Title: A Shark Tale of a Different Kind 2/4
Author: Gail Christison
Rating: PG-15 for mild nudity, sexual references; sharks
Summary: You take Rupert with you on a shark diving expedition
Timeline: Post-Chosen. A few references to the seventh season.
Disclaimer: S'all Joss's. Just playing with Rupert for a while
Feedback: Would be lovely chriscln@iinet.net.au
Distribution: All those who have permission feel free :-) Anyone else wants it...ask and it's yours.
Author's Note: The ship is fictional though inspired by a real one. No I haven't been shark diving. Yes, I've watched way too many documentaries <g> Yes I have been diving and snorkelling and yes I've been sailing on an 81 foot ketch, and yes I know the area I'm describing ...some more, some less, but it is my home state :-)
Dedication: This is for Kim, who loves sharks and Giles...not necessarily in that order <g>
Pairing: ABH; G/OC
When he finally turns over, the evidence of his pleasure in your touch is all too visible, and his boxers soon join the rest of the clothes on the floor. Which in turn becomes a signal to even things up a little. You find yourself moaning, electric thrills passing through you while his strong hands slide your briefs off and send them spinning in an arc through the air to catch on the top of the television set.
A moment later and you're in his arms...and swept away into a world of two, where love, and pleasure and passion all tangle together and weave themselves into a headlong journey toward ecstasy. You revel in the sheer, overwhelming sensual power of him, the magic of his fingers, his mouth...his intuitive ability to know exactly how to weave every nerve ending in your body into a frenzy of ecstatic bliss...until you're not sure if you're calling his name out loud or not. Then you try to return to the favor and it's obvious, as always, that you're giving him pleasure...but it's not nearly the experience he's able to give you, no matter how much of yourself you put into it.
Soon he's gathering you to him and laying you down, moving over you and kissing you breathless as he brings himself to you and waits for you to accept the invitation you've been ready for since his first touch. As always, the moment of coming together, of feeling him become a part of you again, is the most special, and you tell him so between groans, making him smile as he makes love to you until you're so lost in him that you're not seeing anything anymore...
All that's real is what he's doing to you, and you to him; instinct, desire, passion, driving both of you toward the moment where you both begin to move in a frenzied maelstrom of pleasure, toward mutual bliss. Your mingled cries fill the room as the blood-tide rises, nerve endings exploding, minds disengaging from fused bodies as they thrash in unbounded ecstasy.
Later, as silence tiptoes back across your consciousness and you listen to the intrusion of his slightly labored breath into it, you tell yourself that there will never be anyone like him again...ever. You turn slightly to press your lips to the tawny head resting on your shoulder, and feel the answering touch of his against the sensitive skin of your throat.
The next conscious thought you have is that you should have made certain the curtains were closed properly. The morning sun, its skirts still trailing in the water across the bay, is streaming through the gap between the drapes. Rupert has rolled onto his own pillow in the night, but his hand is lying across your belly, making you smile. You can't see his face; no doubt the reason the light hasn't roused him yet, buried as it is in the soft pillow.
He sleeps on for another hour or so, and you drowse, waiting for him to stir.
"Good morning," you venture when he finally rolls onto his back and squints at the ceiling. You immediately place your hand where his was, already missing his touch.
After another moment or so to marshal his wits, he opens his eyes properly and shifts onto one elbow.
"Good morning," he replies, looking terribly self-satisfied as he grins crookedly at you beneath his mussed hair. "Sleep well?"
"Brilliantly," you reply, but deliberately don't giving him credit. "You?"
He leans forward and playfully bites the lower edge of your belly button. "Like the dead." He looks a little bemused for a moment, then clears his throat. "Unfortunate expression," he adds ruefully.
You can't help giggling a little and sliding your fingers up to the line of his jaw, feeling the carotid pulse, strong and regular, beneath it. You nod. "Very much alive," you confirm, prompting him to draw you into his arms.
His good morning kiss is long and languorous and you enjoy every moment of it, before he suggests a shower, then breakfast downstairs.
In the shower you both stand for a long time, holding each other as the hot water courses over both of you, the silence filled to overflowing...with each other.
Eventually you reach for the soap, but he commandeers it...and the next several minutes are spent washing each other, with a surprising amount of giggling and silliness, triggered by a slippery cake of hotel soap.
It isn't until you're both clothed and brushed and down in the dining area, picking through the baskets of pastries, toast, tropical fruit, and glass jars of muesli and other cereals, while the smell of bacon and eggs waft by, that either of you think about the journey ahead. Rupert is the one who reminds you, musing about what the rations will be like on board the ship.
It hasn't seemed quite real until now, but all of a sudden it comes starkly into focus. And for the first time, you wonder if you can do it. All of the other snorkeling and reef diving trips you've ever done, including the one where you were trying to feed baitfish to a temperamental moray and ended up entertaining four white-tipped reef sharks who'd invited themselves to lunch [you can still remember the almost-painful jag of adrenaline and the buzz, once the panic rush had subsided, of interacting with those magnificent creatures for several minutes, before your guide prudently distracted your, mostly benign, guests long enough to extricate you from the situation], pale in comparison to the deep waters just five hours motoring from this small city, miles and miles from anywhere.
The two of you spend the day exploring the town, including the thriving aquaculture and, to satisfy Rupert's curiosity, the seahorse captive breeding facility. You stop briefly after that to satisfy his craving for fish and chips...which both of you enjoy thoroughly before pushing on to poke around the Maritime Museum and browse the shops. Which Rupert declares 'thirsty work' after a couple of souvenir shops and a side trip into a boutique, and drags you off for afternoon tea...with the 'tea' part in capital letters. He even manages to get it in a pot, which amuses you hugely, especially given how attentive the thirty-something waitress is being to his every whim. When she's gone you make a pointed reference to his undoubted charm, prompting him to roll his eyes and look sheepish.
"Nice girl," he says mischievously between sips of double-strength Dilmah, "very helpful."
You kick his shin under the table and he almost burns himself guffawing into his teacup. You make a mental note to spoil him later, to make up for the near-disaster as he mops the spilled tea off the tablecloth with his handkerchief, and start on the scones.
Afternoon tea concludes without further drama.
The rest of the day is spent quietly at the hotel, and you decide to have dinner at a bistro close to where everyone will be assembling later to join the ship. You're both unnaturally quiet while you're packing and organizing your late check out, and when the taxi arrives you begin to feel the slightest flutter of excitement. Rupert knows, and squeezes your hand as you settle together on the back seat of the Holden Commodore and the driver pulls away from the curb...
*******
You wonder what Rupert is thinking as you follow him onto the ship that will be your home for the next four or five days. He was very quiet over dinner and although not distant, exactly, he hasn't really been his usual, for this trip anyway, relaxed self.
The berth is...surprising. You know somewhere deep down that 'twin' means two, not double-sized, but staring at the two...single...wooden bunks, and wishing, doesn't make them into a queen-sized bed. You're almost reluctant to look up at Rupert's six foot two inch height to see what you're certain is going to be disapproval and irritation.
"Blast," he says softly, but strangely without venom.
You finally venture a peek out of the corner of your eye and the apprehension slides away. He's tired, he's bemused and he's waiting for you to say something.
"Sorry...?" you offer.
"What for? This is a charter boat, not the QE2. Not exactly designed for creature comforts. He turns, genuinely concerned. "Are you disappointed?"
You feel a warm surge of pure love for him as you gaze back into those dear, puzzled eyes. You move straight into his arms and hug him hard.
"I'm fine," you tell him. "I'm going to miss you terribly, but I was mostly worried about you...and fitting those gorgeous legs of yours into that little bunk."
He drops his bags and climbs onto the top one. He fits, but without a lot of clearance, top to toe.
"It's not bad," he decides. "The mattress is good, and it's closer to a three-quarter than a true single. He hangs over the side a little, suddenly looking extraordinarily cheeky as you come and sit on the bottom bunk. "There's even the potential for me to come down there and visit."
Visions of the boat rocking and waking the whole passenger compliment make you giggle, and kiss his nose.
"Well, we made it. We're here," you sigh.
"Yes, we are," he says provocatively, catches your mouth and kisses you back spine-meltingly sensuously.
*******
The weather has been kind so far, but the gentle roll of the sea has now given way to a slightly more agitated southern ocean. You were both up at daybreak, to watch a fiery summer sunrise turn some morning cumulus into a red-gold billow on the horizon, over a fairly unique breakfast. You finish your smoked salmon, onion, Philly, lettuce and mayo roll and pick up the mug of steaming tea alongside of you, the smell of toast and sizzling bacon wafting up from the galley.
Rupert is eating his roll down wind of you, well aware that the smell of capers turns your stomach. There's a stiff breeze blowing out of the southwest, now that a large high-pressure cell has settled off the coast...strong enough make things creak and groan as the ship continues to beat into the wind under full sail. The placid ketch under full canvas, is now heeling enough to make it feel like you're really sailing, rather than simply riding on a giant moving pier.
Still, you've both managed to find your sea legs quickly. In another hour, all things being equal you should be looking at North Neptune Island, which, instead of the projected five hours will have taken eight in the conditions. A thought that prompts you to stand up and move over to sit with Rupert, braving the bouquet of his loathsome capers to lean against his shoulder and contemplate the kind of future you'd like to have with this enigmatic man.
"All right?" he asks automatically, unused to you being quite so introspective.
You shrug. "It's strange. I know that everything is perfectly safe...that nothing's going really going to change...but it feels...I don't know...like *everything's* going to change..."
He frowns, his expression a cross between bemusement and concern. "Your apprehension is perfectly normal. I feel like that every time Buffy and I go..." He stops, sadness shadowing his eyes for a long moment then starts again. "I felt that way every time Buffy and I used to go out to deal with...incidents."
"You mean every time you went to fight," you guess, and then you realize what it is. No matter how safe the host of this trip keeps telling you everything is, you're taking Rupert into your environment. And you're planning on bringing him within a few feet of mortally dangerous creatures, purely for your own edification. No wonder he was looking bemused. Mortal danger was one of his bedfellows...and leading loved ones into it, he was something of an expert at. You snort at your appalling mental grammar and stand up suddenly, needing to do something to shake off your mood.
He rises with you and starts toward the bow of the boat without saying a word. You follow, picking you way past the aluminum tender, sheets, winches and deckhands checking the cages...confirming that you're very close to your destination, though it's still early enough that most of the other paying passengers are still snug downstairs in the sizable dining area, eating breakfast. You pay attention for the first time to just how chilly the early morning air is, and surprisingly, how long the oceanic rollers have become, making the windward passage far less uncomfortable than it might have been.
The bow is deserted. Rupert is staring out over the bowsprit and smiling to himself, as though he has a secret. When you reach his side and peer through the nets you are surprised to see a small pod of bottle-nosed dolphins playing in the bow's wake. There's spray in the air, too, despite the relatively passive morning ocean. You squint against the moisture and let the breeze hit you square in the face, its salty marine tang filling your lungs as you watch nature's finest at one with their environment, and their existence.
Somewhere along the way Rupert has drawn you close and you are now leaning into him. You're not sure how, but a few minutes later you're holding each other, and the kiss seems as though it's been going on forever...not that you mind in the least. It's some time before you are disturbed by a subdued commotion amidships and look up. An island, low slung and windswept, has appeared over the horizon, and the crew has swung into full preparations for anchoring and setting up your stay at North Neptune.
Once the anchor is set, it's amazing how quickly things move...and how efficiently the crew winches the surface cages over the side and deploys them. There's also a graphic olfactory flag to alert you to the fact that chumming has begun in earnest, as you join other over-enthusiastic passengers in scanning the waters for the first sign of 'great white' activity. The first signs, however, to cause set hearts racing and cause a mild stir are not fins, but small, cute heads as the occasional fur seal surfaces within meters of the boat only to roll over and disappear again just as quickly.
A patient crewman points out to a female non-diving tourist that it's actually a good sign and carefully explains the snack...and therefore enticement...value of southern fur seals to carcharodon carcharias.
In fact, apart from one silhouette gliding tantalizingly past the surface cages and prompting several suited up passengers to scramble into the nearest ones, only to disappear again without even sampling the merchandise, the day is a bust as far as 'great white' activity goes.
You've now met and assmilated a goodly number of the names of your fellow passengers and all those who are diving have optimistically sorted and checked their gear. Some of the older passengers have been fishing and a couple of them already proudly show off their catches of King George whiting...the biggest whiting you've ever seen in or out of a pan; the strange-looking leatherjackets, and snook. The rest are ambitious enough, however, to be rigged for the much larger pelagics though no one has managed to hook up yet. One or two other, non-diving, spouses are either sunning themselves or taking photographs, and Rupert is back up at the bow, reading.
You decide, when nothing has happened for yet another hour apart from the periodic arrival and departure of various seabirds, seals and even stray jellyfish, to go and visit him.
He's reading, of all things, Homer. You suspect that it's a further disgruntled response to the recent cinematic manglings of historical and mythological characters. He looks absolutely adorable in a navy polo shirt, fleecy jacket over it but open, and faded blue levis, reclining in the bowsprit nets.
"Hello."
He looks up and grins sheepishly before peering down toward midships and the stern, where the majority of the activity, such as it is, is.
"Any luck?"
You wrinkle your nose. "One disinterested spectator so far. Good book?"
He looks at the cover and grins more widely. "Usually."
"I checked all your gear," you tell him. "And there's a shore party leaving in about forty minutes...if fur seals and guarno float your boat."
He chuckles. "Do you want to go?"
"Today? Not really, but I am restless..."
He nods, and you know you don't have to explain further. "Don't worry. They'll be here."
And he sounds so placidly certain that you actually begin to believe it too...