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Ticket to Ride
Soup and pasta had been eaten; only dessert remained.
Jeff Sinclair and Michael Garibaldi sat at the table, slumped, relaxed and full. Sinclair rubbed his distended stomach gingerly and glanced ruefully at his friend and Chief of Security. "A meal like this once a week, and I'll have to order the next size of uniform, you know. It was delicious."
"You haven't tasted dessert yet." Garibaldi grinned openly and played with the empty plate in front of him.
"Hmmm... dessert. Tiramisu? Ice cream? Fruit salad? I'm not sure I can eat another bite, but for that, I'll try." Sinclair leaned back in his seat and groaned.
"Well, I think you'd better not eat any dessert then. We wouldn't want you to instantaneously combust, commander. But that doesn't mean that I can't have any." Garibaldi's grin was darker now, more intense. Not any more focused on the plate, but on his companion.
Sinclair sucked in an audible breath and stared back. Michael rarely took control of their lovemaking. He initiated it about as many times as Jeff did, but in bed, he was strangely hesitant, tender, almost shy.
Only on rare occasions, a more primal Michael Garibaldi broke through. With glittering, reptilian eyes, cold and hungry. Predatory. And then he called the shots. Usually when they'd been apart for several nights. Or when Garibaldi returned from an exceptionally dangerous situation. Or Jeff risked his life.
The first time had been after the incident with the changeling net; the Minbari who had almost killed Ambassador Kosh, leaving hints to blame it on Sinclair, hoping it would destroy the fragile balance of new-found peace after the Earth-Minbari war.
Jeff had carried the bruises for three weeks. And had come four times that night.
Oh dear God, how it had been worth it...
While he'd been lost in recollection, Mike had gotten up, was now moving closer, slowly, stalking his frozen figure on the chair. Jeff looked up with dilated eyes, breathing heavily, trying to still his slight trembling. On times like these, Michael's burning, feverish eyes and expressionless face reminded him uncomfortably of the past, of the days spent on Mars, when his friend had started to fight his addiction to alcohol and drugs.
The face of an addict.
Sinclair knew from the last times that in climax, the original Michael Garibaldi would show his true face again, the blind lust and emotional distance melted away, gone, and passion would blend with the truest expression of love he'd ever seen.
And Jeff couldn't deny that he craved the possession by this man. Only helpless, bound, could Jeff let go of his rigid control and just concentrate on feeling. His sobs, gasping pleas, moans, and, yes, screams always left his throat raw, the ruthless use of his body his muscles liquid and utterly relaxed afterwards. He never slept better than in nights like these. No nightmares. No exploding ships, no dying friends around him, no guilt for surviving the hell of the Battle of the Line.
Oh yes, and he regularly thanked every deity he'd ever heard of that his quarters were soundproof...
Michael was close enough now that he could feel his body heat.
He closed his eyes and let himself fall.
"Babylon 5" ficlet by allaire mikháil, 542 words, Jeff Sinclair/Michael Garibaldi, Jeff POV, rated R
As always, in this fandom, I can't help but blame both Emily Brunson and A. Manley Haight. And, of course, Michael O'Hare and Jerry Doyle for providing the visual inspiration.
Dedicated to the (far too quiet) listsibs on the [sinclair] list, most especially Donna -- her version of the slash lib #1 (as which this story also premiered) contained "Garibaldi's reptilian look" that just wouldn't leave me alone, so I had to write this!
And, again, thanks to Gail for the beta -- I'm only positive that it's readible after she has seen it! :-)
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