Chapter 5

Elizabeth continued to improve, and within a few days Carson agreed to let her go back to her own quarters. After a quick exam in which the doctor pronounced himself satisfied with her progress, John took her arm and escorted her down the hallway. She was just glad to be able to walk again, though the short distance to the transporter and then to her room took most of her strength. The minute her doors closed behind her, she sank onto the bed with a sigh of relief that she couldn't suppress.

"Anything you need?" John asked, glancing through the books near her bed. Shakespeare, Jane Austen, John Steinbeck, Dumas in French, Charlotte Bronte, Kafka in German, Chaucer . . . and something that looked suspiciously like chicklit. Elizabeth Weir and chicklit? No way. He didn't recognize it, but was pretty sure Bridget Jones' Diary wasn't in the running for the Nobel prize for literature.

Apparently solitaire wasn't her only form of recreation.

She shook her head. "I'm just tired."

"That's fine." Deciding to chance it, John carefully pulled outBridget Jones, scanning the cover dubiously as he settled into a chair. "I'll be here." Opening to page one, he smiled at her smugly. "Reading. A book."

XXX

Two hours later, John closed the book and smothered the urge to laugh. That was not a book than he would ever have pictured Elizabeth Weir, Ph.D., reading voluntarily. Sex, alcohol, cigarettes and more sex. Hmph. No wonder it was popular.

As he set the book aside, he glanced up to find her watching him with bright eyes. "I didn't realize you were awake. How'd you sleep?"

"Fine." She saw the book beside him and smiled. "How was the book?"

"This is girly trash, Elizabeth. How can you read this stuff?"

"It's funny," she shrugged. "Sometimes it's nice to have a little mindless entertainment."

"I guess," he shrugged. "How are you feeling? Are you sore?"

"A little," she mumbled, wincing as she tried to stretch her legs.

"You should take a hot shower. It'll ease up your muscles."

He was right, so Elizabeth obediently headed for her bathroom and pulled on her robe. She reached up to pull the elastic band out and let her hair down, but let out a sharp gasp of pain as the joints in her arms ached in protest. She could barely reach her shoulders. The doctors had lowered her pain medication to a bare minimum, and sleeping in one position for two hours had given her body time to settle. On second thought, maybe it would have been a better idea to shower and then take a nap.

A second attempt hurt worse than the first, and she leaned on the sink, breathing deeply as she bit her lip to ignore the tight pain that was pulsing through her shoulders. There was no way she was getting her hair down. Not by herself.

Dammit, she had really thought moving back to her room meant she could be more independent. But . . . "John?"

He was at the door in a second. "Yeah?"

"Can you get the band out of my hair? My arms are a little sore."

Surprisingly, he just nodded, no teasing remarks. "Sure." He was gentle, too, tugging carefully at the tightly-wound loops before her hair settled around her face.

"Is that better?"

"Yes, thanks."

"You planning to wash your hair?"

She stopped. Yes, she had been planning on doing just that, but now that she thought about it, if she couldn't even reach her own head, this might not work so well. "Well, I was -"

"Would you like me to help?"

Elizabeth was surprised to find herself suddenly a little shy. Why? Her rational mind argued that there was nothing to worry about, but for some reason part of her suddenly felt skittish. Ignoring it - what was wrong with her, anyway? - she accepted his offer gratefully.

Accordingly, after finishing her shower and wrapping herself in her robe, she called John in and he set to work. He was as protective as always, bringing her a chair so she didn't have to stand in front of the sink, and asking multiple times if the water was too hot or too cold. Finally satisfied that she was comfortable, he sat her down and poured water over her head.

It had been years since someone had washed her hair for her, and within minutes Elizabeth had been lulled into a daze of utter relaxation. The sensation of warm hands scrubbing her hair was about as perfect as anything could get, and at this one moment, she might possibly have agreed to un-write her prized doctoral thesis and give back her Ph.D. if it meant she could stay this comfortable forever.

"Hey, you still awake?"

John's voice managed to penetrate the warm, soothing fog of mmmmmm surrounding her tired mind, and she realized she needed to respond. "Yes."

His throaty chuckle brought a faint smile to her lips. "Sure you are." His hands continued to massage her scalp, dragging her back into hazy comfort as her tired mind went haywire. John had been the perfect nurse, she had to admit. Stripped of his normal cocky bravado - which she enjoyed, though she'd never admit it to anyone, least of all to him - he had proven himself to be more gentle and attentive than she would have imagined.

He paused for a second, setting one hand on the exposed skin of her neck, and that was when Elizabeth's mind betrayed her and asked a question that was specifically off-limits - or would have been, if she hadn't been so tired and so relaxed and John's hands hadn't been so warm.

Would he be a good lover?

The thought slipped past her mental barrier before she could stop it, and suddenly Elizabeth's face went hot, because she never thought about that kind of thing with him and never would, but now the damage was done and all she could think was would he? And his hands weren't helping. John was much too gentle and right now he was using far too much skill as he slowly massaged her scalp, and before she could stop it another thought slipped out. He could do a lot with those hands, couldn't he?

Taking a deep breath, Elizabeth tried to ignore the hot flush creeping up her face and forced her wayward mind to behave itself. Stop it. She had barely been out of quarantine for half a day, walking a hundred feet felt like running a marathon, she couldn't stay awake for more than four hours at a time, but she was thinking like a horny teenager. What is wrong with you, Elizabeth Weir? Cut it out.

XXX

The art of washing someone else's hair was not as simple as it looked, but John was fairly pleased with his success. The two main objectives had been accomplished; her hair was clean and the bathroom was not flooded. Plus, Elizabeth wasn't complaining. Of course, she was probably smart enough to keep her eyes closed from the soap. But she seemed half-asleep anyway.

He finished rinsing the soap from her hair and ruffled it with a towel, settling it around her shoulders before stepping back. "There you go. All clean."

"Thanks."

John glanced up, catching her eyes in the mirror, and stopped short. Her face was flushed, and her expression unreadable, but for just a second he swore she was staring at him with a look of pure animal hunger clouding her eyes, and he almost started in absolute shock, but before he could be sure he'd really seen it she had looked away and was rubbing her hair with the towel, avoiding his eyes again.

"I'll - I'll be right outside," he offered lamely, beating a hasty retreat from the suddenly-way-too-crowded bathroom. As the door shut again behind him, he dropped into his chair and stared at the floor.

What the hell just happened?

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