#jizavi

“Five more minutes.”

“We have drill.”

“Y’know, she beat me and darts

And then she beat me at pool

And then she kissed me like there was nobody else in the room..”

**

You’re probably wondering how sweet, innocent, all-around good girl Nadia Rizavi, who never broke a rule in her life (ha ha ha) got here, her delightfully naked brown body tangled up in the dark gray, somewhat sweaty sheets of James Griffin’s bed. Because why on earth would she ever want to her bang her extremely handsome yet extremely bitchy squad leader who also never broke a rule in his life (and that part was actually true)? Her pounding head, and their pile of clothes strewn around his room, her bra sitting so comfortably on top of his jacket, all reeking of whiskey, and the clock on the nightstand flicking to 11:32 am on a Saturday when they both would’ve been up hours before said all that needed to be said.

Ah, whiskey. The destroyer of comfort zones.

It had been quite the celebration last night, despite the somber events of yesterday. The mass funeral then turned into a mass wake where they celebrated alongside their mourning. Earth was free. Earth was safe. The Paladins of Voltron, still recovering in the Garrison hospital, had successfully protected their world from complete annihilation, and destroyed the Galra that had been holding their little blue planet hostage for the past four years. The sorrow of loss simply could not hold a candle to the relief of complete release, of everything being finally over. People laughed and cried and told stories and remembered and danced and celebrated, and at least two MFE pilots snuck away from the congratulating crowd to make love in the quiet dark now that nothing could hold them back anymore.

Her reasons for being here were far more complicated than just a bottle and a half of salted-caramel flavored whiskey.

She stretched, her body aching sweetly. Griffin stirred next to her, but otherwise didn’t move. She watched the back of his shoulder steadily rise and fall, subtly stretching and constricting his muscles and the deep red scratches crisscrossing the olive skin. It had been good. She might have been ten sheets to the wind, but it had been so good. He made her sleep until past 1100 hours, after all. And visa-versa.

Without considering the consequences, she leaned down to plant gentle kisses on his back, lips tracing an apology along those marks she made. It was when he stirred again that she realized the implications of what she had done. She needed to leave, now. Griffin was too fast for someone who was still mostly asleep, turning over, and arm snaking around her waist. Her body went very, very stiff, barely daring to breathe. That arm around her looked too much like it belonged there, his thumb tenderly brushing the underside of her right breast, and that scared her.

His eyes fluttered open and regarded her a moment with a blank lilac stare, as if he didn’t recognize her, a few strands of cinnamon brown hair clinging to the corner of his mouth. Then his eyebrows furrowed as if wondering what she was doing there, in his bed, under his arm, and her breath caught in her throat. He laid his head back down into the pillow with the slightest pathetic whine. “What time is it?” he moaned, voice muffled by the cotton literally and figuratively in his mouth.

“Just past eight,” she lied. Why did she lie? All he had to do was lift his head a few inches and see that the alarm clock next to them was going steadily toward noon. But he wasn’t about to lift his head anytime soon, not with the way he had been drinking last night. Some whiskey and a few shots of absinthe on a dare was all it had taken to bring out his wild side that she knew was there, just beneath the surface, that she could hear in his voice every time they ran drills with the MFEs. He was a stallion begging to be broken, and the boneless way he lay next to her congratulated her on a job well done.

But actions had consequences. No matter how casual.

“One more hour,” he mumbled.

Did... did she hear him right? His face was smushed against the pillow again, after all, but did she actually hear him right? James Griffin, the guy who roused the rest of the squad at 0400 for physical training and then drills, asking to sleep in? Why was she not recording this? Kinkade would holler, and that guy wasn’t in the habit of hollering for anything unless there was a damn good reason.

Drunk Griffin was a good time, but Hungover Griffin was an absolute delight.

She could stay.

It would be so easy. She could just slide a little down the mattress to nestle in that perfect crook in his arm, feel his gross morning breath over her hair where she couldn’t smell it, sleep well into the afternoon because she hadn’t slept so comfortably and so deeply these past three years. Feel once more how their bodies flushed perfectly together, a perfect fit, to use the old cliche.

Too easy.

The time it took for her to wrestle with her conscience was enough for Griffin to fall back asleep. Then she slipped from under his arm, padded away from the bed to carefully pick her clothes up from his own on the floor. Griffin snorted, mouth wide open, out like a fried fuse that had been overworked since the night before. Rizavi allowed herself one small smile of affection, then yanked her shirt over her head and pants up her legs. This was dangerous, much too dangerous.

It was one thing to sleep with your squad leader. Not like he actually outranked her so it didn’t violate any fraternization clauses, and no one would really care so long as it didn’t interfere with their formation. It wasn’t like either of them would allow personal feelings through the door, they hadn’t these past four years, and they weren’t about to anytime soon. Then again, they also hadn’t slept together these past four years, either for those very reasons.

Once her boots were tied, she snuck out of the room without looking back and without hearing a sound from behind her except for soft snoring.

It was entirely something else to sleep with your squad leader who also happened to be your ex-boyfriend, when your alcohol-induced passion was only the tip of an reminiscent iceberg layered with what-could-have-been and what-might-still-be, when your tongues confessed repressed feelings with more than just words.