G Spot by carino2

Title: G-Spot
Rating: M
Pairing: ter Borcht/Jeb
Warnings: teh gay, sex, 2 AM epiphanies from yours truly, accidental quote stealing (if you don't catch it, it doesn't count, right? Right??)
Comments: If it's not exactly MR verse, it's Reality Check verse, and that's close enough. E-hugs to anyone who knows what inspired the title.
Disclaimer: The verse isn't mine. The fic is.

Have I ever told you how beautiful you are? he whispers into my ear, and it's all I can do to ignore him.

This is not high school romance, this is science now, and I can't let fickle things such as emotion get in my way.

So why is it that the feel of his breath brushing the back of my neck is distracting me from my work?

I must be tired; that's it. Exhaustion is the only thing causing my hands to shake as I pick up the test tubes; the only reason I cannot seem to keep a firm grip on my pencil as I try to scrawl down a copy of the results.

That's what I tell myself: it's the fault of not getting enough sleep, and I've heard it said that if you lie to yourself enough, what you're saying becomes truth.

I start a mantra as I work: this is science, not emotions. I repeat it as one should with a mantra, doing my best to drive everything else out of my brain.

This is science (I peer inside the test tube and estimate the size of the subject), not emotion (he leans over my shoulder so he can see what is going on).

Science, as I write the words in my notebook, not emotion, but it's all too much to deal with, and as he slides his hands around my waist, my concentration is shattered.

My hands trembling, I place the test tube back in the rack. It clatters against the sides because I'm losing my fight to keep it steady, and I'm thinking that emotion does, perhaps tie into science. If love and hate are simply chemical reactions, then science and emotion can be one and the same.

But no, that's not right. This is science, not emotion, and I force my gaze toward my notebook to double-check the figures.

"Jeb," he says in my ear, "don't you think you've worked for long enough on this project for right now?"

I keep my eyes steadily downward as I think about it…though I can't put my finger on the last time I've taken a break from this, surely it can't have been that long?

"You've been here for days," he says, and I wince; it's true. I tend to lose track of time when I get into a project, and judging from the numerous coffee cups scattered on the table, it has been quite awhile since I've been anywhere. I have the lab technicians to thank for that: caffeine is the sixth food group around here.

Tobacco would be the seventh, only it isn't eaten, just smoked. And smoking is not done in the labs.

Either way, through a combination of my vices, I've managed to stay awake for longer than should be humanly possible. And that must be the reason why, when Roland suggests I take a break, that I close my eyes for a moment and shift my weight back so he's helping to hold me up.

It has nothing to do with the fact that I like how it feels as his arms tighten around me, nothing do to with the fact that he seems so solid compared to this world I've created in my brain and sometimes reality is the only thing I'm searching for.

I hear him inhale sharply as he's realized that he's found an opening; his lips search for purchase on my neck. It's been so long since I've had anyone and this feels so good, but there was something earlier, something about science, and I wasn't supposed to let anything distract me.

"I can't" I begin, but my voice is choked off as I feel his cool fingers on my cheek. He pulls my head towards his and for a moment, I hesitate. Wasn't I here for some other reason?

"Just a short break," he breathes, and I'm completely lost to my science as his lips touch mine.

Already my heart is pounding and I turn towards him, pressing my body against his.

His hand traces its way down my neck and loosens my tie, then begins undoing the buttons on my shirt. I reach to return the favor but he's in a t-shirt, wouldn't you know it, and I have to wait until he's done before I'm able to work it over his head.

His fingers return to my chest as soon as his arms are free of their fabric restraints, and as they skip lightly from rib to rib, I suddenly realize that I promised myself to never get too attached again.

I can feel myself getting hard as his fingers work their way steadily downward and suddenly I remember in a flash of sanity: this is science, not emotion, and I push him away.

He says something but I don't hear it as I turn my back on him and make my way steadily toward the door. I wish now that I'd taken a break earlier to straighten up the room; there are lab stools in my path and I nearly trip because my brain is not fully functioning. I hear him following me and increase my pace.

In a sick twist of fate, it is just at that moment that my foot catches on the leg of a chair that has haphazardly been left in the middle of the floor. I wobble but manage to stay on my feet.

The door is only a few feet away and if I can make it there, then I've made it to freedom. Roland seems to have different plans for me, though, because he somehow manages to catch up. I feel his hand grasp mine and he's pulling me backwards, away from the door, away from my escape.

"You're not running out on me now," he says, and his voice is almost a growl. It's so damn seductive though it shouldn't be, and I want to listen to him though I know it's a bad idea.

In one smooth movement he reaches over and pushes the door the rest of the way shut, then slams me against it.

There's no way I can open it with him pressed so hard against me and besides, I know it's locked. Paranoia's little touch on the laboratory. So I'm stuck here as he picks up where we left off, working his fingers down to unfasten my belt, and there's no way I can push him away from me now.

"Stop," I manage to say, but my voice is weak: I know that I don't want him to stop, and he senses that this is the case. But I continue to tell myself that I want him to leave; "I want you to stop," I say again, even though he's not listening. Wasn't repeating something supposed to make it the truth? But he merely chuckles. "You're not getting out of it that easily."

As he talks, his fingers diligently unclasp the buckle and unfasten my pants and I'm already hard for him again. He knows I'm completely under his control.

I open my mouth to say something, yet no words make their way out. What could I possibly say now that would be of any importance? So I let my hands do the talking for me. If this is the science I claim it is, then perhaps I can learn a thing or two about anatomy—so I unclasp his belt and slide his pants out of the way until it's only his skin and mine: the simplified state of us. He seems determined to make it more complex by denying me my desires, but because what he wants seems to be telling me that it's what I want, I can't seem to object.

His arms loosen their grip on me yet I no longer feel the desire to move. And even though I'm no longer being pinned to the door, I don't know that I could: he's omnipresent; his hands first stroking my hair, then trailing gently down my spine, and I cling to him because I don't want this to end.

He continues to cover my body with kisses and I can't help but to gasp his name. Though it seems such an innocent thing, it as larger consequences than I intend. Because as the word leaves my mouth, he is suddenly not there anymore.

For a moment, I am falling and it is one of the sweetest things I have ever felt: an abrupt (or not abrupt so much as further) loss of control with no idea where I am headed.

His arms arrest me then and hold me up, carry me when they see I can't support my weight, and I am set down on the lab bench that is not nearly so mysterious as my fall into nothingness. The black surface is categorically solid, and scratched by a thousand uses before this one. There are stains on it as well from spilled chemicals; perhaps different ones than the sort that have caused this confrontation, but I like to think of it as a validation that what is happening does, in fact, belong here.

Of course, this careful observation of my surroundings could also be a way to distract myself from reality as he joins me, his breath gently sweeping my neck as before. If I don't admit to myself this is happening, then it never did: the psychology of repetition in reverse, and that's the only thing I'm clinging onto.

The feeling of his hands tracing my hips seems determined to remind me of his presence, though, and suddenly I'm clinging onto him as well, pulling him closer to me, wanting to feel that pain that will mean that there's somebody there.

And now that I've been alerted to the fact that I am, in reality, not alone, I cannot go back to the state in which I was. It is only me and him, and the rhythm we've found together: there is nothing underneath us because we are flying and nothing around us because we have, for the moment, transcended the world in which our bodies have been trapped for the past who knows how many years. Where we are is somewhere else completely.

Perhaps that is why, for the moment, I feel no pain. There is only a deep sense of fulfillment: that I've found what I've spent my whole life waiting for. Now there is no problems that will stand in my way, no equations that will refuse to be solved. In this flimsy reality we have created, it is easy for me to believe that I am a god.

I've heard it said that there's a spot in the brain that is the origin of all spiritual feelings. I've also never actually studied the matter, being too absorbed in more worldlier work, but perhaps I should have taken the time to learn about it earlier. Because I didn't, I can only guess at what its effects might be and how it might be related to emotion. There are some questions that there's no faking knowledge about, even for me, and I'm not stupid enough to try.

All I want to know is why things happen the way they do; the cause and effect of everything on this planet.

This includes, as I'm beginning to find out, love and its effects on the human race. Perhaps if there was a way to understand it all then I could know, without a doubt, whether this was truly the place I had been searching for.

But until I can find a way to determine that, I'll have to comfort myself with the knowledge that on this earth, there is a certain lab bench that may hold the chemical equation to love. All that remains to me is to decipher it, but that can wait until later.

After all, science and emotion are not to be mixed.