A/N: This is my first-ever experience writing PWP, so hopefully it's not just plain embarrassing. Also, welcome to a world where neither night nurses nor condoms exist, because I'm the author and I get to decide. Yay!

"Lieutenant?"

He heard the sound of shifting movement from the other small bed in the hospital room. He could picture her lying there, head turned slightly toward him, her movements careful so as not to disrupt the bandages still wrapped around her neck.

"You're still awake, colonel?"

Her voice was a bit raspy, but that was to be expected. She had, after all, had her throat sliced right before his eyes less than 48 hours ago.

He turned his head toward her, eyes straining to make shapes in the blankness surrounding him. He thought…it couldn't be, but he thought…the place where she lay, in her bed, looked a little less dark than the rest of his black world.

"Would you mind telling me if the moon is out tonight?"

More sounds from where she lay: there was rustling fabric, then soft footfalls approaching his bedside. He raised himself up on his elbows in alarm, causing the sheet covering him to slide down a little.

"You shouldn't get up! The doctors told you to stay in bed!"

His mattress dipped, and he felt the warmth of her back against the side of his left knee as she sat next to him.

"Yes, the moon is out tonight. The light turns the whole room blue."

Her voice was a little stronger now, but still held a jagged note of pain.

He shouldn't have spoken to her at all. Now she was worrying about him, and her recovery would be made that much more difficult.

He cleared his throat softly, and he knew she was searching him with that gaze again. It was burrowing deep into his skin, branding him with the fire he always thought he could control.

"Please go back to bed, lieutenant."

"Just so you can wake me up again? I don't think so, sir."

Her hand was so close to his against the sheet. He could feel the heat radiating from her fingers where they rested millimeters from his.

She was talking to him again, her voice dropping to a whisper to avoid strain.

"The clouds covered the moon last night, and the room was pitch black. I couldn't even see your bed from across the room. But today, the sun came out again. The wind pushed all the clouds over the horizon. The moon is so bright now, it's overpowering the light from the stars."

With the hand on his other side—his right hand—he reached up and kneaded the skin between his eyebrows, squeezing his eyes shut.

"I can't see."

"I know that, sir."

Now her fingers were on top of his, playing along the bandage cloth that wrapped around the center of his hand. How could her skin possibly be so warm?

His breath caught on an inhale; the hand rubbing his face dropped back to the sheet. He wished so desperately that he could see the expression on her face. He wanted to know if her eyes held pity, or sadness, or warmth, or…something else.

"There are some things you don't always need to see."

She whispered this as she leaned over him, he heard the rustle of her long hair over the collar of the hospital clothes she wore, felt its softness brush the side of his throat as he fought to control his breathing. She was so close, smelling like gunpowder and bitter early plums and springtime grass all at once.

His hand shot out from under hers and clutched her wrist, and she paused, feeling the uncertainty hanging between them.

"What is this?"

He barely had enough breath for the question.

She was smiling, almost imperceptibly; he could feel it in her murmured response.

"It's what happens in the dark."

And then her lips were there, gentle against him, and he couldn't keep himself from spinning into the stars.

His hand traveled from her wrist up her arm, to the back of her head and carefully skirting the wrappings of her throat. Still propped up on his right elbow, he pushed himself up further, guiding her along with him so their mouths stayed locked.

Her hands brushed over his ribs, tugging softly at the papery shirt that covered his upper body. She shivered and gasped as his left hand traced the short, soft hairs at the nape of her neck, thumbnail brushing the hypersensitive skin right behind her ear. He broke the kiss, then dipped his head to brush his lips along her jawline, under her other ear, his nose tickling the tiny indentation right behind her earlobe.

She was clutching his shirt with both hands and shaking against him, and if his brain would have let him think for even one second, he would have been astounded that his touch could undo her like this, his stoic lieutenant, the rock-solid wall behind his back, the gun always aimed directly over his shoulder.

He wanted to taste her pulse, to leave red points on her pale throat that he could never see himself, but which would mark her to the rest of the world as his. Instead, he halted, panting raggedly in her ear. She made a small noise of disapproval at the loss of contact, which he immediately swallowed as he claimed her lips in another hungry kiss.

Her grip on his shirt turned insistent; she was lifting the hem over his ribs. When she reached his chest he broke away from her to rip the garment over his head and toss it to the floor beside him. At once her lips were at his collarbone, the base of his throat, working up his jaw; her arms wrapped around him and under his shoulders as she shifted herself more fully onto the bed, one knee resting against his hip.

He anchored a hand in her hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands to gently tip her head backwards so he could land more kisses on her face, her cheekbones, each corner of her mouth—mapping her features with his lips even though he couldn't do so with his eyes. Bracing himself on his other hand, he scooted himself slightly backwards on the bed, until his lower back rested against the short metal headrest.

The mattress creaked with her movements; she had planted her right knee on the bed to swing her other leg up and over him, and her weight settled warm and soft onto his lap. He ground out a low groan, burying his face in the crook of her neck and taking deep, shuddering breaths.

She tilted her hips, ever so slightly, but it was enough to send a jolt of sparks to the most sensitive part of his body. The hand that wasn't cupping the back of her head shot to her hip, grasping her so firmly he wouldn't be surprised if it ended up bruising. Pressing a light kiss on her shoulder to make up for his iron grip, he brought both his hands under her thin shirt to hold her securely around her waist. His thumbs brushed the skin just below her breasts, and she shivered again, her forehead dropping softly against the top of his head. Each of her labored breaths whispered over his hair.

"I wish I could see you."

His words, muffled against her shoulder, caused her to go totally still. Her hands, which had been locked behind his neck, came around to trap both sides of his face in a silent demand that he lift his head up. She held him there firmly, his dim eyes traversing the landscape of her imagined face. Waiting for her to tell him it was okay he couldn't see her. That there were senses other than sight that were far more occupied at the moment.

Instead, she removed her hand from the right side of his face and brought it down to grasp one of his where it still gripped her waist. Plying his fingers from her, she led them up, up, up to stroke her cheek, to tangle briefly in a lock of hair that had fallen over her face, to smooth over an eyelid and the downy lashes that rested on her skin.

"Can't you?"

Her words fluttered across his wrist.

"Can't I what?"

"See me."

His fingers danced over her nose and across her lips, up across the other cheek. She let his wrist go, brushing her hand down over his chest and resting it against his thundering heart. He moved his hand down her face again and felt her smile between his fingers.

Moving his other hand up, he lifted the fabric of her shirt high enough to run his thumb over her nipple. Her sharp intake of breath was marked by every nerve in his fingertips; her fingernails raked the back of his neck and tightened on his chest. Running his thumb around the tight, sensitive peak, he felt her sigh, a faint half-keen against his palm, and the tops of his fingers were brushed by the soft tickle of her eyelashes as her lids fell closed.

He pushed the fabric up still more, and she took the hint, releasing him for a few moments to carefully pull the light shirt up and over her body. He could almost see her, perfect and nearly bare in the moonlight. His right hand went back to her face, cupping her cheek, and she leaned into the gesture, tilting her head into his palm.

Leaning forward slightly, he trapped both her hands between their bodies and angled his own face to kiss her again, tender and nearly chaste. Nearly, until she ground her hips into his groin and swallowed the moan her movements ripped from him.

She could definitely feel his need, burning through the thin pants and against her inner thigh, and she kept moving in such a way that made him seriously doubt he'd be able to hold himself together. In retaliation, he moved a hand back down between her breasts, palming one in passing and hearing with satisfaction her truncated whine.

He traveled further down, past the elastic top of her pants and directly over the center of her. His knuckle grazed her through the fabric, and she said something—it could have been a full word, or just a few broken syllables, he really wasn't sure—and wriggled to free her hands from between their slick torsos.

His other arm wrapped securely around her, keeping her hands pressed between them, and slowly stroked her through the fabric, using every one of his available senses to gauge her reaction. She growled in frustration at how slow his pace was, and took the opportunity to bite his lower lip to alert him of that fact. He chuckled, kneading her more deeply through the fabric, and she quivered against him, her head falling a little backwards.

Finally, he released his grip around her so her hands were freed again. She wasted no time skating them past the ridges of muscle on his stomach to where she met fabric and elastic. He made a strangled noise as her searching fingers didn't bother feeling him through the cloth, but quickly slipped beneath it to close directly around him.

"It's really more efficient this way, colonel."

Through his hazy consciousness, he managed to respond:

"Would you consider not calling me 'colonel' while you're—"

She squeezed. He gasped. The point was declared moot.

She was going to torture him as much as he had tortured her, he soon discovered. Every stroke was long, sensuous, and soon his hips were thrusting of their own accord into the rhythm she'd established.

Catching her wrist to force her to slow down, he caught her in another long, wet kiss as his other bandaged hand dipped below the top of her pants to search for her weak spot. His fingers found their destination, pressing experimentally into heat and wetness before drawing up to circumscribe patterns over her most sensitive area. The sounds she was making were assaulting the limits of his self-control, and when he pressed a finger between her slick folds, her grip, already relentless around him, tightened so much it was almost painful.

Her breath painted fire against his temple as she moved with his hand; his mouth found the juncture of her neck and shoulder and he sucked hard, leaving her skin hot and sensitive. Her panting whines were acute, insistent, demanding. It wasn't enough. A second finger dipped into her core, his thumb still working her in dizzying circles that had her whispering hoarse blasphemies into his hair.

Adjusting the angle of his hand, he stroked something that finally shattered her; her release was silent except for one choked sob, and her back arched, bending his wrist at a supremely uncomfortable angle. Still, he held her above the waves, waiting until her shivers receded and he could feel her looking at him again. There were always two distinct points of warmth on his face when she looked at him, and he grinned at her in victory.

She reminded him who was really running things by sliding the bony part of her thumb along the side of his arousal, and his grin disappeared with a whoosh of air.

She let go of him for just a few seconds, and he felt her raise herself up on her knees to slide the baggy hospital pants off her body, tossing them aside to join both their shirts on the floor somewhere. She leaned over him again, breasts almost imperceptibly brushing his chest and raising goose bumps everywhere on his body. Grazing her teeth over his pulse point, she skated her hands down his stomach and lower, pulling at the waistband of his pants until he lifted his hips and helped her slide them off the rest of the way. She took his wrists in her hands, guiding him to hold her steady as she lowered herself down again, deliberately sliding along his length until he thought he was going to have to beg.

In an attempt to move things forward, he reached for her again, brushing that traitorous nub that had made her fall apart in his arms just minutes ago. In response, her teeth dug into his flesh, and he arched into her with a short cry.

"Please."

Her tongue was still swirling over the place she'd bitten him, but after his desperate utterance she moved herself up and over him again, positioning him properly as she sank down again, fully taking him in.

His ragged breathing echoed in his ears, and it felt like his heart was beating everywhere except his chest. She pulled herself flush against him, grinding down on him just enough to stutter his breathing. His hips jerked up into her, and she took hold of his wrists again, bringing them to caress her sensitive breasts as she barely grazed the shell of his ear with her tongue.

Every roll of her hips brought him out of the blackness towards a white inferno, but by hell, he was going to give as good as he got. Still mindful of the wrappings at her neck, he curled himself inwards to rain scorching kisses on her shoulder, her collarbone, the tops of her breasts where his hands were still at work. Her sharp inhale was enough to let him know to bring a peak into his mouth, sucking gently as his hand kneaded the other.

With his free hand, he reached between them again, wanting to feel her lose herself while she was wrapped around him, and her quickened, irregular breathing told him that moment wasn't too far away.

Their rhythm fell to the wayside; she was clutching his hair almost painfully, her voice reduced to a slack whisper that he was a dead man if he dared stop now. He wasn't quite far gone enough to not process her threat, grinning into the hollow between her collar bones and lifting his head to seal his mouth onto hers, letting her scream as she broke again. He followed right behind her, exploding into the blistering heat gathering at the edges of his nonexistent vision. They collapsed against each other onto the overworked hospital mattress.

When he could manage it, he brought a hand up to run through her damp hair where it was stuck to his chest. His throat was tight, and the words were so quiet that someone just a few feet away wouldn't have heard them.

"You're so beautiful."

She rested her chin on his sternum, and he felt those two pinpricks again, dancing across his face.

"But I thought you couldn't see me."

He ran one thumb along her parted lips, her cheekbone.

"I was wrong."