reciprocate.  She brushed
her fingers across his sac, the place where (she'd
read) human males kept their testicles, rather than a
more efficient internal system.  She took the
opportunity to taste them, place them in her mouth and
hum softly.  John seemed to appreciate this.

Lying on him, touching him everywhere, it was like
basking on a hot stone in the middle of the afternoon.
His tongue danced on her, glinting delight with every
touch.  She was happy and shivery, and when she took
his cock into her mouth again, he started thrusting
into her in a slow rhythm.  She grasped him at the
base, used her hand to pump with her lips.  Her jaw was
aching, and her lips were going numb, and she was not
insane enough to stop now.

Her fingers slid in and out of her mouth, while her
other hand rolled her ridge between thumb and middle
finger.  This was the thing her superiors denied her,
denied them all.  This was the pleasure no one on Earth
spoke of, and all indulged in, furtive and alone, this
frisk of fingers and thumbs.

John thrust harder into her mouth, snapped his hips. 
"I'm gonna come!" he hissed from between her legs,
warning her.

She stopped her motion, held still, sucked hard.  He
shouted and thrust and came into her mouth.  She suckled
at him, more gently now, licked away all the salty
traces from him as he jerked with each touch.

His breathing slowed, and she began to move herself
from him.

He grabbed her hips, and for someone who had been dead
earlier that same night and was just coming down from a
hard orgasm, his hands were like steel.  She rested her
head against his hip as his tongue moved against her
again, more fervently than before.  She moaned, and
wiggled at the licks and tastes.

She rubbed herself harder.  Like this, yes, just like
this, and she pinched herself as she slid in a finger.

He suckled at her hard, then bit down lightly, just
as he slipped two fingers deep inside her.

Her cries were muffled by her pillow as her body
jerked.  She knew they would not hear, and still she
kept as silent as she possibly could.

Pleasure shot through her, sparking off every nerve,
forcing her to spasm, to yell out unintelligibly.  Her
brain shut down as lights flickered in her vision.

When she could think again, she was still atop him.  A
bit clumsily, she climbed off, slipped her body up
against his, kissed him deeply as she pulled the
blanket up around them both.  She tasted herself on
him, wondered if he tasted himself.

He broke the kiss first, and stared at her.  "Hi."

"Hi."  And now would come the awkward part, where he
would thank her, or something equally as embarrassing,
and she would know she had been unfaithful to Hro for
nothing but an evening's pleasure, and she would slink
back to the Control Room to finish the watch, and they
wouldn't meet each other's eyes for weeks at meetings,
and the others would guess and not know what to say.

"Promise me that you will never ever leave," he said,
drawing her closer to his chest.

Instead of making a promise she couldn't keep, she
cuddled into his arms, pulling her wings as much onto
the bed as they would fit.  His heart beat steadily and
strong.  She felt it against her cheek.  She'd done
that, had saved him, and he loved her.  Maybe that was
enough for now.

Her heart slowed.  Her senses still gleamed; she could
see the faintest trace of light around her door.  She
wasn't stupid enough to think it was the light at the
end of the tunnel, or anything mawkish like that.  It
was simply a light.

When one was alone in the dark, and looked to be for
quite some time to come, sometimes just a light was
sufficient companionship.

John was out there, beyond the door.  On one of the new
satellites, on the planet, doing good and saving lives
and being the hero he always had been.  Hro was long
gone, and as much as she thought she should miss him,
all she felt was a vague hope that he would not watch
their homeworld die.

Neither was hers now, neither would be hers again.  All
she had were the unearned kindnesses of two near-
strangers, and the light around her door.

Those would have to be enough.

*