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Entry tags:
SGA fic: Men of Integrity; Woolsey/Caldwell; Adult
Title: Men of Integrity
Authors:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ariadne83 and lunabee34
Pairing: Woolsey/Caldwell
Rating: Adult
Word count: 2995
Notes: Title from the SG-1 episode Inauguration. Thanks toana_grrl for the excellent beta.
ariadne83 says: The whole thing started with the mental image of Woolsey and Caldwell sitting on the balcony sipping drinks, Boston Legal style, and grew into an epic comment fic (SGA: the fandom where characters just will not shut up).
lunabee34 says: Writing this fic was some of the best fun I've had in fandom. What started out as kind of a joke ended up turning into something of which Ariadne and I are very proud. Enjoy.
Woolsey forces himself to wait patiently until Atlantis decides that, yes, he may gain entry to his quarters, and once inside he kicks off his shoes and trades his uniform for an exquisitely tailored three piece. The wine he brought with him across two galaxies is disappearing much faster than he had anticipated, but Woolsey pours himself a glass anyway. He deserves a drink. He almost killed his chief medical officer three days ago.
Keller is alive and Sheppard is also alive (which is the kind of miracle Woolsey thinks he'll be seeing more of in his tenure as leader of the Atlantis expedition) and Woolsey supposes he can't have hoped for a better outcome. He wonders if next time the price of their continued safety will be much higher than an abdominal wound. He wonders if he is truly ready to pay that price.
The door chimes and when Woolsey opens it, Caldwell is standing on the other side. "Colonel," Woolsey says. "Is something wrong?" He taps his radio, but the device appears to be working properly.
Caldwell shakes his head. "Nothing's wrong. I just wanted to check in with you now that the crisis is over. I imagine this is not the first week you'd envisioned."
Caldwell has always made an effort to build close relationships with the Atlantean command structure which confounds Woolsey. He's just not sure how to interpret the personal attention and wishes there were a way to ask Colonel Carter without scotching Caldwell's career in the process. Regardless of Caldwell's motives, Woolsey is grateful for the offer of friendship. Woolsey had three long weeks to watch Caldwell in operation, and he saw first hand the respect and admiration he engendered in his crew. Woolsey could certainly pick worse professional models to emulate.
And certainly less attractive ones.
Woolsey has attempted to keep his assessment of Caldwell a purely aesthetic one since he met the man, but the intergalactic voyage left him with a surplus of time that he filled in the rather fruitless exercise of cataloguing all the ways in which Caldwell interests him. Now, however, is not the time for this sort of introspection. Woolsey has already allowed Caldwell to linger in the hallway for too long. He steps back from the door and motions Caldwell inside.
"As I recall," Caldwell says as he steps across the threshold, "I asked you to call me Steven."
"Yes, of course," Woolsey replies. "Would you care for a glass of wine, Steven?" He stumbles slightly over the words but they earn him a warm smile from Caldwell that sends an unexpected jolt to his stomach. Woolsey turns back to his desk quickly and fumbles with the bottle, hoping nothing shows on his face.
"It's still a little sharp," Woolsey says apologetically as he hands over the glass. "My decanter got broken on the way here." He leaves his glass on the desk and gestures at the stereo. "I was just about to put on some music. Any requests?"
Caldwell shakes his head. "Don't let me disrupt your evening."
By silent agreement, they decide to make the most of the balmy weather and head outside. "I've always loved this particular Wagner piece," Caldwell says and leans out over the balcony, his face partially obscured in shadow.
"Indeed," Woolsey replies and takes a long gulp of red wine. Could one still call French cabernet Dutch courage? Woolsey dismisses that thought as it forms. Although he'd like to believe that Caldwell's interest in him is more than professional, Woolsey can't afford to get so caught up in the fantasy that he misses what's in front of him. “So," he continues, squaring his shoulders. "I never pegged you for much of a music lover, Colonel." Woolsey winces as soon as the word leaves his mouth; his memory usually isn't so sloppy, but it's been a long week.
Caldwell grins, his bottom lip a ripe curve against the bell of his wineglass. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Richard."
“Yes, I suppose there is," Woolsey says, smiling back at him. "Would you care to join me for dinner tonight? I would appreciate the opportunity to get to know you better."
Dinner is rather unremarkable--bread and Athosian stew and crunchy pastries from Idrian. But the wine is good and the company even better and before long, Woolsey relaxes enough to say what's been on his mind for some time now. "Steven," he begins, "I must admit I'm surprised you agreed to have dinner with me. I know I don't always make the best first impression. I assumed you disapproved of my methods."
Caldwell shakes his head a little and looks down at his plate. "Rules exist for a reason, Richard. I believe that. I've never thought less of you for believing the same."
Woolsey wants to grin from ear to ear but he settles for a small, tight smile, hiding even that much behind the rim of his Waterford. Woolsey would never be so gauche as to mention his bed-side exchange with Colonel Sheppard in this setting, but he cannot help but be reminded of the similarity between what he confessed to Sheppard and what Caldwell says to him now. Woolsey is more than a little comforted to know that there is--here on Atlantis, here in his very room--someone for whom rules do not necessarily equate a great evil.
"Besides," Caldwell continues, "if there's one thing I've learned about Atlantis, it's that it teaches you to be flexible." He lifts his head, quirks an eyebrow and says, "I'm looking forward to seeing what the place does with you."
Woolsey chokes on his mouthful of wine and ends up dabbing at his mouth with a corner of tablecloth, determined to save at least one of his silk shirts from ruin, although if the cuffs are any indication, this will be a losing battle.
Caldwell laughs out loud, his voice deep and a little hoarse, and his eyes crinkling up at the corners with merriment. Woolsey flushes, less because he's embarrassed and more because he had no idea that a genuinely amused Caldwell could look so sweet. That's not the right word, of course, but it's the first that pops into Woolsey's mind, and once the idea is there, it's hard to shake.
Woolsey has seen Caldwell angry and he has seen him full of derision and he has seen him in battle mode. And all those versions of Caldwell, Woolsey finds equally interesting. But the one that sits before him now--the one with the easy smile and look of contentment--Woolsey would like to see more of him. Would like to see him all, actually. Woolsey blushes at the mental picture that thought conjures up and fervently hopes he isn't going to make a complete fool of himself this evening and alienate someone who has always been the city's stalwart ally.
Unfortunately, Caldwell is a remarkably observant man. The humour slips from his face and his eyes darken, making Woolsey blush even more hotly under his gaze. Caldwell pushes his seat back and is on his feet within seconds, and Woolsey starts mentally preparing his “Can’t we all just get along?” speech as he also stands. He manfully resists the urge to flinch when Caldwell strides towards him and crowds into his space. Woolsey refuses to give any ground; the last thing he needs if this turns nasty is to have his back up against the wall, literally. To his surprise, however, Caldwell stops short and lays a shaky hand on his shoulder. Woolsey frowns, confused, but Caldwell has already closed his eyes. Woolsey's heart speeds up and he can hear the blood rushing in his ears. This can't possibly be what it looks like. Can it?
Caldwell's lips close over his in a firm but maddeningly short kiss, and then he pulls back, letting his hand slip from Woolsey's shoulder to his waist. "Tell me we're on the same page here, Richard," he murmurs, breath warm against Woolsey's cheek.
Woolsey presses forward, closing the gap between them again, and kisses him desperately. Caldwell's mouth slides open, the familiar, smoky taste of wine still on his tongue, and Woolsey finds himself smiling again despite the fact that his mouth is otherwise occupied.
Caldwell must feel Woolsey’s expression change because he pulls away again. "What is it?"
Woolsey darts in and nips his lower lip. "You're a fine vintage," he quips, eyes sparkling.
Caldwell smirks. "I could say the same about you." He takes hold of Woolsey's right hand, lifting it so he can lick away the stray droplets of wine that had gathered at his wrist earlier.
"I rather doubt I'll ever look at cabernet the same way again," Woolsey observes, gasping when Caldwell bites at the soft flesh at the base of his thumb.
After that, they talk very little for some time.
Caldwell's body feels good pressed up against his, Caldwell's strong hands at his waist, his thumb rubbing a circle on Woolsey's hip. Woolsey's hands shake when he unzips the jacket of Caldwell's uniform, but he doesn't think Caldwell notices. His tongue is too busy tracing the shell of Woolsey's ear.
When finally they both are shirtless, Woolsey is startled by the soft brush of Caldwell's dog tags against his skin. The tags are warm, sinuous, and the chain pools in the hollow of Woolsey's throat when Caldwell pushes him back against the wall.
"Steven," Woolsey gasps, and the dog tags fall from his throat and slither down his chest.
And then they keep sliding, down, down, and ohgod Caldwell is on his knees, fumbling with Woolsey's ridiculously complicated belt. Woolsey lets his head fall back against the wall and closes his eyes, because he's not a teenager anymore and he absolutely will not come before his dick is even out of his pants.
Woolsey is hyper aware--of Caldwell's warm breath at his navel, Caldwell's fingers digging into his thighs, Caldwell's tags brushing the sensitive skin behind his left knee.
"Richard," Caldwell says, and his voice is thick and his eyes are dark and intent and Woolsey aches for his touch. He lets out a soft moan when Caldwell's thick fingers brush over the head of his dick, cool and gun callused against his skin. There is a swift scratch-and-drag and then, finally, Caldwell's tongue is on him, licking firmly up its length. Caldwell huffs out a laugh when Woolsey groans, and the puff of breath against Woolsey's wet skin makes his hips hitch forward involuntarily. The tip of his cock slides all the way into Caldwell's mouth, dry lips dragging slightly. Caldwell slides his mouth slowly up and down, slicking Woolsey's cock bit by bit, and then starts taking in more and more of Woolsey's length. He keeps up a steady rhythm for a while, making Woolsey sob and gasp and grab for his shoulder, and then--Jesus--takes him all the way in and keeps him there, twisting his tongue to stroke the base of Woolsey's cock.
Woolsey has to grab Caldwell by the shoulder, haul him up and kiss him again, hard and wet. He wraps both arms around Caldwell and presses full-length against him, gasping when the cold buttons of the fly on Caldwell's BDUs touch his overheated skin.
Caldwell pulls away, looking thoroughly debauched, and growls, "Bed," as he tugs at his pants. Woolsey is only too happy to oblige.
Woolsey has never been more grateful that he had the foresight to have his own, adult-size slat bed shipped across on the Daedalus; the Ancients, for all their intelligence, ridiculously underestimated the importance of a good night's sleep. He shivers with added pleasure when he recognizes that Caldwell is benefiting from his own generosity; storage space in the holds of the Daedalus is, after all, at a premium. Woolsey's sheets are standard issue, however, and they remind him keenly of where this assignation is taking place and of the public faces that he and Caldwell must certainly wear once this night has ended.
"What's wrong?" Caldwell says, his hands stilled at Woolsey's waist.
Woolsey smiles. "It's nothing."
Caldwell looks at him steadily for a full minute and then smiles back and says, "Well, alright," and leans in to kiss him again. He's slow now and careful, gliding his hands up Woolsey's back. He presses one hand firmly against one of Woolsey's shoulder blades, keeping him close, and slides the other back down, keeping his eyes on Woolsey's.
Caldwell's tags are caught between their bodies, the metal chain biting into Woolsey's skin. Woolsey can barely breathe as Caldwell's hand closes around his cock, as Caldwell's thumb slides over the sensitive tip with each stroke.
Caldwell's hand caresses him languorously, firm and sure on his cock and Woolsey is tempted to close his eyes again, to rest his head against Caldwell's shoulder, but those dark eyes are watching him and Woolsey can't look away.
Woolsey knows, even as Caldwell slides his hand down to stroke his balls, that Caldwell is still mostly dressed for a reason: he's being given an out. To be perfectly frank, if it were Woolsey's career on the line he might take it, but this is Caldwell's choice. Apparently, he is Caldwell's choice, and Woolsey is well aware of what it means that Caldwell is willing to eschew his belief in the sanctity of rules in order to be with him here and now. Woolsey can't help but be humbled. Not that that translates to him being too chivalrous. Woolsey has plans for this man.
He begins by relieving Caldwell of the remainder of his uniform. Woolsey undresses him slowly, allowing Caldwell time to refuse, but Caldwell's hand keeps moving lazily on Woolsey's cock and his breath goes ragged and the skin Woolsey uncovers by increments is damp and heated.
When they are both naked, Woolsey turns onto his side and draws his knees up to his chest. He closes his eyes and waits for Caldwell to either accept or reject this offering.
The bed dips when Caldwell crawls up behind him and kisses the back of his neck, and Woolsey lets out a breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. Caldwell strokes his arm, shoulder to wrist and back up again, and then slides his hand down to Woolsey's hip and squeezes slightly—perhaps looking for permission of his own—before moving lower. Caldwell's hand skitters over his buttock and Woolsey shivers; it's just on this side of ticklish. Caldwell lets out a short laugh but he obligingly presses harder, kneading the muscle. Then there's a sudden shift, the bed squeaks, and Caldwell is there: his thumb parting Woolsey's cheeks, his hot tongue pressing against Woolsey's hole rhythmically. Woolsey buries his face in the crook of his arm and tries not to groan too loudly; it wouldn't do to get too over-excited and end the evening prematurely. Caldwell teases him open and makes him squirm, then finally, finally, when Woolsey can barely keep himself from sliding over the edge, Caldwell eases inside, his face pressed into Woolsey's shoulder blades, one hand clutching Woolsey's hip bone. The pleasure is exquisite, and Woolsey doesn't last very long. Neither does Caldwell. "Richard," he moans, and Woolsey knows there will be bruises on his hip tomorrow--the imprint of Caldwell's fingers, marks that will remind him for days of what they are doing now.
They drowse together in Woolsey's bed until the sheets have cooled and their hearts stop racing and then Caldwell dresses with military efficiency. And that's an unpleasant thought. Woolsey tries valiantly not to wonder how many times Caldwell has done this--how often he's sought momentary solace from someone just as bound by duty and propriety as he is and whether it has been often enough for Caldwell to have a set of rules, or if he makes it up as he goes along. Woolsey shakes his head, trying to clear away the spiraling madness and, yes, jealousy. It sits in his chest, ugly and dark, no matter how ridiculous it makes him feel. Caldwell zips up the front of his jacket and he kisses Woolsey long and dirty and then he heads for the door without a backwards glance.
Woolsey isn't disappointed, not exactly. He knows that Caldwell shouldn't stay; to do so would be far too dangerous. And yet.
Woolsey's hand twitches and he has to fight the urge to drag Caldwell back into bed, kiss marks into his skin. Leaving evidence of their liaison would be unwise, but the compulsion is almost overwhelming. Woolsey acknowledges that pursuing that line of thought is fruitless and counterproductive, so he closes his eyes and breathes in the sweet spice of Caldwell's aftershave until he falls asleep.
Woolsey doesn't see Caldwell again until the next day's mid-afternoon briefing. Caldwell appears unchanged; his demeanor is as it has always been and Woolsey fervently hopes that his own expression betrays nothing of what he feels.
"Colonel," Woolsey says. "If you'd like to take the floor?"
Caldwell nods. "Certainly, Commissioner," he says and calls up a projection of predicted Wraith feeding grounds. And just like that, Woolsey slots back into the role of expedition leader. It's more than a little anti-climatic.
Toward the end of the briefing and in the middle of Dr. McKay's not entirely unexpected derision of Dr. Zelenka's credentials and parentage, as the senior staff's attention is focused elsewhere, Caldwell nudges Woolsey's foot under the table. When Woolsey looks up, Caldwell is smiling for only him to see. Caldwell keeps looking straight at Dr. McKay but the corner of his mouth is twisted up, his expression openly affectionate and warm. Woolsey glances down at his folder, hiding a smile of his own, and nudges Caldwell back. He waits for several heart-stopping seconds and then Caldwell presses back, leaning the weight of his boot on Woolsey's ankle--a promise for later.
Notes on the making of this fic
Authors:
ariadne83 and lunabee34Pairing: Woolsey/Caldwell
Rating: Adult
Word count: 2995
Notes: Title from the SG-1 episode Inauguration. Thanks to
ana_grrl for the excellent beta.ariadne83 says: The whole thing started with the mental image of Woolsey and Caldwell sitting on the balcony sipping drinks, Boston Legal style, and grew into an epic comment fic (SGA: the fandom where characters just will not shut up).lunabee34 says: Writing this fic was some of the best fun I've had in fandom. What started out as kind of a joke ended up turning into something of which Ariadne and I are very proud. Enjoy.Woolsey forces himself to wait patiently until Atlantis decides that, yes, he may gain entry to his quarters, and once inside he kicks off his shoes and trades his uniform for an exquisitely tailored three piece. The wine he brought with him across two galaxies is disappearing much faster than he had anticipated, but Woolsey pours himself a glass anyway. He deserves a drink. He almost killed his chief medical officer three days ago.
Keller is alive and Sheppard is also alive (which is the kind of miracle Woolsey thinks he'll be seeing more of in his tenure as leader of the Atlantis expedition) and Woolsey supposes he can't have hoped for a better outcome. He wonders if next time the price of their continued safety will be much higher than an abdominal wound. He wonders if he is truly ready to pay that price.
The door chimes and when Woolsey opens it, Caldwell is standing on the other side. "Colonel," Woolsey says. "Is something wrong?" He taps his radio, but the device appears to be working properly.
Caldwell shakes his head. "Nothing's wrong. I just wanted to check in with you now that the crisis is over. I imagine this is not the first week you'd envisioned."
Caldwell has always made an effort to build close relationships with the Atlantean command structure which confounds Woolsey. He's just not sure how to interpret the personal attention and wishes there were a way to ask Colonel Carter without scotching Caldwell's career in the process. Regardless of Caldwell's motives, Woolsey is grateful for the offer of friendship. Woolsey had three long weeks to watch Caldwell in operation, and he saw first hand the respect and admiration he engendered in his crew. Woolsey could certainly pick worse professional models to emulate.
And certainly less attractive ones.
Woolsey has attempted to keep his assessment of Caldwell a purely aesthetic one since he met the man, but the intergalactic voyage left him with a surplus of time that he filled in the rather fruitless exercise of cataloguing all the ways in which Caldwell interests him. Now, however, is not the time for this sort of introspection. Woolsey has already allowed Caldwell to linger in the hallway for too long. He steps back from the door and motions Caldwell inside.
"As I recall," Caldwell says as he steps across the threshold, "I asked you to call me Steven."
"Yes, of course," Woolsey replies. "Would you care for a glass of wine, Steven?" He stumbles slightly over the words but they earn him a warm smile from Caldwell that sends an unexpected jolt to his stomach. Woolsey turns back to his desk quickly and fumbles with the bottle, hoping nothing shows on his face.
"It's still a little sharp," Woolsey says apologetically as he hands over the glass. "My decanter got broken on the way here." He leaves his glass on the desk and gestures at the stereo. "I was just about to put on some music. Any requests?"
Caldwell shakes his head. "Don't let me disrupt your evening."
By silent agreement, they decide to make the most of the balmy weather and head outside. "I've always loved this particular Wagner piece," Caldwell says and leans out over the balcony, his face partially obscured in shadow.
"Indeed," Woolsey replies and takes a long gulp of red wine. Could one still call French cabernet Dutch courage? Woolsey dismisses that thought as it forms. Although he'd like to believe that Caldwell's interest in him is more than professional, Woolsey can't afford to get so caught up in the fantasy that he misses what's in front of him. “So," he continues, squaring his shoulders. "I never pegged you for much of a music lover, Colonel." Woolsey winces as soon as the word leaves his mouth; his memory usually isn't so sloppy, but it's been a long week.
Caldwell grins, his bottom lip a ripe curve against the bell of his wineglass. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Richard."
“Yes, I suppose there is," Woolsey says, smiling back at him. "Would you care to join me for dinner tonight? I would appreciate the opportunity to get to know you better."
Dinner is rather unremarkable--bread and Athosian stew and crunchy pastries from Idrian. But the wine is good and the company even better and before long, Woolsey relaxes enough to say what's been on his mind for some time now. "Steven," he begins, "I must admit I'm surprised you agreed to have dinner with me. I know I don't always make the best first impression. I assumed you disapproved of my methods."
Caldwell shakes his head a little and looks down at his plate. "Rules exist for a reason, Richard. I believe that. I've never thought less of you for believing the same."
Woolsey wants to grin from ear to ear but he settles for a small, tight smile, hiding even that much behind the rim of his Waterford. Woolsey would never be so gauche as to mention his bed-side exchange with Colonel Sheppard in this setting, but he cannot help but be reminded of the similarity between what he confessed to Sheppard and what Caldwell says to him now. Woolsey is more than a little comforted to know that there is--here on Atlantis, here in his very room--someone for whom rules do not necessarily equate a great evil.
"Besides," Caldwell continues, "if there's one thing I've learned about Atlantis, it's that it teaches you to be flexible." He lifts his head, quirks an eyebrow and says, "I'm looking forward to seeing what the place does with you."
Woolsey chokes on his mouthful of wine and ends up dabbing at his mouth with a corner of tablecloth, determined to save at least one of his silk shirts from ruin, although if the cuffs are any indication, this will be a losing battle.
Caldwell laughs out loud, his voice deep and a little hoarse, and his eyes crinkling up at the corners with merriment. Woolsey flushes, less because he's embarrassed and more because he had no idea that a genuinely amused Caldwell could look so sweet. That's not the right word, of course, but it's the first that pops into Woolsey's mind, and once the idea is there, it's hard to shake.
Woolsey has seen Caldwell angry and he has seen him full of derision and he has seen him in battle mode. And all those versions of Caldwell, Woolsey finds equally interesting. But the one that sits before him now--the one with the easy smile and look of contentment--Woolsey would like to see more of him. Would like to see him all, actually. Woolsey blushes at the mental picture that thought conjures up and fervently hopes he isn't going to make a complete fool of himself this evening and alienate someone who has always been the city's stalwart ally.
Unfortunately, Caldwell is a remarkably observant man. The humour slips from his face and his eyes darken, making Woolsey blush even more hotly under his gaze. Caldwell pushes his seat back and is on his feet within seconds, and Woolsey starts mentally preparing his “Can’t we all just get along?” speech as he also stands. He manfully resists the urge to flinch when Caldwell strides towards him and crowds into his space. Woolsey refuses to give any ground; the last thing he needs if this turns nasty is to have his back up against the wall, literally. To his surprise, however, Caldwell stops short and lays a shaky hand on his shoulder. Woolsey frowns, confused, but Caldwell has already closed his eyes. Woolsey's heart speeds up and he can hear the blood rushing in his ears. This can't possibly be what it looks like. Can it?
Caldwell's lips close over his in a firm but maddeningly short kiss, and then he pulls back, letting his hand slip from Woolsey's shoulder to his waist. "Tell me we're on the same page here, Richard," he murmurs, breath warm against Woolsey's cheek.
Woolsey presses forward, closing the gap between them again, and kisses him desperately. Caldwell's mouth slides open, the familiar, smoky taste of wine still on his tongue, and Woolsey finds himself smiling again despite the fact that his mouth is otherwise occupied.
Caldwell must feel Woolsey’s expression change because he pulls away again. "What is it?"
Woolsey darts in and nips his lower lip. "You're a fine vintage," he quips, eyes sparkling.
Caldwell smirks. "I could say the same about you." He takes hold of Woolsey's right hand, lifting it so he can lick away the stray droplets of wine that had gathered at his wrist earlier.
"I rather doubt I'll ever look at cabernet the same way again," Woolsey observes, gasping when Caldwell bites at the soft flesh at the base of his thumb.
After that, they talk very little for some time.
Caldwell's body feels good pressed up against his, Caldwell's strong hands at his waist, his thumb rubbing a circle on Woolsey's hip. Woolsey's hands shake when he unzips the jacket of Caldwell's uniform, but he doesn't think Caldwell notices. His tongue is too busy tracing the shell of Woolsey's ear.
When finally they both are shirtless, Woolsey is startled by the soft brush of Caldwell's dog tags against his skin. The tags are warm, sinuous, and the chain pools in the hollow of Woolsey's throat when Caldwell pushes him back against the wall.
"Steven," Woolsey gasps, and the dog tags fall from his throat and slither down his chest.
And then they keep sliding, down, down, and ohgod Caldwell is on his knees, fumbling with Woolsey's ridiculously complicated belt. Woolsey lets his head fall back against the wall and closes his eyes, because he's not a teenager anymore and he absolutely will not come before his dick is even out of his pants.
Woolsey is hyper aware--of Caldwell's warm breath at his navel, Caldwell's fingers digging into his thighs, Caldwell's tags brushing the sensitive skin behind his left knee.
"Richard," Caldwell says, and his voice is thick and his eyes are dark and intent and Woolsey aches for his touch. He lets out a soft moan when Caldwell's thick fingers brush over the head of his dick, cool and gun callused against his skin. There is a swift scratch-and-drag and then, finally, Caldwell's tongue is on him, licking firmly up its length. Caldwell huffs out a laugh when Woolsey groans, and the puff of breath against Woolsey's wet skin makes his hips hitch forward involuntarily. The tip of his cock slides all the way into Caldwell's mouth, dry lips dragging slightly. Caldwell slides his mouth slowly up and down, slicking Woolsey's cock bit by bit, and then starts taking in more and more of Woolsey's length. He keeps up a steady rhythm for a while, making Woolsey sob and gasp and grab for his shoulder, and then--Jesus--takes him all the way in and keeps him there, twisting his tongue to stroke the base of Woolsey's cock.
Woolsey has to grab Caldwell by the shoulder, haul him up and kiss him again, hard and wet. He wraps both arms around Caldwell and presses full-length against him, gasping when the cold buttons of the fly on Caldwell's BDUs touch his overheated skin.
Caldwell pulls away, looking thoroughly debauched, and growls, "Bed," as he tugs at his pants. Woolsey is only too happy to oblige.
Woolsey has never been more grateful that he had the foresight to have his own, adult-size slat bed shipped across on the Daedalus; the Ancients, for all their intelligence, ridiculously underestimated the importance of a good night's sleep. He shivers with added pleasure when he recognizes that Caldwell is benefiting from his own generosity; storage space in the holds of the Daedalus is, after all, at a premium. Woolsey's sheets are standard issue, however, and they remind him keenly of where this assignation is taking place and of the public faces that he and Caldwell must certainly wear once this night has ended.
"What's wrong?" Caldwell says, his hands stilled at Woolsey's waist.
Woolsey smiles. "It's nothing."
Caldwell looks at him steadily for a full minute and then smiles back and says, "Well, alright," and leans in to kiss him again. He's slow now and careful, gliding his hands up Woolsey's back. He presses one hand firmly against one of Woolsey's shoulder blades, keeping him close, and slides the other back down, keeping his eyes on Woolsey's.
Caldwell's tags are caught between their bodies, the metal chain biting into Woolsey's skin. Woolsey can barely breathe as Caldwell's hand closes around his cock, as Caldwell's thumb slides over the sensitive tip with each stroke.
Caldwell's hand caresses him languorously, firm and sure on his cock and Woolsey is tempted to close his eyes again, to rest his head against Caldwell's shoulder, but those dark eyes are watching him and Woolsey can't look away.
Woolsey knows, even as Caldwell slides his hand down to stroke his balls, that Caldwell is still mostly dressed for a reason: he's being given an out. To be perfectly frank, if it were Woolsey's career on the line he might take it, but this is Caldwell's choice. Apparently, he is Caldwell's choice, and Woolsey is well aware of what it means that Caldwell is willing to eschew his belief in the sanctity of rules in order to be with him here and now. Woolsey can't help but be humbled. Not that that translates to him being too chivalrous. Woolsey has plans for this man.
He begins by relieving Caldwell of the remainder of his uniform. Woolsey undresses him slowly, allowing Caldwell time to refuse, but Caldwell's hand keeps moving lazily on Woolsey's cock and his breath goes ragged and the skin Woolsey uncovers by increments is damp and heated.
When they are both naked, Woolsey turns onto his side and draws his knees up to his chest. He closes his eyes and waits for Caldwell to either accept or reject this offering.
The bed dips when Caldwell crawls up behind him and kisses the back of his neck, and Woolsey lets out a breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. Caldwell strokes his arm, shoulder to wrist and back up again, and then slides his hand down to Woolsey's hip and squeezes slightly—perhaps looking for permission of his own—before moving lower. Caldwell's hand skitters over his buttock and Woolsey shivers; it's just on this side of ticklish. Caldwell lets out a short laugh but he obligingly presses harder, kneading the muscle. Then there's a sudden shift, the bed squeaks, and Caldwell is there: his thumb parting Woolsey's cheeks, his hot tongue pressing against Woolsey's hole rhythmically. Woolsey buries his face in the crook of his arm and tries not to groan too loudly; it wouldn't do to get too over-excited and end the evening prematurely. Caldwell teases him open and makes him squirm, then finally, finally, when Woolsey can barely keep himself from sliding over the edge, Caldwell eases inside, his face pressed into Woolsey's shoulder blades, one hand clutching Woolsey's hip bone. The pleasure is exquisite, and Woolsey doesn't last very long. Neither does Caldwell. "Richard," he moans, and Woolsey knows there will be bruises on his hip tomorrow--the imprint of Caldwell's fingers, marks that will remind him for days of what they are doing now.
They drowse together in Woolsey's bed until the sheets have cooled and their hearts stop racing and then Caldwell dresses with military efficiency. And that's an unpleasant thought. Woolsey tries valiantly not to wonder how many times Caldwell has done this--how often he's sought momentary solace from someone just as bound by duty and propriety as he is and whether it has been often enough for Caldwell to have a set of rules, or if he makes it up as he goes along. Woolsey shakes his head, trying to clear away the spiraling madness and, yes, jealousy. It sits in his chest, ugly and dark, no matter how ridiculous it makes him feel. Caldwell zips up the front of his jacket and he kisses Woolsey long and dirty and then he heads for the door without a backwards glance.
Woolsey isn't disappointed, not exactly. He knows that Caldwell shouldn't stay; to do so would be far too dangerous. And yet.
Woolsey's hand twitches and he has to fight the urge to drag Caldwell back into bed, kiss marks into his skin. Leaving evidence of their liaison would be unwise, but the compulsion is almost overwhelming. Woolsey acknowledges that pursuing that line of thought is fruitless and counterproductive, so he closes his eyes and breathes in the sweet spice of Caldwell's aftershave until he falls asleep.
Woolsey doesn't see Caldwell again until the next day's mid-afternoon briefing. Caldwell appears unchanged; his demeanor is as it has always been and Woolsey fervently hopes that his own expression betrays nothing of what he feels.
"Colonel," Woolsey says. "If you'd like to take the floor?"
Caldwell nods. "Certainly, Commissioner," he says and calls up a projection of predicted Wraith feeding grounds. And just like that, Woolsey slots back into the role of expedition leader. It's more than a little anti-climatic.
Toward the end of the briefing and in the middle of Dr. McKay's not entirely unexpected derision of Dr. Zelenka's credentials and parentage, as the senior staff's attention is focused elsewhere, Caldwell nudges Woolsey's foot under the table. When Woolsey looks up, Caldwell is smiling for only him to see. Caldwell keeps looking straight at Dr. McKay but the corner of his mouth is twisted up, his expression openly affectionate and warm. Woolsey glances down at his folder, hiding a smile of his own, and nudges Caldwell back. He waits for several heart-stopping seconds and then Caldwell presses back, leaning the weight of his boot on Woolsey's ankle--a promise for later.
Notes on the making of this fic
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:)
I know this is rather an unconventional pairing for the fandom, but I have unabashedly Caldwell love and Ariadne has a Woolsey crush and together, well.....
this.
LOL
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At the end of almost every comment tag, one or the other of us felt compelled to remark: Awwwwwww, they're so cute. LOL
Thanks so much for reading.
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Thanks!
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I know that some in the fandom would consider what appears to be a Woolsey/Caldwell PWP utter crack adn it means a lot to me (us!) that you've picked up on the other things we were trying to do here.
*squee*
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I am so glad you liked this enough to start a fic search.
*glee*
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Thanks!
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I actually think he's one of the smart ones, for making himself comfortable, and I'd totally want to hang out in his room, rather than being stared at by Johnny Cash.
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His room and Teyla's room are the only ones we've been shown that actually look like places of permanent residence. John's room reminds me a lot of a dorm room.
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*g*
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Oh, man. Thank you so much. Thank you so much.
*goes all giddy*
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But in the next breath, it's so wonderful to see these guys given a chance. It's fine for all the mcsheppers out there, but the rare pairings such as this, are like diamonds...very rare.
Thankyou for sharing.
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As much as I love John and Rodney, I suffer from McShep fatigue myself, and so I try to write outside that pairing as often as the muse will take me there.
:)
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*blames Ariadne entirely*
:)
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With all the idiotic parings popping up over at GW and the revolting one on the show, this is one I can actually believe! (Next to mcshep of course!):)
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:)
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I think Woolsey is probably one of the most introspective and self-aware characters on the show and I'm glad his internal monologue worked for you. And Caldwell! Oh, Caldwell. I may have an undying crush on the man. *g*
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I haven't ruled out writing a follow-up of sorts to this fic *looks sideways at lunabee*
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*beams*
Speaking of which, PMing you now.