Title: Bookends
Author: Shenandoah Risu
: NC-17 - explicit adult content
Content Flags
: septuagenarian sex, Bottom!Young
Spoilers: SGU Season 2 "Epilogue"
Characters: Camile Wray, Everett Young (Novus Timeline)
Word Count: 2,020
Summary: And her heart just melts again, just like every time when she sees the human being in him, when his defenses are down, when he allows her to witness his pain, his vulnerabilities.
Author's Notes: I've been making a few pieces of art with the elderly Young on Novus (who, at 70 years old, is still smokin' hot!). And I got to thinking how he managed on his own in his late years. In a way, Wray and Young are very much in the same situation, and friendship in old age is a precious thing. This is Camile's POV.
Disclaimer: I don't own SGU. I wouldn't know what to do with it. Now, Young... Young I'd know what to do with. ;-)
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It's dark when Camile returns from a visit with Lisa and Ronald's family.

She opens the door to her tiny cabin as quietly as she can, in case Everett is already asleep. He moved out of his house when his daughter Sara got married, so she would have her own place to live in, and Camile, ever thrifty, had invited him to come live with her. It works well for them – they are old friends; having lost their beloved soul mates they are both lonely, and old age makes living alone difficult.

She enters, and in the faint light she catches a quick movement and hears the rustle of sheets in Everett's bed.

"You're awake," she says and closes the door.

He clears his throat. "Yes, don't worry."

His voice is rough, deep.

"You all right?"

"I'm fine, Camile."

And whenever Everett Young claims he's fine, he most certainly isn't. Camile sighs and fumbles for the oil lamp and turns it up.

It's a warm late summer night and he's only covered by a thin sheet, and despite the low light she notices the blush on his cheeks. At first she suspects a fever, but as she comes closer there's the tell-tale sign, a noticeable tenting of the fabric at his groin.

She feels a little awkward, as she always does when she walks in on him while he's masturbating, and she's about to turn away as if she hadn't noticed, when a glint of the light is reflecting off his cheek and she realizes he's been crying.

And her heart just melts again, just like every time when she sees the human being in him, when his defenses are down, when he allows her to witness his pain, his vulnerabilities.

She sits down on the side of his bed and he pulls his hands back up and clasps them across his stomach, avoiding her gaze.

She touches his arm.

"Everett, we've been friends for so long… So listen: if you want to have sex, why don't you just go out and have at it?" She keeps her voice soft. "You know there are a good number of women here who'd shag you in a heartbeat. And, lest I forget, a whole bunch of guys, too."

That earns her a humorless chuckle.

"I don't want sex," he finally replies petulantly, every bit the grumpy old man. "I want TJ."

Camile turns away from him in mild frustration, and really, what is there to say? Twenty-one years after her death he still misses her every second of every day. She can't even remember just how often she's held him in that time, especially since they've become roommates, how often she's borne the brunt of his grief, and how often she's listened to every story he has about her over and over.

"I still miss her, too," she finally allows, swallowing hard. "In a way I envy you, you know that? I can't even picture Sharon's face anymore. I remember her hair, her smell, the touch of her hands, but I can't remember her face."

They share a sad, companionable moment of silence.

Then she feels his palm rubbing her lower back in small, gentle circles.

"I'm sorry, Camile," he rumbles.

She nods, bends down to remove her shoes and pulls her skirt off.

"Scoot over," she says and pats his side, then lies down next to him, taking his hand and clasping his fingers. "Relax. It's not like we haven't seen all there is of each other."

He is anything but relaxed, tense to the point of trembling, a very slight shiver that runs through his frame and makes him restless.

So after a short while she gets back up and pads over to her bed where she keeps a small jar of oil which she likes to use on her hands and elbows before going to bed. She places it on the chair next to his bed and climbs up, pulling the sheet down.

He utters a sound of protest and reaches for the fabric, but she catches his hand and smiles.

"Let me," she soothes, locking her gaze with his, until he finally relents and squeezes her hand ever so slightly.

She clambers over him to the other side, so as not to obstruct the lamp light.

"You're such a beautiful man, Everett," she observes. "You still have all your teeth and a full head of hair… You really should be out there, spreading your genes around. It's a tough act to follow for Steven and Sara, you know?"

"Camile, I'm seventy-one years old," he sighs.

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"Well… I can only go, like, once a day."

She looks up, startled. "Seriously? Every day?"

He rolls his eyes. "No. I lied. It's more like twice a day."

She chuckles and shakes her head as she touches his cock, half-erect against his thigh. His breath hitches as she coats her fingers with the oil and closes her hand around him, moving it slowly back and forth.

He touches her arm.

"Camile, why-"

She smirks at him.

"Don't worry, I still prefer women. That doesn't mean I don't know how to deal with you."

"You don't have to do this."

"I know that," she nods, concentrating on her task, "But I really want to. It would make me happy, to help you. So shut up already, will you?"

And she dips her head down and takes him into her mouth. His yelp of pleasure always surprises and delights her. His cock feels big and heavy in her hand, smooth, solid, the pulsing vein a fascinating feature. She tries to relax her throat muscles, draws him deeper, and he blows out a sharp breath.

She pulls back slowly, looks at his eyes, darker than usual in the dim light. "You okay?" she asks.

He swallows hard and turns his face away. "Yes."

She hesitates, knowing he's thinking about TJ again, then moves up to place a soft kiss on his forehead, fingertips stroking through his grey hair, brushing aside an errant strand at his temple. He catches her hand, brushes his lips over her thumb and then looks up at her apologetically.

She holds his silent gaze for a long moment, then shifts back down and slips her hand between his knees, pushing his legs apart, then places her knee between his, smiling at his weak resistance.

"You know I'm not going to hurt you," she whispers, and he finally nods.

She coats the fingers of her other hand and draws them down to his scrotum, cupping it in her palm. His skin is surprisingly soft there, and for a few long moments she loses herself in the silky feel of him. And even though she's sucked him off on several occasions it feels different this time – he's trusting her completely, and it gives her no small measure of pride and the courage to move on.

Taking his cock back into her mouth she slips her hand lower, brushing her finger over his puckered hole, gently pushing in. He gasps, then bears down, and her finger slips into his body all the way. She looks up at him.

"You've done this before," she says, and somehow she's not surprised.

"More often than I can remember," comes his breathless reply.

"You want me to stop?"

"No, no… it's okay. I'm all right."

"Do you like it?"

He turns his face away again, then nods.

He's soft inside, velvety, smooth. Warm. She adds another finger, slides them slowly in and out, rotating her hand at the wrist. She relishes the tight squeeze of his muscles, the way he grips and releases her. His hips buck up a little and she increases her hand movements on his cock, takes the tip back into her mouth, swirling her tongue around the head, the way he likes it.

His exhalations turn into moans, as she works her hands in tandem.

She peers up at his face, open mouth panting, eyes closed. His hands are fisted into the sheets by his sides, his skin glowing with a faint sheen of sweat. His moans grow louder as she moves faster, his body writhing on the bed, hips thrusting into her slick hands, as his orgasm approaches quickly.

She pushes in deeply and with purpose, and with a strangled groan he comes, curving his back in a hard contraction, head pushed back into the pillow. She keeps pumping his cock as long white streamers splash onto his chest, again and again, and she keeps up the pressure and gently encourages him to let go, as her fingers are squeezed hard.

She watches his face, sees his expression turn from introverted concentration to a rictus of pain, to a stunned cry, and slowly to a quiet panting surrender. And it's like she's never really seen him before; suddenly she understands, just for a second, why TJ loved him so much, and the unexpected insight lances through her, a pulsing pleasure-pain in her groin, against his knee, a sudden moisture there, making her gasp for air and bringing tears to her eyes. The moment is over as quickly as it came, but it leaves her shaken to the core, having glimpsed a tiny bit of what she has always considered to be one of the greatest love stories she's ever known.

She gently withdraws her fingers from his body, biting her lip at his whimper, and then she gets up to wash her hands, taking her time, wondering what just happened to her. She returns with a rag and a bowl of water and sits down next to him, softly wiping his face and chest, the evidence of her own ecstasy still remaining wetly on his knee, cleaning him up carefully, washing his spent cock and propping up his leg so she can wipe his bottom. He keeps still for her, his breathing slowly returning to normal, a small frown on his forehead.

He watches her quietly as she pours out the water, washes the bowl and rinses the rag.

Finally she goes back to his bed and sits down at the edge, trying to find the words and not coming up with anything.

All she had wanted to do was to give him a small pleasure, the way she's done it before; she had no idea it would affect her this much.

He props himself up on his elbow and reaches for her hand, laces his fingers with hers.

"Hey," he says. "Come here."

She turns around and lies down next to him, as he wraps his arm around her shoulders.

"Thank you."

She splays her fingers over his chest. "You're welcome."

"Would you like me to return the favor?"

She smiles. "Thanks, but I've had my share for the day."

He cranes his neck to look at her. "You did?"

"You were pretty hot there, when you came."

"Oh…" He frowns. "Did we just have sex?"

She smiles. "I guess we did."

He pulls her a little closer. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not," she flicks a finger over his nipple.

"Mmmhmm." He places his hand over hers, stills her movements.

She grins. He strokes the inside of her arm with his fingertips, and for a long while they don't speak, each hanging after their own thoughts.

Suddenly she misses Sharon with an intensity that takes her breath away, and the tears come unbidden.

He places a tiny kiss on top of her head.

"It's not the same, is it," he murmurs.

She shakes her head.

"Old friends," he says quietly.

"Old friends," she repeats.

"Sat on their park bench like bookends…"


"Simon and Garfunkel."

"Oh." She sighs. "Bookends. I like that. It's who we are. So many memories between us."

She hears his breaths deepen, feels her own limbs grow heavy with sleep.

And in her dream she finally sees Sharon's face again.


Time it was,

And what a time it was, it was

A time of innocence

A time of confidences

Long ago, it must be,

I have a photograph

Preserve your memories

They're all that's left you

- Simon and Garfunkel


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