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openerotica 106

It's cold this Monday in the way it hasn't been for years --- a deep, unremitting coldness that strikes through material and flesh straight to the bone. Gene supposes he shouldn't be surprised as he stands in the rain, but for some reason he is. It's cold. He's cold. He wraps his coat tighter around himself and watches as Sam stages his reconstruction. He's been odd lately. Not that he ever isn't; Sam's default is batshit crazy. But he's been even worse than that, and if he's slept it doesn't show, and Gene doesn't know why that bothers him, but it does. Gene knows it's likely due to their last case. Sam took the death pretty hard, and though he wanted to be consoling, he's fairly sure he wasn't, because Sam might self-medicate with the rest of them, but it never seems to cure him. Sam looks up, straight into his eyes, as if he's aware Gene's been thinking about him --- worrying about him. But all he does is give a grim nod and come walking over, his swagger stiffer than usual and his expression the other side of bitter. "This reconstruction's going about as smooth as a tranny's arse," Gene says, as soon as Sam's within earshot. "Noticed, then?" "Hard not to. For all your organisational skills, Sam, you never seem to make space for the basics." Sam rubs a hand against his neck. "Which in this case would be..?" "Tea and coffee for the poor bastards who comply with your every whim for a start. Checking the weather forecast for another." "I did check the forecast, it was meant to be sunny." "In October?" Sam mutters something incomprehensible, pouting like a child and Gene knows he should feel no remorse, everything he's saying is the truth. He looks down at Sam. "I'll go see about arranging some thermos flasks. Fix your mistakes for you." Gene can tell Sam's about to say something. His mouth opens and closes. But that's all there is and Gene walks away without looking back. * Sam puts his heater on as soon as he gets home. It's a grotty little thing, filled with dust and grime, and it whirrs persistently in the kind of way that can never simply become background noise. He scowls at it as he strides to his kitchenette and begins making something quick to eat. He settles on cheese on toast. Another day in the deep, dark depths of hell. Trying to make a difference. But he hasn't, of course, because that would mean actually being able to change things --- and either everyone's too stubborn, or he's not stubborn enough. Just what does it take? For a short time, he had thought he had a reason for being here, but he has lately been shown the error of his ways and now he's back in a monochrome world where he has no purpose. He sits down at the table once he's made his meal and re-reads the case notes he's been poring over for the past three days. He keeps thinking there must be some detail he's missing, that maybe his sight's blurred, or that it's too abstract for his literal mind, but every time he thinks he might just be able to see it, peeking out from his peripheral vision, it's gone again. He's going to go to sleep soon. He's going to close his eyes and everything will disappear. And when he wakes up, if he's lucky, it will be 2006. * Sunshine peeks through the cracks at the edges of the curtains and darts against the wall. He watches the strobes of light with a small, confused frown. It's warm today. He's almost tempted to leave his jacket off as he walks out the door of his flat. He spots kids playing hopscotch on the pavement on the journey to work and finds himself smiling at the carefree laughter, energetic movements and cries of delight. He remembers this --- not him, it was hardly ever him --- but the others, with leaves through their hair, scrapes on their knees and Strikas leaning against the bricked walls of their houses. The uncomplicated life of youth. Sam had always been a little too serious, planning for his future, drawing up lists for how he could achieve his goals. He realises this, but he doesn't regret it. At the station, Sam's greeted by a warm smile. "You look decidedly happy today, Gene. Did you win at the races? Uncover plans for mass Manchester domination? Read an article humiliating Litton? Better yet, did my reconstruction work?" Gene gives a slight frown. "There's no reason. I'm just smiling." He comes to walk next to Sam and clasps a hand on his shoulder, but not roughly like he has many times before, just so it settles there, gently steering. "Because that happens all the time," Sam says with sarcasm, then realising he's being propelled somewhere, "where're we going?" "Interview room. We've a suspect for the Kelly case." Sam doesn't remember a Kelly case. He also doesn't remember Gene ever referring to Lost and Found as an interview room. It's both unsurprising and shocking when that isn't their destination. Instead they arrive at a small room with a PC standing by the door, a desk, and a tape recorder. Behind the desk is a thin man Sam has never set eyes on before. Gene conducts the interview and Sam stares. He's professional. He's polite. He makes Howard aware of all of his rights. He's firm, and quiet, and scary for entirely different reasons to normal. Sam gapes at him, open-mouthed, unable to understand what's going on. Sam waits until they're in the lift together before he begins his interrogation. "Gene, have I gone anywhere recently?" Gene considers this, widening his eyes. "No. Why, did you want to? I'm sure you're up for leave at some point soon." "Have I been hit in the head?" "Not that I'm aware of. Are you feeling ill?" Gene presses a hand against Sam's forehead and Sam stills. He can feel every pulse of blood through his veins as Gene leans closer and peers into his eyes. "You look alright. You're not running a fever. Still, I best be giving you lighter duties, if you're coming down with something. Can you take care of typing up those reports you promised me?" The lift stops and they step out, Sam finding it difficult to breathe. Something's happened and he doesn't know what. He gazes at everything as if he's seeing it all anew. Was that drinks dispenser always there? What about that noticeboard? Gene turns to Sam before the doors of CID. "I'm off to go talk to that witness, Sophie. You manage this lot whilst I'm gone." In CID Annie is chatting with two other women Sam surmises must be other female detectives, given that she's not treating them as suspects, and they're wearing plain clothes. Sam sits down at his desk, looking at the neat and orderly piles of paperwork and wondering how and when he arrived in a whole new world. The day is spent observing everyone around him, and time seems to flash by as Sam finishes typing up reports for cases that for all intents and purposes were efficient and successful. He marvels at how familiar and right everything feels, even though, logically, he knows it's all wrong. He tries to find out more, but it's difficult to do without appearing barmy, and he doesn't know why, but he doesn't want to ruin this. It's late afternoon by the time he sees Gene again, striding through CID and coming to perch on the edge of Sam's desk. "You feeling any better?" Gene asks, sounding genuinely concerned. The answer should be no, but Sam nods, attempting a wan smile. "Great, you can come down the pub, then." Gene takes Sam by the arm again and Sam can't help but look at the hand by his elbow. "Gene, are you sure I... haven't been acting strangely lately?" Sam asks once they're heading to the Arms. "Should you have been?" "No, it's just..." Sam peters off, not knowing how to express what he wants to say. It's just that Gene would usually have punched him about now, that it's meant to be autumn, not sunny, and the only female detective is Annie, and only then because Sam fought for her inclusion. Gene's response simply adds to the confusion. "I know it's a hard ask, Sam, but we've gotta be discreet." "About what?" Gene gives a bark of a laugh. "See, this is why we're a team." It doesn't answer Sam's question, but it does make him feel good. * It's brighter. That should be consolation, at least. The wind isn't so biting, so cruel. Gene steps out onto the gravel and lights his third cigarette of the day. Today, with any luck, they'll make some headway with the murder enquiry. Maybe Sam's stunt wasn't so useless after all. It's wishful thinking, but that's all Gene has sometimes, not that he'd admit it. What he needs, what he really needs, is some scotch, but all three of his flasks are empty. He powers up the steps and into the station, waving hello to Phyllis and Dennis and making his way to CID. It's early, earlier than he usually gets in, so only Chris, Geoff and Paul are there. He knows Sam would normally be there too, so he casts his eyes around, but can't see him. In his office he spends a few minutes filling his flasks and isn't all that surprised when his door bursts open and Sam stands, looking a few cards short of a full deck. "Gene?" Sam asks, and it's a pathetic sound that makes Gene want to walk over there and squeeze him. He's not sure if it's a desire to cause pain or the opposite. Instead he raises an eyebrow. "You look like shit warmed up." Sam squints, his lips forming an 'oh', but then he steps forward. "What day is it?" he asks, as if it's a perfectly ordinary thing to ask, and not at all an indication you're completely off your rocker. "Tuesday," Gene returns, knowing he may as well play along with Sam's little game. Sam frowns, then nods to himself, and the look of dejection that crosses his face is painful, even though Gene has no idea why it's there. Sam settles onto Gene's sofa, rubbing his hands through his hair. "Have you ever had a dream that was so real, you could taste it? You could feel every touch?" "I once had a nightmare I was rutting into my old schoolmarm. She was built like a brick shithouse and well over sixty. I woke up drenched in sweat, clutching tightly onto my pillow. That was about as real as it gets." Sam groans. "That's not what I meant." Gene ignores this, ignores the plaintive whine of Sam's voice. "I want you down at Lost and Found. We're reinterviewing Carlisle." "Why?" "I don't think we've wrenched everything out of him yet." "You've given up on me being right about Hopkins, then?" Gene doesn't know how to sugarcoat this, so he doesn't bother. "Of course." "Typical." "It's not like you've never been wrong before. You act like I should always do whatever you say, agree with whatever you think, but you've made monumental mistakes before now, putting my officers and yourself at risk. You've almost been shot in the head countless times, even by people you've been trying to help. Forgive me for not always trusting you've the right idea." Sam looks up, bleary-eyed. "Thanks for the vote of confidence. I'll be out of your way." He stands, arching back his shoulders and rubbing against his stubble with one hand. "No, don't. Just..." Gene doesn't know how to get Sam to stay, doesn't really understand why he wants him to. He strolls over, doing his best to remain casual, and proffers a glass of whisky. "It's nine in the morning," Sam says, scathingly. "It's not like you don't need it." Sam spins around and is out the door before Gene can say anything else. * It must have been a dream. The best dream he ever had. A place where he was wanted and needed. Treated with kindness and respect. Sam rolls his head back and scrunches up his eyes, trying not to cry. It would be so easy to let it all out. But it's dangerous to show emotion. Even more dangerous to show this kind of emotion in a testosterone filled station where he has thugs for colleagues. He interviews Carlisle, not because he wants to do what Gene told him to, but because he wants to solve the case. It's a wash-out and he isn't in the least surprised. Carlisle doesn't know anything, he'd figured that out from the start. Hopkins is their bloke, but Gene's too thick-headed to listen to reason. He doesn't go to the Arms after a long day of avoiding Gene. Can't bear it. Can't put on a fake smile and act like everything's okay. He gets fish and chips and goes to the flat to eat them, watching the television in a near catatonic state. * He had thought he fell asleep watching television, but as Sam wakes up he realises he's in bed with the lights turned on. It's not his cot. It's too comfortable to be his cot. The pillow underneath his head is soft. The blankets over his chest are warm. And the body next to his is breathing rhythmically, rising and falling with what feels like a gentle ebb and flow. It's Gene. Sam can smell him, cigarette smoke and aftershave, and the unique scent that can be overpowering at times, but is pleasant now. Sam rocks onto his shoulder and gazes at Gene's face, soft in repose, eyelashes long and thick against his cheeks, mouth slack and open. He watches him for a long time, thinking about what it must feel like to card his fingers through that hair, or caress the stubble along his jaw. Their legs are entwined and the heat radiating from Gene sends a shiver down Sam's spine. So this is what he meant by needing to be discreet. Gene awakens with a dozy smile, automatically reaching out and pressing a kiss against Sam's lips, and for a dream world, the details are amazing, because Sam's tempted to tell Gene to brush his teeth. He doesn't, he just stares when Gene pulls away and contemplates kissing him again, this time with a little more passion. "What time is it?" Gene asks and Sam looks at the clock behind him. "Just after three." "Shit. I'll drive you back. Our clothes are in the lounge as far as I can remember." Sam gazes as Gene gets out of bed and enjoys the view of him stretching, yawning as he pads to the door. He follows soon after, wrapping one hand around Gene's waist and leaning into him. He figures he'll make the most of it whilst he can. They dress and leave, chatting amiably in the Cortina. Sam gives Gene a longing look when they roll to a stop outside his flat. "I'll see you in a few hours," Gene says, taking hold of Sam's wrist and rubbing his thumb against the pulse. "And then we'll get started on sorting out those suspects for the Kelly case. I reckon you're onto a winner with it being his cousin. There's too many loose ends suggesting it's someone close." "I look forward to it," Sam answers with a smile, and he's about to kiss Gene again before he realises it's probably a bad idea on an inner city street, even if it is early in the morning. * He's not answering his phone, but the landlady didn't see him go. Sam must still be sleeping, which is a blessing and a curse. Blessing, because he might just lose the purple bags under his eyes and stop looking so damn exhausted. Curse, because Hopkins just went missing. There's a chance. A small, but significant chance, that Sam was right. Gene doesn't bother knocking. He gives the door the shoulder and stumbles into the room, and there Sam is, sprawled out on his bed half naked. Not asleep, though. "There you are," he says with a soppy grin, and the next moment Gene's pushed onto the cot and Sam's settling onto his lap. He should be pushing him off, but he's too shocked to move. And he won't admit it, out loud or to himself, but he likes the warmth and weight of Sam. "Missed you," Sam says, before tangling his hand into Gene's hair and kissing him. The kiss is soft and supple and Gene arches into it, even as he contemplates whacking Sam over the head and running for cover. Sam's tongue teases at Gene's teeth and he opens his mouth, allowing the access so obviously craved. It's everything Gene thought it would be, which is bad enough in itself. He can feel Sam getting hard and knows that's worse. He pulls away, steadying his hands on Sam's hips. "Hopkins has disappeared." "Hopkins?" Sam looks confused, his brow creasing. Then his eyes widen and he climbs off hurriedly. "I... sorry." He looks like he's going to be sick. Gene shrugs. It takes a lot of willpower and he'd prefer to wrap Sam in his arms and tell him not to be. "Get dressed. We'll go do a search in all the likely places." * Sam can't look at Gene. He fixates on the streets whirling by. He's fucked up. He's really fucked up. He should be thankful he's still alive. He sucks in a deep breath and tries to concentrate on the case, piecing together what he knows of Hopkins and how this might help them find him. It distracts him for a good three minutes. Maybe he could explain? No, the explanation isn't particularly helpful either. "I only mauled you because I thought you were the nice Gene," doesn't quite have the right ring to it, even though it's true when it comes to the technical details. "Where was he last seen?" Sam ventures, eyes staring pointedly away from anywhere near Gene. "Market Street," Gene answers, and he sounds distant. Sam's memory flickers to Market Street and the last time he was there; the shouting and commotion, the indecision. He shakes his head and tries to banish those thoughts, the memory of the trigger against his finger. They don't speak for most of the day, even though they're alone. They only talk when they have to talk, and that's when exchanging information in short, sharp sentences that leave no room for alternative interpretation. Sam catches Gene staring at him once or twice, but looks away immediately. They don't find Hopkins. Wherever he's gone, he's found a good hiding place, and they just don't have the contacts. Gene drops Sam off at his flat without asking and Sam doesn't even bother with dinner, just crashes onto the cot and wraps himself up, willing sleep to come. * The sun streaming through the window is enough to tell Sam he's back where he wants to be. He smiles to himself and stretches, noting how his muscles aren't sore and there isn't an ache in his bones; these conditions he's become so used to living with, day in, day out. He decides a wash is in order, so he runs a quick bath and shaves as he's waiting for the tub to fill. It takes him a while to realise that none of the tiles in this bathroom are cracked, and in fact, the entire flat looks neat and almost home-like. The telephone rings and Sam answers it, cradling the receiver between his head and shoulder as he dries his hair. "Sam speaking." "Need you at the station sharpish, Sammy-boy. Kelly's cousin has been spotted at the Seven Stars. I need your tactical skills up and at 'em." In the next moment, Sam is driving the Aston Martin he found the keys for towards the station. He feels like Bond. Only nine times cooler, because he wears a leather jacket. He swerves to a halt and runs up the concrete steps of the station, only to collide head on with the solid trunk of Gene's body. Gene's hands wrap around his shoulders and he raises an eyebrow, surveying Sam keenly. "There you are, good. We're off to the Seven Stars straight away." "We'll take my car." "Sure." Gene doesn't let go of Sam's right shoulder, but uses it to follow Sam back down the steps. The touch is warm and comforting and Sam presses into it. They stop by the Aston Martin and Gene holds his hand out. "Hand over the keys, then." Sam's shocked. "What? No, I'm driving." Gene twists his mouth up. "You drive like a div." "Tough titties, we either take my car with me behind the wheel, or we take yours with you." "Fine, we'll go in the Cortina." Gene begins walking to the Cortina and Sam watches, perplexed. This is tame compared to what he's used to, but this is also the Gene that's proved himself to be kind and conscientious, so it doesn't fit with his preconceived notions of what should be happening and how. It takes a full minute before he realises that Gene's not going to budge, gloved hands poised on the steering wheel, and Sam climbs into the car, muttering obscenities. "Sourpuss," Gene says, then settles a hand on Sam's thigh. "I'll get you grinning soon as the day's out." Sam doesn't doubt it, doesn't really want to, and leans back in the car seat, prepared to spend the trip to the Seven Stars grumble-free. It doesn't take long to get to the small pub with the ornate but battered sign out the front and several locals standing within the doors, ready to pounce on intruders should they put up a fuss. "We're looking for Tim Kelly," Gene tells the barman, leaning against the counter and affecting an insistent, but unaggressive air. "Haven't seen him." "A little birdie told me he was here." Sam looks around the pub at the leering faces and notices one that's turned away towards the wall, jacket collar pulled up. He touches Gene's arm and points. Gene pivots, following his line of sight and stalking meaningfully towards the figure. "Kelly, it's best for you if you come without a hassle." "Don't think so, DCI Hunt," Kelly returns. Sam's horrified to see that he's pulling a gun from underneath his jacket and aiming it at Gene. It's a split second decision, but Sam makes it without truly thinking. He launches himself into Gene, pushing him to the ground, as the crack of gunfire rings through the air. There's the sound of a chair dragging against the wooden floor, then quick-paced footfall, and a slam of a door. Sam swallows deeply, listening to his own heartbeat as it batters against his ribcage. Gene rolls over and takes Sam with him, his eyes wide and startled. He lifts his hand and touches the side of Sam's head and it stings so badly, Sam's eyes water. He dimly recognises his own blood on Gene's fingers as they come back in front of him. "What were you thinking?" Gene asks, voice unnaturally high. "Nothing much at all," Sam replies. He reaches up and feels the graze for himself, knowing but unable to understand that if it had only been another inch, he'd be dead. "We better go after him, he's a lunatic." "You need to be seen to." "I'll be fine." "No, you won't. I'm taking you to a doctor, and if you even think of complaining, I'll tape your mouth shut, alright?" Gene radios the station and gives Phyllis the description of Tim Kelly, then asks Ray and Chris if they can come to the Seven Stars to conduct interviews. Sam watches as he works efficiently, co-ordinating as if it's second nature. And it is, he knows it is, but this time Gene's even doing all of the things Sam would ordinarily feel the need to suggest, without any prompting. They're at the hospital before long, Sam being tended to by an irascible and over-worked doctor, who informs him in no uncertain terms that all he needs is a scotch for the shock and a plaster. "Lazy git," Gene mutters darkly, eyes almost murderous as he escorts Sam to the Cortina. "Let's see him get shot and see how he reacts then." "I wasn't shot." "You could've been, you dopey dick. Just what was going through your mind, eh? You've been odd lately and it's not only annoying, it's downright disturbing." Gene starts the car, navigating out of the car park with ease. "I'm not used to seeing you so reckless and... I don't know. You look so bloody miserable." Sam raises his eyebrows and doesn't comment. "I'm dropping you off at your flat," Gene continues. "And you stay there until I come for you, okay? No gallivanting off on your lonesome." Sam is more than tempted to tell Gene where to shove it, but he whiles away the hours cooking, because it turns out he has a whole range of interesting ingredients. For the main meal, he makes Ropa Vieja, one of the many dishes he learnt in Mexico. He labours over chocolate cheesecake for dessert. Gene arrives just as Sam's finishing the washing up. "We caught the bastard boarding a bus," he says, tilting his head to the side, then, "you cooked." Sam ignores the latter remark. "Why aren't you interviewing him as we speak?" Gene settles down at the dining room table, cigarette placed between his fingers, eyes intent on Sam's every movement. "I'm liable to kick the shit out of him if I do. And we know what'll happen then. The little shite will get off scot free, and there's no way in hell I'm letting that happen." "It's never stopped you before." Gene momentarily looks surprised and then scowls. "I know you've been through a lot today, but that doesn't give you leeway to say whatever you like." "No, being a grown man gives me leeway to say whatever I like. I'm not some stuffed toy you've got to take care of, Gene. Prop me on the pillow and keep the vicious claws away." "What the fuck were you doing today if not taking care of me? What're you doing now, making the evening meal, you stupid tosser? Funnily enough, people who love each other tend to protect one another --- strange a concept as it may seem to some." Sam stops what he's doing and stares. He can't think of a single word to say. And that's when the phone rings. * It's Gene on the other end of the line. What? Sam crinkles up his eyes and gazes blearily around him. Rain is battering at the window and as he turns to look, he sees the curtains open and that the sky is grey. "Tyler, you there?" Gene's voice asks, tinny, but forceful. "Yeah, yeah, 'course I am. What d'you want, Gene?" "I've a lead on Hopkins. Be dressed in five minutes. I'll be there to pick you up." Sam rubs his head. "I've only just awoken, haven't had time to wash or shave." "So?" Impatience winds itself through every tone of Gene's voice. "Be ready." The line goes dead and Sam rolls to his side, cringing as pain shoots up his side and his head throbs. Things are feeling decidedly fuzzy. It occurs to Sam in a split second of intelligent thought that he's finding it hard to distinguish fiction from reality, and this is not a new sensation. Part of him has never truly believed that what he is experiencing here in 1973 is real, so that leaves him wondering --- is he living an unreal life through his dreams sleeping in another unreal world? Or is it all real? Parallel dimensions, universes, splayed out for him to journey across through time and space. It sounds like science fiction, but so does time travel, and Sam has spent months here waiting to wake up, assaulted by sight and taste and smell that are all a little too visceral to not really exist. Except maybe they don't. Maybe he doesn't. He can't think right now, his head is still steadily drumming a flamenco and his stomach is churning. Sam stops staring at the ceiling and starts getting dressed. He's managed to put his arms through his sleeves when Gene comes crashing through the door. "I told you to be ready." "I am, almost." Gene's expression is pure disgust, and Sam calmly looks back at him, taking a deliberately long moment buttoning up. * Gene's lead is a warehouse which Hopkins may or may not have been seen entering. They talk to the workers, trying to ascertain Hopkins' whereabouts. They're met with the usual barely contained malice. Gene frowns as Sam sighs in resignation before they even get started. "Not never seen him," the last tall, burly bloke they talk to says, with a blackened eye and missing teeth. Gene weighs up attack in his mind and finds himself being steered away by Sam's hand on his elbow. "What's your instinct saying?" Sam asks. Gene looks at him, noticing the dark shadows still looming under his eyes, the obvious stubble around his jaw. He wasn't joking about just waking up, and yet, Gene knows that Sam's usually up early, jogging. He takes another look at the last idiot they talked to and shakes his head. If he'd thought there were answers here, he'd never have hesitated, his fist would have been itching for connection. "It's a no go. Another dead end." "Square one," Sam agrees, shoving his hands in his pockets and leaning back on his heel. Gene is less than impressed with Sam's attitude. Where once he would fight, bring up a whole host of annoying and tedious things they could be doing, now he simply complains. He knows Sam's going through something --- not that he's even close to sharing what the hell that is, but this is inexcusable. He wants the picky pain back, not the one who doesn't care which way or the other. The one who's scarred because of an old acquaintance making a reappearance that ended with tragedy. He lurches forward and crushes the top of Sam's arm in a vice-like grip, trying to bring him back to reality. "You want everything to be easy." Sam barely changes expression. "Maybe I do. So sue me. Wouldn't it be nice, just once, Gene?" Gene attempts to talk quietly, but he's always louder than he intends. "Not every investigation has to end with someone getting shot." Sam wrenches himself free, recoiling as if to punch Gene. "Shut the fuck up." "Sam..." "No, I don't wanna hear it. Back to the station. Now." Gene stands still, feeling distinctly useless --- a feeling he's not used to experiencing and never wants to experience a second time. He keeps thinking about what he could be doing to get through to Sam and one of them attaches itself to a memory of Sam straddling him, fingers through his hair, lips against his own. Best not to remember that one. Nose to the grindstone. Again. * Sam walks through CID and goes to perch on the edge of Gene's desk, fiddling with the lamp. Gene isn't there, so he waits, looking at the neat stacks of files and contemplating rifling through. He might find something they've been missing. He reaches out his hand, is about to pick up the top folder, and Gene comes through the door, grinning wildly. "Cleaning up after me?" Gene asks, stepping forward and placing a hand on Sam's shoulder. "I'd've thought you'd've got over that by now. Anyway, it's not as bad as it could be is it?" "Why so cheerful?" "This isn't cheerful, dearest Samuel, this is bloody ecstatic, and you know why." "No, I don't." Gene raises an eyebrow, his hand now softly stroking up into the hair at the back of Sam's neck. "Tim Kelly behind bars and rock solid evidence that'll keep him there for years? It's enough to make me do the sodding can can. But not you, you still look like someone switched your coffee for cat crap. I know what'll make you feel better. See you at mine in an hour." Sam stares at his retreating back and shakes himself loose. Gene's in an hour. It doesn't take a detective to figure out what's coming, so it's not really a surprise that his muscles seem to coil within him and his heart beats two times faster than it should. Time seems to slow as Sam waits, finding his eyes drawn to every clock and watch within stepping distance. He fills the time with idly glancing at the folders lying on his own desk. At getting a tea and biscuit for Chris, met with a surprised opening of mouths from all in CID. It takes fifteen minutes to get to Gene's place on foot. Waiting for those precious fifteen minutes is akin to water torture. But soon he's on his way, careful not to run or rush, although he's quicker than he might be any other day, bouncing on the balls of his feet with a light gait that diminishes his habitual swagger. When Gene opens the door and stands to the side to let him through, it takes every ounce of Sam's willpower not to launch himself at the trunk of his body and rip his clothes off. "This is more the kind of thing I like to see," Gene murmurs, closing the door behind them and immediately wrapping his arms around Sam's waist. Sam stops walking and leans back into it, feeling the heat and the soft huff of breath against his skin. Gene propels them down the hallway and his fingers loop into Sam's waistband, just as Sam reaches back and grips the back of Gene's head, wriggling his lower body insistently. "Anyone'd think you've been celibate going on seventeen years, the way you're carrying on." "It feels like it," Sam admits, revelling in the warmth and sensation, the contact he's been craving for too long. "As you know, I don't like using words like 'slag' on the ones I love..." Sam smiles at Gene's self-deprecating tone. "But I'm your slag?" "You're my filthy little slag." Gene punctuates each word with a nudge forward, until Sam needs to move or they'll end up shagging in the doorway from the hall to the kitchen. Better to make it entirely into the kitchen, all things considered. Sam twists around and jumps up onto the table in no time, threading his fingers through Gene's hair and kissing him possessively. He winds his legs around his hips until they're tight against one another, hardly any space at all, loving every point of contact. "So it's you this time, is it?" Gene asks between kisses, sounding faintly amused and more than a little distracted from his ability to construct coherent sentences. "What d'you mean?" "You're taking the lead. Leading the charge. Charging in?" Gene enhances and clarifies his question by cupping Sam's crotch. "No," Sam says, surprised by how quickly he can say the word. "I want you to fuck me, Gene. I really want you to fuck me." In order to get his point across, he methodically undoes his belt, wriggles out of his jeans and boxers and shucks his shirt and vest over his head within ten seconds flat. He then shoves Gene back and turns until he has his hands braced against the table top. He looks back meaningfully. Sam waits as Gene makes for the oil, chuckling as he fumbles. He spreads his legs wider, every nerve in his body on edge. He can't wait to have Gene's fingers caressing over his skin, his cock surging in and out of him. Gene returns to his position behind Sam, placing the bottle of oil on the surface of the table, slicking a finger down the curve of his arse. "I like you when you're wanton," he growls, lips by Sam's ear. "Spend most of the day imagining you slung over my desk, jeans around your ankles just like this, and cock hard and ready to be stroked." "I'd whimper as you edge into me," Sam continues, knuckles whitening as he grips the table tighter in anticipation and Gene spreads his cheeks apart. "We couldn't make a noise, but I'd be so tight and you'd be so thick, and we'd be trying so damn hard not to grunt." Gene presses a finger into Sam, breath already ragged. "You'd bite your lip to keep from making a noise, God you look gorgeous when you do that, and I'd grip you hard enough to leave bruises." He adds another finger, opening Sam up, obviously confident with every movement. Sam writhes, feeling sweat prickling over his back. "Why is this taking so long?" "I don't wanna hurt you." "And there's the fundamental difference right there." "What?" Sam dismisses the question, pushing back onto Gene's fingers. He adjusts his body lower, legs spread further apart, head bowed towards the table. Gene positions himself and eases into Sam carefully, seeming to know exactly how to do it to minimise pain. He takes hold of Sam's cock and stays there for a while, pressed close into him, skin against skin. Then he begins rocking backwards and forwards, minute movements that gradually increase in speed and depth, until he's hitting Sam's prostate on every stroke. He gets harder and rougher and Sam loves it, arching back into every thrust, moaning when Gene's fingers clasp around his hips hard enough to leave bruises, just as he said they would. Gene's hot and hard and Sam feels like he's aware of every inch of them touching, shooting electrical signals through every nerve. He bangs into the table, but doesn't care at all, concentrating too much on the sound of them as Gene pistons in and out, the way their bodies slide against each other, the texture of the table beneath the pads of his fingers. Sam feels lips press to the nape of his neck and that's it, he comes all over his chest, shuddering through the aftershocks as Gene stills and comes within him. * The sheets are damp and Sam groans in a way he hasn't for years, tipping over the edge of the cot and onto his feet, gathering them up in arms that twinge with the exhaustion of a strenuous work-out. Parallel dimension, definitely. There is no way in hell that could be a dream. Too many of his senses have come alive with it and if impossibility is the only thing holding him back, he has a little girl from the test card and talking radios to contend with. And maybe they're the conduits, perhaps he's the key between universes, stretching across infinity, forced to live in multiple places at once. He can still smell Gene, still taste the whisky on his tongue. Sam goes into the bathroom and shaves. What he would really like to do is go back to sleep, but that's not going to happen without copious drug-taking, and since he's already up, he may as well go into work. He stares at himself in the mirror and has to confess he doesn't look close to his best. He's beginning to understand the veiled worry in Gene's expressions now; both Genes, if he's perfectly honest. His skin has the oily remnants of bad diet and lack of sleep and the lines of his face are deeper. At the station, everyone stares at him, and if he hadn't been feeling self-conscious before, this certainly would have done the trick. Do they know? Are there suspicions about what's happening to Sam? Or is it really just that he looks like he's crawled out of the gutter to be with them today? A small, malevolent part of him wants to stand on his desk and tell everyone he looks like shit warmed up because he spent all night fucking Gene, but in some ways that would be a lie, and in others it would most likely get him lynched, so he sits down at his desk instead and feigns interest in the reports splayed out for his consideration. The Kelly case might be solved, but the Hopkins case is still alive and kicking, and he hates that. Looking through one of the reports --- he thinks it's Ray's --- he stumbles across a line that catches his interest. Hopkins has a cousin who lives in George Street. It could be entirely coincidental, but 'parallel' does suggest to Sam that certain aspects may mirror themselves from one reality to the next, so, he may as well give it a shot. He walks into Gene's office without bothering to knock, noticing Gene sucking down a scotch at 8.17 in the morning. "Did anyone interview Hopkins' cousin?" "You're here, are you? Surprise, surprise." Sam stands his ground, crossing his arms. "Answer the question." "No, they didn't. Didn't seem to be any need from what I gathered. By all accounts they haven't spent time together for years." "It's another avenue, we may as well check it out." Sam doesn't detect any trace of sarcasm in Gene's tone as he says, "good work, Tyler", but he knows it must be there somewhere. * Sam's slightly saner today, which Gene supposes he should be happy about. Still looks like someone stole his first self-bought car and crashed it into the canal, but he's doing his work of his own volition at the very least, which is something. Gene tries to chat in the Cortina on the way to George Street, but Sam's still not up for complex things like polite conversation and gets instantly cagey when Gene asks how he spent his evening. All he'd expected was a talk about television, since that's all Sam ever seems to do in the evenings he's not working or at the Arms, but maybe this time was different. Or maybe it wasn't and Sam never wants to talk to Gene anymore. Maybe Sam wants to do something else with Gene and it's eating him up inside. On the scale of Gene's pent-up desperation, the intense frustration of this would be nothing new. As soon as they pull up, Sam's out of the car and walking towards number eleven, a man on a mission. Gene locks up and follows as quickly as he can, knowing that he shouldn't be wary to let Sam deal with things on his own, but equally aware he's wary to let Sam deal with anything, anything at all. And the very fact that Josiah Clinton runs as soon as he sees their badges and that Sam runs after him with obviously little regard for even thinking about back-up shows Gene that his instincts are bang on, as usual. He's torn between knowing he should radio the station and wanting to ensure his DI doesn't kill himself like the pillock he invariably is. He chases after them, only just catching sight of Sam's leather-clad back as he runs through the house and into the back garden, towards a rickety old shed that looks like it fell down in the second world war and has been propped up with sellotape ever since. Gene is fairly sure Sam has forgotten Hopkins is wanted for murder. He shouts, loudly, provocatively, as if begging to be killed. "I know you're there. Come out, Hopkins. You tried to frame your good mate Carlisle, but we saw right through it, you stupid fucking tosser." It's not an approach he's ever seen Sam take before. It's apathetic and bitter. He sounds coarse and cruel, and like he'd be only too happy for Hopkins to blow his brains out rather than give himself up. "Hopkins, tell us your side of the story," Gene yells, uncomfortable when he sees Sam staring at him in his peripheral vision. He keeps yelling. "Maybe we can sort something out?" Clinton and Hopkins exit the shed with their hands up, which has Gene thanking his lucky stars, because he really wasn't sure what his next action would have been. He gets his handcuffs out and signals for Sam to do the same. * Gene buys Sam several drinks and wonders how hard the slap would have to be to get him to stop looking so morose. Harder than he could hit, probably. Through the interviews, Sam was quiet. Seemed mostly in his own world. And now he sits at the bar with a drink in his hand and looks like he wishes he could be anywhere else. With a stab of something that could almost be pain, the image of a soppy grin and joy at his arrival dances in front of his eyes. * A soft, orange glow fills the room. Sam stretches, then curls back into the body next to him. "Wish I could stay like this forever." "Doesn't everyone?" Sam turns and smiles. "Everyone dreams of waking up next to the Gene Genie." "D'you dream, Sam? Sometimes I think you're incapable. You're always on the go. You seem to work in your sleep." "Yeah, I dream. I just told you --- I dream about you." "That's really quite sickening. I may have given up telling you you're a pansy every day, but don't think it never crosses my mind." A grin spreads across Sam's face as Gene tells him it's their day off. The one they promise themselves every month. It feels very much like there's a whole new world at his disposal. "There's no such thing as forever," Gene says, gliding his hand over Sam's arm possessively. "But there is today." * Gene glares down at Sam and tries to decide if water or a kick would be worse. The kick, in all likelihood, especially given how much force he could put behind it. Wants to put behind it. But seeing Sam wet and confused would be a bonus. He settles onto the cot beside Sam's curled form, aware of the metal buckling under the additional weight. Sam's eyes open and he twists away, grumbling. "It's my day off." "It's one in the afternoon and I need your expertise." "Well you can't have it, I'm betrothed to another." "Did you just say 'betrothed'? "Fuck off, Gene. I don't want you, I want the other one." "Other what? What on earth are you rabbiting on about?" "I want the Gene who loves me." For a split second, Gene is overwhelmed with the desire to say, "that is me," but it flickers away as quickly as he feels it, because something is seriously wrong with Sam and he needs to keep his head on straight. "You're not making any sense. Are you coming down with something?" Sam buries his head deeper into the pillow, voice thick and muffled. "Look, you keep taking me from my parallel world and it's pissing me off, just let me sleep and get on with it." Gene is hindered by curiosity. "Get on with what?" "Living the life I want to." "With the Gene who loves you." "Exactly. So, go on, sod off, back to your miserable existence." Gene doesn't let Sam's rejection get to him, because it's not borne of logic or any sense of reason. In fact, they're clearly the words of a madman. "I think I need to take you to the doctor." Sam appears to fully awaken at this, but all he does is scowl. He reaches up and places his hands on Gene's shoulders, only to push him back. Gene frowns as Sam's weight edges him off the cot. It doesn't have to, of course, but he's loath to put himself into another situation he can replay ninety times a night. "They said you'd need counselling and I didn't listen. Thought it was a load of tosh. Thought that if you needed to talk about it, you'd talk to me," Gene says as Sam drives him steadily towards the door. Sam doesn't appear to hear him, and if he does, he definitely doesn't care. Gene finds himself shoved outside the flat in a short space of time, though this is due in large part to his lack of resistance. He has to contact someone who could help, but he has no idea who that someone could be. * Typical Gene, with his fucking need to interrupt all the fucking time. Sam crawls back onto the cot and pulls the blanket up, trying desperately to block his mind to the persistent whirr of the refrigerator and the piercing light of the afternoon. One of his neighbours is watching television and the crackle of voices and cheesy theme music, words and melody indistinguishable, filter through his walls. He can never go straight back to sleep once he's woken up. Not without a whole lot of alcohol in his system. But he wants, he wants so desperately to escape back to somewhere he feels joy. There's nothing like that here. Here there's relentless pain. Having to destroy and unable to properly grieve. Cases that require the utmost patience and tedium before they're solved. No simple answers. No time for respite. Just hard work every day, amongst people who have never understood him and never tried to. There he has something, and it isn't perfect, not even close to it, but it's something he can hold onto when he needs to. But he still can't sleep. * He walks down the street, heels clattering against concrete with his steady but slow strides. If he tires himself out, then he'll be able to sleep. He'll get some liquor to help him on his way. Perhaps even some aspirin, just in case. Sam travels the streets near his flat, dimly watching all around him. There's a couple arguing loudly, hands flailing in all directions, and he can see how this will end, when they're not in the middle of the street. With a black eye and furiously packing bags and shrieks that could make eardrums bleed. But there's no such thing as pre-emptive policing in 1973 and he has no grounds for arrest, so he continues walking, past the corner shop that has a smashed window and graffiti laced with the words "arselicking Paki" scrawled across the brickwork. And this, this is normal. This isn't the worst part of town. Sam shields himself against the cold and keeps walking, bowing his head down low towards the pavement. Once upon a time, all of these little problems offered around by time and circumstance might have given him the energy to fight. But he's sick of fighting, of feeling like that's all he has. Just once, he wants to celebrate victory and not feel like there's another crisis around the corner. Just once, he wants to be a hero and not a murderer. And there is nothing for him here. "Sam? Sam, what're you doing?" Gene. Of course. He whirls around. "I thought I told you to leave me alone?" Gene raises his eyebrows. Sam clenches his fists tighter, his nails digging into his palms. "I mean it, just fuck off, alright?" "Your mood swings are more than a little disturbing. One minute happily munching through liquorice, the next looking nigh on murderous. It's a wonder I take you anywhere." "Gene?" "That's my name, don't wear it out." Bile rises in Sam's throat, confusion clouding his judgement. "I'm sorry, I'm --- stress, I don't know what I'm, where I'm --- " * Sam stares up at him wild-eyed and frantic, mouth opening and closing. He grips onto Gene's shirt with clawing fingers. He looks like he's not really there, that he's staring unseeing. Gene glances back at the doctor, pleading for him to do something. "He needs to be sectioned." "What? No he doesn't. He needs some help, that's all." "From everything you've told me, he needs intensive care. The institution I liaise with has the facilities to aid him." Gene juts his chin forward, looking back down at Sam. "If I'd've known you were a short-sighted prick, I'd never have done this," he says, not entirely sure who he's talking to. "I'll handle the situation myself," he says louder, this time to the doctor. "He appears to be in a severe dissociative state. He needs medical attention." "And I'll give it to him. More than you can, judging by how many words you seem to think you have to use in a simple sentence." "You're being small-minded." "And you're gonna be ripped in half if you don't shove it." Gene hears the thump of the door and knows that his proclamation held just the right lingering note of threat. But he expects Doctor McIntyre will be back at some point, with restraints and the appropriate paperwork. And he doesn't know why a part of him thinks that may very well be the best outcome. Sam grasps at Gene again and he turns to see confusion switching to ferocity, Sam's jaw tensing and his mouth curling up into a cruel snarl. Shit. "Why do you keep doing this? Don't you think I deserve happiness, is that it?" "Sleeping all day long isn't happiness, it's you being a fucking wimp." Sam pushes him back, but this time Gene's ready for him, and shoves Sam deep into the cot, placing all of his weight into keeping him pinned. "I'm not sleeping, I'm going to another world." "A parallel one," Gene deadpans, expecting Sam to backtrack, but he doesn't, he nods vehemently. "Yeah. A parallel world where you're not such a prick and we're happy. Do you remember that? Happy? No, you don't, do you, that's why you keep tearing me away from it." "Living in fiction isn't happiness, Sam. It's weak. You may be a lot of things, but you're not that." Sam struggles again, his legs brushing against Gene's own. He sounds strained and sickened. "It's not fiction, it's real." Gene can't take this anymore. He eases himself up, away from Sam's body, releasing him. Sam stands, and Gene catches that his legs shake momentarily with the effort of it, as if his whole body is shutting down. "You're too far gone, aren't you?" he asks hollowly. "I knew you'd taken it badly, because we never wanna get ourselves into that situation. Never want to have to pull the trigger. And you had a mania about him from the start." Sam draws a hand against the back of his neck, sounding nothing but resigned. "I didn't have a mania, he's my father. Was my father." "He was younger than you, for Christ's sake." "And see? This is how little you know. Your tiny pocket of experience doesn't lead to any sort of understanding that maybe what I'm saying is the truth, that there are places that exist outside your sphere." "You're talking crap." Sam goes to punch Gene, but isn't quick enough. Gene grabs hold of his arm, has him on the floor, fist at the ready. He doesn't expect Sam's next movement, flipping him onto his back, suddenly finding himself sprawled, handcuffed to the cot. Ideally, this would be when Sam would straddle him, show him what he has with this imaginary Gene who tells him he loves him. But this doesn't appear to cross Sam's mind in the least. No, Sam simply walks out the door. * The motel is a shithole, but it's safe and doesn't cost much. He checks himself in and starts to drink. An unhealthy measure of scotch later he's giggling to himself for no reason and waiting for sleep to overcome him. Maybe, with time, he could learn to control how he passes from one universe to the next, not that he has any idea why he'd return here, but for now he has to rely upon his system crashing and that takes an infuriatingly long time. * CID is a teeming mass of bodies. Chris, Annie and another female detective are discussing something that only comes to Sam in snatches of dialogue. Something about some bloke called Terrence. Another comment about Chris' plans with his girlfriend. Sam smiles at them as he walks past and into Gene's office. Gene is just getting up from sitting behind his desk. "Just in time. Just heard on the blower there's a blag going on at the jeweller's down Princess Street." "Nothing new, then?" "No, but I'll bet it'll still be exciting." Sam grins at this, walking with Gene out of the station. He settles into the Cortina, buckling up and holding onto the handle. But Gene doesn't drive like a maniac. He steers with precision and avoids crashing into the rubbish bins on the side of the road. Their doors slam in unison and Sam watches Gene over the roof of the car, stepping to the side and around, tempted to link arms. He shakes off some of his elation when they go into the jeweller's only to discover the blaggers haven't already made off with the wares and are, instead, standing fully armed. But he's still confident, so he approaches them as if he has nothing to lose. "Come on fellas, we can sort this out. You come to the station peacefully and we'll shave some time off your sentences." One of the armed and balaclava clad men speaks, tilting his gun to the left. "Look, Ronnie, told you the kid's loco." Sam recognises that voice. He baulks and tries to convince himself he doesn't know that leather jacket, has never held it in his hands. He tells himself that he can't really remember those soft yet deceptively cruel tones, not with such piercing clarity. It must be someone else. Because he is dead, and maybe now, for the first time, Sam's able to accept that he's glad. He holds out his hands, placating. "You don't have to do this." "Maybe not, DI Tyler, but I will anyway." There's a flash and a bang. Sam has no idea what's happened, except that his head was knocked painfully against the parquet floor. He scrabbles onto all fours just as the door crashes and he vaguely sees figures leave the shop. But his main attention is on Gene, who's lying awkwardly, head at an angle that instantly has Sam's stomach churning. But it's not the head that disturbs him most, when he takes a proper look. It's the blood pooling on the floor, and Gene trying to stem it as it seeps from his torso. "Gene?" Gene's eyes are open and he's blinking. Sam thinks he's going to be sick. This can't be happening. There's no way for him to radio for backup without leaving Gene's side. He shouts as loudly as he can for an ambulance and prays someone heard the gunshot and has contacted other members of the police force. "Gene, everything's going to be alright." "No it's not, Sam, I'm dead," Gene croaks back. "Don't be stupid. The ambulance will be here in a moment." "There's no such thing." "You're talking gibberish." "Not me. Never me. You, yeah, all the bleeding time. But I'm always a voice of reason, remember that. This is it, Sammy-boy." "It doesn't have to be." "Of course it does." Sam holds on tight, straining painfully. "Stay with me. I'm not letting you go. Just stay with me." "You don't get to choose, Sam. You take actions and there are consequences." "But it's cruel. It's unfair." "It's life." One second Sam's holding Gene's dead body, the next there's empty air. Sam blinks, unsure of if he's skipped to another universe, or if time has stopped still for him and nowhere else, or if he's just mad. He tilts his head back and looks around and realises that the shop is no longer a shop, but a large white space, devoid of anyone and anything. And his reality is gone. * The upside to McIntyre being an anally retentive pissant is that Gene doesn't die a slow death of starvation chained up in Sam's flat. He's released from the cuffs without wrenching the cot from the wall and smashing it to bits. And so begins the search. Sam wasn't careful about covering his tracks. All Gene has to do is ask where the skinny man wearing little clothing in stark winter iciness went. He supplements his enquiries with cash and phrases such as "I'll make it worth your while", and maybe he will, he doesn't know. For now, he's too concerned with finding Sam before he does serious damage, to himself and to others. He ends up at a Little Chef. He uses his badge to ask where Sam might be and tells himself he isn't holding his breath when he's pointed in the right direction and given a key. Gene finds Sam in the room indicated, curled tight around himself, tears rolling down his cheeks. There's no fire, or fury, and he isn't asleep. His breathing is irregular and stutters across the space between them. He should hate him, in that moment. Condemn him for being a selfish simpleton who's nothing but crazed and melodramatic. But he can't. He doesn't know why Sam is the way he is, but he knows he has to help him. That he needs him, despite the lunacy. Even at his most cracked, Sam gets results. And it would seem that the key defining difference between Sam's fantasy and the real world was him, so he knows this isn't a one way street of pain and longing. He bends down and lifts Sam up, cradling his head, stroking his fingers through his hair. Sam makes low, soft sobs, his whole body gently quaking. He's a mess. "It's finished." The words reverberate, and Gene keenly feels the sorrow attached to them. "It all disappeared. You were right, it wasn't real. Nothing's real. I killed him. I killed them both." "It'll be alright. I'm here, Sam. I'm here for you." "You're not my Gene," Sam says, and he sounds pathetic and small. Gene stares into his eyes, and allows himself a moment of raw honesty. "Yes. I am."

Yohji rolled over and peered at the glowing lights of his alarm clock with bleary eyes. Not quite 9am. He wasn’t expected down in the flower shop for hours yet – the others having long since given into the futility of scheduling him on for early shifts – but he was awake, he wasn’t hung over, and as a result, he was damned hungry. After a few minutes of staring at the numbers while they blinked and changed, he decided to give in to the urgings of his stomach. He grabbed up a pair of jeans that were draped across the back of a chair, and pulled them on. It was possible there was still some coffee hot and already brewed, so he headed for the kitchen without any further delay. These ‘early’ mornings had become something of a habit lately. It had been over a month since his last real hangover and he was discovering that when he didn’t have a headache that made his eyes water and the urge to throw up at the slightest mention of food, he was definitely a breakfast person. And as Yohji had never been known to deny any of his appetites, it necessitated actually getting out of bed. Ken had made a few bitchy remarks just last week about their food bill going up, but that didn’t bother Yohji at all. He was spending less money going out and getting drunk these days, so it wasn’t any hardship to chip in a few extra yen towards the groceries. As for Ken and bitchy remarks, well, that was just Ken. He’d been tempted to tell the dark-haired boy that it was all Aya’s fault. In a way it was, and he wondered if the soccer player would have the courage to bitch at Aya. Aya, Yohji knew, would have been up for hours already. Aya was actually a morning person. Or possibly just an insomniac. Sleep deprivation would certainly explain a lot about the touchy redhead. Thinking about Aya made his lips curve, even as he took in the fact that there was barely half a cup left in the coffee pot. He poured it into a mug, and downed it straight away, then set to making a new pot. Aya was the reason Yohji was getting up earlier these days, although he’d kill himself before keeping the same ungodly hours his sometime-lover did. Aya had fascinated Yohji from the day he arrived. Yes, he was cold; borderline hostile at times. And he didn’t think like normal people. That first conversation, when he’d asked his name, had assured Yohji of that. And for all his icy calmness, Aya had a fierce rage that burned inside him, something that spilled out into barely-controlled violence with little provocation. The other man was dangerous, and it drew Yohji like a moth to a flame – with the same potential consequences. What surprised him was to realise that on those rare occasions when Aya talked about anything, it was more likely to be to him than Ken or Omi. Ken, he guessed he could understand. The welcome the soccer player had given the redhead was considerably less than friendly. Aya had watched the younger boy for about a week, then made it clear in no uncertain terms that there would be no repeat of the experience if Ken wanted to live. That little incident had everybody walking carefully around him for months afterward. But Omi was cute, and friendly, and people wanted to talk to the chibi. Unless they were Aya. Aya didn’t approve of Yohji’s lifestyle – hardly anyone did – but in the end, Yohji decided it was because they had more in common with each other than their younger counterparts. The other two still retained a touch of innocence, slight as it was. Omi had school, and Ken had soccer, both of them holding on to a little slice of normality in the madness that was Weiss, while Yohji just had booze, and Aya had... nothing. Aya could be coldly logical about missions, planning with an exacting ruthlessness that assured the target’s demise, but his normal thought processes were twistier than a corkscrew. Those conversations, brief as they usually were, confirmed this, and just left him craving more. Yohji had always liked puzzles. And then he’d been offered a closer glimpse of the massive contradiction that was Aya. It had been nearly six months now. A fairly busy six months, at that. They’d come home from a particularly messy mission, one where Yohji had picked up a nasty slice along his upper arm. Omi was taking care of Ken, whose close combat style often left him with more injuries than the others, and that left Aya to patch Yohji’s wounds. The redhead didn’t fit anybody’s picture of a nurse still dressed in his mission gear, applying gauze and tape with a focus that suggested the wound had better cooperate and get better fast, or mayhem would happen. He did look sexy, though, something that had Yohji already planning what bars he’d hit the following night, as it was already too late to go out. He’d finished, and stood up, hesitating a brief moment before picking up his katana. Yohji had looked up at him, and stared. Aya was wearing that odd, blank look he got after a mission. He looked completely impassive, emotionless. The only sign of agitation was the way his hand clenched and relaxed about the hilt of his sword. Yohij knew what a mission could do to him. The aggression and adrenaline, the edge of fear that ramped both up further as he risked his own life to take out his targets. That potent rush lingered long after the killing was done. And as it subsided a new conflict was left in its place: the guilt and shame of committing murder against a lack of remorse over who had been killed. He dealt with it by going out and getting drunk. Getting laid. Losing himself in the vices for which everybody criticised him until he felt human again: flawed and fallible, but alive. Because his biggest fear was that one day, he would feel no guilt at all. Looking at Aya with that blank face and those empty eyes, knuckles whiter than usual, he realised that Aya felt something like that too. Something violent and destructive and despairing. And the only outlet he had, the only target the redhead found for his aggression was... himself. Anyone else looking at Aya would have seen someone proud and cold and dangerous. Yohji thought he just looked lost. His lips curved slightly as he thought how much prickly, prideful Aya would hate to hear that, and those pale violet eyes snapped downwards, fixed on his mouth. Something changed, and they didn’t look empty anymore. Even now, he couldn’t figure out which of them had moved first. It didn’t really matter. He’d suddenly had Aya in his arms, and then his bed, and the redhead was far from cold. It was the last thing Yohji had ever expected, but he wasn’t about to complain. It had been wild, and urgent, and more than a little violent in its own way. It had also been the hottest sex he’d had in a long time. They’d fucked for hours, Yohji getting the chance to explore that strong, lean body quite thoroughly. When they’d stopped, it was because it had been time for Aya to get up. He still remembered that argument. If he’d thought that getting laid was somehow going to change Aya, he was wrong. He’d suggested leaving the shop alone, staying in bed and getting some sleep, like normal people. Hot, sexy Aya turned into Aya in deep-freeze mode, informing Yohji coldly that just because he didn’t take his responsibilities seriously, didn’t mean Aya was going to do the same. Yohji simply stared as the redhead yanked on his pants, scooped up the rest of his clothing, and stormed out, unable to decide whether to curse, laugh, or drag him back to bed. In the end, he settled for rolling over and going to sleep. The odd thing was that Yohji had changed. He’d felt no need to go out the following night. That horrible feeling of being uncomfortable in his own skin, of needing to do something, anything, wasn’t there. Without either of them ever saying anything, it had become almost routine. They’d go on a mission, and afterwards, they’d fuck. Sometimes just once, a quick release, sometimes all night. Always in Yohji’s room – he’d fallen asleep more than once, and woken up to find Aya gone, uncertain as to whether the other man had left immediately or actually stayed until it was time for him to get up and go to work. Yohji still went out. He was too social to stay at home all the time; he liked the atmosphere, and the people, and the dancing, and yes, the alcohol. But he didn’t feel the need to do it so often, or to drink himself into oblivion. He’d even stopped putting any effort into picking up strangers for a little meaningless sex. They’d never said anything about exclusivity, but Aya had a fastidious streak, and Yohji just didn’t feel right about it. Besides, their missions had increased in frequency, so he was still getting laid on a regular basis. It as ironic, Yohji thought as he made himself some eggs and toast, that he should be the one to change because of a relationship. He wasn’t even sure he could call it that, really. But he was supposed to be the playboy, the charming one, and Aya was the Ice Prince, as he’d heard Ken phrase it once. Aya sure as hell hadn’t thawed anywhere but in bed, and any other changes were small enough to go unnoticed. Sure, Aya was a little more likely to talk to him these days, but not by much. They were each other’s preferred back-up on a mission, but that had been true before. No, Aya hadn’t changed, he thought with a sigh, sliding the eggs onto a plate and grabbing another cup of coffee, while Yohji was changing the habits of the past few years. No point in getting upset about it, though. Aya was Aya, and that was what made him so damned attractive to Yohji. Proud, and beautiful, and sexy, and dangerous. Confusing as hell, and his own worst enemy. Some previously undiscovered masochistic streak must have been why Yohji was smiling. He bit into a piece of toast, and dragged the paper closer. He skimmed the headlines, then flicked it over to the last few pages. There’d been a mission the night before last, and the death notice should be appearing in the paper today. Yohji wondered if they could find anything nice to say about the bastard. It had certainly been a job well done. He found the obituaries, and began to scan the column when a name he wasn’t expecting caught his eye. * * * * * It was late afternoon when Yohji returned. He went to go straight upstairs to his room, then some small urge prompted him to head for the store instead. He should probably offer Aya some kind of explanation for ducking out on his shift, after all. It was probably the redhead, with his too-responsible streak, who covered for him. In fact, when Yohji had shown up in the shop this morning long enough to say, "I can't work today, got something important to take care of," Aya had just blinked at him, then nodded. It had been Ken whose bitching followed him out the shop and down the hallway. Which is why it surprised him to find Ken minding the shop. Alone. "There you are, Kudoh. I hope you enjoyed your day spent carousing and picking up women, while some of us have been working." The words had a snide edge that was considerably sharper than usual. "What was so important? Did you suddenly realise you'd run out of alcohol?" Yohji's hand tightened reflexively on the neck of the bottle he'd bought on the way home, even though he was quite sure Ken couldn't see it from that angle. "It's really none of your business. You're just pissy because my not being here means you couldn't run off to play soccer," he retorted. It wasn't like Ken hadn't skipped out on his share of shifts before. "Where's Aya?" "On a mission. Manx dropped by with an urgent one - something about not missing an opportunity. You weren't here, so he had to take Omi for back-up." Yohji felt a mixed twinge of guilt and anger. He should have been here to back Aya up - but Omi was a better choice for it than Ken, whose style of fighting was also close combat. The chibi would do a good job, he was sure. Meanwhile, Ken was still bitching. "I had to watch the shop all by myself, and for what? So you could get laid?" That was enough. "Shut the fuck up, Hidaka," Yohji snarled, and left. He swung by the kitchen long enough to grab a glass - he was not going to drink from the damned bottle like some down-on-his-luck wino - then took the stairs two at a time, still fuelled by anger. He got on with Ken well enough most of the time, but damned if the younger man couldn't be worse than a roomful of women with PMS when he got in a mood. And Yohji was in no mood to put up with it. The door shut with a slam behind him, and he took a deep breath before crossing to his bedside table and placing glass and bottle down on it with deliberate care. He shrugged out fo the suit jacket and tossed it at a nearby chair. It was one of the most formal jackets he owned, an expensive, tailored cut that made him look professional as well as sexy, but he just didn't care. Shoes and socks were tugged off, his tie loosened, and then he flopped down on the bed. Today had been... Hell. The memorial service had left him feeling depressed and frustrated and helpless, but he'd needed to go once he read the death notice. He'd needed to know what had gone so wrong. And then finding out Aya had gone on a mission with Omi for backup - he felt like he'd somehow let the other assassin down, although that was silly. Sure they were a good team, but Omi was perfectly capable of watching his back, and handling any potential trouble. If the mission had been really dangerous, it would never have been thrown together on the fly like this, and the whole team would have gone. He sat up against the pillows, and reached for the bottle. It was whiskey, and not particularly good whiskey at that, but he'd chosen it for his alcohol content, not its quality. He wasn't the alcoholic Ken had so snidely implied, but dammit, he needed a drink right now. He needed the comfortable numbness large amounts of alcohol could supply. Maybe he should have bought two bottles. He splashed a goodly amount into the glass and tossed it back, feeling the burn as it slid down his throat. Immediately refilling it, he placed the bottle back on the stand, and took his time with this one. He was onto his fourth when the door swung open, and Aya stalked in. Anybody would have stared at such an image, Yohji thought as he took in the sight of his lover, face expressionless except for that cold, dangerous edge his eyes held, the promise of violence inherent in his gaze amplified by the clothes he wore, and the blade still held in his hand. Yohji wondered if now Aya was going to complain about his taking the day off for undisclosed reasons, but instead, the redhead leaned his katana against the wall, and began to strip off the long coat he wore. Yohji blinked as the tight-fitting top followed, and realisation slowly dawned as to why he was here. Aya. Mission. Oh. "Uh, Aya?" Aya's response was to remove his boots. "Look, it's nothing personal, but -" That at least had Aya looking at him, the redhead's hands busy with the opening to his pants. That top button, Yohji knew from experience, was really stubborn. "I'm just not in the mood today, okay?" Aya's hands stilled, and he gave Yohji a look of total incomprehension. "Sex, I mean. It's been a rough day, and I'm not in the mood." Incomprehension turned to a kind of scornful disbelief. "Kudoh, you're always in the mood for sex." Aya looked at the glass Yohji held, then at the bottle on the nightstand. "I know Ken thinks you spent the day out drinking or something, but I didn't really think you'd blow off work for that, and that's not the kind of outfit you wear to bars, anyway . . ." Yohji realised what Aya was thinking. "It's not that! And even when I have had a lot to drink I can still get it up!" he snapped. "I've never had any problems in that department!" "Then I don't understand what the problem is. I was under the impression you enjoyed having sex with me." A small crease formed between Aya's brows, and Yohji saw one hand tense as if closing on a hilt that wasn't there. Both were, he'd learnt, warning signs. Aya didn't handle uncertainty well, and his way of dealing with any emotions that made him uncomfortable was to reach for the one emotion he completely understood. Why had it not occurred to him before he opened his stupid mouth that one of those things Aya wouldn't handle well was rejection? Unfortunately, Yohji was feeling more than a little pissed off himself, so he had little patience for dancing around Aya's little foibles. "I do enjoy sex with you, just not today." "Because you didn't go on the mission?" "Because right now I feel angry and frustrated and depressed and I don't feel like -" Yohji caught himself before he finished yelling the rest of what he was thinking. Because I don't feel like dealing with all of your fucking problems on top of everything else! It was true. More accurately, it was true that he didn't feel like dealing with Aya, complicated, fucked-up, confusing Aya, right now. But that wasn't a distinction that he thought the redhead would make, and he wasn't sure whether he was more worried the swordsman would gut him for saying it, or just leave and not come back. Yohji sighed, and looked away. Aya was complicated, fucked-up and confusing, and that was one of the things Yohji liked about him, but right now he lacked the emotional energy to walk through that particular minefield. And dammit, why should always be the one who had to tread carefully, anyway? The next words out of Aya's mouth completely stunned him. "Do you..." Aya hesitated as Yohji turned towards him. "Do you want to talk about it?" Yohji didn't know whether to laugh or just shake his head despairingly over the fact that, even as he made the offer, violet eyes were glancing longingly towards the door. He sighed again, a defeated sound. "No," he said tiredly. "I don't want to talk about it." Aya looked relieved. Yohji stared at him a moment longer. Aya stood there, feet and chest bare, pants half undone, ready and willing to have sex, and totally uninterested in anything deeper. What the hell was wrong with him? Maybe some hot mindless sex was just what he needed, as the alcohol wasn't helping. "Aya." Yohji's voice took on a deeper note. "Take them off." Aya blinked at him, and some of the tension in his stance disappeared as he slid the pants all the way off. "You're in the mood now?" he asked, as if to be sure. "Yes," Yohji hissed, drinking in the sight of his lover naked, and coming towards him. He was always a little surprised by how broad Aya's shoulders really were under his clothes, the result of swinging a sword about, he supposed. He'd never be some over-muscled bodybuilder type, but they were there, defined enough to be seen while only hinting at the actual strength of him. There was something about Aya that made Yohji think of elegance and grace and power, something that made him so well-suited to the feline codenames Kritiker gave them. And damn, it was sexy. Aya reached the bed, and leaned over to pluck the empty glass from Yohji's hand, placing it on the nightstand with a decisive clink. He hadn't even realised he still had it. Hands empty, he reached for his lover. Aya caught him easily about the wrists, and pressed them over his head as he straddled Yohji's lap. "No," he said firmly. "I'm going to do the touching." "We can both touch," Yohji pointed out, even as this remark sparked a half dozen really hot fantasies in his head that all involved Aya touching him. "Hn. No." Aya tugged the loosened tie from his neck, and wrapped it about Yohji's wrists before he could protest. He settled back a bit more firmly against Yohji's erection, squirming so that his ass rubbed against the still-clothed length, then leaned forward to lick at the blond's parted lips. "Unless you want me to stop?" There was a slight curve to Aya's lips as he moved again, and Yohji moaned as he felt his trapped cock pressing between the curve of the redhead's ass-cheeks, rubbing against the slightly softer weight of his balls. No, his lover knew full well Yohji wouldn't let him stop now. Of course, he thought as a tug reminded him of the binding about his wrists, there was the question of just who was letting who do anything. "Aya," he breathed, lifting his head to kiss the other man properly. He felt a thrill of lust as Aya kissed him back, hard, possessive and deep, forcing Yohji's head back to the pillows. A hand grasped his wrists, pushing them down firmly as well in a definite warning. Aya was going to be in charge this time, and that was just fine with Yohji. Fingers fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, and then were sliding over his chest. They found flat nipples, and circled them with teasing movements before grasping now hardened little nubs and tugging. Yohji moaned into Aya's mouth, thinking that he'd really taught him well. Then Aya was moving down his neck, lips closing over his pulse and sucking. Yohji loved to give the redhead lovebites, even if he knew Aya would never let anybody else see them, and the idea that now he was being marked... He resolved to wear low-necked tops for the next few days. Finally Aya released his throat and moved downward. More buttons were undone, the shirt pushed out of the way but not removed. A hot, eager mouth trailed over his chest and down his stomach, nipping and licking and sucking, while fingers slid back and forth over heated skin. Yohji's breath came faster as those hands reached his belt, unfastening the catch as Aya's tongue dipped teasingly into his bellybutton. His hips shifted slightly as it was tugged out of its loops, and tossed aside. Anticipation had him whimpering as a hand settled over the hard length of his cock, squeezing lightly through the cloth. The sound made Aya raise his head to stare at him. His hand flattened, pressing against Yohji's erection and rubbing back and forth in a movement that was almost painful, and damned arousing. His eyes weren't cold now, but fierce and hot, with a distinctly predatory gleam, and a hint of anger. Some of the teasing, Yohji realised, wasn't just about need, but revenge; a punishment of sorts for making Aya wonder. A reminder and reassurance that Yohji did want him. Yohji closed his eyes and moaned. Hell, Aya could do anything he wanted right now, and he'd beg for more. "Aya," he pleaded. "Do you want something, Yohji?" Aya purred. "Please." Deft fingers made quick work of his fly, lifting his aching cock carefully from the confining fabric, and then that gorgeous red head was lowered once again. Yohji gasped as a hot mouth closed over the tip of his cock, then slid down to engulf more than half its length. "Aya!" he cried, arching upward in spite of himself. Hands grasped his hips frimly and pinned them against the bed. Yohji whimpered. Aya was more than strong enough to hold him down as his mouth began its work, sliding and sucking and driving him wild. His hands came down, wanting to bury themselves in silky red hair and tug him closer, but he'd barely got them to mid-chest before the tie binding them together reminded him. Reluctantly, he returned them to their resting place above his head, and let Aya do what he wished. What Aya wished was apparently to drive him crazy. Yohji thought that he was just about to lose it when Aya sat back on his heels, lips reddened and wet with saliva and a hint of pre-come at one corner. His tongue darted out to lick at it, and Yohji whimpered again. Aya crawled up his body and leaned over to fish about in the top drawer of the nightstand for lube. It placed one nipple within easy reach and Yohji took the opportunity to lick at it. The other man made a startled sound, and sat back up, the tube clutched in one hand. Yohji gave him an innocent look - or at least as much of one as was possible while half naked and bound lying on a bed with a naked man straddling his lap. Aya's eyes narrowed warningly. "I told you, no touching, didn't I?" Yohji didn't reply. After a moment, Aya gave a soft, "Hn," and squeezed a generous amount of lube onto the fingers of one hand. For a few seconds, Yohji wondered if he was finally going to be uke - not that he'd mind - then realised Aya still hadn't done more than push his pants out of the way of his cock. If Aya was going to fuck him for a change, he'd need to be a little more naked than he currently was. The redhead wrapped one hand around his cock, - Yohji licked his lips at the sight - lifting it to slide slickened fingers between his legs. They moaned in unison as one slick digit pressed its way inside. Yohji didn't think he'd ever seen anything as hot as Aya preparing himself, cheeks flushed and eyes half closed as two fingers now moved inside him, stretching the tight little opening to accept more. He made small, delicious sounds of pleasure and need as they moved, his other hand lightly stroking the rosy length of his cock. This was the reason he put up with all the shit that came with Aya: the Aya that the swordsman wouldn't let anybody but Yohji see, someone who felt, and wanted, and needed just like anybody else. Someone who, beneath the usually icy mask, had his own vulnerabilities. Someone he only caught glimpses of outside the bedroom, but it was enough to make him want more. He felt something ease inside him, and suddenly he was grateful that Aya hadn't simply taken him at his word and left earlier. Two fingers became three, and then Aya was using those same fingers to slick lube over Yohji's cock. He moved back, settling the tip of Yohji's cock against his opening then sinking slowly down. "Aya-" Yohji choked out as tight, slick heat took him in. A brief look of discomfort flickered over the redhead's face, and he wriggled slightly. Yohji whimpered, but the new position seemed to satisfy Aya. He lifted himself up, and sank down again. A slow pace seemed enough at first but before long, Aya was slamming back down on him, riding him with a wild abandon that had them both making inarticulate sounds of pleasure. Aya continued to stroke his own cock, his grip firmer now, moving with a desperate urgency. He was the one who came first, warm semen splattering over Yohji's stomach and chest, some even splashing as far up as his chin. The way his inner muscles tightened around him was enough to send Yohji following with a harsh cry, hips arcing up to slam inside him one more time. When Yohji was able to think clearly again, Aya was slumped forward over him, having caught himself just before he landed in the cooling puddle of come on his chest. They were both still breathing hard and fast, and Yohji's breath caught as a tongue slipped out to lick at some of the semen that had made it as far as his chin. Aya leaned forward a little more, and their mouths met in a leisurely kiss. Yohji gave a little hum of pleasure, able to taste himself on his lover's lips. It might be almost over, but his day was starting to look - He grunted as Aya sat up, and looked around, reminding him his cock was still inside the other man. But before he could explore the possibilities of this, Aya had lifted himself off, swinging a leg over so that he could leave the bed entirely. The redhead made a beeline for a towel Yohji had left on the dresser after his shower that morning, and wiped at the fluids leaking from his entrance. Almost as an afterthought, he padded over long enough to hand Yohji the towel so he could wipe himself off, then scooped up his pants and tugged them on. Yohji stared as Aya left the room, the sound of the door latch catching incredibly loud in the silence of the room. Well, fuck. Yohji stared at the door in a mixture of incredulity and anger. It was true that their relationship wasn’t exactly the kind of romance people wrote novels about, Yohji thought with a snarl, but just fucking him and leaving without a word was – He tugged his wrists free from the tie and sighed, shoulders slumping. What was the point, anyway? This was Aya, and it was quite possible the swordsman didn’t see anything wrong with his actions. Or simply didn’t care. That last thought sent Yohji straight back into the black mood he’d been in when he arrived home. He scooped up the towel and swiped it across his stomach, somewhat haphazardly. He really needed a shower. He smelled of sweat, alcohol and sex. The sex had succeeded in distracting him, but now it was over and he felt . . . cheap. Fucking wonderful. Just how pathetic was he? he wondered as he tossed the towel aside. Next he’d be staring longingly at his insensitive prick of a lover while they worked, and composing sonnets to his eyes or something. He snorted and poured himself another drink, knocking it back with considerable haste. If he wanted to get drunk enough to not give a damn about anything, he’d need to work harder at it. As he was lowering the glass, his eye caught on something. Aya’s katana was still leaning against the wall, where he had left it. Aya’s katana, which he was possessive and protective of, and would never casually forget anywhere. And he’d just left it, in Yohji’s room, without so much as a second glance in its direction as he left. What was that supposed to mean? “Kudoh, when are you gonna realise you’ll never figure him out?” Yohji sighed, and poured himself another drink. Then he leaned back against the pillows to wait, because surely Aya would be coming back for his sword. A minute or so later, the door reopened. Aya re-entered, holding a glass in one hand. Yohji watched as the redhead settled himself in a cross-legged position on the other end of the bed and held the glass out. Yohji poured a generous amount of whiskey into it. Aya swirled it around, looking at it consideringly. “So.” He took a mouthful and swallowed, then blinked. “You actually like this stuff?” “It’s cheap, and has a high alcohol content. I didn’t buy it for its taste.” “Hn.” The swordsman took another mouthful, and then, for the first time since he’d returned, looked directly at Yohji. “What were you doing today?” “I went to a funeral.” Aya didn’t say anything, just continued to look at him. “You remember a mission, couple of months back, where a hospital administrator was kidnapping and selling newborns for black-market adoptions?” “Of course. There were complications.” It had been a nasty case, even thought for the most part, the administrator and his cohorts had avoided outright murder. The doctor and his nursing staff would create ‘complications’ during the labour which required the mother be given drugs. Then, afterwards, they would tell her the child was stillborn, and her memories of the labour were not clear enough to argue. As a particularly gruesome touch, they kept the body of a stillborn infant in the hospital morgue, in case the parents insisted on seeing their baby. “Yuriko Tamagawa. She refused to believe the dead baby was hers, and they were going to kill her.” They’d been about to do so when Weiss arrived on the scene. Yohji could remember it even now, the poor woman still wearing one of those awful hospital gowns with no back to it, spitting defiance at her captors. One of the ‘nurses’ had been preparing to shoot, when the doctor stopped her. A bullet, after all, was hard to make look like an accident. He’d backhanded her instead, the blow knocking her unconscious. He’d told the nurse to return her to her hospital room, and make it look like she’d committed suicide in despair over her loss. “But we killed them, and even got her baby back.” He’d felt so good about that mission, like they’d really accomplished something other than just killing for a change. Something worthwhile. “Hn.” Aya drank the last of his whiskey, and held the glass out for a refill. “So who was the funeral for?” “Yuriko Tamagawa.” Yohji filled Aya’s glass then his own, throwing it back in one go and refilling it again. “Turns out that less than a month ago, she was in a car accident. A drunk driver. She survived, but he hit the passenger side, and her baby was killed.” It had been easy to get the information from family and friends attending the funeral, all of whom were still somewhat shocked by events. He’d been an investigator once upon a time, and he’d always been extremely skilled at convincing people to talk to him. “How did she die, then?” “Suicide.” “Oh.” Aya looked at him, and took another sip. “You’re angry.” Head tilted to one side, he seemed to be thinking about this. “Damn right, I‘m angry!” Yohji burst out. “We saved the girl, saved the kid, and then this happens? How fucked up is that?” Aya looked at him steadily. “We’re killers, Yohji. We’re not here to save people. You shouldn’t expect we can. We kill whatever target Persia and Kritiker set in front of us, and move on. The fact that Yuriko Tamagawa and her baby survived was nothing more than a happy accident. We can’t even save ourselves.” “You really believe that? That what we do makes no difference?” Yohji could feel his voice rising along with his temper, and tried to keep it from becoming a shout. Aya was not someone he wanted to argue with. Not seriously. “I believe it changes who is out there, committing their crimes, but no, not much else.” “Then why the hell are you here?” Yohji lost the battle to keep from yelling. How could Aya so cavalierly dismiss what they did? They were out there, killing people, and there had to be a reason for it, a purpose to it all. It had to make a difference, or they were no different from the ‘Dark Beasts’ they hunted. “If what we’re doing has so little effect, why bother? Or are you so fucked up you no longer need a reason?” Even as he said it, he wondered if he’d gone too far. That last remark was personal, an attack on Aya and his sometimes questionable grip on sanity. And as Aya’s eyes narrowed, glaring at him with a touch of that icy rage he’d seen the few times the redheaded swordsman truly lost it, Yohji wondered if this time, whatever understanding they had between them would be enough to keep him in one piece. “Oh, I have my reason, and it’s a damned good one,” Aya hissed. “Revenge. And I have no need to dress it up in pretty ideals to justify it to myself, or anyone else.” “That’s it? Revenge?” Yohji repeated. Yeah, he knew they were all here for personal reasons, but he was surprised to find Aya’s was so... simple. It was no secret he went a little nuts anytime the name Takatori was mentioned, but – It wasn’t so different from what had bought him here. He’d wanted to bring down Liott, after all. They were responsible for Asuka’s death, and they had to be stopped. But he did still have ideals. A little tarnished, and buried under a pile of vices, they were still there, and Yohji was a little surprised to realise he hadn’t let go of all of them. Do I dress it up to justify it to myself? he wondered. “Yes. One day I will kill Reiji Takatori. I look forward to watching him die, knowing that he didn’t get away with what he did, that someone made him pay.” “And what about all the people you’ve killed in the meantime?” Aya shrugged. “Kritiker promised to help me get to Takatori. I can’t reach him yet, but I will. I follow their orders, I get something in return. And I’m already a killer, Yohji. How much difference does it really make?” “Not much, I guess,” Yohji said. And here he thought he’d been depressed before. He’d never exactly got the impression that Aya liked himself much, but did he really think like this all the time? “And you’re -” not happy, this was Aya - “satisfied with that?” “It’s enough. I don’t fool myself though. Killing him won’t save anybody. It won’t bring anything back.” He looked down at the remaining inch of amber liquid in his glass. Yohji only just caught the words he murmured under his breath. “Not even me.” Yohji didn’t know what to say to that. It was clear it hadn’t really been meant for his ears, and if Aya was... comfortable with the way things were, then he certainly had no right to judge. “So, getting back to our original subject.” Aya looked up, met Yohji’s eyes, and took a small sip of whiskey. The topic of his motivations, that look said quite clearly, was now closed. “Do you want to kill the driver, then?” Yohji blinked, thrown by Aya’s question. “He’s hardly the kind of target we take on.” A part of him wanted to say yes, let’s do it, while a saner, slightly more sober portion of his brain knew that an idiot who got behind the wheel while drunk wasn’t some crazed serial killer, deranged scientist, or dangerous sexual predator. Thoughtless, perhaps. Hell, once or twice he’d been stupid enough to do it, a thought that made him shudder now. “Kritiker wouldn’t -” “True, it’s not the kind of thing Kritiker would involve themselves in. And they likely wouldn’t approve if we went after him ourselves. But if you really want to...” The prospect didn’t appear to bother Aya any, but Yohji wasn’t comfortable with the thought of going after someone, killing them, simply because he wanted to. It was a line he hadn’t crossed yet, although some might consider it a very fine distinction. “No.” He said it firmly, to assure both himself and Aya that he meant it. He was determined to end that line of conversation before he let himself be talked into it. “He’s not our kind of criminal, Aya. Yes, he killed someone, but it’s not like -” Yohji stumbled to a stop, unable to say just why he saw such a difference between a drunk driver and their usual prey. It should be easy enough that even Aya could spot it, and if he couldn’t, Yohji wasn’t sure he could explain it. Maybe Aya thought of himself as just another murderer, but Yohji didn’t. He didn’t think of Aya that way either, and he wouldn’t be the one to push him across that line, even if the redhead didn’t believe it was really there. “Hn.” There was a moment of silence. “So you’re angry at her, then.” “What? That’s ridiculous.” “Why?” “Because she’s dead, she killed herself. You’re supposed to feel, I don’t know, sorry for her. Not get angry.” Aya snorted. “This funeral. There were a lot of people there?” “Yeah. Her family, friends, people she used to work with – she was really well-liked. And her husband was heart-broken – they had to take him away halfway through the service.” “She was selfish, inconsiderate and cowardly. I see plenty of reason to be angry at her.” Yohji blinked. “She’d lost her child, Aya!” “But she still had people who cared for her. Friends willing to support her. A husband who loved her, and they might have had another child. She was selfish.” The firm tone in which he spoke made it clear that Yohji wasn’t going to change his mind on this. “I don’t expect everyone to make our choices – it’d be strange if they did – but one loss and she just gives up?” He snorted again, and tossed back another shot of whiskey. “Selfish.” “Hn.” Yohji looked down at his own glass. He’d lost Asuka, and she was the only person he was really close to, as his own family were long gone. He’d pieced together enough about Aya to know Takatori had killed his family, everyone Ken knew had turned on him after the scandal, and Omi’s family hadn’t cared enough to try and ransom him back. They’d each reached the point where they had nothing and nobody to care, and rather than giving up, they’d chosen to fight. “I don’t expect everyone to make our choices,” Aya had said. Maybe... Maybe Aya was right. He was angry at her. They’d done their best, given her another chance with her family, and she’d wasted it. Maybe things hadn’t been perfect, but Yohji couldn’t think of any time in his life when that was the case. She’d still had so much more than any of them could claim, and this was what she did with it? “I guess she made her own choices,” Yohji said quietly, swirling the amber liquid about and wondering if he really wanted to drink it after all. It was quite awful, and the alcohol content wasn’t proving to be as beneficial as he’d thought. “Yes.” Something about the way the word was spoken sounded... odd. He looked up to see Aya blinking at him, a little myopically. A smile tugged at his lips. Clearly Aya wasn’t used to drinking vast quantities of whiskey, good, bad or otherwise. A glance at the nightstand showed there was barely enough liquid in the bottle to cover the bottom. When had that happened? But it probably explained why Aya looked like he was struggling to focus on anything. It might even explain why he’d become so talkative. He watched as Aya tried to figure out what to do with his once-again empty glass, eyes moving from the nightstand, to the dresser, and even the surface of the bed. A slightly drunken Aya was, he decided, cute. And thank God he hadn’t had enough to drink to say that thought out loud. Yohji leaned forward, plucking the empty glass from loose fingers. He placed it beside the bottle, and turned back to the redhead, who was staring at him as if the simple action was something completely unexpected. Yohji felt his breath catch. There was no anger in those eyes, no intent focus, nor was the face an impassive mask. Aya looked, for just a moment, every bit as young as he really was. And even as he watched, the expression settled into more familiar lines, the guard coming back up. Maybe it was just the alcohol that had Aya’s mask slipping. Maybe it was the reason he’d even been willing to say so much, revealing things he’d never allowed to show before. But he’d been perfectly sober when he first returned to the room, with the apparent intention of letting Yohji get whatever it was off his chest. Even if he wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about it. This time, Yohji’s smile was wide and wholehearted. Leaning forward, he caught Aya’s chin in one hand, and claimed his lips in a slow, languid kiss. Aya might not have changed much because of their relationship – he might not even consider it a relationship – but he had changed. Just a little. And coming from him, so stubborn and independent and unwilling to rely on anybody else, it seemed like a huge concession. Yohji did still have ideals, and dreams of saving people, of making a difference, and maybe they were the wilful self delusions Aya’s bleak worldview claimed. Perhaps they couldn’t save anyone, even themselves. But as he pulled the other man close, tugging him down until they tangled together once more atop the rumpled covers, he knew he was still going to try. Starting with a certain stubborn redhead.

Gojyo was on wood duty. He hated wood duty, although to be honest, he'd managed to get out of it for the past few weeks by tricking Goku into doing for him. Tonight, however, Sanzo had intervened and here he was, picking up dry tree limbs for their fire. Gojyo swore, loud and long, using every swearword he could think of, creating new and inventive combinations to old classics. They were all a bit edgy. They were in a dense forest, green and soothing, with a stream nearby and a picturesque meadow not far from the deer trail Hakkai had insisted was a road. If it hadn't been day three of sleeping outside, Gojyo might have appreciated the scenery more. At least this time they'd chosen to camp near hot springs. Gojyo would be able to wash some of the road grime from his body and clothes. First, however, he had to collect wood. "Fucking Sanzo." Something buzzed by his head and he paused, his head twisting to track the sound. Was that what he thought it was? He rejected the notion and returned to his chore. After gathering up an armload of wood, a small, purple creature with sparkling wings hovered in front of him, finally alighting on the top limb he carried. "Great." Gojyo glared at the thing. "Fairies." The creature fluttered its wings, and a glittering dust surrounded Gojyo like a shimmering cloud. "Hey!" Gojyo grumbled, waving away iridescent specks with his free hand. "Cut that out." The fairy scowled at him. Soaring into the air, it circled his head while chattering at him and sprinkling him with more dust. The creature sounded suspiciously like a squirrel and finally Gojyo was annoyed enough to swat at it. The fairy flew away and he didn't think anymore about it. He made his way back to an empty camp. He quickly built a blazing fire and absently wondered where his companions might be. He suspected they were bathing, exactly what he had in mind. Once the fire had sufficient life, Gojyo gathered up his cleanest clothes, various grooming items, and a towel before making his way to the spring. Dusk was painting the sky in a cacophony of colors when he settled himself into a pool of warm water fed by the hot spring. Thick trees and a cushiony carpet of moss covering the forest floor added to the woodland beauty. Gojyo sighed, realizing what a lovely place they'd had luck in finding. He lit a cigarette and eased deeper into soothing water. Another fairy, the color of a blue summer sky with wings resembling those of a butterfly, hovered over his head. This one also released a shower of sparkling powder over him and continued to rain fairy dust on Gojyo until he lost his patience and gently backhanded the creature. It returned, circling him, just out of arm's reach while it buzzed around him, like an angry bee. He blew smoke at it, taking joy in its indignant chatter. The fairy gave him a final dusting and then darted away. A voice Gojyo did not recognize interrupted his moment of triumph. "Ah, I understand now. You seem to have a resistance." He sat up and scanned trees and undergrowth. "What?" he called out, visually searching for his visitor. "I see you are immune to the nymphs magic." A fox with a silver coat, ice-blue eyes, and many tails emerged from a tangle of heavy brush. "Upon closer observation, I see why." Gojyo stared mutely at the beast. His startled brain was disappointingly unable to form a suitable comeback. The fox sat down, curling its many tails about itself. "You are part nymph." Now Gojyo wasn't a complete fool, he knew a talking fox was not a normal occurrence, and he could only think of one thing to say. "What the fuck?" "No." The fox shook its head, a very unsettling thing to see. "I believe, if the fairies have their way, fucking is what your friends will be doing, perhaps for the rest of their lives." Gojyo rolled his eyes and took a deep drag of his smoke. He smiled at the fox. "Okay, I really don't know what you're going on about." "The flying fairies you've seen," the fox explained, "are nymphs." "So?" Gojyo asked, crushing out his nearly done cigarette. The fox sighed. "You are a slow one aren't you?" Gojyo dunked his head, and then lathered up his hair with Sanzo's sandalwood shampoo. "Well, I've never been good at riddles, if that's what you mean." "And yet, you seem to handle the appearance of a talking fox with ease." "Oh, Foxy," Gojyo grinned at the silver-colored creature while massaging his scalp, "you have no idea what I've seen. Compared to spider demons and meddling gods, a talking fox is rather tame stuff." "I don't think your friends have your natural immunity to aphrodisiacs." Gojyo dunked his head under the water again and rinsed out the shampoo. He sat up. "I get it, Foxy. For once in my life, I have an edge. So what?" "They are all infected with fairy dust and running rampant through the forest." The fox blinked at him. "You really are thick-headed." "Whatever," he shook his head, excess water droplets flying, "I'm not the brains of this outfit. That's Hakkai's job." "Would that be the one with dark hair and amazing green eyes?" Gojyo paused in his movements, suddenly interested. "Yeah." "Ah, he's the one the Fairy Queen has her eye on." Feeling a prickle on his freshly-washed scalp Gojyo asked, "What are you talking about?" "Your friends are in great peril, they are in the throes of lust and out of their senses." The fox gazed at him. "Not all threats come in the form of battle and death. Do not underestimate the devastation pleasure can bring, it is a far more insidious form of danger." "What are you telling me? You're saying that Sanzo, Goku, and Hakkai are… what? In heat, or something?" "Yes." "Hakkai? AndSanzo? You've got to be kidding. Goku maybe, but I don't think a few fairies could bother the other two." He laughed at his thoughts. "Besides, what's the worst that can happen? They'll be horny for a little bit. I'm horny all the time and I'm okay." "I'm not kidding." The fox sighed again. "How many times must I repeat myself? Your friends are in trouble. You are the only one left clear-headed and not affected." "Fine." Gojyo pushed his wet hair off his face. He was tired of this game. "I'll bite. Let me take a guess as to where you're going with this. I have to help them, right?" "Yes. Although, considering how stupid you are, I fear they have no hope." "Uh huh. Can you get to the point?" Gojyo smiled tolerantly, still unconvinced. He dropped his voice and asked, "How am I supposed to help them from the scary fairy powder?" The fox ignored Gojyo's sarcasm. "I believe each person will react differently to the dust. If you cannot help them by the time the sun comes up, they will be lost." "Lost?" Gojyo's smile melted. "What do you mean by that?" "Lost. Gone forever. Never to be seen again. Disappeared without …" "All right, all right, I get it," Gojyo cut the fox off with a grumble in his voice. "Why didn't you tell me that before?" "You didn't ask. I'm glad you understand. Finally." The fox rose to its feet. "I would suggest we make haste." "Figures. I was just starting to relax." Gojyo stood up, water cascading from his body while he reached for his towel. "Do you know where they are?" "Yes, I will take you to them." He stepped out of the pool and grabbed his clothes, feeling a sudden need to hurry. Tipping its head to one side, the fox said, "Pity you humans always insist on hiding your best features." "Yeah, well," Gojyo replied while sliding into his jeans, "we all don't have the option of your magnificent coat." The fox gazed at Gojyo, blue eyes sparkling. "You are a flatterer." "Ya think?" Gojyo wondered for a moment while he pulled a t-shirt over his head. "So are you a girl fox or a boy fox?" "Does it matter?" He ran a towel over his wet hair. "Not really. I just want to know what to call you." "Ah, so you want to know my name, do you?" The fox chuckled and moved into the dense forest. "Perhaps you are not as thick-headed as I originally thought. We must go." "Hey! I still don't have my boots on!" Gojyo followed the talking fox, carrying his boots certain he’d lost his senses. "You know, it’s a well-known fact that foxes can be tricksters." "Indeed, that is a point I will not dispute." The fox stopped and looked over its shoulder. "But are there not as many stories about foxes aiding people?" "Fair enough." Gojyo agreed. "Then why would you help us?" "I like your hair, its pretty red color is like fire." The creature turned away and set off through the forest at a nimble pace. "Hey …" Gojyo chased after, his feet still bare and stinging from stepping on tangled, pokey undergrowth while he followed, until the fox stopped. Gojyo paused to look at the blue-eyed creature who tipped its head toward an opening in the trees. Moving past Foxy and closer to the clearing, Gojyo hid behind a large evergreen. Sanzo was there all right, pacing and clad only in a pair of jeans. "He looks okay to me," Gojyo whispered to Foxy, "like his normal stick-up-his-ass self." "Tch," the fox answered dismissively. "Looks can be very deceiving." There was something different about Sanzo, although Gojyo couldn't quite place what it was. A strange, electric aura surrounded the monk. As Gojyo continued to observe, he was convinced that what emanated from Sanzo was a fierce sexual energy. "I'll talk to him." Gojyo moved closer. Foxy shook its head and warned, "I wouldn't do that if I were you." "Whatever." Gojyo stepped into the clearing. "Hey Sanzo, are you -" Sanzo lunged for him, knocking them both to the ground. He hissed, "Fucking Kappa, why does it have to be you?" "What the fuck, Sanzo?" Gojyo was confused, was Sanzo attacking him? Again? He couldn't discount a Sanzo doppelganger. Lookalikes happened a lot in their world. Gojyo inhaled deeply, this Sanzo smelled right except for the exceptionally high levels of pheromones. "Hey – " Then the most incredible thing happened. Sanzo kissed him. He'd had many kisses in his lifetime, in fact, Gojyo considered himself quite a connoisseur when it came to kissing. Sanzo, he grudgingly admitted, was not bad. Fleetingly, he wondered where a monk would pick up kissing skills. Had Sanzo been practicing on the monkey? Gojyo felt a tongue on his lips and instinctively, he opened his mouth, tasting Sanzo’s flavor of cigarettes and something citrusy. Long fingers tangled in Gojyo’s hair and something hard pressed against his hip. Losing himself to the wave of sensations, Gojyo turned them both over, trapping Sanzo beneath him. He wedged his knee between opened thighs and when Sanzo arched up to press against his groin, Gojyo felt his control slipping away. Sanzo would definitely spread his legs willingly for Gojyo at this moment. Gojyo wanted him, wanted to press his aching cock inside Sanzo’s tight ass and make the monk scream. He wanted to make them both scream. The fox chuckled. "Hmm, I tried to warn you. Now you are losing to the magic. I told you of the dangers and if you continue like this, without control, you will be lost, too." Gojyo raised his head and through the curtain of his hair, he focused on the fox's crystal blue eyes boring into him. Sanzo bit his neck and tugged at his hair. Part of Gojyo longed to disregard Foxy and pound Sanzo senseless, but another part feared ignoring the warning. Sanzo hissed at him. "Don't stop now, stupid Kappa." "Then again," the fox turned its head and sniffed derisively, "perhaps you are only losing to your desires. As we agreed earlier, you are a simple creature. Maybe you are solely driven by your baser instincts." Gojyo tried to disengage himself from Sanzo. The person beneath him certainly didn’t act like Sanzo even though Gojyo knew it was the monk. When he thought about his own actions, he supposed it was cheap to take advantage of Sanzo in his current state, almost like... Gojyo sat up, Sanzo’s hands and lips following him. He sighed, wishing Sanzo wasn’t so willing and his hard-on wasn’t so needy. Gojyo might be easy, but he liked his partners to be in their right minds when he fucked them. Gojyo glared at Foxy. "So what do I do?" "Something surprising." "That’s what I…" his words trailed off when he saw the fox shake its head. "He will remember whatever you do to him, with crystal clarity. The nymphs' sense of humor carries a brand of cruelty, wouldn't you say?" "Oh." Gojyo grabbed Sanzo’s roaming hands and gazed into his dull purple eyes. Gojyo licked his lips, still tasting Sanzo’s mouth. "But he’s so willing now." "This might be your only chance, you dumbass Kappa," Sanzo said with a growl. His hand dipped between Gojyo's legs and squeezed his cock. "Tch." The fox chewed on its front leg, ignoring Sanzo. "What happens when he’s himself again?" "What do you care, Foxy?" Gojyo fought a moan, imagining an alert Sanzo, one who could remember Gojyo fucking him. Then he imagined a bullet with his name on it. He grabbed Sanzo's hands, pulling them away from his erection. "All right. On second thought, you might have a point." "He’s very difficult to cast a spell on, the fairies worked hard to enchant him. Even now, he is fighting against his beguilement. I would say any type of jarring experience will snap him out of it." "Why don’t I just punch him, then?" Gojyo gazed at the struggling not-Sanzo. When he considered his situation, he had to agree with the fox; screwing the Sanzo-doll would be a disappointment, although it remained a tempting pitfall. Now that he thought about it, punching Sanzo might not be much fun either. The fox stretched out on the ground, still watching Gojyo. "I suspect physical violence is not shocking enough for him." "Well, duh," Gojyo said with a sigh. "Maybe the monkey can take care of him. Do you know where Goku is?" "The one with the golden eyes and coronet?" "Yeah." "I’ll look." The fox sat and closed its eyes. Immediately, an ice-blue glow surrounded the creature. Sanzo, in the meantime, had slipped his hands under Gojyo’s snug t-shirt and was dragging his nails across flesh. Gojyo growled in frustration, pushing Sanzo with enough force to knock him flat on his back. Sanzo’s brow furrowed and for a moment, anger flashing in his eyes before the dullness returned. "Ah, so you are in there," Gojyo said, crawling over Sanzo’s prone form and tugging the monk's pants open. "About time," Sanzo said with a snarl. Gojyo chuckled. "I hope the fox is right, I hope you’ll remember this, it might be worth a bullet." Sanzo was eerily complacent but his cock was hard and wet, responding to the evening air with eager twitches while Gojyo worked his jeans and boxers off. Gojyo looked into the lackluster eyes and felt a twang of sudden guilt along with a ridiculous need to comfort Sanzo. "Nah, I’m not gonna fuck you, but I am gonna make you come." Gojyo paused, unable to take his eyes off Sanzo’s body. Lean and powerful, Sanzo was all sinewy muscle and hipbones. Those were some fucking awesome hipbones. His fingertips hovered above Sanzo’s skin. Gojyo was suddenly afraid to touch his traveling companion because he was unsure of he could stop once he started. "Hey Foxy," he was almost panting, "once I wake him, will he stay that way?" "Yes. He will be almost impossible to enchant a second time." Gojyo let his fingers curl around Sanzo’s sides, thumbs rubbing against nipples while he leaned down. His lips stopped millimeters from Sanzo’s as he breathed out the words, "Too bad." Sanzo raised his head and their following kiss was mind-numbingly hot. Gojyo, aching with desire, pressed his erection into Sanzo. He wanted to drag it out, kiss and fondle, but Gojyo couldn’t help wondering what Goku and Hakkai might be doing. Hakkai. He needed to hurry. Gojyo moved his mouth along Sanzo’s trembling body. He nipped and left a couple of love bites on those hipbones for souvenirs before traveling inextricably towards Sanzo’s dripping cock. Gojyo fumbled in his pocket for his small vial of lube. As promised, he wouldn’t fuck Sanzo, at least not with his dick. He broke away, sat back and opened the bottle. With his knee, he prodded Sanzo to spread his legs. "Lift your hips, Sanzo." Amazingly, the monk complied and after pouring a generous amount of oil over Sanzo’s balls, Gojyo watched the shiny stuff slide between creamy white thighs. Gojyo swallowed, his cock throbbing painfully, and he groaned with life's unfairness. Before capping and returning the bottle to his pocket, Gojyo coated his fingers. Then he circled Sanzo’s opening with his fingertip, hearing a quiet moan of pleasure. "Fuck." Gojyo muttered as he leaned forward again, "Let’s get this over with so I can jack off somewhere in peace." He dragged his mouth over Sanzo’s quivering erection, his tongue darting out to taste the gathering pre-come. Gojyo’s salivary glands watered with the pungent flavor and he moaned with lust. His mouth enveloped Sanzo's unyielding cock while Gojyo eased a single digit eased inside the monk's ass. Sanzo caught his breath and his hips rocked upwards, driving his dick further inside Gojyo’s mouth. Calling on old skills he’d learned from his years on the street, Gojyo relaxed, allowing Sanzo's cock to slide smoothly down his throat. Sanzo’s fingers threaded through his hair while he fucked Gojyo’s mouth. Taking advantage of Sanzo’s distraction, Gojyo pulled one finger out and pressed in two. He felt Sanzo’s muscles coil and if his mouth hadn’t been full, he would have smiled. This wouldn’t take long. His fingers found the spot, the one that made Sanzo groan and squirm. Sanzo’s speed picked up and his grip on Gojyo’s hair tightened, his cock hardened and grew thicker inside Gojyo’s mouth. Predictably, the monk stayed silent, but Gojyo rode the wave of Sanzo’s orgasm, following his writhing body and swallowing the thick, bitter citrus-flavored cum. Gojyo was expecting a grumbling, terse Sanzo when the monk’s head cleared, but he wasn’t expecting a rabid- psychopath. Sanzo grabbed his shoulder with lightening quickness, and threw Gojyo to the soft, forest floor. Placing his knees on either side of Gojyo's hips, Sanzo's fingers closed around his throat. "Goddamn it! What the fuck are you doing?" Gojyo tried to pry off Sanzo's hands. "Saving your unholy ass, you ungrateful bastard!" Sanzo sat up, relaxing his grip, his weight resting on Gojyo's hip, his face full of anger but there was clarity in his eyes. "Saving me?" Gojyo fought back a moan and reflexively raised his hips, grinding against Sanzo's ass. "Get off me or get me off, one or the other." "You fucking perverted kappa." Sanzo pushed away from Gojyo and stood up. "Hey, you started it, if you remember correctly," Gojyo said with a smirk, and then he licked the remainder of Sanzo’s cum off his lips. Confusion was evident on Sanzo's face. "Yeah, you do remember, don't you?" He smacked his lips and grinned at Sanzo before adding, "So now you can see that you owe me one." Sanzo tugged his jeans back into place and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. "What the hell happened?" Gojyo lay on his back, his neglected erection throbbing in his pants. He exhaled. "You got hit with a dose of aphrodisiac fairy dust." "Fucking fairies." Sanzo's fingers twitched. Gojyo assumed he was missing his gun. Or his cigarettes. Or both. "Exactly." Gojyo sat up, suppressing a grunt of frustration when his hard-on reminded him of its presence. To take his mind off his problem, he pulled out his cigarettes and after a moment, he offered one to Sanzo. "Your stuff is still back at camp but we need to find Goku and Hakkai; they may be in trouble, too." Sanzo stared at the cigarettes with open disdain but finally took one. "Why aren't you affected?" "I'm immune because I am a fucking fairy and a damn good one at that." Gojyo lit his cigarette and then handed Sanzo his lighter. Grinning, he added, "And now you can attest to my awesomeness too." "In your dreams." Sanzo fired the lighter and then wrinkled his nose when he inhaled but for once, he didn't complain about Gojyo's brand of cigarettes. "That's okay." Gojyo teased. "We'll keep it our little secret." The fox stood up. "I found your friend with the coronet. He is close by." "Good." Gojyo turned to Sanzo. "Let's go get him." "Go get who?" Sanzo glared at him. "Goku. The fox knows the way and will take us to him." "What fox?" "That one," Gojyo raised his arm and pointed at Foxy. Sanzo's eyes followed the direction of Gojyo's finger. Then he turned back again, glaring at Gojyo. "Are you trying to annoy me?" "You don't see it?" Gojyo stared at Sanzo. "You're fucking kidding me, right? Silver-colored fox with ice-blue eyes and a bunch of tails?" Sanzo turned to face Gojyo, raising an eyebrow. "There's nothing there. You are delusional." "It's right there!" Gojyo stabbed his finger in the fox's direction. Sanzo looked again and then shook his head. "Let me guess," Sanzo's words were slow but laced with a hint of amusement, "it also talks to you." "Yeah, it… Look, I am NOT delusional." Gojyo looked at the fox and he could swear the damn thing grinned at him. His gaze shifted back toward Sanzo and the monk's mouth nearly managed a smile. He sighed, wondering if maybe he was delusional. "Fuck you, both. Let's go, Foxy." His journey through the forest was similar only this time, Gojyo's feet were already tender. Ferns and evergreens covered the woodland floor, a scent of pine and damp earth permeated the air, above them, the wind whistled through trees. The moon above was unnaturally bright and full, completing the dreamlike setting. Sanzo moved silently next to him, still shirtless, perfect hipbones peaking out above the waistband of his jeans, prominent and marked. Gojyo's hard-on would not go away. He tried to focus on Hakkai, but that only made his desire worse. Maybe the fairy dust was getting to him. After all, he was only half fairy - maybe he was only half-immune. The fox stopped and looked over its shoulder at Gojyo. "He's in that small clearing ahead." Gojyo caught Sanzo's arm, stopping the monk from charging into the meadow. "Goku's out there," he whispered. "I suppose the fox told you that, right?" "Just wait." Gojyo glared at Sanzo. "What if he's with Hakkai?" Sanzo frowned. "He wouldn't." "He's alone," the fox told Gojyo. Gojyo smiled internally, relieved at the fox's words. Delusional, was he? "You wouldn't normally go for me, would you, Sanzo? But earlier, if I'd wanted to have you, you would have gladly opened your legs for me and let me fuck you senseless. As it was, I had to hold back because you wanted me. Now if you were like that, what chance would Goku have? We both know how hot Hakkai is." Sanzo replied with an angry hiss, "All right, you've made your point." "I suggest we check it out before we charge in," Gojyo explained. "Goku and Hakkai are both very dangerous when they are primal and you were difficult enough." With an exasperated sigh, Sanzo nodded in agreement. They crept forward and peered through the trees. Goku was there all right. He was naked and to Gojyo, it appeared he was performing an erotic dance. Goku jumped about the clearing in graceful, fluid movements, shaking and grinding his hips in simulated coitus. Gojyo recognized the same sexual aura surrounding Goku he'd noted in Sanzo earlier. He glanced sideways at his companion. Sanzo was completely mesmerized, purple eyes blazing with lust. Ahh, so it was as Gojyo had always suspected. Gojyo took advantage of Sanzo's distraction, grabbing his shoulders and propelling the surly monk into the clearing, giving Sanzo a parting kick in the ass for good measure. Sanzo struggled to stay upright, he stumbled through the dense undergrowth a few steps before he tripped over a jumble of foliage and fell into the clearing, sprawled out on the meadow grass. Swearing loudly, he rolled onto his back. The cracking limbs, swishing greenery and his shouting had immediately alerted Goku to Sanzo's presence. The monkey growled when he leapt onto Sanzo's stomach. "Sanzo," Goku panted, "there's something wrong with me." "Goku," Sanzo started, "get the fuck off…" That was all he managed to say before Goku pressed against his lips in a smoking kiss. The monkey was already humping Sanzo, rubbing his naked, aroused body against the monk. Then he stood, yanking at Sanzo's pants, nearly tearing them off. Goku was hard and well-endowed and Gojyo was certain Sanzo would be on the receiving end. He smiled. Sanzo should thank him for getting him slicked up and ready. Then Gojyo sighed, his cock was aching. He longed to stay and watch, but he had bigger fish to fry: a difficult and dangerous green-eyed fish. "Do you know where Hakkai is?" "Yes." The fox smiled at him again. "You teased the yellow-haired one and tricked him into going to face the other one alone. Perhaps you are a trickster yourself." "Nah, Goku would have passed me over for Sanzo anyway." Gojyo shook his head. "Having sex with Goku would be tempting but there's a good chance that Sanzo might've killed me if he found out I did his monkey. Besides, Sanzo's not usually that easy to trick, he wanted Goku, too. I think he's still got horny fairy dust coursing through his veins." "As do you." The fox stood. "What? I thought you said I was immune!" "Did I?" The fox blinked very slowly and then darted off through the brush. "Hey," Gojyo called after, running to catch up, "can I ask you something?" "Of course." "You said I could shock them out of the fairy dust spell, right?" "No, again you misinterpreted my words." The fox looked over its silver shoulder. "I said you could shock that one out of his spell. The little one will need a lot more attention. I suspect your yellow-haired friend will be very busy tonight." Gojyo had to chuckle about that but then his thoughts turned again to Hakkai. "What about…" "Ah, the green-eyed demon." The fox stopped and turned, its long, fluffy tails curling about it. "I don't know what he'll require. He is very closed off and very dangerous." Gojyo considered what he already knew about the fairy dust's interaction with his traveling companions. So far he had witnessed Sanzo pacing, the aura of sexual frustration rolling off him in near toxic-level waves of pheromones. Then there was Goku, his boundless energy, his every motion focused on sex and specifically, sex with Sanzo. The two of them were themselves, but on a much more sexual level. His steps slowed. What would an unleashed Hakkai be like? Gojyo was certain he wouldn't be able to resist an amorous Hakkai, how could he? Not when he thought about Hakkai the way he did. Even so, could he take advantage of his friend? "If you do not help him," the fox blinked at him as if reading Gojyo's thoughts, "he may be lost. The fairies are very taken with him and I think they would like to keep him as their plaything." "Fuck." Gojyo sighed and then motioned with his hand, "Lead on, Foxy." "He's there." Gojyo recognized the scenery; they were near the pool where he'd originally met the fox. He gazed through the trees and saw Hakkai sitting calmly on a rock. He had on his button down shirt, the one he wore while his regular clothing dried. Hakkai's hair was wet and his monocle was missing. Gojyo figured he must be fresh from a bath. He felt a tightness in his chest and his hard-on thrummed with every beat of his heart. He whispered, "Full circle, eh? Figures." He took a deep breath and stepped out of the trees. "Hey." Hakkai smiled. "Hello, Gojyo." Gojyo's brow furrowed and he turned to stare at the fox. He was certain the thing shrugged at him, giving him no help. He turned back and studied his friend. "Umm, how are you feeling?" Hakkai tipped his head to one side, his eyes glittering in the bright moonlight. "I am… unsettled." He swallowed. Hakkai seemed normal, but he didn't feel normal. "Then, you know about the fairy dust, right?" "Ah hah, is that it?" Hakkai chuckled. "Fairy dust?" Gojyo started to relax, exhaling his tension. Hakkai's laugh sounded normal. "Yeah. Aphrodisiac fairy dust. We've all been affected." The next words from Hakkai came out tight and low, full of anger. "Is that why you were… pleasuring Sanzo?" Gojyo froze, his heart pounding. Hakkai sounded scary. "Umm, yeah. You saw that, huh?" Hakkai's eyes narrowed. "Of course." He slid gracefully off the rock, moving towards Gojyo, his steps slow and deliberate. "I always see you, I always watch you." "Well, you know, someone told me," Gojyo glanced at the fox, "Sanzo would need that to snap him out of his spell." "Someone?" Hakkai circled Gojyo, his movements like liquid danger. "A fox." Gojyo swallowed again, his body reacting to Hakkai's close proximity and abnormally high pheromones. He was both terrified and turned-on by Hakkai's feral movements."You probably can't see it. I don't know if it's real or a hallucination." "A fox?" Hakkai stopped in front of Gojyo, his brow furrowing while he turned his head and looked in Foxy's direction. "There is something there, I think. I can feel an unusual qi." Hakkai was so close, so tempting. Gojyo stared at Hakkai's silver ear cuffs, then the nape of his neck and shivered with need. Gojyo raised his hand, unable to stop his finger from ghosting over the delicate shell of Hakkai's ear. "Hakkai, I'm…" "Sometimes, when you come home after being with women, I can smell you." Hakkai turned to face him, his eyes dark with passion. "You smell of sex, underneath the perfume and other scents, I can always pick yours out, it's strong and tantalizing. Sometimes I touch myself then, needing to sooth my more basic needs." Gojyo blinked. Did Hakkai just tell him he jerked off while thinking about him? While his head was reeling with the revelation, Gojyo leaned forward and whispered in Hakkai's ear, "I would like to see that. Do you want to show me?" "I… don't know." "What else, Hakkai? Do you have fantasies?" Gojyo didn't move, afraid he would disturb the tension between them. "I have fantasies." "About me?" "Yes." Hakkai shifted his body closer so that there was only a hairsbreadth of distance between them. "Sometimes I imagine dragging you out of a tavern, pressing you against a wall outside, pulling down your pants and having my way with you." "Mmm." Gojyo noted huskily feeling the heat build between them. "Very hot, yes I would like that. Would you?" "Yes." "In your fantasy, I never fight you, do I?" Gojyo touched Hakkai's proper shirt, sliding his fingers up and pulling fabric free from the confines of buttons. "I let you have me, right?" Hakkai's breath caught and for a moment, he didn't answer. "Yes, you moan and writhe, push back against me, welcoming me inside, letting me fill you. You are hot and tight and I nearly come once I'm in you. I reach around your hips and touch you, and you are hard," Hakkai swallowed, "like iron and pre-cum has gathered in copious amounts, sliding down and coating you. When I stroke you, your wanton sounds of pleasure are intoxicating. Finally, you call out my name and come on the tavern wall, gripping and squeezing me, causing me to follow you quickly with my own orgasm. When I pull out of you, I watch my creamy white cum slide down your thighs." "Holy fucking gods." Gojyo exhaled and his eyes closed while he visualized the scene, his hands and face pressed against cool stone, his pants around his ankles. Gojyo could feel strong fingers digging into his bare hips while Hakkai's hard cock slammed into him again and again. His balls ached. "Do I disgust you?" Hakkai asked. "Hardly." Hakkai's shirt was open now and Gojyo's hands slid against heated skin, doubling his desire. His fingers teased at Hakkai's nipples, cautiously testing his limits. "What else? Do I ever fuck you in your fantasies?" "Ah," he moaned when Gojyo pinched him gently. "Sometimes when you come home, you get into bed with me. I am shocked and fight you at first, but you do things to me with your tongue and fingers, things that drive me crazy. I am unable to resist your advances until you make me…" Hakkai did not finish his thought. "… lose control?" Gojyo was panting now. "Is that what you want? To lose control?" Hakkai nodded. "I believe so." Gojyo's hands moved to the waistband of Hakkai's pants, quickly and easily unfastening them. He nuzzled against dark, clean-smelling hair while sliding Hakkai's pants down. "What do I do with my tongue and fingers, Hakkai? What is it you like?" "I -- I'm afraid what I like is not normal." Gojyo smiled into his friend's hair and his hands settled on Hakkai's ass, one on each side. He pressed their hips together, feeling Hakkai's hard cock grind against his own. He pulled Hakkai's cheeks apart, opening him to the night while a single digit on Gojyo's right hand caressed the tender crevice between. "In your fantasy, do my fingers touch you here?" Hakkai's answer was only a tortured whisper. "Yes." "My tongue, too?" Gojyo felt Hakkai swallow and then nod his head. "Is that what you think is not normal?" Gojyo could not hide his amusement. "Gojyo --" Hakkai rubbed his lean body against Gojyo, "please." When Gojyo heard that, he remembered their circumstances. He pulled away, probably one of the most difficult things he had ever done in his life. "Not this time, Hakkai. Now I can only --" Hakkai grabbed him and easily threw Gojyo to the ground. He crawled on top of Gojyo, ripping his t-shirt. "You will. If you could do that to Sanzo, you can do more for me." Gojyo saw the faint, fine lines of Hakkai's living, demon vine tattoos writhing on his friend's body. Hakkai would lose control, it seemed, one way or another. Gojyo wondered how bad being fucked by the demon Hakkai would be, or how good. Ah, hell, Gojyo knew he would love it regardless. He reached up and touched Hakkai's ear-cuffs, considering his options. "You'd better give him what he wants." Gojyo heard the fox laughing. He tipped his head towards the fox, but it was not a fox anymore. Still silver and still with ice-blue eyes, it looked very much like a small dragon now. "Well, I'll leave you to it – looks as if you will fuck or be fucked, maybe both." "What, Gojyo?" Hakkai crooned at him looking in the direction of Gojyo's gaze. "The fox again? What does it say?" "It says I need to give you what you want." He moved his head to stare into those brilliant green eyes. "Ah, clever, clever fox." "And it looks like it's out to get a fuck of its own." "What?" Hakkai blinked, vines pulsing under his skin. The fox giggled. "You can be astute, Red-hair, when you want. I like getting lucky, too. See you, fairy." It took flight and Hakuryuu appeared, joining it in the night sky. "Later, Foxy." "Gojyo." Hakkai whispered. "Look at me." Gojyo stared up at a naked Hakkai and shivered. "Hakkai, I'm not sure if I start, I'll be able to stop. The dust has affected me, too. Will you be okay with that?" "Oh, yes." Gojyo wasn't sure he believed Hakkai, but he wasn't certain he could deny himself this opportunity, either. "Maybe you should do me, maybe that will be enough to bring you out of your spell." Hakkai shook his head. "Although I am very well-read, I think you have far more practical knowledge in this area. I will defer to your skilled hands. This time." This time? Gojyo nodded and his hands moved back to Hakkai's ass. "Then I think you need to get on your hands and knees." Hakkai complied, settling into the soft grass, with his head down. Gojyo nudged his knees further apart and for a moment he simply stared, taking in the sight of Hakkai's flawless body. His willowy form trembled before Gojyo and he could not help touching soft skin, his fingers danced against the delicate nape of Hakkai's neck, down and over lean back muscles, across his firm ass, and to perfectly toned thighs. Gojyo took great delight as flesh reacted to his every touch. He leaned over and breathed into Hakkai's ear, whispering, "You are perfect, 'Kai." He wanted to add, and don't hate me in the morning, but he feared saying the words aloud. "Gojyo," Hakkai sighed, "hurry. Please do not make me wait longer." He caressed Hakkai's skin, gently parting his ass. Gojyo leaned closer and blew on Hakkai's exposed hole. Hakkai writhed under him, moaning nonsensical words of encouragement. Hakkai's freshly-washed musky scent was overwhelming, filling Gojyo's olfactory senses. Blood pulsed in his veins, his vision blurring as he gave into his desire. His tongue, already dripping with saliva touched Hakkai's sensitive flesh, licking at the delicate divide. Hakkai's flavor was wondrous. Gojyo was easily excited, but even for him, this was beyond erotic. Hakkai was so responsive, each touch from Gojyo brought out another amazing sound. He lapped slowly, languidly running his tongue from Hakkai's sac to his spine. Hakkai's hips undulated sensually with Gojyo's every movement, spreading his knees further apart in complete surrender. Gojyo's cock was beyond hard, but his erection was only a secondary consideration. Instead, he focused completely on Hakkai, finally centering his wandering tongue on Hakkai's tiny, crinkled entrance. Gojyo laved at the small opening, his tongue following raised contours and then dipping inside the snug passage. Hakkai shuddered and moaned as Gojyo fucked him with his tongue. Gojyo smiled inwardly. Who would have suspected his prim, proper and fastidious roommate had fantasized about getting a rim job? He wondered what other kinks were buried in Hakkai's big brain. He hoped he would get to find out. Gojyo's hand moved around and caressed Hakkai's wet, solid cock. With his touch, Hakkai's muscles immediately tensed. After only a few strokes, Gojyo felt Hakkai's cock stiffen and thick warm liquid flowed over his hand. Hakkai wilted, his head and shoulders collapsing to the forest floor, panting. Gojyo ran his hands over Hakkai's damp skin, soothing his friend. "You okay?" "Yes," Hakkai answered, falling to his side. Gojyo flopped onto his back, the meadow grass and moss was soft and cool. He stared at the stars wheeling overhead and listened to Hakkai's slowing breaths. Although Gojyo's cock continued to throb, he felt strangely fulfilled. "Are you back to yourself?" "How do you mean?" Hakkai asked, sitting up. Gojyo watched Hakkai's graceful movements, wanting to touch him, but unsure if he should. He remembered Sanzo's violent reaction. Hakkai's anger would hurt far more, both physically and otherwise. "The fairy dust. Are you free of it?" Hakkai's long, exquisite fingers, stroked Gojyo's hair. "You said you wouldn't be able to stop, but you have. Why?" "I don't think this is a good time for that, it's too --" Hakkai interrupted his words with a kiss. Bruising and impatient, filled with passion, Hakkai slid his naked form and insistent hands over Gojyo. Hakkai tugged at Gojyo's jeans, peeling away the last barrier of clothing between them. Hakkai broke their kiss but a trail of saliva still connected them. Those wondrous fingers sought out Gojyo's cock and squeezed. "Please, Gojyo, do not refuse me." Gojyo's thoughts were in a dreamlike state and he knew as the fox had warned earlier, he was losing himself. What a way to go, was all he could think. He pushed at Hakkai, removing his pants completely and then retrieving his vial of lubricant. Hakkai's eyes sparkled in the moonlight and he rolled to his stomach, raising his hips once again. Gojyo gazed at Hakkai, feeling his control start to slip. Warm evening air swirled around his sensitive cock and he moved between Hakkai's open thighs. His movements were faster, more reckless this time. He spilled slick liquid over his fingers and Hakkai's slightly opened hole. He tried to be gentle, but he didn't think he was, when he pushed his middle finger inside. This was different from what he'd experienced with Sanzo, this was a far more profound feeling. "Hakkai," Gojyo managed to say, "tell me if I hurt you." Hakkai looked over his shoulder. "You won't hurt me, Gojyo." Gojyo frowned. "Easy for you to say." He removed his finger, poured more oil over his hand and this time, pressed two fingers inside Hakkai's willing body, and was rewarded with a passionate moan. He moved deep inside, stretching Hakkai's taut passage with forced patience. Gojyo was not completely out of his senses and he realized two fingers would not match the size of his cock. He pushed a third finger in, hearing Hakkai's surprised groan when Gojyo twisted his hand, loosening the way. Hakkai was a virgin. That was Gojyo's mantra as his senses lost track of anything unrelated to Hakkai. The forest and sky disappeared from his vision. Take it slowly. Sounds from wind in the trees and water in a nearby stream fell silent. All he could smell, taste and feel was Hakkai. He coated his twitching erection with lubricant. Gently. He pressed the tip of his cock against Hakkai's snug opening. "Tell me if I'm hurting you." Hakkai's body shuddered in reaction to Gojyo's invasion. "I will." "Relax, Hakkai," Gojyo coached with quiet encouragement, "Push out and breathe." "Gojyo." Hakkai whispered, responding to his words. "I'm all right." He waited until Hakkai's body became more pliant and then Gojyo eased his cock completely inside. Hakkai was tight and hot, Gojyo's vision blurred with his many sensations. He'd never felt that level of intensely before. He waited again. "I'll move when you're ready." "I'm okay, Gojyo." Hakkai looked over his shoulder again sweat glistening on his forehead from his concentration. "Please--" Somehow, despite every temptation to do otherwise, Gojyo backed out gently. Hakkai was a virgin. Gojyo's orgasm wouldn't take long, but he recognized what was happening. Take it slowly. Coming once would not be enough today. Easy. His strokes were slow and methodical, granting Hakkai as much pleasure as possible. Twisting his hips and pressing at angles that brought sighs and moans from Hakkai. Gojyo's mind focused, doing what he did best, but the constant and equal pressure along the length of Gojyo's cock while he thrust into Hakkai's ass quickly caused his control to slip. His balls tightened and his orgasm spiraled outward from there, butterflies filling his stomach until his toes curled. His arms wound around Hakkai's belly and chest, pressing their bodies tightly together. Gojyo bit the back of Hakkai's neck as he shuddered with his orgasm. For several moments afterwards, neither of them spoke. Gojyo felt sweat on his cooling skin but he didn't move. He licked the bite-mark on Hakkai's back, allowing his panting to subside. "Gojyo?" "Yeah?" Gojyo caressed Hakkai's skin, his concentration starting to gather again. "You're still hard." "Yeah." Gojyo straightened, hands sliding along Hakkai's flanks, stopping at his hips. "Are you always like this?" Hakkai panted. Gojyo shifted, straddling Hakkai's right leg and lifting his left knee. "Not always." He gently nudged Hakkai onto his side and shimmied closer, pushing deeper. He started to move again, stroking with gentle circular movements into Hakkai's tight passage again. "Oh!" Hakkai moaned. "That's -" "That's what, Hakkai?" Gojyo smiled, maintaining the speed of his movements. "Good? Bad?" "Ahhh, good. Very good." "Then," Gojyo whispered while touching Hakkai's renewed erection, "you won't mind if I continue?" Hakkai's body shook. "No." Gojyo shifted again, turning Hakkai onto his back while his cock remained buried deep. He leaned forward and kissed Hakkai, his hips still rocking in a steady rhythm. "I hope you're okay with this." With a moan Hakkai asked, "How long can you go?" "Hmm." Gojyo considered. "With horny fairy dust and you as my partner? Possibly all night." "Gojyo." "Let's find out, shall we?" Gojyo slipped an arm under one of Hakkai's legs and twisted his hips. "Ah!" Hakkai's eyes closed and then opened. He nodded. "I believe finding out would be very acceptable." Gojyo sat alone smoking in a quiet clearing. He was idly wondering where he'd left his boots the night before when a small, blue-eyed dragon sat down next to him. "Hey Foxy, I didn't think I'd see you again. How was your night?" "Wonderful. Hakuryuu is very inventive. Did you know he could shape-shift?" "Yeah," Gojyo inhaled, "into a jeep. How fun can that be?" The creature laughed and then turned into a fox. "Oh, so you haven't seen his other forms?" "Other forms?" Hakuryuu landed nearby, his red eyes whirling. He made a noise that sounded to Gojyo suspiciously like a contented sigh. Gojyo could swear the dragon looked smug. "Hey," Gojyo said to the dragon, "Hakkai's probably in a panic about you. Go find him already." The small dragon chattered at him angrily before leaping skyward and disappearing in the trees. "Oops, I should have warned him to steer clear of Sanzo." Just as Gojyo finished his sentence, he heard a loud report from Sanzo's gun. The fox tipped his head to one side. Gojyo chuckled. "Sanzo has been shooting at anything that remotely resembles a fairy. So far, many flowers and a few insects have taken bullets." "Not you?" Foxy stared at him. "Nah," he inhaled deeply on his cigarette again. "I've been staying clear. So has Goku." He pointed up a lushly leafed tree where Goku huddled on a limb in fear. "What about the other one? Your green-eyed demon?" "You got me, Foxy." Gojyo shrugged and then crushed out his cigarette. "I thought you wanted him." "I did want him and do want him." Gojyo sighed. "But if it meant I would lose him as my friend, I would never have touched him." "Do you feel you've lost him?" The fox asked. "I don't know. When I woke up, he was gone." Gojyo felt sick. "Last night was … busy. I never had a chance to ask him specifics." "You had no choice, you know." The fox yawned and then stretched. "Haven't we been over this? If you had left them, all of them would be-" "I remember," Gojyo interrupted the fox. "If I had left him, he would be lost. What if I lose him anyway?" He threw his cigarette butt away with anger. "Fucking fairies. If I had a gun, I'd be shooting at them, too." "Who said you would lose me?" Hakkai asked from behind him. Gojyo froze and then glared at the fox. "Did you know he was there?" "Yes." "Then why didn't you tell me?" Foxy stood up, waving its many tails and it turned and walked away. "You should know better than that by now. You never asked." Gojyo leaned back, resting himself on his elbows and looking in Hakkai's direction. "Well?" "Well, what?" Hakkai asked, moving closer. He was carrying Gojyo's boots. "Do you hate me now?" "Why would I hate you?" Hakkai laughed and to Gojyo, his laughter sounded sincere. "I could hear and see the fox this time, you know. Perhaps the fairy influence blocked our ability to interact with the creature." "Maybe. It fucked your dragon, you know." Gojyo couldn't disguise the bitterness in his voice. "Yes, I heard that, too. Well, I suppose Hakuryuu gets lonely, also." "Lonely, is it?" Gojyo rolled his eyes. "Maybe he just got hit with horny fairy dust." "Maybe." Hakkai smiled. There was a long moment of uncomfortable silence. Gojyo had a several things he wanted to ask but he feared the answers he might receive. Instead, he picked at a blade of grass. Hakkai set Gojyo's boots down. "So, Gojyo, is it true that last night you were simply saving us?" "Hakkai, with you, that's not why I -" Gojyo stopped his words and sat up. "Eh, nevermind." Hakkai sat down next to him, folding his legs beneath him in one fluid motion. "Last night." Hakkai cleared his throat. "I will remember last night for my entire life with the utmost fondness." Gojyo sighed and then prompted, "But ..." Hakkai blinked at him. "But ... what?" "Aren't you going to give me the brush off now?" "Why would I do that?" Hakkai leaned over and gently kissed Gojyo. "Last night was magical, Gojyo. I was hoping you felt the same way." Gojyo nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Instead, he cautiously slipped a hand around Hakkai's waist, testing his limitations and feeling comforting warmth while he relaxed. "Magical, huh? Yeah, that's a good description." "I think so." After a moment, Gojyo asked, "Hey, Hakkai, will we be sharing more magical nights? Or should I just plan on fantasizing about that one for the rest of my life?" "Oh," Hakkai laughed, "I don't think magic is limited to one night." Sanzo broke through the trees and stopped, glaring at them. "Come on you perverts, we are leaving! I'm not spending one more night in this cursed place and I'll shoot the first one who argues!" He turned and headed for Hakkai's deer trail road, shouting over his shoulder, "Goku! Get your ass in gear." "I'm comin' Sanzo," Goku said from somewhere in the trees. "But ya gotta promise not to shoot me." "No promises, Monkey." Sanzo turned and stared at them before he muttered, "Fucking Kappa. Why you?" Gojyo opened his mouth but closed it again when he caught a glimpse of Sanzo's gun. Sometimes he did know when to stay silent. Hakkai stood up and dusted off his pants. "Perhaps I would have been a better alternative?" "You? Che…" "What alternative?" Goku asked, moving closer to Sanzo but staying out of fan-striking distance. Gojyo chuckled and climbed to his feet. "Want me to tell you, Goku?" "Why?" His curious gaze went from Gojyo to Sanzo and back again. "Is it something perverted?" Sanzo took several steps forward and wrapped an arm around Goku's neck affectionately. "Nevermind, Monkey." He glared at Gojyo over Goku's head, an obvious warning. "Let's move. Unless you want to spend another night here?" "No." All three of them answered in unison. "Then let's go." The others started down the road but Gojyo paused, taking one last look at the beautiful setting. He watched a colorful orange fairy flit in a tree nearby. He raised his hand and said softly, "Thanks, Foxy."

Leonard Vicarye bounded up the stairs, entering Thomas’ room without knocking. “He is here,” he said breathlessly. “Drake is here, at the Inn.” Thomas did not look up from reading his Bible. “Is he? Then Hatton’s letter was correct.” “I shall tell him to get himself gone.” “Thou shalt do no such thing, Leonard, for I will see him.” Vicarye hurled his floppy hat upon the table and pulled up a chair across from Thomas. “Thou canst not possibly entertain such a thing, Thomas.” Thomas looked up briefly, raised an eyebrow, and returned to his reading. He did not intend to discuss this with Leonard – not now. Not even though Leonard knew everything, things that Doughtie would not even confess to a preacher. Or perhaps it was because Leonard knew everything. Leonard would not allow his old friend to delude himself. What could Thomas hope to gain anyway? Nothing could make the past vanish. “Thomas! It is not safe!” Leonard was not joking. He had spent seven months of misery with his heart in his mouth. He remembered his growing shock that Drake was even more of a danger to them than the wildest sea-storms. “Thinkest thou he will murder me here, in a den of lawyers?” Thomas tried to put a strain of amusement in his voice, a strain of the old arrogance. The old arrogance was hard to come by – the discovery that a whole fleet could be turned against a gentleman by a bitter lover and a common carpenter’s lying words was not easily forgotten. No matter how the gentlemen of London strutted and preened, Doughtie knew that privilege was a garment made from the delicately woven fabric of order, that such a fabric could be rent most easily should mad panic visit men’s hearts. One had only to look at Paris upon that St. Bartholomew’s Day, less than a decade ago. “I will at least stay with thee, Thomas.” Truly, it was not just Thomas’ physical safety that had concerned Leonard. There were times when, in the deep of the night, he had come to visit his friend only to hear him sob, or cry out in the grip of a nightmare. “Nay, my friend. I would speak with the Captain General alone.” “In spite of all, thou lovest him yet still,” he accused. Thomas looked away. There was nothing for a while except the sound of rain, and the clacking of hooves against the wet stones on the street below. Then, before Thomas could affirm or deny the claim, a heavy, familiar tread was upon the stair. Leonard opened the door. “Vicarye,” said Drake. “So crafty lawyers still crowd together, like geese.” Thomas shot a sharp look at Vicarye. There was a contest of wills; as usual, Vicarye lost. He bowed his head slightly, then exited. Doughtie thought he had prepared himself for this, but the sight of Francis Drake was still a shock to his system. His heart raced, whether from fear or misplaced passion, he knew not. He ached, he burned, he wished himself and Captain Drake and the whole of England swallowed by the seas. He lowered his eyes. “So thy love of gold is yet greater than thy pride,” he said lightly. Drake was characteristically blunt. “The profits of my venture were ever foremost in my mind. I would have killed you, Thomas Doughtie. To apologize seems a small thing in comparison.” Doughtie forced a smile. He would not let Drake see how much this hurt. He had not given Drake that satisfaction at St. Julian; he would not give Drake the satisfaction now. “A right strange apology, good Captain, that is wrapped around a threat.” “Take the offer, Master Doughtie. Your share in the venture in exchange for your testimony on my behalf ‘gainst King Philip’s charges.” It was not an inconsiderable sum of money - £23,000 on a five hundred pound investment. It would make Thomas Doughtie one of the wealthiest men in England. “My honor is worth more than gold,” Doughtie replied. It was a truthful statement – if it was not the absolute truth of the matter. “Your name will be cleared through this. No man will believe you guilty of mutiny if apportioned such a large share of the profit. Our differences will fade into forgotten rumor.” “Methinks milord Burghley would ne’er forgive me. Give me some credit for loyalty, Francis.” Drake grinned bitterly. “Loyalty, Thomas? The Queen herself questions that loyalty – and ‘tis she who commands this. She – and the other investors – would that the silver were not locked beyond reach in the Tower. But more so, she doth desire that thy endless plaints be not the excuse for every malcontent in these isles to cry for the return to power of ancient, neglected houses.” Doughtie understood. The common-born Drake’s treatment of the gentleman Doughtie had become an example of how order and rule were being slighted under Elizabeth’s regime. He had become a rallying point for men of old names, many with ties to rival claimants for the throne, many with old Catholic roots. For the duration of her reign, Elizabeth had taken great care to soothe these men while sidestepping them, cannily surrounding herself with commoners who lacked the old loyalties, men whose only loyalties would be to her, such as Francis Drake. If he refused to accept Drakes generous offer, it would clearly put him into the conservative faction, and the Queen’s disfavor. “Milord Burghley doth love our Queen with the truest of hearts,” Drake pressed. “He will not oppose her in this, for he doth perceive the matter extendeth well beyond the Spanish King’s ire of the moment. He would restore peace to the realm.” Night entered the gates of London, casting shadows. Doughtie stood and walked to the window, pulling fast the curtains. His voice was distant. “Were it not for the courage of John Wynter, I might be a headless corpse left buried in the cold sands of St. Julian’s Bay.” There was such weariness in Doughtie’s voice – he might have been dead already. He had his life, yes, but there seemed to be nothing in heaven or earth to console him. Drake sat in the vacant chair, still warm from the heat of Thomas’ body. To Doughtie, he seemed to claim the apartment, to fill it entirely. It was always the same, had been the same from the beginning in Ireland. Where Drake was, there was no space for Thomas Doughtie. “Wynter is a coward who but uses you to excuse his own cowardice,” Drake said. “Now he doth make show that he consented not to piracy, and makes doe-eyes at King Philip.” Doughtie continued to stare at the closed curtain, seeming not to hear. Leonard had been right. He should have refused to see Drake. There was nothing left to be said between them. It was obvious that Drake shared the sentiment; they had improbably managed to avoid each other since Drake’s return. For a moment he was on the Swan again, telling anyone who would listen that he and Drake would be reunited, fast friends again at the next harbor. It had been over two years since the trial at St. Julian, and he still felt this desolate. “Why do you hate me, Francis?” he asked. Drake’s face fell. Something seemed drained from him. There was a weariness about him too, a mood that was new to Thomas. “Have you no sack, or is hospitality forgotten in entire?” Thomas had to smile. Even in his most depressed state, Drake was still audacious. The gentleman poured two glasses of his best malmsey, placing one in front of Drake and downing the other quickly – which he regretted immediately. Alcohol had never improved their behavior. It put them at each other’s throats – or in each other’s arms. He had been drunk the night he had first acquiesced to Drake’s sinful demands. Had he been sober, perhaps they could have continued to love each other as fast companions. Perhaps none of this would have occurred. But probably not. Doughtie poured a second glass. “Thomas,” said Drake, lowering his voice, “thy reticence profits no one, neither you, nor I, nor the mariners, nor the gentleman investors, no, not e’en the Queen herself. If there is no forgiveness in thy heart, then let there be the seeming of forgiveness so that we may at least have silver to shew for our pains.” What right had Drake to slip into the familiar, to use that tone of voice he had used those nights in Dublin, under the stars? Thomas could refuse nothing when Drake spoke to him in that way. Not to invest his money, not to risk his life chasing some grandiose chimera to the Perwe, not to spend his soul’s inheritance for a few sordid moments of pleasure. Doughtie held the winning hand, but Drake would still best him. He blinked back the tears. Drake stood and went to the sideboard, helping himself to the wine. “What is’t thou desirest of me, Thomas? A greater share of the treasure? Shall I petition the Queen to give to thee a lordship?” “Once there was a man I loved dear as a brother – I trusted him with my life and fortune. And after much travail, he sought to deprive me of both, but only after he shewed to me his utter contempt for my counsel and my status. What can he give to me now? Can he undo what has been done? My pride cries aloud in the streets for vengeance, and there is no salve for my heart.” “Thomas, right glad was I to find a way to spare thee, e’en though it cost me the help of the Elizabeth.” “Liar! Base liar! Else why persuade Ned Bright to perjure himself?” Doughtie turned to face Drake, who met his eyes. Yet the Captain General was silent. “It grows cold,” said Doughtie after a moment. “Shall I light the fire?” “Anon?” asked Drake. “Anon and anon, thou lightest fires which have no quenching.” “We swore to speak no more of this when we left Eire.” Doughtie bent close to the hearth, placing his hands upon the cold stone so that Drake could not see them shaking. Didn’t he know that temptation had always walked in their footsteps? Didn’t he see through Doughtie’s pretence of arrogance, of distance? Thomas looked up suddenly and read Drake, unmistakably, the way he had always read him. There was pain and distrust writ on his face. Then he really had believed the gentleman capable of mutiny. Was it Doughtie’s own fault that Drake had come to hate him? His head swam. It was impossible to think clearly in Drake’s presence. He should have made an amulet to combat an enemy’s undue influence. He should have made two – one being a pouch filled with amethyst and lavender to assure chaste sobriety. “We swore to renounce our sins,” said Drake. “But we did not succeed. I could struggle ‘gainst the raging dragon-fire of my own blood wert thou to keep only a cold Bible for thy bedfellow, but thou didst play the tart with every mariner in the fleet.” “Infidelity, betrayal, mutiny – all the phantasms of a jealous mind!” said the outraged Doughtie, standing. “God save me, no man e’er touched me but thee. Think you I would throw myself into the devil’s fires for a common sailor?” “Aye, I knew thou wouldst say such things, Thomas Doughtie,” Drake hurled back. “It was a surety that if I spared thee, thou wouldst return to England to mock me. Were it not for Wynter, thou wouldst be cold in the grave, and my heart assuaged. Swounds, I wish it so; I wish thee dead so that thou wilt live to betray no more.” Doughtie didn’t quite laugh – it would have been funny if it weren’t so twisted. “And just a moment past, good Captain, thou didst swear my death was not thy desire. Thy desires seem to be most changeable in nature.” Drake did not answer. Furious, he covered the room in three long paces, grabbing Doughtie and forcing him back against the wall. Their lips met; Doughtie’s cock stiffened inside of his codpiece. They were pressed so tightly together, he was sure Drake would notice. Thomas had believed that nothing in heaven or earth could console him. The kiss made clear he had not considered the consolations of hell. “Toy with me no more, Thomas Doughtie, for I am no man to sport with,” Drake growled. “Slattern thou art, but thou shalt be no whore. Take the silver, and thou shalt be the most expensive mistress in London – or refuse it, and I shall strangle thee afore I see thy wanton gazes fall ‘pon the pretty lads at court.” For a moment, Thomas looked shocked, then shattered. Then his expression hardened. He had reached a decision. “I will take the silver for my part in the venture,” said he. “And so that none should think the Queen sheweth greater favor to thee when thou art given the accolade, I will that she make me the governor of Nova Albion – that land thou hast claimed for England ‘pon the far shores of the American continent.” Drake was surprised. He hadn’t really expected Thomas to capitulate. “Easily done,” he said. It was a land too distant for England’s practical interest. The Queen had nothing to lose by granting Thomas an office which would be basically ceremonial. But Doughtie had not finished. There was a strange light in his eyes, their faces still intimately close. Drake would never admit it, but he was frightened. Thomas was sly, a sorcerer. Drake was a man who loathed uncertainty, for whom bold action was the best respite. Nothing was too daring an act, too great a risk, if it dispelled the unknown. But with Thomas he was never certain. How he loved the gentleman; how he wished him dead. “And thou shalt sign my commission stating that I have authority o’er all in the colonial fleet – including thee, Captain Drake.” “Thou dost surely jest, Thomas. Did I not say I was no man to toy with?” “This time, thou shalt accompany me to the west, good Captain. I sailed with thee to make of thee a knight, now sail with me to make of me a governor.” Oh no, it could not be. He would not sail with Thomas again. There was not the strength in him to fight that battle anon, his will against his heart, his loins against his god. This time, there could be no fantasy at the start, however tenuous, no dream that some warm night off the coast of Afric, the gentleman might open his thighs and say, “Take what is thine, my captain,” thus ending forever all such unprofitable divisions. Drake struck hard with words sharp as his blade. “Wilt thou abandon me then, off the coast of Brazil, for thy revenge?” “I have no desire to e’er lay eyes again upon those bitter waters,” said Doughtie, his voice catching a bit. “We shall sail east, round the horn of Africa.” The plan was too absurd to be taken seriously. “Thou art mad!” cried Drake, pulling away from him. “Lust for vengeance hath driven thee from thy senses.” “I say I want nothing of vengeance. In Eire thou didst promise me that we would sail the Pacific together as fast companions. Ne’er did I see those waters, Francis. Ne’er did I know again thy good regard from that day I swore to stay chastely from thy bed.” “Thomas,” said Drake, again in that half-cajoling tone, “We cannot sail a fleet colonial through waters claimed by Spain and Portugal. We shall be eaten alive.” “Art thou not Drake, the Dragon? El Draco? And am I not, by thy reckoning, the greatest conjuror in England, next to Doctor Dee? Wilt thou have thy treasure, Francis? Wilt thou have me? Then I will have this, or I will have nothing.” This thing could not be – and yet it had to be. Drake needed to claim the treasure to prove that it wasn’t all for nothing. And the Queen would command it; she had everything to gain and nothing to lose by indulging Thomas in his folly. Drake could bear no more. He bounded down the stairs, nearly knocking over poor Leonard Vicarye, who had been listening, huddled upon the stoop. Vicarye was miserable – the last thing he wanted to do was spend another year at sea. Well, that wasn’t quite true – the last thing he wanted to do was send Thomas off alone with that madman, Drake, and so, that night, he fetched his sea chest out of storage. Weeks passed, and the fleet assembled. Publicly, Drake extolled the virtues of founding the new colony, privately he was confused. The thought of Thomas as his commander infuriated him; the boldness of the venture had begun to excite him; and the prospect of renewing their former relationship tortured him with inconvenient fires. He thought a lot about the failure of their other venture. It was Thomas’ pride that was at fault, yes, but perhaps the real sticking-point had been Thomas’ self-imposed chastity. If only the gentleman were made to know his place in bed, surely knowing his place on ship would follow. The flagship was large, well-appointed, and mercifully free of the women, children and cattle abundant in the rest of the fleet. There was a large regiment of soldiers placed under Doughtie’s command. The cabin he was to share with Drake was even larger than the one on the Pelican. This time, they did not creep off as quickly and quietly as possible once the Queen sent her permission. There was no need – for this venture was quite legal. England’s claim on Nova Albion was legitimate, and so it was necessary to make a grand show of that legitimacy. This time, an enormous procession met them at the Plymouth docks for a royal send-off. Thomas was formerly given the charter for the colony; Drake was knighted. Drake was edgy as the fleet departed, wondering how things would go in close quarters with Doughtie. They had both made pretense of polite regard; how long could the fragile peace hold? The wind was favorable, the sky cerulean. All in all, a much more pleasant departure than the last time. He bustled about, familiarizing himself with the men, making sure that discipline was perfect. He dined with the officers, delaying as much as possible the moment when he would have to confront Doughtie alone. But when he closed the door to their cabin and turned to face Doughtie, the gentleman was holding out a coil of rope. “Tie me,” he said. Drake, for once in his life, was speechless. “Tie me!” Doughtie commanded. “But forget not that I command here.” Stiffly, Drake obeyed. He suspected some trick – perhaps that Doughtie would cry out for help and accuse him of mutiny. Still, it lacked subtlety. The time for such tricks would be far into the venture, when the men were unhappy and looking for a scapegoat. Drake grimaced, suddenly ashamed. He had used such careful plotting against Thomas. Doughtie knelt in front of the bed, hands bound behind his back. What game was he playing? The sight of Thomas at his mercy made Drake flush with desire. He had felt the same when he had tied Doughtie to the mast, but that time, he had pushed it away. That time, the stakes were for real – Doughtie really was at his mercy, and so honor forbade action. Drake had been quite capable of killing Doughtie, but he was no rapist. He would leave Thomas that much dignity, for once he had loved the man. “I was told that thou didst unseat thy preacher, chaining Fletcher to the bulkhead and performing the mass of thy own accord,” said Doughtie. “Aye,” said Drake, abashed. He was a little ashamed of it; it was bold, even for him. But it had probably been worth the risk, considering how amusing the Queen had found the incident. “Then surely thou canst hear mine own confession, and scourge me for the good of my soul,” said Doughtie. “Aye,” Drake rasped. The thought of scourging Doughtie made his heart nearly leap out of his chest. He would hardly allow theological subtleties to deter him. “Bless me father, for I have sinned,” said Doughtie. “I am guilty of a most heinous and uncontrollable lust, guilty of the unnatural desire for sodomy. For when I did love Captain Drake, mine affections tended not towards hearty good companionship, for which any Englishman might rejoice, but towards gross lewdness. Aye, though I left him alone on Ireland’s shores, even when I returned to London, my nights were haunted with feverish dreams of him. Oft did I envision him in his nakedness, myself impaled upon his sword. ‘Twas not only in mind, but in deed, for such visions did urge me to the sin of Onan. I would lie upon my stomach, thinking of him atop me, my thighs spread, my loins grinding against my poor, o’ertaxed and o’erstained sheets.” Drake’s mouth was dry. Was this a game – or were Doughtie’s spiritual torments real? He thought quickly, plotting how to turn this to his advantage. “Thou art not the only man to have sinned, my son,” he said. He yanked a small washcloth out of his sea chest and tied it tightly around Doughtie’s mouth. “I will scourge thee, but think it best to mute thy cries,” he said, “for I shall spare thee not.” He lifted the gentleman easily and positioned him so that he was bent over the bed. Then, in the custom of naval discipline, he removed breeches and stockings, baring Doughtie’s naked buttocks. Doughtie’s cock bobbed free, erect and moist. “Thou shouldst have confessed thy sins long before,” Drake said quietly. He beat Doughtie until the gentleman’s backside was covered with pleasingly pink welts. Even so, he went a bit easier with the flogging than he would have liked. It would not do to have the commander of the expedition limping around the ship come the morrow. Yet when he finished, he was surprised to see tears in Doughtie’s eyes. “Did I cause thee so much harm?” he asked as he removed the gag. “Harm? No harm other than to fuel my lust all the more. When e’en harsh punishment fails to quench these fires, then what hope is there for my soul?” Indeed, the beating had done nothing to dampen Thomas’ excitement. Looking at his beautiful, swollen lips, Drake fancied that the pain had increased his desire. “Thomas,” said Drake, keeping his voice level despite his own inner heat, “I shall make a pact with thee. Each night I shall try to beat the devil out of thee, but if thou dost cry for mercy, I shall deliver it.” Drake was quite certain that Thomas would not be begging him to stop the pain. No, enough pain and Thomas would beg to be fucked from one tropic to the next. “Indeed, I know where the devil makes his habitation, and I shall chase him out,” he said, inspired. “It will be the cause of much discomfort.” He tied the gag yet again, then rolled up his sleeve. And then he went hard, very hard on the gentleman, yet knowing the spot to hit with the ball of his fist until Thomas convulsed in a wild orgasm. In Ireland, Thomas had never been so wanton. And after such rough treatment, he made no complaint at all when Drake took him, fucked him fast and deep. The peculiar scenario, Doughtie’s strange and sacrilegious desires, only added more spice to long deprivation. It was good for Drake, so very damn good. But when they finished, the governor crawled into the sheets and curled into a ball. “Leave me, Francis,” he said. “Sleep in thine own bed.” And so it went for the first few weeks of the voyage. When Thomas wasn’t throwing himself into his role of being an exemplary commander, he was throwing himself into debauchery. After a while, he gave up the pretence that scourging would cleanse his sins, since both pain and pleasure ended invariably in the spilling of seed. So when he commanded Drake to tie one leg to each bedpost, sodomize him with a broomstick, and drip candle tallow upon his cock, both knew that it was to fulfill his increasingly insatiable desires. Duty and degeneracy kept Doughtie from pondering the questions that really mattered: why did he still love Drake? And could he love Drake without forgiving him for all that had passed? And what kind of fool was he for wanting to relive the nightmare that severed them? This was quite by design. And so perhaps it was also by design to force Drake’s hand, to make him be the one to raise the impossible questions. One long, sultry night, some forty days out of England, far down the coast of Africa, Doughtie had demanded of Drake what had become one of the gentleman’s favorite pastimes: Drake was to prick Thomas’ cock lightly with a sewing needle until he came. It was something Drake had learned to do quite skillfully – and also to prolong it as much as possible. Drake loved to see Thomas helpless in the face of his own lusts; it gave the Captain General a greater feeling of power than even commanding an entire fleet. As usual, once Thomas had reached his climax, Drake tied his hands behind his back and fucked him, fucked him hard and deep. It seemed to take forever before Drake came and collapsed onto the bed, not bothering to untie Thomas. Doughtie scarcely seemed to care, so limp was he, so passive. But when Drake rolled over next to him, he pulled away. “Get thee to thy place, Francis,” he said wearily. Drake had had quite enough of being exiled to the other side of the room. It bothered him more than he would have anticipated. He found himself strangely nostalgic for those first weeks in Ireland, where each evening they had lain in each other’s arms, tenderly, yet chastely, fighting the chill air of March. So now that Doughtie was bound and exhausted, so it seemed the ideal time to take a stand. “I would stay with thee in thy bed this evening, Thomas.” “Wherefore? ‘Tis not cold, far from it. There is no need to share warmth.” “There is my need, Thomas.” Doughtie raised a lazy eyebrow. “I should have thought that need quite sated but a moment hence.” “I speak not of the needs of the flesh, but of the heart.” “Then speak not at all,” snapped Doughtie. “By day, thou dost keep the fleet in good order, and come sunset, so dost thou keep me. Art still unsatisfied?” “I loved thee well, Thomas.” “Aye, and tore that love to ribbons.” “I was not alone in that,” Drake retorted. “So, thou dost admit thy complicity,” said Thomas. Drake was silent. After a moment, Thomas rolled over, turning his back on his companion. Drake dressed and went out on deck, slamming the door behind him. When he had gone, Thomas buried his head in the pillow, allowing the tears to come for the first time since they had left England. He cursed Drake for putting love back on the table. He didn’t know how he could possibly love Francis after all that had happened – but didn’t know how to stop loving him either. And love always made complex the simplicity of sin. If he didn’t care about Drake, why should Doughtie care if he burned in hell? For that matter, why care if they both did? But if he truly loved Francis, he had to save his beloved from the disease of unnatural lust. A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door. “Thomas?” Doughtie groaned, groggy with sleep. “Leonard?” Vicarye opened the door, not waiting to be denied entrance. “The Captain General stands alone at the prow in a mood most foul. I surmise thou didst quarrel with him.” Doughtie rolled over, propping himself on an elbow. “He spoke to me of love, Leonard. How dare he?” “This displeases thee, my friend?” Leonard sat on the side of the bed, not knowing why he was surprised. Thomas was sick to death with love for this man who tried to have him killed. So of course he refused when he was offered the thing he most wanted – perhaps fatally angering Drake with rejection. It made as much sense as anything Thomas did – which was none at all. Leonard sighed. “I am ill, Leonard, with sick love and filthy sin.” “Thou art addle-pated from the reading of too many books. A wise man would ne’er have taken up with that foul pirate. A fool would – understanding the nature of his own soul – offer his adoration ‘pon bended knee. Since wisdom is forlorn, ‘twould be better for thee to be a live fool than a dead jackanapes.” Doughtie sat up in the bed abruptly, almost laughing. “What? Speakest thou so? Thou dost despise Francis Drake, Leonard, I know it to be so.” “Aye. I love thee most assuredly, friend Thomas, and would see thee in better company than that blackguard. But if there were a cure for thy madness, methinks we would have found it. Years have passed, and much unspeakable has happened, and still thy blighted heart pines.” “I will not serve him, Leonard. He will not win.” “Then shall you lose, the pair of ye. But serve him only as a lover. Let him keep to his sphere, thee to thine. He shall command the fleet and thou the soldiers – and thou shalt rule ‘pon land, he at sea.” “So was my design. But he will have me Leonard, in soul as well as body…and if I offer again my love, how can I offer depravity? I will not stand for it – will not take that which must of nature be pure and cover it in filth.” Leonard checked himself from expressing his consternation. He had expected that sooner or later, Doughtie would make such a protest. It was a common enough attitude, shared most often by churchmen and fine ladies. Who were – as his father had often pointed out – singularly lacking in robust good health. “The bullock is full of life and strength,” the physician had said to his son, “and sheweth not delicacy of nerves when mounting his mate. Thinkest thee that Our Lord frowns ‘pon it? Did He not say, ‘Be fruitful and multiply?’” Leonard was grateful to have been raised with such a practical view. The Doughties, like many gentle families, were hip deep in sorcery and sex kinks, and constantly crying to heaven about their blighted souls. “Thomas,” he said, “Sir Francis doth desire thee in a fleshly manner. If thou lovest him, canst not sacrifice thyself for that which he needs?” Leonard felt smugly that this was the winning argument. Not so. Indeed, Doughtie had always bested Leonard in the mock courtrooms at the Inn. “But if his love is steeped in baseness, is’t love at all? Is mine?” Doughtie was serious – the point was agonizing for him. Leonard had to keep reminding himself of this over and over. To him, it was ridiculous. The door opened without warning. Drake took a step in, saw Leonard, then took a step back. “You have company, Master Doughtie,” he said coldly. “I shall return later…” “Nay, stay, good Captain,” said Leonard hastily. “I shall not keep you from your rest.” Leonard stood and practically leapt for the door. “But Thomas, think upon my words.” Then he was gone. “His words?” said Drake, with that forced lightness that Thomas knew so well was an enormous warning. “What advice did Master Vicarye give to you, I wonder?” “To unite body, heart and soul and place them at thy feet, taking no care for my eternal portion, but every care that I relinquish not my power as governor.” Drake roared with laughter. “For a lawyer, Vicarye is a plainspoken man,” he said. “Most sensible.” “Wherefore speakest thou of love, Francis? Could love survive that hatred great enough to desire my death?” Drake shook his head. “Thou hast lofty ideals, Thomas. I have only great passion. That hatred, that love, and the burning lust which ne’er gives me quiet – they are all one. Give me that Thomas who shares his every secret, who looks into mine eyes with unhidden adoration, who cries out with animal pleasure when I take him roughly, that man is my beloved, and I shall deliver to him the world. But deny me, countermand me, speak thy secrets with hot breath into the ears of others, and I would destroy thee to assuage the pain of thy base betrayal.” “S’wounds, Francis, I long to hear thee swear to me thy love - but I know well thy word means naught should a man go against thy will.” “I am no fool, Thomas. Thou art not the only man who can learn a hard lesson. For two years I lived without thee.” He sat on the bed and closed his eyes. His voice again carried the weariness that Thomas had heard when he had come to the Inn – or was it sadness? “Had I achieved my deign, ‘twould have been a lifetime. I have taken much thought on that.” “Wouldst have missed my company, Francis?” “’Twas when we took the silver ship, that I did laugh and was near to say, ‘Here is the bounty I promised thee, Thomas.’ But thou hadst returned to England, and I knew my news must wait. And I knew it would be a cause of gall to thee, not celebration, and that made my heart right sore.” “Thou didst promise wealth and the good regard of our Queen, and I have these things,” said Thomas. “And I did promise to accompany thee and to invest in thy impossible dream – which I fulfilled. And here we sail upon the Pacific together. So there is but one promise left broken, that promise we made after but a week’s company in Eire – that promise to hold each other as fast friends, inseparable for a lifetime.” “We lied,” said Drake. “We were never friends. For e’en as we spoke those words, did we not drown in each other’s eyes?” Doughtie remembered. He remembered what it was like to be so hopelessly, carelessly in love, to be in love before lust or jealousy or the small-mindedness of the men around them played upon their fears. He began to weep openly, something he had not done in front of Francis since the Rathlin massacre. “Would we were those men again!” he sobbed. Drake remembered also. He remembered that it wasn’t just about the money, or besting King Philip, or becoming a knight. He remembered that once he had shared a dream with someone he loved more than he had believed possible. He realized that everything he had gained – and lost – since that moment was a result of that love. He said now – he could say – the thing he knew was true, the thing he might once have denied to his dying day: “Without thee, Thomas, my success is no success.” He could say it now because it was no longer an admission. It was a resolve. Perhaps it was the set of his jaw, the tone of his voice, but Thomas understood perfectly. His life was no longer in danger. Nor was it any longer his own. Somewhere within him was a proud gentleman who railed at Drake’s presumption, the same man that had done everything possible to spite Francis Drake for presuming his obeisance before. For a moment it seemed that two men stood on the spot which held Thomas Doughtie’s soul. It shocked him. He had felt so righteous. He had not fully realized his own motive in antagonizing Drake. It disgusted him, this pride. It tasted like metal, metal in a world that was flooding now with wine and honey. Behind Drake the rising sun shone through the window, enveloping his hair in an aureole of fire. Had they been up all night? He stood. Love, lust, the heat of the day, perhaps the lack of sleep – it was all too much for him. He lowered himself to his knees. It was more comfortable than he could have believed. He looked up at Drake with shining eyes, eyes that were fixed only upon the blazing light before him. “I am thy man,” he said. “Thy leman, thy servant, thy good companion.” Nothing weighed upon him any more, not fear, nor shame, nor guilt. He opened himself, waiting to be taken. When Francis Drake was twelve years old, he had been knocked from the deck of a pinnace. He was in the water but a few minutes; in that time he understood that the sea could swallow a man. The sea could beckon, could storm, could divulge all her treasures, and yet was still the sea. It didn’t matter; the man who had the sea in his bones couldn’t help himself. No matter her treachery, no matter the danger, that man would always return to her. Young Francis had stopped struggling then, let his body drift, waiting for the rope that might or might not come. It was out of his hands; fighting it made it worse. There was a kiss; the flood came. There was a dove, an olive branch; perhaps later, a pair would emerge in a new land to rebuild a world. But for now, they stood, spent, beaten, irrationally happy. Love had defeated them utterly.

Day Three They had quickly bid good night to Wedge and Iella. As secretly as they could they left their friends, hurrying along the deserted passageways to the upper levels of the former Imperial Palace. When the door to his apartment slipped shut behind them, they attacked each other with a ferocity that would have normally appalled both, but tonight in the dark hall of Skywalker's apartment they did not give it any thought. Lips searched hungrily for lips while hands roamed over curves and angles that were covered with fabric. They attacked each other's clothes with a viciousness that would have made the Jedi Master bashful if he had squandered a thought on it, but all he could think of was the beautiful woman in his arms whose lips left a burning trail of hot, needing passion on his skin. Bending his head, he nuzzled his head in the crook of her neck, inhaling her dazzling scent, licking at the soft skin beneath his lips. He heard Mara groan out softly and his hands slowly, tauntingly caressed up and down her ribs. Soft skin beneath callused hand, soft warm, alive and utterly mesmerising. Luke could not understand what had happened, but ever since they had exchanged the Krissmasna kiss in Wedge's apartment, his blood sang, it churned and boiled in passion for this woman and obviously Mara felt the same. His hands slipped down the soft material of the dress she had been wearing all night. Now the material hissed beneath his fingers as it bunched around Mara's hips exposing creamy, alluring skin that beckoned to be touched. Softly, almost reverently, he touched her breasts, perfect globes that fit snugly into the palms of his hands, so perfect, it seemed they were solely made for him. He watched with fascination as the rosy tips hardened while he stroked them, feather-like caresses solely to arouse. "Luuuuu-ke...," Mara whispered, his name the most beautiful song he had ever heard. Their eyes met, an understanding passing between them. Tonight, it said, tonight they would know what it meant to care and make love to each other. As much as they had attacked each other when they had entered Luke's apartment, this moment shifted their existence. Slowly, almost shyly, they bent their heads in unison, nipping, tasting and teasing each other's lips, while hands slowly caressed, discovered and excited. Mara's hands had found the fasteners of his belt and trousers, and soon she was slipping them off his hips, paying no attention to the clattering sound that was heard when the heavy belt with the light saber cluttered to the floor. A slender leg wrapped around Skywalker's hip, as Mara sidled closer, the warm skin of Skywalker proofing irresistible to her. She felt as if she had been drugged and under any normal circumstances, she would have tried to snap out of it. But this was too real, too comforting, too exiting as to ever wanting it to stop. Skywalker felt as if he had done a 1000 yards run in record time, his heart thumping wildly against his ribs. Resting his head against her forehead he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to calm his breathing and erratic heart beating. "Stars, Mara," he choked out when he felt her nimble fingers caressing him. "I need you..." "I can feel that," Mara's reply was laced with a throaty laugh while her fingers worked their magic on him, tugging pulling, drawing him to full length. Skywalker tried to see beyond the haze of hot searing passion, and somewhere in the deep recesses of his fogged mind, he knew he wanted this to be different. "Mara ..." he said again and forced himself to touch her hands and drew them away. "I don't ... not like this ..." Forming coherent words was an effort to him. He could feel the wave of suppressed anger coming from her, and he immediately latched his lips on hers, kissing her deeply. *The bedroom, Mara. I don't want to make love to you in the corridor,* he sent her quickly and the anger subsided only to be replaced by another jolt of passion. "I see," Mara breathed after they came up for much needed air. "It is a good idea ... I need to go to the fresher anyway." Pulling her dress up over her breasts in a display of bashfulness Mara waited till the Jedi Master had adjusted his trousers again. They stared at each other and they both knew this was their reprieve, the only chance they got to stop the madness, but when Mara held out her hand and Skywalker took it without any hint of hesitation, they knew their fates had been set. Walking hand in hand they made their way over to the Jedi Master's bedroom. With a last kiss, Luke let her go off to the fresher while he stood almost forlorn in the middle of his bedroom. After she had kicked off the dress with a foot, Mara watched herself in the mirror of the fresher. Her lips were swollen from too many soft and hard kisses by the Jedi Master. The harsh light showed the soft abrasions that had been left by Skywalker's stubble on her soft skin, and touching them, she could feel how it had felt, how his skin had clung to her own. Closing her eyes, Mara sighed softly, her head slumping forward slowly. What she was about to do and with the Jedi Master at that, still held her in awe, but the gnawing hunger was too much to resist. Her blood seemed to boil inside her veins and even if she would have battled the strong emotions that coursed through her body and mind, she knew it was all in vain. All their bickering, their quarrels, they brief physical encounters of touching hands, shoulders or the occasional hug, had prepared her for tonight. Tonight, Mara thought as her head came up again and she quickly stepped out of the underwear and carelessly let it slip down to the floor. Squaring her shoulders and readying herself as if she would have done while going into battle, she turned and put her hand on the opener of the door. Beyond the door, she knew, was Skywalker, waiting, thinking and perhaps as confused as she was. Luke felt like he had been propelled back to his teenager days, back in the days before the Rebellion when he had bedded a woman for the first time. The same mixture of anticipation and fear was coursing through him and for a brief moment doubts of what was about to happen crossed his mind fleetingly. But the hunger and the irresistible pull of the Force did not give him the time to pay much attention. He needed Mara, every fibre in his body screamed for her. He sat down on the bed and struggled with his boots then his pants followed. He had earlier already carelessly thrown his tunic over a chair nearby, missing it completely. Then he waited. His head jerked up when he heard the soft mechanism of the refresher door being opened and with baited breath he watched as Mara Jade stepped out of the fresher and pulled the door softly shut. The two Jedi watched each other silently, Skywalker from the bed and Jade from the door of the refresher. For long moments, Luke simply drank in the sight of the beautiful woman who had been his nemesis for so long. The light from the single lamp that sat beside the bed bathed the woman's skin into a soft glow, her skin shining like alabaster. Likewise, Mara could not get enough of the sight of the naked Jedi Master. He looked like a farmboy as he sat there, waiting. But no shyness, no bashfulness was showing in his composure or on his face as he sat there, powerful yet slim, legs steadily grounded side by side on the floor, his elbows resting on his knees, while his torso, scattered with old scars, glistened in the soft light. Luke held out a hand, both plea and offer and Mara had to force herself to set one foot after the other slowly. Her strongest impulse was to fling herself into the arms of this man, but she did not. Tantalisingly slow, she walked over, soft hips swaying, her eyes never leaving the brilliant blue ones of the Jedi. Setting a knee beside him on the bed, she swung her other leg over his lap until it came to rest on the other side of the bed covering. Green eyes bored into blue, and never breaking the intense look, Mara put her hands on the hot skin of Luke's shoulders and slowly let herself down. Slowly, her head fell back, her long hair brushing Skywalker's legs as she bent backwards, tickling the Jedi Master with its soft silky texture. Luke's hand left a tantalising trail from her shoulder down to her belly button, tracing faint scars on the soft skin, nestling in places, feeling the texture of her. He could not fathom how much he had longed to be with Mara like this, the closest two human beings with or without the Force could join together. He traced a very prominent scar that ran between the beautiful globes of her breasts, a sign of her dangerous profession before and after the fall of the Empire. Hips crushed against hips, intensifying the friction as Mara let go of Luke's shoulders, her hands caressing his strong arms that held her in place. She squeezed her eyes shut in pure bliss, trying not to make a sound as she concentrated on the barrage of new, agonisingly exciting emotions rushing through every pore of her existence, almost overwhelming her. All she could think of was this man, the man she had wanted to kill for such a long time, the man who now made love to her like no other man ever before. She moved her legs slowly, enwrapping them around his slim hips while she used them as leverage to pull herself upright again. This time a tiny sound escaped her lips as she felt the wonderful feelings surging through her body when he came to rest just within reaches of her well-protected core. She wanted to drink in this moment and keep it forever. Slowly, Luke bent his head and licked at the scar, kissing his way up through the valley of her breasts to her throat. Finding her pulse point on her neck, he lapped softly at it, his teeth only grazing the flickering skin in rhythm with her quickened breathing. He felt giddy, as if he had taken the grandest spice or drunk the most inebriating wine, all because this outstanding woman was in his arms and let him make love to her. All was forgotten, Callista, his sister, his ongoing doubts that he was not made to be a Jedi Master, all seemed inconsequent while in the arms of this beautiful, compassionate woman. He gasped when he felt Mara's hands in his hair, yanking him almost painfully upwards. Still, they did not speak as eyes, green and deep like the forests of Yavin, locked onto sea-blue eyes. For long moments, both Jedi stilled, holding their breaths as they looked deeply into each other's eyes. Their Force bond deepened, extending amongst them as if it had become a living being itself. *Make love to me, Luke,* Mara whispered inside his mind. *Make love to me like you mean it, like there is no tomorrow and this is real.* A pain deeper than he had ever felt of experiencing ran through him and her earlier words came back to him in a rush. I do not know how to love, maybe never will or have. Perhaps I'm incapable of feeling love and that is why the Emperor chose me to become his Hand. Skywalker was determined to show her that she was capable of that and much much more. Drawing her even closer to himself he slung an arm around her tiny waist and both gasped when skin touched skin in the most intimate way and when the woman let herself sink down inch by delicious inch, both shuddered involuntarily. Communicating without words or the Force, they knew they met as equals in the most intimate possible way, and when their bonding was complete they stilled, breathing deeply as if they both wanted to take in this moment, to never let go again. They both realised that on this plane of existence, in this raw, rapturous and animalistic way, they were true equals, both in their physical bonding and in the Force. Staring into each other's eyes, the realisation struck them both and with a groan that tore away from both their mouths, they started to move in unison. Mara gasped softly when Luke's first thrust settled him even more deeply inside her soft core and both groaned at the increased friction between them. In unison their mouths sought each other, and when his tongue delved deeply inside the warm hollow of her mouth, all Luke could do was groan. Although he had only tasted her minutes before, she tasted like the sweetest wine, like the best dessert he had ever eaten in his life. Slowly, with his precious cargo in his arms, he slipped down onto the bed, cool sheets surrounding them as he moved them sideways, facing each other. Mara sensed that he wanted to make it perfect for her, drawing it out to give her as much pleasure as possible, but she needed no dallying. She wanted it all from the Jedi Master and she wanted it right now. Attacking his lips again, she moved herself beneath him with a little help from the Force. Without breaking their intimate contact, they moved in unison, two bodies fused together in the most intimate way possible, two bodies - one mind as their barriers to the Force lessened and their Force senses touched. They both gasped when their united passion flowed through them, feeding their need for each other even more. Tendril after tendril of their Force senses joined, like an intricate pattern as their bodies moved and worked their way up towards their climax. Mara's arms slipped softly off Luke's back, lazily caressing his flanks, while she basked in the sensations that still rolled through her in the aftermath of their passion. She could still feel Skywalker shivering and with a gentleness she had never thought she could feel, she put a kiss on the Jedi Master's temple. Her heart was still racing, drumming in perfect accord with Skywalker's as she lay beneath him. Carefully, Mara moved her hand and cupped Luke's face, slowly caressing his temple and sweaty brow. "Am I too heavy?" Luke asked in a muffled voice and struggled to raise his head, his breath caught in his throat when he looked down at Mara Jade. She looked totally ravished and never in his life he had seen her as radiant and beautiful as this. Green eyes normally only bristling with an inner fire at him when he had annoyed her, shone brightly and her smile was genuine and almost blinded him. "No," Mara whispered and as if to enforce her response, she lazily squeezed her legs together that were still wrapped around Luke's waist. "You are not too heavy." Shifting slightly, Skywalker propped himself up on his elbows either side of her head, careful not to catch her hair beneath his weight. Even now after they had made love the hunger he had felt before had returned, more subdued this time but it was still there, on the fringes of his perception. Looking down on the beautiful woman, he had to smile. Making love to each other had been a revelation, not only to him but also to Mara. They were still closely attuned and their Force bond was stronger than ever, it seemed as if it had a life of its own. Bending his head, he captured her lips that were already swollen from the innumerous kisses they had exchanged and yet he yearned for more. During their love making when their Force bond had come fully into life, he had felt as if a whole X-Wing load of worries and doubts had been lifted off him. And something else he had noticed. He loved Mara. Loved her with all his being, perhaps had done so since the first day they had met. Such a thought would certainly have left him fearing for his life before this night, but now, after his mind and soul had acknowledged the fact, he felt renewed. He knew that even if Mara would not return his feelings, she would never let him down. She would probably pack up and leave Coruscant if she knew, but after a while she would return, as she always does, Luke thought while he kissed the woman in question with all the pent up feelings he had stored away so securely all this time. Jade groaned when she felt the renewed passion of the Jedi Master both physically and mentally, and she welcomed it. Her body, even though satiated from their fervent love making still craved him and the feeling of him inside her, made her giddy. Stretching out with the Force, she brushed his mind and after that there was no doubt what the beautiful trader craved for when both started to move in the age old rhythm of love. Mara stretched languorously and pulled the sheets closer to her breasts. She could still not believe what she and Skywalker had done, but the satiated feeling that was lazily washing over her body told her otherwise. They had both rested and napped a few minutes, both enwrapped in their own thoughts and yet beneath the current of their thoughts they had both felt the presence of their Force bond, even stronger than ever before and it had been harder to shield herself from the Jedi Master. She creased her nose when Luke tickled her nose from behind and she made a move to roll onto her back, but Luke's voice held her back. "Hold still," he ordered softly while his hands moved gently, almost reverently, over her nude back. "What are you doing?" Mara asked when she felt fluttering touches on her back. Luke looked up from what he was doing and grinned, his blue eyes bright with mischief. "Just trying to verify a fair assumption, Jade," he answered. Picking up a few strands of her hair he pulled them gently along her back, straightening them out. When the end of the long tassels reached down over her behind, he grinned. "I thought so," he said and put a soft kiss onto the spot just beneath her rounded fanny. Mara almost jumped, when she felt his lips on the very spot. "Luke!" she cried out and tried to twist out of his grasp. "That tickles!" Luke laughed at that and slowly caressed her thighs then moving his hands over the two rounded globes of her behind up to the small of her back. "I didn't know you were ticklish, Mara. This is the night of surprises." "Yes, a night of surprises ..." Mara murmured and closed her eyes. What a night, Mara thought. I had never thought that making love to Skywalker would be this exhilarating. "Any qualms yet?" Luke's voice brought her out of her reverie, and she shifted slightly onto her side. Their Force bond still kept them closely attuned and she could feel the apprehension in Luke while he waited for her answer. "No, you?" She asked, even though she already knew the answer. "No, it was the best decision I have made in a long time," Luke replied and started to caress her back, slowly massaging the muscles. Mara sighed softly as Skywalker's hands worked their magic while he massaged her and she could hear the Jedi Master chuckling softly to himself. "What is so funny?" she asked softly, trying to peer at him from beneath half-closed lids. "You purr like a Corellian kitten," Luke answered and bent over her, putting a soft kiss onto her ear, while he gave her a back rub. "Hmmmmmmm," Mara twisted her head around to capture his lips with her own. "I seem to remember I was not the only one purring tonight," she shot back after a long lingering kiss that left Skywalker breathless. Luke laughed and swatted her behind. "I did not purr," he exclaimed in mock exasperation. "Oh really?" She asked and propped herself up on her elbows while looking back at him over her shoulder. "And what didn't I understand when a certain Jedi Master almost yelled Marrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrra at the top of his lungs?" She rolled the R in her name in an exaggerated manner and they both had to laugh. "I didn't?!" Skywalker protested and fell back onto the soft mattress as Mara pushed him back down. "Oh yes, and you were even louder than that," she retorted quickly and stretched out on his lean body. "I wonder what the neighbours now think about the impeccable Jedi Master ..." Luke caught her face in his hands and bunched her hair up in them. "They probably think what a lucky Jedi Master I am." "Oh really?" "Yes, either that or NRI guards would have already trampled down the door if they had thought you would torture me." "Stars, Luke," Mara gasped in mocked horror and quirked an eyebrow at him. "Just imagine, the Jedi Master in the throes of passion while NRI officials running in ... what would your sister say if she was ever to find out?" "You forget that a certain trader would be also caught in the throes of passion, moaning Luke, Luuuuu-ke," Skywalker taunted her, his voice getting higher and higher. "Oh you ... you ....nerfherder," Mara propped herself up and straddled his hips. "I could still kill you, Farmboy." "Mmmmmm," Luke made while his hands had found a new target, cupping her breasts. "Hey, don't change the ... subject," Mara breathed as the now familiar feeling of passion coursed through her in a rush. "I could still do it, you know..." "Do what?" Luke asked absent-mindedly as he sat up, his mouth immediately latching onto an enticing nipple that seemed to beckon him. "Ki... Kill you," Mara breathed softly, her hands finding their way up to his head, tousling the fair hair of Skywalker. "Hmmm, I think this is a much more enjoyable pastime," Luke whispered around the soft firm flesh of her breast. All Mara could do was to agree with him and soon all thoughts about killing Skywalker fled her mind. The soft twittering of Artoo woke Luke up and it took him a while till his befuddled brain gave him the right information, that Mara was in his arms, Artoo was rolling into his bedroom and everything was all right. He had to grin at that and after planting a soft kiss onto the cheek of the sleeping woman in his arms, he slowly disentangled his limbs from her and stood up. Slipping into a pair of loose workout pants he padded over to Artoo. "Come on Artoo, let Mara sleep," he said to his mechanical friend and after making sure the astromech followed him, he made his way into the kitchen. While Skywalker put on the caf he smiled when he heard the questioning whistles from his astromech. "Yes, Artoo, Mara stayed over night," Luke answered patiently, and after another barrage of whirr and whistles, he bent over the attached data pad on the little rotund droid. He almost gawked when he saw the read out. "What do you mean, Threepio will be delighted to hear your report? He does WHAT?" Luke stood up and shook his head. "No, Artoo, what Mara and I did is none of your business or Threepio's for that matter. I mean it and I won't give you any details." He turned away but another set of beeps made him turn back again. "Artoo, I mean it if you tell Threepio or any other droid of last night I have Mara use you for target practice." Shrill almost frantic beeps were the answer to the threat and Luke grinned. "Serves you right, Artoo," Luke retorted and took a cup of the freshly brewed caf. His stomach grumbled and the Jedi Master decided to prepare breakfast. Quickly he set to work and soon two plates of bachon and toast as well as freshly made Cin'chi juice adorned a heavy tray. "Artoo, No. I don't think Mara would appreciate it if you asked her about last night. I told you, if Mara knows you wanted to tell Threepio she will use you for target practice," Luke answered after another inquiry from his droid. Mara was right, my droid needs a psychreport! Luke thought but he saw the joke in it ... he just hoped it wasn't at his expense. Slowly he made his way over to the bedroom and after telling Artoo to keep quiet, he entered it. Carefully putting the tray down beside her side of the bed, he sat down. A slender leg peeked out of from under the sheets and with soft butterfly caresses he stroked it, his hands moving higher and higher, while his artificial hand stroked some stray curls out of her face. "Hmmm go away," the sound came muffled from within the tangle of sheets and cushions and Luke had to hide his grin. He knew from different missions that Mara wasn't a morning person and he knew he was playing with his life. Hmm definitely putting a limb or two at stake, Luke told himself as he bent down. Softly, he put a kiss onto the sensitive spot right behind her ear, blowing air over the wet spot he had left. *Really?* Luke inquired softly, brushing her mind with his Force sense effortlessly. *You want me to go away? Without breakfast?* *What breakfast?* Mara replied in his mind and turned onto her back. She still kept her eyes closed but nimble fingers moved over Luke's naked chest and she drew him nearer to herself. *Not this kind of breakfast, Jade, we've got company,* Luke sent her and chuckled when Mara, fully awake this time, sat up as if a Rancor had bitten her. "What?" she asked and tried to cover herself with the sheets. "Artoo is here," Luke grinned when she shot laser bolts at him. "Come on, Jade, it's not as if Leia or half of the NRI were here." Mara slumped back and hit her face underneath the sheet. "Don't give me a fright like that, Farmboy," came her muffled reply. "I really don't think I could face that sister of yours or any of the NR officials today." Luke had picked up the tray and sat it onto his knees. "Not even an over-inquisitive droid?" Mara quirked an eyebrow at the Jedi Master. "What do you mean?" Soft whistles answered her inquiry and Mara frowned when the little droid rolled forward. "Artoo, NO!" Luke said and tried to shoo the little droid away but it was too late, Mara had already hooked off the data display and was reading. "I'll be Kesseled!" Mara exclaimed and Luke inhaled sharply. Here we go! "I don't believe it, Skywalker," Mara shot him a look that would have seared a hole as big as a star cruiser through the Imperial palace walls. "You ... your droid ... you ... I don't believe it. Squirt here is interested in when we have sex? For Golden Rod's stupid report?" "I told you, Artoo, Mara gets riled up when she hears about it," Luke said, trying to divert Mara's wrath off him to the rotund droid. It worked ... not. "Oh no you won't, Skywalker. Who put the droids up to this madness?" "Don't look at me, Mara, I didn't. I'm as shocked as you and I told Artoo to can it," Luke retorted in a hurt tone. Mara ignored him while Artoo beeped and whistled. She read column upon column feeling Luke fidgeting beside her on the bed. "I don't believe it, it seems as if Golden Rod is apparently interested in human mating procedures. And he used Squirt here to help him." Mara growled but patted Artoo's head when he let out a whining whistle. "I know Artoo, you are not to blame for Golden Rod's inquisitiveness." Luke watched her and had to hide the chuckle that threatened to erupt from deep within. For someone who belittled him every time when he showed such affection towards his astromech, Mara sure had changed her attitude. "What is it Skywalker?" Mara asked. "What is so funny?" Luke fell back onto the bed, the tray on his knees firmly in a Force grip while laughter shook him. "You ... you patted .. patted Artoo," Luke hooted. "I did no such thing, Jedi," Mara snapped and swatted his leg with the data pad. "You must be out of your mind!" Luke just laughed straight at her face, something he wouldn't have dared yesterday but after last night he felt as if he could do anything, even taunting the deadly Mara Jade and certainly getting away with it. The pillow landed squarely on his head and for a moment, Luke almost lost the grip on the tray on his knees. Shielding himself, he flung the offending pillow back at her and put the tray out of their reach on the other side of the room with the Force. "You want a pillow fight, oh great Jade, you will get one!" Luke growled good-naturedly and several pillows from the bed flung themselves at Mara. Mara Jade snorted and with a swift kick with her legs, she disentangled herself from the sheets and with a pillow in each hand, she advanced slowly towards the grinning Jedi Master. "No Force use, Jedi Boy," she said as she brought herself within hitting distance. Luke grinned to himself as he ran his eyes appreciatively up and down Mara's slender form. She looked absolutely captivating as she stood in front of him, creamy soft skin all over, shrouded in the most fiery and silky halo of hair he had ever seen. Looking closely, he could detect the telltale marks of a man's whisker burns on her throat as well as several love bites on her neck and shoulders. She looked absolutely ravishing. And she was beautiful. "If you insist," Luke shot back, laughter evident in his voice. Ducking the first pillow, Luke caught her around her waist when she swung the second cushion. Shrieking, Mara let go of the useless weapon and held on to his back, as he slung her effortlessly over his shoulder, spinning her around. "Luke, put me down!!" Mara shrieked, trying to wriggle out of his grasp. "Luke!" she prepared herself to be spun around again when Skywalker suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. Twisting her head around from her upside down vintage point, she frowned when she didn't see his sister standing in the doorway as she had expected. "Skywalker? What is it?" she asked. She felt a shudder running through the Jedi Master and then she felt herself being lifted off his shoulder. Coming to stand in front of him, he gripped her shoulders, his thumbs caressing the soft skin. "You called me Luke," he answered softly. "So? It is your given name after all, isn't it?" Mara quirked an eyebrow at him. "Well, you never ... you always," Skywalker was at a loss and shook his head, then turned away from her and turning towards the transparisteel windows, he crossed his arms over his chest. Mara watched the strong back, the muscles that moved effortlessly beneath the softly tanned skin. Skin that she had lavished with kisses the night before. Now she felt timid to move over to him and touch him. His voice had held so much emotion and she was afraid that Skywalker would misunderstand their being together. She did not harbour any deeper feelings for the Jedi Master, she would not - could not - allow that. "Farmboy," even to her the nick name sounded hollow to her ears when she reached out a hand and placed it squarely on his back, a tingle running through her, beginning in her palm and then travelling all the way through her body right to her heart and her woman's core. Shuddering, she stepped closer and encircled her arms around his waist, putting her cheek against his bare back. Feeling him shiver and then placing his hands onto her joined hands in front of him, she could feel the pensive Force tendril he sent her. She reached out likewise and their Force senses brushed each other. She could feel the emotions turning inside him in a whirlwind. She could feel his desire to deepen their relationship, his latent hungering for her, the love ... She shivered. "You know there can't be more between us," she whispered against his skin and she felt him shudder again. "We are what we are and if you are honest to yourself, we are just friends. Last night was just an exception to the rule ... because we both felt lonely on Krissmasna." She felt him sigh, then he moved and drew her into his arms. "I know Mara," Skywalker answered and kissed the top of her head. "You just caught me by surprise, that's all. But you know I like you calling my name instead of calling me names. That's what friends should do ... even," he blushed when she looked up at him. "Even if we are friends who happen to make love to each other." "It can't happen again, you know that ..." Mara said lamely, trying to ignore the tugging at her heart. She knew it would only end up in tears. Over the years, she had gotten a very good insight into the man that was Skywalker and he deserved a woman who loved him deeply, who would respect what he was, a farmboy turned Jedi Master with a still childlike joy at the core of him. A woman that helped him over all his sometimes illogical insecurities, helped him stay grounded and who could haul butt. She frowned when her inner voice taunted, Now you are describing yourself, Mara Jade.. The young trader shivered at that and she tried to shut out the voice. Skywalker had felt the shiver and misinterpreted it differently, stepping back from her he walked over to the earlier discarded breakfast tray. "I thought we could still have breakfast ... if that is okay with you?" he asked, his blue eyes roaming over her naked figure with a mixture of longing and desire. "Sure, give me a minute in the fresher ... Luke," Mara replied with a shaky smile and grabbing the first thing she could lay her hand on, she disappeared behind the fresher door. Luke chuckled to himself, then straightened the sheets on the bed before putting the tray onto it. "Hey, Jade, you really like my black tunics, don't you?" he inquired and grinned when he heard her snort. "Getting smart, Jedi Boy?" Mara inquired from behind and when he turned to look at her he gawked open mouthed. He doubted that he would ever wear one of his tunics again without having such a visual as that of Mara wearing one of them with ample cleavage showing in the front. "Nice ... nice outfit," Skywalker muttered, trying to look anywhere but her. Mara grinned, then put one hand on her waist, letting the hem of the tunic run even higher on her thigh while the movement jarred her ample bosom that flashed between the two black and grey piped fronts of the tunic. "You think so?" she asked coyly, grinning at her friend's reaction that came clearly over the Force bond they shared. "Ja-Jade," Skywalker breathed softly and held up his hands. "You know you look stunning in whatever you wear ..." Or not wear, he silently added. Mara resolutely slung the tunic tightly around herself, then came over to him. "Let's have breakfast, Farmboy," she said while she settled herself opposite him. Despite the awkwardness of the situation, they passed breakfast with companionable banter and both had settled into the changed situation with ease. While Luke was telling Mara what his plans were with the Jedi Academy, she watched him over the rim of her caf cup. She had to admit that he was good looking, not dashing or handsome like some holo actors, but to her he was a comfortable and welcomed sight. He had not bothered to don a shirt or tank top so his muscles were in prominent display and again Mara was reminded that she had kissed and caressed the very skin and the very muscles only a few hours before. She could still feel his hands on her body, as they had aroused her with ease and expertise she had not thought the Jedi Master capable of. But then she had never felt so attuned to any other being like she had felt to him. And it has been fantastic, she thought silently while she continued to watch the subject of her thoughts. I should have known he is capable of making sex really special, but he still took me by surprise and spoiled me. "Mara?" Luke inquired softly. He had detected the soft smile on her face, the intent look she cast him over the rim of her cup but he knew it couldn't have been because of what he had told her of his plans. "Hmm.. sorry Luke I was ..." "A day's Hyperjump away, sorry for boring you," just barely Skywalker could keep the hurt out of his voice. Mara grinned at him, then put the cup on a table nearby and moved the tray out of her way. Slinging her arms around his neck and shoulders, she moved closer. "Farmboy, I was thinking about you and neglected my split concentration. I'm sorry," she said, brushing her lips over his. "You were?" Wonderment evident in the Jedi Master's voice. "Yes, but don't let that get to your head, Farmboy," Mara retorted and kissed him deeply, forgetting her own resolution that they should remain friends. Both felt the tingle of passion and desire coursing through them and shivered. *It is still there,* Luke sent her when he drew her into his arms. *I know, and it scares me, Luke.* Mara replied silently. "Ssshhhh, Mara, it is alright," Skywalker whispered as he tilted his head and kissed her softly. The moment their lips made contact, Mara Jade knew that she could never pretend that this was not affecting her, that making love to Luke Skywalker left her untouched. With a groan they fell back onto the bed. Mara knew she should stop this but her body betrayed her reasoning. With renewed passion she kissed the Jedi Master and with this all coherent thought fled her and Skywalker's mind. Leaning against the door frame to his apartment, Luke crossed his arms over his naked chest and watched Mara silently. They knew that this night of passion was about to end but for the first time he had no qualms about it. In fact, he had not felt as carefree and happy as he did right now. Perhaps he never really had. After their last love making they had showered and dressed, almost but not quite back to their status of being friends. Hands had still roamed, familiarising themselves with forbidden territory. They had not talked about what would happen now, both too shy, too afraid of what this night would do to their friendship. Now, Luke smiled down at Mara and took her hand in his, reluctant to let her go and yet knowing that in order to salvage some semblance of their friendship they had to part. Jade smiled and squeezed his hand briefly as if in understanding. After the intimacy of being lovers they were back to friends, and somehow he was relieved. The intensity with which they had made love had surprised him. It was as if for the short time they had been together the whole universe had shrunk to what was between them. It didn't matter that Mara Jade might never reciprocate his feelings for her. They had done the deed and their friendship was still intact and he knew he would come out of it unscathed. Where other women had left him heart-broken, Mara Jade had renewed, invigorated him. Bending slightly forward, he brushed his lips over her lush ones and with a delight that bordered almost on insanity, he felt her not drawing back. In fact, she nipped at his lips with the same eagerness he did. *I really have to get going, Luke* she sent him and he nodded his understanding. *I know, though I wish we could continue this,* he sent her back. *Of course we will, after all there is always next year's Krissmasna,* she teased and her green eyes sparkled. "I hope I don't have to wait this long," Luke replied aloud this time and after a final chaste kiss he let go of her. "Take care, Jade, and free skies." Mara smiled one of her rare smiles and winked at him. "To you too, Skywalker. See you next Altara? I hear Coruscant is quite deserted during this holiday ..." "I heard that too," Skywalker shot back and they both almost giggled like children. "I'll see you on Altara Eve then." "Sure, Skywalker, and I'll bring the wine!" With a final wave, the trader made her way to the turbo lifts. Luke watched the spot where she had disappeared behind long after the doors to the lift had closed, then slowly he turned. He should get going. Today Leia and Han would return from Kashyyk and he still had some things to do. He stretched out his Force sense and almost immediately felt Mara Jade. She was already onboard the Jade's Fire. "Take care, my love," he whispered, shutting the thought off from her through the Force, before he went back inside his apartment. He was sure he felt the soft ring of laughter following him, but when he checked, he could only feel the cool and collected mind of his friend turned lover. "Another time," he told himself as the door slipped shut behind him. The End

Day Two Luke groaned and for a moment he wished sleep would enwrap him once more, but after a few more seconds he opened his eyes and tried to adjust to the dim light that came through the transparisteel windows. For a moment, the Jedi Master felt disorientated and when he sat up he knew for sure that something was wrong. The light from the windows was wrong, even the position was off. Rubbing his eyes a few times, thinking he must still be dreaming, he sat up completely and noticed that he was still wearing his trousers and shirt. For a moment he panicked, then memory started in and he had to smile. He remembered vividly the passed evening, how he had danced with Mara Jade until the concert had ended. Afterwards they just talked, nursing their wine and after a while, Mara had fallen asleep right beside him. He had done the gentlemanly thing and carried her over to his bed, then had tried to fall asleep on his couch. Well, I must have succeeded, Luke thought. He stretched, several bones popping as he did and Luke realized that he never knew how bumpy his sofa really was until now. On tiptoes, he walked over to his bedroom, slowly opening the door which had been left ajar. Inching forward slowly he made his way towards the refresher, but his eyes were inadvertedly drawn to the bed. Mara Jade was still sleeping, red, fiery curls set ablaze by the morning sun seeping through the windows onto the bed. Skywalker knew he had tucked her in last night but now her legs were entangled with the sheets and her skirt. For a moment, the Jedi Master considered straightening out the sheets, but after he had taken a step towards the bed, he stopped dead still in his track. She'll kill me if she wakes up and finds me fiddling with the sheets, he told himself silently and with effort he turned away. But the image of the peaceful sleeping ex-assassin, in his bed, was burned into his retinas. With almost a groan, he entered the fresher. Luke slumped against the door and squeezed his eyes shut. Last night, before he had fallen asleep he had almost persuaded himself that the feelings he had newly discovered for Mara Jade were nothing but alcohol induced. They had finished off not only the two bottles Mara had brought but also had looted the small but potent storage he had in his apartment. But today, even with a headache that he deserved, he knew his feelings towards Mara ran deeper than he had thought. Sithspit, Luke thought. Mara was right; I always get into a mess during my vacations. And this time she is the only one who can get you out of this emotional mess, a small little voice nagged in the back of his mind. Great, and I might lose another limb or two in the process, Luke added silently. With a sigh, he pushed himself off the door and turned on the water in the shower. Quickly shedding his crumpled clothes, he stepped under the spray and flinched slightly. He had unconsciously set the water to cold. After a long cold shower, Skywalker dressed in his usual Jedi blacks and left the fresher and his bedroom without another glance at the sleeping woman in his bed. During his shower, where he had recited the Jedi code more often than he had bothered to count, he had decided to vent his head with a long walk through the deserted walkways of Coruscant. After he had found a blank data card, he left Mara a message and put both reader and card beside her on the bed, then he left the apartment quickly. When the door behind him slipped shut, Skywalker let out a sigh of relief. He had not noticed until then that he had been so tense ever since he had woken up. I just hope Mara won't notice once she is up, he thought and secretly wished the beautiful trader would be gone on his return. Mara creased her nose as if something tickled her and with an unladylike grunt, she brushed her hand over her face. The tickling stopped but Mara's finger had been caught in her hair. Awaking fully, she opened her eyes, examining with wonder her hand and the soft strands of hair that had miraculously wound around her finger. With a sigh, she unwound the hair and sat up. From the opened door she heard the soft whirr of an astromech, and with crystal clarity the events of last night came crashing down on her. With a groan, she buried her face in her hands and squeezed her eyes shut. Okay, Jade, this time you did it! she chided herself and looked down her front. I still have my dress on, so I haven't done anything improper... Good. The headache Mara was sporting was killing her but she tried to ignore the throbbing inside her head and sat up again. On wobbly legs, she pushed herself up and held her head with a groan. Sithspit, this hurts! A warble of shrill beeps came from the living area and Mara groaned out loudly. "Not now!" she whispered and her head snapped up when the beeps continued and came from the open door. "What is it squirt?" she asked the little droid then frowned. Great, now I'm talking to Skywalker's droid! Turning her back to the droid she mumbled, "Forget it!" and entered the fresher. Luke had run at a comfortable pace in the training area, even considering training with one of the practice droids when he heard someone calling out his name. Stopping and looking up he saw Wedge Antilles standing on the gallery, giving him a mocking salute with a grin. "Never any down time, huh, Boss?" Antilles shouted down and grinned. "Antilles, has your wife finally seen reason and thrown you out?" Skywalker retorted and wiped sweat off his face with his tunic. "Ouch! Don't remind me, Luke. I'm supposed to find this special ingredient for her Krissmasna pudding and I can't find an open shop," he replied and walked toward the lift that led down to the training area below. Luke watched his descent and grinned when he saw his friend coming towards him. "The joys of marriage," Skywalker taunted and Wedge shook his head. "Just you wait, till you get married, Commander," Wedge replied sourly and almost missed the slight flinch of the Jedi Master. "Yeah well ... you know, Jedi Masters and marriage don't mingle well ..." Skywalker had sobered and rubbed his arms with his tunic. Wedge saw that the Jedi Master contrary to his normal training didn't wear his training attire. "So what happened? Impromptu training session?" "Something like that ... I can't go home ... well I could but Mara ..." Skywalker's voice trailed off and he felt himself blush. Great, Jedi, how am I supposed to explain that I can't get home because Mara is in my bed? "But Mara?" Wedge asked and quirked an eyebrow at him. The blush didn't escape Antilles and he grinned like a Vornskr ready to prey. "Way to go, Luke. I always knew you and Mara would end up with each other, you are like two sides of the same medal!" The Jedi Master stared at his friend open mouthed, and then with increasing face colour, he shook his head. "No, no, Wedge, it isn't like that ... Mara spend the night with me ... but ... not like you think ... I'd never ..." he swallowed and felt his face colour even more increasing. "She stayed in my bed and I slept on the couch." Wedge eyed his friend and ex-commander closely, the way Skywalker hatched around the subject of Mara in his bed, without him in it, told whole data card archives. "So now you are venting your frustration because you didn't sleep in your bed?" Antilles asked. "What?" Skywalker asked and it was obvious he was in shock. "Wedge! I never ... I mean Mara is my friend ..." "And she is a real beautiful young lady, Luke. Sith, Luke, you were always too good for your own good. Anyone else would have taken the chance to get 101 with Jade..." "I'm not anyone else," Skywalker bit out and turned, but Wedge held him back. "I know, Luke, and that's why you are the great guy we all know and like," Antilles said and grinned sheepishly. "Hey, look, I'm sorry. I know it isn't any of my business, but you should loosen up a bit more. Reclusing yourself on that moon of yours isn't doing you any good ..." he waved his hand at Luke when he tried to reply and Wedge shook his head. "I know you are the Jedi Master and all that, but you are also a man. I know you," he dug a finger into his Luke's chest. "Others might want to make a holy man out of you but you need to get out more, do things that other guys do ... and if it is with someone as beautiful and sharp as Mara Jade, do it and Sith to all who think it is inappropriate." Luke swallowed hard then looked down at his hands, his cheeks burning even more than before. "I can't do that ... not with Mara ... she'll skin me alive and eat my heart with Canindarii sauce ..." Both men chuckled at the visual but sobered after a while. "Well if not Mara then with someone else ... not all women are like Callista, you know," Antilles said. "I know," Luke sighed and checked the chrono on the wall. "I better get back, Wedge ..." "Sure," Wedge half-turned then swung back on his heels. "How about you come by tonight? Iella asked about you just the other day, and now that we are all on planet at the same time, and with Krissmasna and all, we should celebrate. I get the other Rogues together and have a smashing time." "I don't think ..." Luke started but was cut off by Wedge. "Don't think, do ... we'll have a grand time, Luke. Come on ... it'll be fun." Luke thought about it but then he remembered that the Rogue members would probably turn up with their wives and he would feel again like the third conductor to a landspeeder. "And bring Jade, Iella would like to meet her at last ..." Antilles grinned slyly when he saw Luke's dumbfounded expression. "See you later, Red Five!" It took a long time till Skywalker had recovered and he stared at the empty spot where Antilles had stood. "Sithspit!" Luke exclaimed and rubbed his face. "How am I supposed to tell Mara Wedge invited us both over?" With a groan he headed towards his apartment. Mara stood under the warm spray of the shower and stretched her muscles. Despite her hangover, she had never felt better in a long time. Closing her eyes, the trader leant against the shower wall and let the water run over her. She wondered where Skywalker was, so she stretched out with the Force and immediately felt Luke's presence. She quickly finished her shower but when she stepped out, she noticed she had not had any change of clothes with her. Sighing she grabbed the first thing she could find, which was a huge towel she wrapped herself in. Hurrying to get finished before Skywalker might catch her in the fresher, half-dressed, she slipped into her crumpled dress, cursing as she did so. Keeping close tabs on Skywalker's approach, she towel-dried her hair furiously and was ready when Skywalker walked into the living area. From the pensive mood he was in she knew something was wrong. "Skywalker?" she asked, throwing the used towel into a hamper nearby. She walked out into the living area and watched Skywalker leaning against the counter in the kitchen and sipping some caf. "What is it, Skywalker? You look as if a Bantha just poked into your behind?!" Luke watched the beautiful apparition in front of him, readying himself for the argument that surely was to follow shortly. "Good morning, Mara," he greeted her but the red-head would have none of that. "Stop hatching, Jedi, what is it?" Taking a deep sigh, Luke decided to get it over and done with. "I ran into Wedge earlier and he invited us over to a Krissmasna party with the Rogues tonight. He said Iella wants to meet you." "Us?" Mara asked incredulously. "Why should he invite US?" Luke shrugged and continued to sip on the quickly cooling caf. "I told him you were staying here ..." "You told him I stayed overnight?" Mara asked furiously and angrily brushed her hair aside that fell into her face. "Every time I think you have shed off your Farmboy's naivety you come up with such a stuff." "Mara, you know I don't like lying .. you staying here is the truth and Wedge is my friend .. one of my best friends ..." Luke answered. When Mara was one of these moods, she was both dangerous and formidable. "Well you could have used a white lie, Jedi. Antilles is likely to talk ..and then this ludicrous idea about turning up at their Krissmasna party together ... which Rancor did ride you there?" Luke sighed and cast his eyes down. This was ridiculous, he thought. I get blasted to the other end of the universe just because I wanted to do friend's stuff with Mara Jade. Sighing, he sat down in one of the comfortable, overstuffed chairs and rubbed his eyes. "You know, Mara, the way your are going at it, one could think we are married. It is just a party of friends. Nothing carved in stone, I will comm Wedge and Iella and tell them I'm coming alone." "What?" Mara gasped and came over, her hand on her hips. "I said I will comm Wedge ..." "No, before that, Skywalker!" Mara demanded and watched as the Jedi Master blanched visibly. "Well you behave like a Wentarra fish wife," Skywalker defended himself angrily. "It is just ONE party!" he almost shouted. "Don't you rise your voice with me, Jedi Boy," Mara snapped back. "Wentarra fish wife indeed. Whose fault is it that I always lose my temper, tell me, Jedi?" Skywalker jumped to his feet and almost collided with Mara. "Oh now it's my fault all over again?" he growled. "Mara, I'm not the one who brings out the worst in you, it is yourself. You have to keep a tight reign on your emotion or you will never succeed in becoming a Jedi..." Mara snorted and turned on her heels, strands of her fiery curls almost hitting Luke across his face. "Now we are at it again!" she murmured and grabbed her shawl. "Mara ... I'm sorry," Luke said when he felt her barriers tighten against him. "I know you told me again and again that it isn't my business but you are so strong in the Force, you shouldn't waste your talent and skills. You could be my equal in the Force if you just trained properly ..." "Skywalker, sometimes you really sound like a broken holo message on repeat. Watch my lips, I DON'T WANT to train with you!" Jade spat out and tried to suppress the urge to lash physically out at him. "One Master is enough to last me a lifetime ..." Luke stared at her, her words piercing something deeply in his heart. "So ... so you think I would turn into a second Emperor?" Mara felt hardly disguised pain washing over her through their shared Force bond and she knew she had done enough damage for the day. "I'm sorry, Skywalker. That was uncalled for," she started and swallowed hard. Skywalker had turned his back to her and was staring out of the transparisteel windows onto the cityscape beyond. "Perhaps you are right, I should train .. but ... but look at me, I'm a trader and the skills and abilities I have now are enough for my business. I ... couldn't train without loosing my life as it is .. who would make business with me if they knew I'm a Jedi?" Mara had waited for what seemed to her like the longest time and when Skywalker did not answer her, she knew he was in one of his moods again. Sighing, she wrapped her shawl tighter around herself and moved toward the door. Artoo was barring her way and was chirping almost in a sad pleading way and she just shook her head. Luke's shoulders sagged and for a moment he closed his eyes. He knew she had a valid point there. She loved doing trade runs and being her own woman, all that would change if she dedicated her life to become a Jedi. My own life changed ever since I became a Jedi ..., he thought and almost missed the soft thud of the door. Whirling around, he came face to face with an empty room. "MARA!" he shouted, almost breaking in a run when he skidded to a sudden halt. The scene before him was almost comical but he refrained from laughing. "Skywalker, tell your droid to let me out or I will slice him open with your lightsaber," Jade growled. Another barrage of chirps and whistles made Luke chuckle. "I can't, Mara," he replied and shook his head. "Artoo thinks we should quit quarrelling and go to the party." "He thinks WHAT?" "I told you and I don't remember you having hearing problems," Luke retorted and hid a grin when Mara scowled. "Alright, Jedi Boy, for once I will heed your droid's advice, only to get out of here. But," and here she whirled around to face the Jedi Master. "I'm not going out with you wearing your Jedi Blacks. Force help me, I'm not turning up at the Antilles party with you all clad in drab black." A whirlwind of green and red rushed past Skywalker and all he could do was stare open mouthed after Mara as she disappeared behind his bedroom door. When he had composed himself enough, he followed her and saw her rummaging through his wardrobe. "Mara, I only own black," he started when she dived into the deeper recesses of his cupboard and obviously found what she was looking for. "HAH!" she cried out triumphantly and held up a midnight blue tunic Luke remembered but had never worn. "Mara, don't you think you are overreacting?" "This isn't exactly bright, but for tonight it will do, Skywalker," Mara said and laid the tunic onto the bed. "This combined with black trousers and you might look smart in it, Farmboy." "Uhhmmm, thanks, Jade." "You are welcome, Skywalker," Mara replied and grinned. "So, in order to get me out of here, tell your droid to remind you to pick me up at seven at the Jade's Fire." "What? Mara, I thought ..." but Jade shook her head. "You thought wrong whatever it was. I have to change and get ready for the party!" As Mara had told him, he had managed to find some flowers to give to their hostess and although he felt pretty uncomfortable with a bouquet of Daladharijnoi flowers in his hands, he had to admit he had done an admirable job at arranging the flowers. *Stop worrying, Farmboy,* he heard Mara's voice in his mind and he chuckled. *You ready?* he sent her. Ever since she had walked off to the Jade's Fire, he had found it increasingly hard to think about anything but the beautiful trader. He now really looked forward to spent the evening with Jade, which is what normal friends did anyway. Skywalker fingered the high-necked tunic Mara had found for him in the back of his wardrobe. He had known he had the dark blue tunic, but he had never bothered to look for it. Now he was wearing it and although he liked the soft feel of the rich material he still thought it was too stylish for himself. "Stop fidgeting, Jedi," Mara's voice came from the ramp of the craft. The Jedi Master looked up as the ramp lowered itself and when Mara came in sight, he almost gawked. The dress she was wearing was the same shade as his tunic and the velvety quality hugged her stunning figure. It was high-necked but knowing Mara he knew the dress had a twist. "Like what you're seeing?" Mara asked while she turned on her heels one time but it was enough for the Jedi Master. Where her front was high-necked the back of her dress was low ... very low. "Wha-t?" Luke breathed softly and gripped the bouquet of flowers tighter so that his knuckles whitened. "I ... ni-ce dress, Jade," Skywalker said and tried his best to dampen his furious blushing. How does she do this? How can she always easily throw me off like that? Luke asked himself and swallowed audibly. "Don't .. don't you think you'll catch a cold?" he inquired stupidly and Mara laughed. "I should have known you would come up with something like that," she said and hooked her arm with his own. "Now stop gawking and lead the way. We are already fashionably late as it is." Later, Luke couldn't remember how he and Mara had managed to arrive at Wedge and Iella Antilles' place or how he managed to keep a straight face when the others noticed just how special Mara's attire was. Now, he was sitting in one of the big comfortable Corellian chairs and listened to the anecdotes Janson and Klivian told. Almost all the Rogues were there, mostly those who had been under his command when he had been Rogue Leader, but also some whose names and faces he were familiar with but who had joined the Rogues after he had been decommissioned. For once he felt like a normal human being. No one was Jedi Mastering him and for most of his friends he was just plain Luke or Boss. Watching the people in the room, his gaze caught up with Mara who had a lively conversation with Mirax and Iella. He grinned when Mara obviously showed Iella where exactly she hid one of her hold out blasters. *Shocking the Coruscant lady-folks again, Jade?* he inquired and watched as Mara's head jerked up and her green intent gaze scanned the room. She spotted Luke sitting with the pilots, drinking Corellian ale. *Just passing along viable information Skywalker. A lady has to be prepared.* Luke chuckled at that and almost missed Corran Horn sitting down beside him. "So how did Mara manage to drag you off Yavin?" Corran grinned when the Jedi Master looked up startled. "Enjoying the view?" "What? Oh that, no Mara cracked a joke," Luke quickly recovered and watched the CorSec. "I didn't know it was Krissmasna and thought I'd visit Leia and the kids, catch up with Han .. but ..." He shrugged his shoulders. "When I arrived here no one was there and I ran into Mara." "Ah, I see. Yeah it's fortunate almost all of us are on planet ... the only missing is your sister and Solo," Horn replied. "Yeah well ... only two more days then they will be back from Kashyyk ..." Luke stated and grinned. "And the Rogues will be off again," Corran answered and sat back comfortably in the chair, nursing his ale. Both men watched the group of women across the room and after a while Corran pointed his half-empty bottle at his wife and Mara. "You know, we should do that more often, the women seem to get along well from the looks of it." "Hmm, well I need to get back to Yavin again soon," Skywalker replied and got a very fuzzy feeling in his stomach when he saw Mara laughing at something Mirax told her. Sith, she is beautiful, he thought. "Surely you can spare some time ... Mirax would be delighted to see you and Mara. All of us should get together by the end of the week ..." Corran commented and watched Skywalker's reaction with a grin. "Me and Mara?" Luke asked and dragged his eyes off the Trader and onto Horn. "I don't know when she will be off again, she said she wanted to see Leia on business for Karrde ..." "But I thought..." Corran frowned and stared at the Jedi Master. "Wedge told me she stayed with you ...and I presumed you two had finally gotten your act together ..." "You presumed wrong, Horn," Skywalker said, his jaw set. "Mara and I are just friends." Corran sat forward, after he detected the longing in the young man's voice and he shook his head. "Luke, sometimes I really admire your thick-headedness," he laughed at Luke's comical face. "Corran, I think you are horribly wrong," Skywalker choked out. "I already told Wedge that Mara would have my heart on a platter if she ... if I ..." The man sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Besides, I'm the Jedi Master .. Ex-Imps and I don't mingle well ..." Corran watched the Jedi and was barely able to hide the chuckle. I've never seen a more love-sick man in my life, he thought and decided to help the Jedi Master. Excusing himself he walked over to his wife, hugging her from behind while he peeped over her shoulder at Iella and Mara and Corellian woman Hobie has brought. "Oh, the enemy is listening in," Iella chuckled. "We have been discussing men. Tell us Corran, do you think that men are always faithful or are our men only the exception?" "Who said your men are an exception?" Mara cut in and received two raised eyebrows while Corran chuckled. When his wife's and Iella's wrath turned towards him, he raised his hands. "Hey don't shoot laser bolts at me!" "Of course our men would never digress, Corran of course knows what will await him if I ever caught him," Mirax said sweetly and Mara grinned mischievously, her green eyes brimming with laughter. "Ah that will be a field day for Booster," the Trader said and laughed at Corran's flinch at the mention of Booster Merrik's name. "You are a cruel woman, Mara Jade," he spit out and caught his wife's hand, which was about to pinch him. "But even without Booster like the proverbial lightsaber of the Sith hanging over my head, it doesn't answer Iella's question. I would say, from the male perspective that any man would stumble if he does not have the right woman at his side..." "Except for one man," Pertilla, Hobbie's girl friend, cut in and three pairs of eyes focused on her. She giggled when she noticed. "No, not Hobie. He is a flyboy, remember, he had his fair share. No," she shook her head and pointed across the room. "The Jedi Master. I don't know any man who is as unmale as he is." Corran almost flinched when he felt the wave of anger washed over him, and he immediately from where it was coming from. "Now, Pertilla surely you don't mean it this way ..." he started but the girl giggled again, taking a swig at her own beer. "No, I mean Luke Skywalker would never cheat on a woman, he is too cute and nice for that. Besides, is he allowed to have a woman?" she asked. Mara's knuckles had grown white where she held the glass of Andonorian wine, and now she relaxed visibly. "Skywalker is a man like any other," she ground out. "Being Jedi doesn't mean he has to live celibate." Taking a step nearer towards the girl, Mara pierced her with green eyes. "Mara," Corran said softly, putting some Force use to it. The moment Mara turned towards him, he wished he had not used the Force. Catching the evil glint in her eyes, he shook his head almost imperceptibly then caught the Jedi Master's gaze as he advanced. *Mara?* Luke asked. Her anger was quite palpable through the Force. *Stay out of my head, Skywalker, this has nothing to do with you!* Mara snapped back. *Well if my sex life or lack thereof is discussed, it is my business,* Luke retorted and came to stand beside her, their arms not quite touching. "Luke," Iella smiled and stepped over to him, linking her arm with the one of the Jedi Master. "Now, while my husband drinks himself silly, would you take pity on a poor wife and dance with me?" "Iella .. I ..." Luke blushed, yanking at the collar of his tunic. "Go on, Farmboy," Mara nudged him. *If you have problems I can talk you through the steps.* "Oh thanks, Mara," Luke spit out but with a grin he turned towards Iella and patted her hand on his arm. "It will be a pleasure to dance with you, Iella." "Why thank you, Luke," Iella answered and smiled. Those remaining watched the couple and Mara stretched out with her Force sense to keep close tabs with Skywalker on his dancing. Corran felt the use of the Force and hugged Mirax close. "You know, Mara you should dance with Luke, after all you do all the work already," he commented and met Jade's glacial stare with a laugh. "Corran, I get the impression you do have a death wish," his wife cut in. "If you are so intent on making me a widow, please provide me with quite a sum first, honey." Corran gave his wife a sound kiss while Pertilla giggled again. "Well if Hobbie doesn't come over soon I will dance with the Jedi Master himself," the girl said. "He is a good dancer for a Jedi." Corran shook his head at the girl. He had thought Hobie was more intelligent than go for the dumb type but he had been obviously wrong. "Get in line," Mara snarled and shoved her wine glass into the hands of Mirax. With a determined gait she walked over onto the make shift dance floor in the Antilles' apartment and arrived just in time, when the music ended and another piece started. "My turn," Mara said with a grim smile and Iella laughed. "But of course, Mara Jade," she answered and winked at Luke who just stood dumbfounded at Mara. *You sure?* he inquired over their Force bond and Mara gave an affirmative nod. *Would I be standing here, if I weren't?* Mara shot back. The music was slow and a bit stiffly they adjusted to each other. Luke held her at arm's length while his palms seemed to burn where they lay around her waist. At first, they avoided looking at each other but after a while, the music relaxed them both. "We can stop if you want to, I'm not good as a dancer," Luke said by way of making small talk and wasn't prepared when Mara stepped closer to him, searing him with a laser like glare. "How many times do I have to tell you not to self-flagellate yourself?" she hissed underneath her breath. "You are a good enough dancer, you showed me last night." They lapsed into silence after that and moved to the music. When the piece ended and another one started, they just kept going, moving effortlessly over the dance floor. Luke relaxed and after a while he drew her closer and was surprised when her head came to rest on his shoulder. They swayed to the music, the other couples softly laughing and brushing against them. The Jedi Master and the Trader were so wrapped up in each other's presence that they did not notice. They were totally unprepared for the commotion around them and when they both looked up, they saw Iella and Wedge pointing at something above their heads. "Luke and Mara are underneath the Krissmasna bushel!" someone yelled and the couple stopped dead in their tracks. "What?" Luke asked and looked up, a strange looking plant hanging above them, decorated with red and gold ribbons. "A kiss, a kiss, a kiss," Wedge started to shout with about six Rogues joining in. Luke looked at Mara but she just shook her head. "I don't know what they are going on about," she said and stepped away from Luke. They both looked around, their friends shouting and Janson and Celchu doing wolf's whistles. "It is an old tradition that if a couple meets up underneath the Krissmasna bushel that they kiss," Iella explained over the ruckus. "This way true lovers were found ..." "I bet you found Wedge this way," Corran inquired and hooted when Iella laughed and drew her husband to her side with quite a pull. "No, but I wish. It is said that if true lover's kiss underneath the Krissmasna bushel not even the Sith lords could have pulled them apart. They will crave their lover's touch like an unbreakable hunger." "I'll be Kesseled," Mara cursed underneath her breath. "Well, it is just a tradition," Luke said lamely, meeting Iella's laughing eyes with a sheepish grin. Both Mara and Luke had unconsciously moved away from the bushel but obviously the others had anticipated such a manoeuvre and had moved closer. "Come on, a kiss," Janson hiccuped and nudged his ex-commander from behind. The push was so unexpected that Skywalker had to reach out for Mara as support and the two almost collided together. "Kiss, Kiss, Kiss!" the chanting continued and Luke took a step nearer toward Mara. *Skywalker, you are not going to heed that stupid custom, do you?* Mara sent him but her fears were confirmed when he nodded. *It is just a kiss, Mara. A peck on the cheek and that is it,* Luke answered sheepishly. Mara snorted and crossed her arms over her bosom. "I warn you, Jedi," she whispered, her whole demeanour one of defiance. "Oh come on, Mara, spoilsport," the Jedi Master retorted which made Mara even more furious. "I'll show you who is a spoilsport, Farmboy," she bit out and her hand came up to latch squarely onto his neck, while her other grabbed the lapel of his tunic and drew him closer. "Ma-ra ..." Luke's voice was cut off when Mara's lips covered his. For a moment he just stood there until the sensation of kissing a woman hit his brain and his nerve endings and without further thoughts about how dangerous it was to be kissing Mara Jade, he kissed her back. A groan came from deeply within him when he felt Mara opened her lips to his questing tongue. The kiss was sweet and potent. Skywalker never had felt like this, a current of the Force was shooting through him from head to toe, and from Mara's shiver he noticed it was the same with her. Forgetting where they were, they clung to each other, their tongues delving deeply in their mouths, licking, sucking, rubbing against each other. Luke couldn't believe the sensations coursing through him, he felt alive, his Force sense opened up and the essence that was Mara poured into him, all around him. He could feel her inside out and he loved it, revelled in it. But he also could feel her confusion and after a while he forced himself to stop this frenzy and when they came up for air, they stared at each other, blue met green and the confusion and the fear was clearly visible. "Skywalker," Mara whispered, staring at him. *What is happening to us?* "I don't know, I don't know," he answered her, his hands rubbing over her cheeks. The cheers were almost deafening and someone clapped on Luke's shoulders while Mirax drew Mara away with the biggest grin on her face that almost threatened to split her face. As soon as she could, Mara excused herself and fled to the balcony. Her body still shivered and for a moment she leant against the balcony, closing her eyes and trying to calm down the erratic beating of her heart. I have kissed the Jedi Master! her mind screamed and for a moment she felt as if she had to shout and rant like one of the Dathomir witches. I must be completely out of my mind to pull such a stupid stunt like that! She tried to shut out the feeling of his arms around her, tried to forget his taste, but it did not help. As soon as she closed her eyes, all the sensations were back, perhaps even stronger than before. "No!" Jade whispered softly but try as she might, the memory did not go away. If I am already this confused what will it do to Skywalker? she asked herself, I hope he won't think it's fate ... or love .... Rubbing her temples furiously, she tried to reason with herself. Of course not, Skywalker is not that daft. He is a grown man and after Callista ... yes, after Callista he won't fool himself and think that this is love ... She did not notice the movement at the door as she paced from one end of the balcony to the other. It's not love, it can't be. Besides, I do not know how to love, maybe never will or have. Perhaps I'm incapable of feeling love and that is why the Emperor chose me to become his Hand, she told herself. When she heard a noise behind her, she spun around and came face to face with Skywalker. "I think we need to talk," he simply stated. "What should we talk about, Skywalker?" Mara spat back, crossing her arms across her bosom. "As you said it was just a kiss." *It was not just a kiss, Jade* Luke sent her. *Don't, Skywalker,* Mara replied silently. *You are too naive sometimes, you see more than there is.* Luke snorted and turned, leaning against the banister. "You know, Mara, I might be naive, but I was there and I know what I felt ..." "Skywalker, you felt nothing!" Jade snapped and grabbed him by the shoulders. "You and I felt nothing, do you hear me?" Skywalker stared at her, mesmerised by her green fire stare. "Want to put it to the test, Jade?" he asked calmly. "If you and I didn't feel anything, you won't feel anything if I kissed you again, right?" And with this, he stepped forward and cradled her head with his hands. The kiss was searing and there was no doubt that this was not just a kiss.

His internal clock told him that dawn had arrived and he should get out of bed, but his head hurt and for once in his life, James Norrington decided to take advantage of being a Commodore in the British Navy. He'd arise when his head stopped throbbing and not a moment earlier. He sighed as the voice of duty that always insistently nagged in the back of his head reminded him that officers had a responsibility to set an appropriate example for their men. Lollygagging in bed as the sun rose was not proper behavior. But oh… the bed was quite comfortably warm, the temperature counteracting the pain in his head. Mrs. Worthy must have put on new sheets, as the material under his bare back was decadently silky feeling. He hadn't known any of his plain white cotton sheets felt so nice. Wait a moment - bare back? Why did he go to bed without a nightshirt? His circumstances forced themselves through the throbbing in his head, and James began to realize other aspects of his environment were skewed. The bed was rocking, signaling he was on a ship. But he hadn't been on a ship yesterday. He'd been at the fort and therefore should be sleeping in his house in town. And if he was on a ship, then he would be sleeping in a hammock, not a nice sturdy bed. The sheets meant a bed but the swaying meant a ship… and trying to reconcile those two facts aggravated the pain in his head. Even more disconcerting, it appeared the heat originated from more than the silky sheets and the pile of blankets on top of him. A warm body was curled into his own, a head with odd feeling hair resting on his chest. Her hair must be matted from sleep and he could feel pieces of jewelry in it, digging into his chest. Elizabeth? No, he hadn't married Elizabeth Swann, the woman he'd watched grow from a curious child to a beautiful charming adult. Will Turner, that earnest pup of a blacksmith, had that privilege, and had been the one to impregnate her, blessing her with the radiant glow of a happy future mother. Damnation, had he bedded one of the town's whores? And then fallen asleep with her? James Norrington simply didn't commit such grievous indiscretions. Duty came first, always, and indiscriminate passion endangered both his career and the respect accorded to him as a naval officer. His few sexual couplings had been swift and perfunctory, performed to satisfy curiosity and bodily need. He hadn't indulged with any professionals after discovering that the act ultimately left him feeling empty and cold. Never one to shirk from taking responsibility for his own follies - limited though they might be - James accepted that it was time to open his eyes, learn her identity, and cope with the embarrassment of escaping from wherever he'd fallen asleep. Blearily, he opened his green eyes to see… Jack Sparrow's gleaming brown ones. "Hello luv," the pirate said cheerily. "I wondered when y'were going to admit it's mornin'." "Argh!" He yelped and leaped out of bed, realizing that not only was he indeed fully naked as the day he was born, but Sparrow was quite likely also completely undressed, as the covers slipped down to reveal Jack's body to his waist. "What are you doing here?" "Havin' a nice mornin' cuddle." Sparrow patted the empty space by him. "C'mon back and join me." "Join you?" Did Jack Sparrow seriously imagine that James Norrington would crawl into bed with him? Apparently there was no limit to the man's presumption, but James would make his position crystal clear. "I have no intention of joining you. You, Captain Sparrow, are under arrest." "Under arrest, am I? Well, like that I do. Fine thanks for all I've done for you." "All that you've done for me?" "Last night and all." Sparrow stretched like a well-satisfied cat, arms over his head, the bend of one knee lifting the covers, causing them to slip further down his body, stopping perilously above his groin. James found himself staring at his skin, tanned to an even gold color and marked by more tattoos and wounds than he'd imagined. In response to James' visual inspection, the pirate asked, "Like what y'see? "T'was rather dark last night. Feel free to enjoy the view as it were." "No I certainly do not like the view," James snapped, looking away toward his dresser. Only it wasn't there, because it wasn't his cabin. He'd never seen this cabin but from the extravagant collection of beautiful but mismatched furniture, it was not on a naval ship at all. Damnation, if only the throbbing in his brain would let him concentrate for a moment. Resolutely ignoring the very naked man in the bed, he focused on his immediate concern, getting dressed. The rest of this farce with Jack Sparrow could wait. Fortunately, his clothes were present, folded on a chair with his wig lying on top. He flipped the pile over to find the breeches underneath, stepping into the legs and pulling them up to his hips. "Y'have a most lovely backside, James. All sleek and muscley." Whatever had happened last night… whyever it had happened… not that anything *truly* had… comments like that weren't going to be allowed. In his driest voice, he stated, "I do not appreciate comments of that nature. And my name is Commodore Norrington to you." "Don't appreciate comments of that nature? I never knew you could sound like an outraged lady of virtue, James." Bare feet on the wooden deck made no noise, but James could tell from Jack's voice that he was approaching. Determined to get more of his body covered, he pulled the shirt from under his coat and put it on. Sparrow's hands were there before his, buttoning up the front. Refusing to appear intimidated by indulging in a childish display of slapping at the intruding hands, James straightened his spine and glared down his nose at the pirate. Sparrow flashed him a smile, lingering over each button. "I luv these fancy buttons, James. Had fun undoing them last night, I did." He looked different naked, the lack of bandana showing his forehead and hairline for once, the exposure of his skin making him appear more vulnerable than his normal swaggering self. But no less cocky, James decided sourly, as Sparrow began tucking his shirt into his breeches. No - cocky was a bad word to think, very bad - don't think of looking down and seeing how very cocky Sparrow truly was - "Thank you, I can manage," he said brusquely, stepping away from Sparrow's insinuating hands to finish the job himself, willing to risk the appearance of petulance. "I like the hair too. I fancied you'd wear it long under that wig, not all short. Feels nice in my hands, it does. Just enough to hold on but not enough t'get in the way." For every battle there was a time to stand and fight, and a time to retreat. When Jack Sparrow made flattering comments and insinuations about bedtime activities, it was time for a strategic withdrawal. "Your opinion of my hair does not concern me in the least. And now if you will excuse me, I will take my leave of your company." He fled out the cabin door, without socks, shoes, hat or wig, willing to leave them behind because he had to escape Jack's presence and already had the dreadful sinking idea of where he was and that he wouldn't be needing those things in the immediate future anyway. Stepping out onto the deck immediately confirmed his suspicions. He was on the Black Pearl, Captain Jack Sparrow's pirate ship. Surrounded by a pirate crew with a naked pirate captain in his cabin. On the ocean. With no land in sight. James Norrington was a man who was almost always right in his life. He was sure of his purpose and his position. But once in a while, in extremely odd and unique circumstances, he wished he could be wrong. This was one of those times. Pirates, at least this crew, were not an overly friendly or chatty group. Other than a few baleful glares, they'd stayed well away from him as he walked the Pearl's deck and climbed into the rigging. Most of them knew when to leave a man alone anyway, James decided, watching Jack Sparrow climb the rigging toward him. He'd been sitting on the mast's cross piece in the ropes for several hours now, at first frustrated by his lack of memory and concerned for what might have happened last night, before it occurred to him that Jack Sparrow had been… simply too teasing. Sparrow had played with him, and James had taken the bait like a greedy fish. Trust a pirate to take advantage of an opportunity to make fun of him, he thought sourly. With that realization he stopped worrying about last night. Surprisingly, as time passed, he found himself enjoying the sensation of wind in his face and hair and the sweet dancing motion of a fast well-trimmed ship skimming over the ocean, all without any demands on his time or attention. Until now. Sparrow reached him, hooking one leg over the cross piece, his bare foot twining in the rope. "Rum Commodore?" The headache was mostly gone, settled to a dull lethargy, and his throat was dry. James accepted the leather flask and took a goodly swallow of the potent alcohol, appreciating the warmth tingling through his veins. "You drink better rum than I would have expected, Captain." "I appreciate the finer things in life, James. Good rum, a good ship… a good man." He started to reach toward James - perhaps merely to reclaim his flask - but James caught his hand before Jack could decide where it would land. "Do not even pretend that we spent a night in reckless passion, Captain Jack Sparrow. I know myself. And I know what I would and would not do." He flung Jack's warm hand away from him. "Ah, but you don't know me. Or what I might drive y'to do." "You would drive me to hang you." My god, the man was pouting. Pouting. It was quite astounding how wounded the scourge of the Caribbean could look. "After all we've meant to each other?" "We. Haven't. Meant. Anything. To. Each. Other." "All my best efforts, gone to waste for lack of memory," Jack mourned. "When the Dauntless finds us, I shall capture you and flog the truth out of you. That nothing happened." "Really James - " "Commodore Norrington," he said, enunciating every syllable. Sparrow was incorrigible, beginning again with, "James, James me love - " "How do you know my name?" "You told me last night, James. While you were kissin' me." "I did not kiss you last night. And I am certainly not your love." "If you say so, James me love," Sparrow said very agreeably, as if he was a devoted lover tolerating his beloved's eccentric notions. James sighed, staring toward the horizon. This conversation was pointless. He rather fancied that Jack was enjoying teasing him. Even worse, he was enjoying being teased, a rather novel experience for him. His men didn't tease him. The Governor didn't tease him. The wealthy families of Port Royal didn't tease him. Everyone in his life treated him with the utmost respect, admiration of his fine character and dignity plain in their every conversation. But not Jack. Jack didn't admire him - well, perhaps he admired James' body - he wanted to tease and play with him, a trait that was dangerously tempting, and one that should be quashed, immediately and ruthlessly. Trying to drag this ridiculous conversation to an end, he asked, "Very well, Captain Sparrow. What do you want in exchange for the truth of how I came to be here and what happened last night?" "What do I want?" "You're a pirate, Sparrow. Pirates always want something. What do you want from me?" "Ah James my love… I want a kiss." "You claim to have had a kiss last night." "But you don't remember it, luv. I want y'to give me a kiss that you'll remember. A kiss that neither one of us will ever forget." The pirate seemed surprisingly sincere in his request, making James frown as worry nagging again. *Had* he done something indiscreet last night? He needed to know. If he refused to kiss Jack, they undoubtedly would engage in more pointless teasing conversation. Jack could keep the conversation going interminably because really, there was nothing Norrington could do to stop him. They both knew that on Jack's ship, he was at Jack's mercy. Or he could learn the truth by calling Jack's bluff. "Very well. I accept the bargain." Jack looked thrown for a second, but only a second before he recovered. "Oh goody," he said, scooting toward James. "But we agree on the terms first." "The truth, the whole truth, n' nothing but the truth so help me…" Jack's rambling stopped, as he tried to think of something to swear on. God apparently wasn't sufficient. "So help you, on the masts of the Black Pearl." "The truth, the whole truth, n' nothing but the truth so help me, on the masts of the Black Pearl. The truth of how the fine Commodore came to be an occupant of the Black Pearl in exchange for a kiss from said Commodore's lips." Jack finished with a flourish, then closed his eyes and leaned forward, lips pursed, leaving James to contemplate his next decision. What kind of kiss? A light peck? Then Jack would claim it wasn't a real kiss and they'd indulge in another round of silly bickering. No, James wanted the truth and Jack wanted a kiss. James would give him one, the best, most passionate kiss that he could offer, one that Jack could remember forever. Jack would have no opportunity to accuse James of reneging on a deal. Feeling an odd tingling in his stomach, a new tingling not motivated by the rum, James realized that he was anticipating this kiss was something other than revulsion. He was considering this kiss with interest and a determination to do it right. He would impress this pirate with a real kiss, praying to god he did it well enough that said pirate didn't realize how few kisses he had bestowed in his life. "Erm…I'm waitin'." At the prompt, James scooted forward, his legs touching Jack's, tucking the flask into the back of his breeches to get it out of the way. "Release your foot," he instructed and Jack did, letting James pull him closer, so that Jack's legs were spread wide, resting on top of James' legs as they straddled the wood cross piece. What came next in kissing? Get the body close. Legs… now arms. James took Jack into his arms, his arms around Jack's slender body. Jack's head tilted back and a little to the side, eyes still closed, waiting. And James kissed him. Kissed him using everything he'd read or heard. The soft tasting of lips before coaxing Jack's mouth to open, sealing their mouths together as his tongue invaded. He explored Jack's mouth, the warm flexible tongue, the different texture of the gold-capped teeth, searching for Jack's unique flavor blended with fine rum. More importantly than the physical touch, he kissed Jack with longing and lust intermingled, as if the kiss was shouting, 'You are the one person in this world for me.' He poured himself into the kiss in the way that he had hoped to kiss Elizabeth, the way that he'd never been able to kiss the ladies of polite society or the whores on the docks. The way he would kiss a lover who could tease him, caring more for the man than the title. Jack's body was lean muscle and angular bones in his arms, and his goatee and mustache scratched on the skin of James' face, but the sensations didn't deter James from his kiss as he slipped into the fantasy that he'd finally found the love of his life, the one who would meet him fully and always be at his side. So caught up in his own dream and the feel of Jack in his arms, James forgot to breath. Lack of air forced him to stop the kiss as he panted for breath, his eyes meeting Jack's wide dark ones. James wasn't sure what Jack was thinking, only that he was very surprised. Was that enough of a kiss? Should he kiss him some more? Undecided, James leaned backward, putting his hands behind him on the cross piece, waiting to see Jack's reaction. Jack opened his mouth to speak, but his words turned into a drawn out yell as he fell backwards, off James' lap. James grabbed for him, catching him only by the heels, as Jack scrabbled more successfully for one of the ropes, his body twisting away from James' hold. The pirate swung into a wide arch, out over the ocean as he slid down the rope and back onto the deck, looking up at the Commodore who had kissed him so thoroughly and passionately. Leaving James sitting in the rigging, wondering if he really did know himself. "I kidnapped you." "Excuse me?" Jack Sparrow weaved a little on his feet, then gestured with his hands, as if he thought signs would assist James' deficient hearing. Waving at himself, "**I**", making a grabbing motion "… kidnapped …", then waving at James, "**you**." "Yes, I understood that part. For God's sake, why?" Stepping rather grandly across his cabin, Jack explained, "I stopped by t'see the fair Turners n' offer good wishes on the upcomin' birth of a no doubt beautiful baby boy, who undoubtedly should be called Jack, and I bespied you," stopping by the Commodore's chair, he poked him in the chest, "leavin' the premises, looking all glum n' depressed. Savvy?" "And you thought kidnapping me would cheer me up?" "A change o' scenery always makes things brighter, doesn't it? Besides y'saw me n' seemed inclined to call for t'watch, which I really couldn't be havin', now could I?" "I knew you had more concerns than my happiness. So we fought and then what happened?" "I banged you on the head with the hilt of my sword, then I borrowed Will's mule… I don't think that wretched beast likes me, because he threw you off a couple of times… and brought you back to the Pearl." Sparrow opened his arms wide, as if he'd accomplished a stupendous feat. "Then my loss of memory comes from the multiple assaults on my head." Jack winced. "There were a few of them, I'm afraid." "Why didn't you leave me where you knocked me out? "We'd made a bit of noise at that point. If anyone found you unconscious, they'd start looking for your assailant wouldn't they? But if they didn't find you, they wouldn't know what the noise was about. Savvy?" Except, of course, Jack could have fled much quicker without the Commodore's unconscious body on a resisting mule, but James supposed it was irrational to expect logic from a pirate as addled as Jack. "And my nakedness?" "You were still unconscious, so Mr. Gibbs said y'needed to be watched to be sure y'recovered. Unfortunately, no one in me fine crew wanted to be responsible. I think they rather wanted your demise. So we put you in here. N' I couldn't have you in my bed with clothes on, could I?" "No, of course not." He waited to see if Jack would say more, but the pirate merely looked expectantly at him. "Is any of this ridiculous nonsense true?" "It's all true, mate. Promised it on the Pearl, didn't I?" "Yes, you did. And since I upheld my end of my bargain, you are upholding yours?" "Yes, n' a very nice kiss it was indeed." A bit indignant at that description after all the passion that James had poured into the kiss, he had to ask, "Nice?" The expression in Jack's brown eyes faded into pleasant memory. "T'passion was lovely, truly lovely. I knew there was a man of fire under all that fancy uniform n' stiff back." James was unsure if he wanted to pursue this conversation, but 'nice' was too unflattering a word to accept without further explanation. Besides, he'd rather hear this pirate's opinion then embarrass himself with inadequacy in front of the love of his life that he still hoped to find. "But?" "T'technique, James. You do need to work on y'technique." "My technique." "There is a technique for kissin'. It's like sailin'. It's all very fine to love the sea and your ship, but y'have to know how to tie a good knot, savvy?" Icily, James noted, "My technique was good enough to knock the great Captain Jack Sparrow off the crossbar." "I have to admit, luv, that wasn't quite y'technique. More like surprise that y'lived up t' your end of the bargain. I don't expect Commodores to keep their promises to pirates." "And what precisely is wrong with my technique?" "Well… hard to describe, exactly. It's just not quite as good as mine, is it?" Feeling goaded by both Jack's lack of appreciation for his kiss and faith in an officer of the British navy, James taunted, "So your technique is the best in the world, is it Captain? I couldn't agree with that assessment, as I don't know how you kiss, Captain Sparrow. You didn't kiss back." As if waiting for that invitation, Jack smiled mischievously. "We must remedy that lack then, mustn't we?" Before James could decide if he wanted to say, 'No, we mustn't,' Jack tucked his knees on each side of James' legs on the chair, sinking down to sit on his lap. Brushing his hands through James' short dark hair, he cupped his head and tilted it to one side, just as he'd done when waiting for James' kiss. And then Jack kissed James. And ohh… James instantly understood what Jack had meant about technique and passion. For Jack Sparrow was a captain of kissing, a veritable master of the art. He knew how to use his mouth, how to express passion and encourage reciprocation, how to make James feel desired and desirable. With just a kiss. What could he do with the rest of his body? James whimpered in his throat, disconcerted to realize he was holding Jack's hips, unconsciously thrusting his own at the pirate, hard and wanting, thinking thoughts that should never occur to a respectable man. And not breathing. "You gotta stop forgetting t'breathe, mate," Jack said fondly as James gasped. "That's what your very fine nose is for. If I didn't know better, I'd say you'd not been kissed often, James me love." He tapped the bridge of James' nose, slid his finger the length and to James' lips, tracing the top lip as James' breath softened. Daringly, James flicked his tongue at Jack's finger, tasting the salt of his skin. "So tell me," Jack asked conversationally, "how did a fine man such as yourself escape multiple pillaging?" "I've been at sea most of my life." Damnation, had he just unwittingly confirmed Jack's suspicion? He should have bluffed, should have pretended that any lack on his part was from the distaste he experienced kissing a pirate. Why did he have to be so honest? "So 'ave I." "Not in the British Navy, you haven't." Or had he? Pirates didn't spring full blown from the sea. Where had Jack learned to sail? The more time he spent with Jack, the more questions he wanted answered. What had made Jack such a unique man? How much of his bizarre behavior was real and how much was pretense to fool enemies into underestimating him? "'N you're tellin' me nothing of an illicit nature goes on below decks? I find that a mite hard to believe." In for a penny, in for a pound. Jack knew the truth now so he might as well discuss it. "Not for officers. Particularly not for officers who intend to be Captain. Sodomy is a hanging offense, in case you weren't aware." "'N y'always intended to be a Captain, did you?" "Since before I can remember. I knew I wanted to command the first time my father took me to the London docks and I saw my first ship." "So y'poured everythin' into duty, did you? That, my fine James, has been a waste." Incensed at the statement, James rose abruptly, dumping Jack from his lap. "I don't consider my life wasted. I have served my country well and with distinction." "Y'know… you have got t'stop being so sensitive, luv. I didn't say your life was wasted. Your life has been all fine and good I'm sure. But oh…" Jack reached up to cup one hand over the front of James' breeches, where the traitorous organ promptly swelled to fill his palm. "That this hasn't gotten more use… now that is a waste." James shuddered and sat back down, stunned by his body's easy response to this pirate. "I'm not a libertine." "So what have y'done, James my love? When y'let yourself indulge?" The pirate's hand was clever in its caresses, making James want to answer every question and accede to his every request. But a lifetime of dignity and discretion doesn't vanish in a second, no matter how great the temptation. "That's none of your business." The rebuke didn't faze Jack. "I'll just have to guess then, won't I? Let me see, a fine English officer… I bet y'haven't watched a man strip for his lover." "Certainly not!" "Oh goody. That's something we can remedy easily." Jack sprung to his feet and James watched helplessly - and with a certain fascination - as Jack begun to do as he promised, stripping in front of him as if the Commodore was a lover he wanted to arouse. Gracefully, fluidly, he shucked his clothes, first the shirt then boots and breeches, brushing his fingers seductively against his own golden skin as if to say, 'Look here's my nipples. Here's my feet, elegant and long. See? My belly button. Now pay attention as my pants drop…' revealing that yes, Jack was very cocky indeed. The bandana was the last to go, exposing the high forehead before his hair fell forward, leaving Jack wearing only the bangles in his hair and goatee. "Now y'see? You've seen a man strip. What else would y'like to learn?" Sitting on James' lap again, Jack claimed his lips in another kiss, and James kissed him back, his mind swamped by his emotions careening out of control. Duty… lust… duty… lust…Why did he let a pirate undress in front of him? Why didn't he leave the cabin? Why was he letting Jack touch him this way? What else would Jack do if he asked him? "I never said I wanted to see a man strip," James responded, standing again. From the floor, Jack sighed. "Y'have to stop droppin' me, James me love. My backside's goin' to get bruises." He rolled over, twisting his head to look at himself and presenting James with a view of his back and buttocks, all sleek and muscled, just as Jack had described James. Jack rubbed himself and James sunk back to the chair, groaning, and buried his face in his hands until he felt Jack's soft lips kissing his fingers, his warm tongue darting between them to lick his face. "Give over, luv. Give over. No one's goin' to know." "I'll know," James whispered, frightened by how much he did want to know. "And you'll know so much more than you do now. Won't that be good?" Prying James' hands away from his face, Jack coaxed him over to the bed, sitting him on the edge. "Why are you doing this?" James asked, even as he let Jack unbutton his shirt and take it off him. "I'm a pirate, love. Pirates go after what they want." "And you want me? Why? For the entertainment value of seducing an English officer?" "I thought you'd have a higher opinion of yourself." "My track record hasn't exactly been sterling," James admitted, even as he let Jack push him onto his back and obligingly lifted his hips so Jack could remove his breeches. "The one woman I asked to marry me picked a blacksmith instead." His tone expressed more bitterness than he thought he'd felt at Elizabeth's rejection. "The fair Elizabeth is young n' the young make bad decisions. Now me," Jack swung James' legs onto the bed, waggling his eyebrows, "I'm older n' wiser n' make excellent decisions." His eyes roamed James' naked body. "I know a fine man when I see him. You are a very fine man, James my love." Unwillingly blushing with embarrassment, James started to move his hands in front of his manhood, intending to shield himself. He stopped, wondering how ridiculous he would look at this juncture. Seeming to divine his intention, Jack captured his hands, raising them over his head, and lowering himself onto James as they laid on the bed, touching the entire length of their bare bodies. Then Jack kissed him again… and oh god, how Jack could kiss. And kiss. And kiss. James remembered to breath and followed Jack's lead, allowing complete access to his mouth and attempting to duplicate Jack's technique. The smooth glide of his tongue there… a tickling motion here… a subtle increase of contact until the kiss was ferocious and devouring, then softening to beautiful romantic gentleness… Jack's lips disappeared and James moaned for their loss. But he didn't lose Jack's lips, they simply moved to places that James didn't know one man would kiss another… to his neck, his chest, his nipples… James shuddered and groaned as bolts of energy, like white-hit jagged lightning striking a black sea, arced from the pebbled nubs, through his body and down to his aroused shaft. "My you are sensitive there, aren't you James my love?" "That's indecent." Gloriously indecent. "Indecently wicked, that you might have married the fair Elizabeth n' never known such pleasure." James wanted to protest, he did, for surely nothing was better than the marriage bed, but Jack had cupped his shaft and it was even better than through his breeches. He'd known his own hand numerous times in his life, but Jack's was much better, his touch more talented, more arousing. Unable to say anything that might stop Jack from doing what he was doing, but still clinging to a shred of his civilized notions, he asked in protest, "What makes you think I wouldn't have known such pleasure with Elizabeth? She's a beautiful woman. A fine woman." "And would 'ave come to your bed in her nightshirt n' never taken it off. Fine young ladies don't know what I know… they can't do what I can do…" Jack's mouth joined in the task of driving James wild with sensation, forcing James to concede to himself the likely truth of that assertion. Surely no gentlewoman would ever suck on the head of James' shaft like Jack Sparrow, so greedily, hungrily, all while caressing the length, teasing with a sharp flick of nails, making him twitch and writhe with amazement. James looked down at Jack's head, bobbing over his organ, that ridiculous ivory bone and colorful trinkets twisted in the wild mass of black hair, and couldn't protest any more. There was nothing perfunctory about Jack's attentions, no pretense for a few coins. Nothing in his life had ever felt so good. He didn't want Jack to stop. No one had touched him with such knowledge, such abandon, such dedication… and James let him, feeling more cherished and lusted after than he could ever recall. Twisting his hands into Jack's hair, careful to avoid the ivory bone, James began to thrust his hips, riding the cresting wave of Jack's sensual devotion, the ecstasy ripping through his body, higher and higher like a ship sailing in a storm, riding on the white waves, plunging down, rising back up… surrounded by darkness and barely able to hang on until he surged over the final powerful wave, yelling out Jack's name before blanking out as he sailed into calm blue seas. Jack's body was moving on the bed, crawling up to lie alongside James' limp form. Hands began to turn him over and a spear of alarm shot through James' lethargy, causing him to protest, "Jack, I don't know - " "Shhh… James my love. Nothing worryin'. Just let me use my imagination?" The plea reassured James, and he relaxed his tense muscles, allowing Jack to tip him on his side and cuddle up to him, Jack's rather substantial shaft angling downward and tucking between the checks of James' arse. "What a nice channel, luv. So very nice… " Jack rolled his hips lazily, "…the best channel I've ever been in." Feeling a bit peevish at the acknowledgement that Jack Sparrow had pleasured many other lovers before him, James sniped, "You're not in it. And you're not going to be." "It's nice, just like this, very nice…" Jack's hands stole around James' chest, finding a nipple, plucking gently, his voice chuckling at James' gasp. "Y'are so very sensitive there, James my love." "Just… get on with it." Even as he growled the words, James took hold of Jack's hand, bringing it to his lips. Dare he? Yes, he dared, because to be honest, he owed Jack at least a small measure of participation. He could not lie unmoving and pretend to think of England, not after Jack had given him such pleasure so unselfishly. Hoping that a symbolic gesture would satisfy the pirate, he covered Jack's middle finger with his mouth, curled his tongue around it and sucked hard. Jack's whimper was such a gratifying reaction that James took his efforts a step further, tucking the foot on his upper leg behind Jack's ankle, using the leverage to pull the pirate forward, his shaft nestling more firmly into James' arse. He clenched his muscles, squeezing Jack's shaft between them, then releasing again so Jack's hips could move back. They developed an even rhythm together, Jack thrusting back and forth, James clenching harder and harder, the tempo quickening as their long, lean bodies moved in unison. Jack's breathing becoming harsher and more labored until his entire body quaked against James' and wetness shot between James' legs. "Very nice, James my love. Very nice." It was indeed very nice, the emotional satisfaction that Jack had enjoyed his body, and that he'd repaid a small portion of the pleasure Jack had given him. "Jack?" "Yes?" "Go to sleep." A pleased mumble was the answer to his demand. Closing his eyes to the sunlight shining through the porthole, James fell asleep too. "Cap'n! Cap'n!" If there was any less pleasant noise to wake up from a nap than Mr. Gibbs' voice, James couldn't think of it. Well, perhaps cannon fire. But Mr. Gibbs came a very close second, particularly when his body was so deliciously sated. "Cap'n!" Jack scrabbled over him, pulling on the clothes he'd discarded on the floor, yelling, "I'm awake, you scurvy dog!" Following his example, James began dressing in his breeches as Mr. Gibbs yelled, "It's the Dauntless, Cap'n!" Both men froze a second before resuming, needing covering to face this surprise. "Well… y'mates caught up quicker than I would 'ave expected." Though he felt obliged to note the fact, the words sounded hollow. "They're good men. The cream of the British Navy." "You're t'cream of the British Navy, James my love," Jack said, and from the gleam in his eyes, and the grin that flashed a view of his gold teeth, James knew he was remembering the things they'd done… things James knew he wished they could do again, even if he should never have allowed them in the first place. "How close are they?" He yelled to Mr. Gibbs, tightening the lacings on his breeches. "Close!" James turned away from Jack, leaving the room without another word, Jack following him. The Dauntless was easily visible, approaching her target quickly. "What be your orders, Cap'n?" Not waiting to hear what Jack would answer, James clipped out, "Raise a white flag of truce, Mr. Gibbs. I'll be transferring over." The stocky pirate looked to Sparrow, silently questioning the order and James' right to give it. Jack's voice was rough as he confirmed the instruction. "You didn't want him on board anyway, did you? Raise the flag." The pirates' faces were impassive as they obeyed, raising the flag high and beginning to lower the sails. James left them to their business, returning to the Captain's cabin to finish dressing. He faced Jack as he put on his shirt, wishing that he could ask Jack to do the buttons again, then sat down to don the silk socks and shoes, unnerved by Jack's silent regard but determined to make him speak first. "So just leavin' me, are you?" "I didn't ask to be here in the first place." "No… but I rather thought y'were enjoyin' your visit." "Your crew obviously don't appreciate my presence or the Dauntless wouldn’t have gotten so close before we were awakened. The Pearl is the fastest ship in these waters." "I'm still the Captain here." In the words James knew there was an offer, an offer to run fast and far away from the naval pursuit, damned the other pirates and the risks such flight posed if unsuccessful. "And I'm still the Commodore." The wig felt heavy on his head, the jacket stiff and confining. "I am a British officer, Jack. I will always be a British officer." "Of course, mate. If that's the way it has to be. We all lie in our own beds." Stalking toward Jack, James spoke, "I am a British officer and you are a disreputable pirate. The last remaining danger in these waters. If we ever meet again, with our crews present, I will take you prisoner and hang you." He backed Jack to the wall, seizing him by the waist, kissing him hard and deep, hoping his technique was doing sufficient justice to his passion. "So the next time you catch me, the Dauntless had better be far away. And stay far away." The hope and surprise in Jack's dark eyes was perhaps the most satisfying moment of the day. "Want some more time with me, d'you James my love?" Knowing it was insanity but surrendering to his innate honesty, James said, "Yes. After all, you never did tell me how you learned my name." "That wasn't part of our bargain, James my love." "Then we'll make another one," James demanded. "More kisses… more…" not able to say the words of what he wanted, he kissed Jack again, passionately, hoping he was bruising the pirate's lips in his forcefulness, needing to leave some tangible sign of his presence. "N' how am I suppose to arrange this miraculous feat, gettin' us together without our crews near?" "Preferably without more banging on my head. Other than that, I expect you to work it out with your usual aplomb." James adjusted his shirtsleeves and jacket, making sure he looked properly attired. "After all, as you are so fond of telling me, you are Captain Jack Sparrow." To stave off the temptation to say more, James turned on his heel and departed the cabin, letting the door swing shut behind him. Back to the Dauntless and his duty, back to his position and his responsibility… Waiting for the day when Jack Sparrow would reappear in his life. ~ the end ~

Broken The lights in the Old Bailey are being turned out, but still James and Alesha sit in the lobby, Alesha rocking slightly in her distress at the outcome of the trial. She looks up at the high, painted ceiling as the last of the lights are switched off, and James sighs. She starts slightly when his left hand covers her right as it clutches the edge of the bench, and when she turns towards him he sees his disappointment mirrored in her eyes. "C'mon," he says softly. "Let's go and get pissed." She huffs out a laugh, as if not quite sure just how serious he is, then nods. "Okay." They stand, shouldering their bags and gathering up their files, then James slips his hand into hers and squeezes her fingers as they walk across the lobby. "We gave it our best shot," he says quietly, and she pulls a face. "Yeah. If only – " "Don't," he says, stopping just inside the door and turning towards her. "'If only' is like a cancer that'll eat you up. It's over, and there's nothing more we can do now. George will appeal against her being moved into prison once she's fifteen, but until then we just have to go on." She sighs heavily, lowering her eyes from his, and he sees her bite her bottom lip. He lets go of her hand to reach up and lift her face, cupping her cheek as he brushes his thumb across her mouth, then he leans in and kisses her gently. His hand drops from her face to her shoulder as he pulls back from the kiss, then rests his forehead against hers for a moment. "Let's not get pissed," he says. "Let's go to bed instead." She raises her eyebrows at that, and he gives her a wry smile. "We don't have to, if you'd rather not," he tells her. "I just think that booze probably isn't going to be as much of a comfort as being with you." He squeezes her shoulder briefly, then lets go. "I'd rather not get pissed," she tells him, smiling genuinely at him. "Good." * * * * * * They head back to the office, dumping their files and paperwork there, and George sticks his head round the door. "I thought you two were long gone," he says. James shakes his head. "Nope." "Well I'm off to see Mrs Reid," he tells them. "Why don't you two call it a night, and I'll see you tomorrow?" James nods agreement, and Alesha says a quiet goodnight. "Shall we?" he asks her a few minutes later. "Your place or mine?" she asks. "I don't mind, wherever you'd feel more comfortable." "Mine, then." He nods, and rewraps his scarf around his neck, then follows her out of the door. They take the tube back to Alesha's flat; it's already busy, so James wraps an arm around her as they cling to a pole, and she flashes a grateful smile at him as he holds her steady against the jostling of their fellow passengers. Back at street level, she slips her arm through his and he smiles, pleased by the gesture. "What do you want to do for dinner?" she asks. He realises they're near the indoor market that she favours, and nods towards it. "Do you want to do some shopping?" "If you don't mind?" "Of course not." He follows her across the pavement and into the maze of alleys and tiny shops. He finds himself watching her, watching the delicate touches she gives to the items she wants, and seeing the sweet smiles she bestows on the shopkeepers, all of whom seem to know her very well. In a sweet shop she insists that James try some of the freebies on offer and feeds them to him one sweet at a time, her gaze intent on his as if she's gauging what he likes or dislikes. Alesha and the little Chinese lady running the shop exchange a few rapid sentences which leave him wondering when she learnt whichever dialect they're using. They leave the market carrying several brown paper carrier bags each, and James follows Alesha along the crowded pavement in a thoughtful silence. "You okay?" she asks as they pause at the front door while she fishes out her keys. "Yes. What was the Chinese dialect you were speaking in the sweet shop?" "Mandarin." She flashes him a smile before inserting the key and letting them in. "I didn't know you spoke it," he says, feeling stupid for his ignorance. She laughs a little. "No reason you should," she tells him in a kindly tone. "And I don't speak much – just enough to make myself understood." They set their bags down on the hall table, before shedding coats, scarves and shoes, then Alesha gathers up the groceries and carries them into the kitchen. James follows, still intrigued. "What other languages do you speak?" he asks curiously, unable to immediately recall what was listed on her CPS application. "I learnt French and German at school, then learnt Latin via a correspondence course, and I can speak enough of Urdu, Greek, Mandarin and Japanese to make myself understood in the local communities." "Wow." He's seriously impressed and says so, and she flushes at his praise. "Languages come easily to me," she tells him, then turns to put the kettle on. He makes a pot of tea while Alesha puts away some of her purchases, then gets out a wok to make dinner with the rest. James insists on helping and she lets him chop vegetables while she slices the beef into strips and prepares the sauce while he cooks the noodles. Half an hour later the food is ready and they settle in the sitting room, their plates on lap trays so they can eat and watch the early evening news. Alesha takes their empty plates through to the kitchen and returns a few minutes later with large mugs of coffee and a couple of plates holding slices of cheesecake. "You are a sweetheart," James tells her when he sees she's brought him one of his favourite treats. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr Steel," she teases, passing him a plate and a fork, then setting his mug of coffee on the table in front of him. "Oh well, in that case – " he begins, smirking at her over a forkful of cheesecake, so she rolls her eyes exaggeratedly, then starts to eat her own dessert. Once dinner is over, they load up the dishwasher, then go to bed where James makes love to her slowly and tenderly. Afterwards Alesha snuggles up close, tracing patterns on his chest with her fingertips and teaching him how to say 'I love you' in all the languages she knows. Hounded As they sit in the office talking with Matt and Ronnie, Alesha's aware of James beside her, of the tension in his body and the tight grip he has on the edge of the table he's sitting on. He's been in a state of simmering anger ever since Darnell was given parole back in June, and nothing she's said or done has helped James to completely banish his fears that Darnell is just biding his time. As they head back across town to the office Alesha slips her hand into James' and squeezes his fingers. "How you doing?" she asks, looking up into his tense and unhappy face. He swallows hard before speaking. "I'm okay." "Really? Because you don't have to pretend for me, James, you know that." He sighs. "I know, love, and I really appreciate that. I just don't want to burden you." "James." She stops walking and he stops too, looking down at her. She sees that the lines on his face are etched deeper than usual, and she wishes she knew a way to banish them. "Let's get a coffee and talk," she suggests, nodding at the coffee shop nearby. He acquiesces and they get themselves a drink, then find a corner table where they can talk in peace. Alesha sits close to him and speaks quietly. "James, please don't shut me out over this. I appreciate that you're trying to protect me in some way, but I want to help you – as your friend, as well as your colleague. You telling me that you're fine when you're obviously not, doesn't protect me – it hurts me. It hurts when you lie to me, even if you're lying with good intentions." She puts a hand on his arm as she looks intently into his face. "Let me help you with this, the way you helped me with Merrick last year." "It's not the same thing, Alesha," he begins. "I know that," she interrupts without hesitation. "Of course it's not – you've done nothing wrong, for a start. The Prison Service chose to ignore your advice, and you're not responsible for that, or for what Darnell does now he's out. But their decision is eating at you, and you don't have to bear that alone." He sighs heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. "I don't know," he says softly. "I do. Please, love, don't shut me out. You don't have to do this alone." He gives her a weak smile, then leans in for a brief kiss. "What did I do to deserve you, Alesha Phillips?" "Nothing at all," she answers, grinning at him. "I'm a gift." He laughs – the most genuine laugh she's heard from him in three months. "That is unarguable," he says, then leans in for a longer kiss. "Why don't you come for dinner tonight," suggests Alesha, after he releases her. "Thank you, I'd like to." "It's a date then." * * * * * * James has to stay for a meeting with George, so Alesha goes home ahead of him, leaving a post-it note on his computer screen: Dinner @ 7pm. Don't be late! A x. She puts on a CD and lets it blast through the flat while she prepares their meal, a salmon gnocchi bake of which she knows James is particularly fond. The doorbell rings at six forty-five and James gives her a tired smile as he steps into the warmth of the flat. She helps him out of his coat and he slips off his shoes, then she wraps her arms around him and hears him sigh as his arms tighten around her. "I hope you're hungry," she says, stretching up onto her toes to kiss him quickly, before taking his hand to lead him into the kitchen. "Very," he agrees. "And thank you." She looks up at him. "For what?" "For this, and for caring so much," he answers. "That's what friends are for," she says, squeezing his fingers. "Do you mind opening the wine for me, please?" He nods, then picks up the bottle and the corkscrew, while Alesha checks the vegetables are steaming. James brings a half glass of the Chardonnay over to her and she accepts it with a murmur of thanks, and takes a sip. He stands behind her and wraps his left arm around her torso, then nuzzles the side of her neck. "As nice as that is," she says, aware of a pleasurable tingling sensation in her body, "do you mind saving it until after we've eaten? Only this is ready now." He nips gently on her earlobe. "Very well," he agrees, moving away. "The food does smell good." "So I should hope." She takes the salmon bake from the oven and he serves the vegetables – steamed asparagus spears, broccoli and carrots – and within a few moments, they're sitting down to eat. * * * * * * "Coffee?" asks Alesha once they're finished their meal. "Yes please. Do you want me to load the dishwasher for you?" "If you wouldn't mind." She thinks how lucky she is that James doesn't mind doing the domestic stuff, so that she never resents having him over for dinner. They take their coffee into the sitting room where Alesha turns off her stereo so they can watch the news headlines instead, and they snuggle up together on the sofa. "Now then," says James quietly. "I believe I was in the middle of something when you told me dinner was ready." "You were?" she asks, feigning forgetfulness. "I was. Allow me to remind you." He ducks his head and begins to nuzzle the side of her neck. "Mmm, yes, I think I remember now," she says. She clasps his knee and squeezes it, then slides her hand up his right leg until she reaches his thigh. He murmurs something indistinct when the circles she's stroking on his thigh migrate across to his crotch; she smirks when she finds he's already half aroused. "Why don't we have a bath together, and then go to bed?" she suggests presently. "And if you're very good, I'll give you a massage after the bath." James straightens up and looks at her. "Would you?" "If you like," she says. "Yes I would. Thank you." "You're welcome." She gives him a quick kiss, then takes his hand in hers and leads him to the bathroom. At this point, she'll try anything she can to help him to relax. Defence "Well I'm naturally bad-tempered, but it doesn't mean I can punch you whenever you annoy me. Which you're doing now, by the way." "I'd like to see you try," Alesha retorts. The minute the words are out of his mouth, James regrets them. He's not annoyed at Alesha, he's annoyed that she's clearly right and, being his usual grumpy self, he lashes out at her. They walk in silence for several minutes, while he tries to work out the best way to apologise for his outburst. Glancing sideways he sees that she's looking anywhere but at him, and he swallows twice before he speaks again. "Alesha, I'm sorry." She glances across at him, then looks away. "It's fine," she says, lengthening her stride and he wonders if she's trying to get away. He stops walking, intending to see if she does just want to get away from him, and she doesn't walk very far before she stops and looks back at him, clearly puzzled. He dumps his empty coffee cup into a bin, then hurries to catch her up again and lightly grasps her arm before she can move away. "Alesha." She doesn't pull away from him, but she does look at his hand on her arm, then up into his face, and he can see she's annoyed. He lets go of her. "Please," he says softly. "I really am sorry. I shouldn't have said that about punching you. And I'm being unfair, taking out my bad temper on you." "Yes you are," she answers shortly. She resumes walking again and he follows her, wishing the street wasn't so busy, wishing he'd kept his mouth shut, and wishing he knew how to make things right again. Then he has an idea. "I'll see you back at the office," he says, and she looks surprised, then hurt, but just nods, and James watches her on her way for a few moments, before turning aside to execute his idea. * * * * * * Twenty minutes later, James is back at his desk, but Alesha is nowhere in sight. He's just wondering whether to ask George where she is when she walks in. She doesn't look at him, and James feels a tightness in his muscles that hurts him so that he want to go over and hug her, but he restrains himself. A few minutes after he gets back, there's a knock on their office door and a young woman walks in, a bouquet of flowers in her hand. "I'm looking for Alesha Phillips," she says, and Alesha looks up, then gapes in obvious surprise. "I'm Alesha," she says weakly. The young woman smiles and carries the flowers over to her desk. "There's a card, too," she says, and hands the envelope to Alesha, then goes out. James keeps his eyes firmly fixed on his paperwork, but he can hear the rustle of the envelope as Alesha takes out the card. He finds he's holding his breath and releases it silently as he waits for a reaction from across the room. "James." He jumps; he'd been so intent on not looking at her that she's crossed the room to his desk without him even noticing. "Hello," he says quietly, searching her face for any hint of whether she's still upset with him. "You're an idiot," she says, then leans in and kisses him. He is surprised, but she's pulling back before he can properly reciprocate. "I am very sorry," he tells her. "So I gathered," she answers, nodding at the bouquet of orchids which he'd bought for her and which are now lying on her desk. She leans against the edge of his desk and he looks up at her. "Pax?" he asks, touching her knee with his fingertips. "Yeah. But you're cooking me dinner tonight," she says firmly. "Absolutely," he agrees quickly. "Anything you want." "Then you can give me a massage too," she says. He tries not to smirk, and she swats his shoulder. "Oi, none of that," she tells him. "I'm not sure if I've forgiven you that much." He nods solemnly. "I understand," he assures her. "Good." * * * * * * Back at his flat, James cooks dinner for himself and Alesha with intense concentration on the task, shutting out all concerns about the case. Alesha sits at the kitchen table, reading his copy of The Lawyer, and occasionally commenting on what she's reading. James feels slightly awkward, but less awkward than if she'd preferred to sit in the other room while he cooked; he's used to them either cooking together, or if he's doing the cooking, to talking about work at the same time. He doesn't like this distance between them, especially after almost losing Alesha last year, and he realises he's going to have to learn to keep a better rein on his bad temper. After dinner, he asks if she wants the massage now. "Yes please," she agrees readily. She smiles up at him and he tries to smile back. "James?" She is looking at him with an expression of concern and he puts his hand on hers, watching her face. "Alesha, I really am sorry about my outburst today," he begins. "Shh." She reaches up and puts a finger against his lips. "I know that, silly. You don't have to keep apologising. I know you're wound up about the case and that's why you had a go at me." "But I shouldn't have threatened to punch you," he says. He feels cold every time he remembers: he's never threatened a woman with physical violence before, and it sickens him. "As I recall, you didn't," Alesha says. "You said you couldn't punch me whenever I annoyed you. That's not the same as saying 'If you do stop annoying me, I'm going to thump you'." She leans against his shoulder. "I'm not going to lie and say that you didn't upset me, because you did. But I forgive you, and I'm perfectly willing to forget about it if you are." "How can I forget it?" he asked. "I threatened you with violence." "James – " She shakes her head and instead of continuing whatever she was going to say, she cups his cheek in her hand and kisses him. He puts an arm around her to hold her steady, and is surprised when she pulls away, then climbs onto his lap and begins kissing him again. He kisses her back, then starts when she slips a hand inside his shirt, which he hadn't noticed her unbuttoning, and rubs a hand over his chest. "When was the last time you hit someone?" she asks, after they've caught their breath again. "I was six," he says. "A bully had snatched my friend Daisy's teddy bear from her, and threw it up into a tree. I chased him around the playground, then smacked him when I caught up with him. The teachers broke it up before it could become a fight." Alesha laughs softly. "It's a wonder you didn't become a policeman rather than a lawyer," she says. "I did think about it when I was older," he tells her. "But I realised I was more suited to being a lawyer." "Don't you think you're worrying too much, if it's nearly forty years since you last hit someone, about a comment made in the heat of anger and frustration?" "I just don't want to be the kind of man that threatens women," he says, "especially not the woman he loves." "James, you're not that kind of man. I know those sort of men – I saw enough of them when I was growing up – and you're not like them." She gives him a quick kiss on the mouth, then slides off his lap. "C'mon Mr Steel, you owe me a massage." She grabs his hand and tugs, and he gets up from the sofa, then scoops her up into his arms and carries her, giggling, into his bedroom. Perhaps everything between them will be okay after all, he thinks. * * * * * * Confession James leans a hand on the seat of the sofa as Alesha excitedly explains the outcome of her research into PTSD. "So if we prove that Nugent's abuse caused PTSD, we can charge him with manslaughter," she finishes, giving him an expectant look. "Good morning to you too," he responds, moving his hand to her back as he leans in for a kiss. He feels her shudder slightly and can't resist deepening the kiss as he slides his hand up to cup the back of her head. "James," she gasps, one hand clasping his knee. "Alesha?" He wishes that he'd known she was going to be pulling an all-nighter, he'd have got here earlier this morning, or even stayed at the office last night to help her. "Not here," she says. "Then where?" he asks. "Time is it?" He turns his wrist to check his watch. "Eight o'clock. George won't be in for another forty five minutes." "Come on then." She gets to her feet, and drops her coat onto the sofa, then takes his hand and leads him down the corridor. Hardly anyone else has arrived yet, and he feels a rush of desire when she unlocks the door to the archive room, giving him a mischievous grin. They slip inside and Alesha locks the door again before turning to James, who immediately puts his arms around her and ducks his head to kiss her deeply. He's startled into a moan when Alesha's hands go to his belt and she begins unfastening his trousers. He lifts his head and looks at her closely. "Are you sure about this?" he asks in a low voice. Normally he's lucky to sneak a kiss from her when they're at work. "Yes!" she says in an insistent whisper. He fishes in his inside jacket pocket while she frees his semi-hard cock, which quickly stiffens in response to her touches and his excitement about their illicit activities. He bites back a moan as Alesha strokes him while he gets the condom packet undone, then he sheathes himself. She moves over to a nearby table which is clear of files at present, and bends over it, looking back at James over her shoulder. "Jesus, Alesha," he breathes, moving to join her. He lifts up her skirt, then pulls down her knickers (a pair of red silk ones that he bought her for Christmas). She obligingly moves her legs further apart, and he slips a hand between her thighs to check that she's ready for him. "Please, James," she says, her voice husky. He discovers she's slick with arousal, and wastes no more time in guiding himself into her heated core. She moans softly as he fills her and he shifts his hand from her right hip to place a finger over her lips. "Shh," he says quietly. "If you're too loud, we'll get caught." She takes his finger into her mouth and he has to bite back a moan of his own. He lets her suck on his finger as he begins to thrust quick and hard. "We'll do this properly tonight," he tells her, all too aware that he's not going to last long and that they don't have much time to spare anyway. Alesha mumbles an agreement around his finger, which she's still holding in her mouth; then she sucks on it especially hard while also squeezing her muscles around his cock, and James buries his face in her neck to stifle his groan as his release hits him. He feels her shudder beneath him, and realises she's come too. "All right?" he asks quietly, and she allows him to retrieve his finger before murmuring an affirmative response. They straighten themselves out, then each grab a random file and Alesha lets herself out of the archive room, then James follows a few moments later, relieved that there still seems to be hardly anyone around. Today, he decides, is going to be almost unbearably long. Survivor "Maybe she didn't have your brains," James suggests, "or your balls." He smirks and Alesha feels heat flooding her body in response. She eats her own lunch before going to see Tamika's mum; all the time that she's talking to Mrs Vincent, James' comment keeps coming back to her and she thinks that, despite the cheeky smirk, he had sounded proud of her, and she values that. James is on the phone when she gets back, so she sheds her coat and scarf, then picks up her coffee mug. She catches his eye and points to the mug, and he nods agreement; when she returns with two coffees he's finished his call, so she goes to sit at his desk to tell him what she's learned. "How's the throat?" he asks once they've finished their discussion. Alesha lifts a hand to fleetingly touch the side of her neck. "Still a bit sore," she answers. "Poor love," he says softly. He reaches up a hand and lightly strokes the same spot with the tips of his fingers. "James," she says, his name coming out as a strangled whisper. He pulls her chair closer with his free hand, then leans forward to briefly nuzzle her neck. "Oh god," she gasps, feeling a surge of desire. "No, just a senior prosecutor," he murmurs, and she chokes back a laugh. "James, please don't, not here." She pulls back a little and he moves away. "Come and have dinner with me tonight, then," he suggests. "Let me give you some proper TLC." "I'd rather go back to mine," she says. "But you can still cook for me, if you like." "Deal," he agrees. He squeezes her knee, then pushes the chair away again. * * * * * * They stop off in the market for food since James is cooking, and he insists on visiting the sweet shop to buy some of her favourites, though he won't let her come into the shop with him as he says he wants it to be a surprise. Back at her flat, he insists she should put her feet up while he cooks, so she settles down at the kitchen table and they talk a bit about her childhood and her student days as he prepares vegetables and makes a sauce for the salmon steaks he's grilling. They eat in the kitchen, but move into the sitting room with their coffee and the remains of the bottle of wine. James sits with his feet on the coffee table, and Alesha snuggles up to him, her feet tucked under her as she leans against his right side. He wraps an arm around her shoulders and they watch the news headlines together. "How about some music?" he asks afterwards, so she grabs the remote for her music system and switches it on. He smiles when he recognises Gershwin's 'An American in Paris', a CD that he bought for her a few weeks ago after they'd been discussing jazz and classical music. "You like it then?" "Yes," she agreed immediately. "Thanks for introducing me to Gershwin." "You're welcome." He turns towards her. "Now, I believe we were in the middle of something earlier," he says, and ducks his head to nuzzle the side of her neck again. She moans, then tilts her head away from his so that he has easier access to the tender area. As he's nuzzling, James begins unfastening Alesha's blouse, eliciting a gasp when he slips his hand inside to cup her breast through her bra. He drops his left arm down her back and tugs her blouse free of her skirt, then skims his fingers up her spine to unfasten the clasp of her bra. "Show off," she mutters when she realises what he's done. He chuckles against her skin, then pushes the silk bra off her breast and thumbs her nipple, causing her to moan. He switches from nuzzling Alesha's neck to kissing her, slipping his tongue between her lips at the first opportunity. He draws his left arm from behind her back so that he can free her other breast from her bra, and he holds the back of her head with his right hand as he deepens the kiss. "God, James," she gasps, when he finally pulls away so they can catch their breath. He lifts his eyebrows. "Yes, Alesha?" "I want you," she says softly, and he grins in delight. He sits up straight so he can get a condom out of the pocket of his jacket which is draped over the back of the sofa. Alesha, meanwhile, leans in and unfastens his belt, then his button and zip; it's his turn to gasp when she slips a hand into his trousers and frees his erection. He wastes no time in sheathing himself as she moves backwards on the sofa to stretch out in readiness. He smirks at her when he reaches under her skirt for her knickers and finds the silk is damp with her arousal. "All right, Mr Steel, no need to look quite so smug," she admonishes, but she's grinning at him from her supine position. "Yes my lady," he responds, before moving between her legs. "Ready?" She nods, and he lowers his body over hers, slipping into her slick heat with a murmur of pleasure. Then he goes back to nuzzling the side of her neck, even as he begins to thrust, and she pulls his shirt free of his trousers so she can run her fingers up his back. After a little while he feels her hands on his arse and she hooks her left leg around him, making it easier for him to thrust deeper. He wonders why shagging on the sofa while mostly dressed seems so exciting; it's not as if anyone can walk in on them, yet somehow it feels naughty. "James." Alesha's soft voice breaks into his thoughts, and he focuses his attention on her, seeing the desire in her eyes. "Sorry," he says, giving her a quick kiss. "I was just thinking that it seems quite naughty to be doing this." She frowns up at him. "Having sex with me?" she asks. "Shagging on the sofa, with most of our clothes on," he clarifies. "Seems very illicit somehow, as naughty as if we were doing this at work." She giggles. "We should do it on George's sofa some time," she suggests. "Alesha Phillips!" he gasps, somewhat shocked, but also turned on by the idea. "And I thought it was bad enough having a quickie in the archive room." She tightens her muscles around him. "That was fun," she agrees. "But I would definitely like to make use of George's sofa." "Bad girl," he says. "Very bad," she answers with another giggle. He knows that the idea will nag at him now, until they do it, and he wonders if that's why she suggested it. Masquerade They've been in the pub for a couple of hours when Alesha reaches for him across the corner of the table, slipping her thumb into the palm of his hand as she holds his fingers. He wonders if she knows the effect it has on him when she starts to rub her thumb across his palm; he can feel the blood rushing to his groin as she caresses his hand and he gives her a slightly pleading look across the table. "What's wrong love?" she asks softly. "That rubbing thing you're doing – it's having a rather drastic effect on me," he answers hoarsely, shifting awkwardly in his seat. She smirks, but lets go of his hand and he swallows hard, willing his body to relax again. "I'll save that for when we're back home again, shall I?" she asks teasingly. "Definitely," he answers, leaning over to kiss her swiftly on the mouth. He glances around at the rest of the table, but no one is taking any notice of them. "What do you say we head back now?" She smirks again. "Like that is it, Mr Steel?" He flushes a little at the knowing expression in her eyes. "Actually, yes." "Come on then." She stands up, and he follows suit, both of them pulling on coats and scarves. They quickly make their farewells, then fight their way through the full pub. James holds Alesha's hand in one of his, and waves down a passing taxi with the other. "My place?" he asks as the cabbie pulls up. "Okay." He nods, and they climb in, Alesha tugging at her skirt and coat to settle them comfortably after she slides across the seat next to James. He rests his left hand on her knee, stroking her stocking-clad skin, and she leans in to speak in his ear. "You know you were having problems with that rubbing thing I was doing?" He nods, then smirks. "Ah, this has the same effect does it?" "Yes." He grins, and wraps his left arm around her shoulders, then leans in to kiss her, and she slips her right hand into the short hair at the nape of his neck. They come up for air and James notices they're close to his flat. He asks the driver to stop, suggesting to Alesha that they get a take-away first, to which she agrees. Twenty minutes later James lets them into his flat, the scents of the Chinese take-away wafting up from the carrier bag he holds. They shed their outdoor clothes, then he goes to the kitchen for eating utensils and something to drink, and Alesha heads to the sitting room. After they've eaten, Alesha sits on the sofa, leaning back against James' chest, his legs on either side of hers as they stretch out together. His hands drift over her body, then the right one slips onto her thigh to travel up under her skirt. His teeth lightly scrape the back of her neck, and she feels his breath tickling against her skin as his fingers ever so slowly reach up between her legs. Alesha can't help lifting her hips slightly as his finger glides along her wet lips beneath her knickers, then slips inside her heat. She groans and closes her eyes as James begins sucking the skin of her shoulder while he fondles her left breast through her shirt, and brushes his right thumb lightly over her clit. He switches to nibbling at her earlobe as he slips two more fingers inside her, and she can't help squeezing his hand between her thighs. She groans again when she notices the hard pressure of his erection against her lower back. James murmurs in her ear, telling her of all the things he wants to do to her to pleasure her, and between his words and the way his fingers are moving inside her, she is pushed over the brink. He continues to stroke her through the aftershocks of her orgasm, then slips his hand free, and she immediately reaches out to clasp his wrist, then begins to suck his fingers clean of her juices, and it's James' turn to groan. Once she's finished, she pushes up off the sofa and turns to kneel between James' legs, cupping his balls with one hand, while unzipping his trousers with the other. "Alesha!" he gasps as the air hits his cock. She smiles up at him, then leans down and takes his erection in her mouth, savouring the way James twitches when she first slips him between her lips. She finds that the groan that he utters when she opens her mouth wider to take more of him down her throat, together with his shallow pants of breath, and the way he thrusts upwards when she cups his balls are all making her slick again. She pushes the thought away, concentrating instead on sucking harder on his tip, then swirling her tongue over the glans. She feels James beginning to tense up, and gives him one more lick that makes him moan, then she sits up, replacing her mouth with her right hand. "Don't stop" he begs, and she smiles as she begins to move her hand on his cock, applying pressure in various different ways; she knows, based on the sounds James is starting to make, that he's enjoying the touch of her hand as much as he enjoyed her mouth just now. Alesha reaches out with her free hand and rubs a fingertip across his lips. "I wanted to watch you," she says, and lets her other hand move a little more quickly on his cock. James reaches for her hand as it falls from his mouth and laces his fingers through hers. He closes his eyes and lets his head drop sideways against the back of the sofa, and she can tell by the way his grip on her hand is tightening that he's very close now. She chooses to loosen her fist around his cock in order to draw things out for a little while longer, simply so that she can watch the look on his face: so open, so vulnerable, and full of desire. After a few more shorter and faster strokes his hips buck upwards, and he groans as he makes a mess on Alesha's hand when he comes. Her touch slows until he's spent, and she watches him relax against the sofa again, breathing heavily. "Okay?" she asks softly. He reaches out and pulls her towards him, kissing her deeply before answering. "Very okay, thank you." "Good." She straightens up and he smiles at her. "Shower?" he suggests, and she nods agreement, certain that by the time they get into bed, James will be ready for round two. Anonymous "Trouble is, if you say you're the only one who used that computer, that means you must have sent the emails for him. So you'll be charged with harassment, and aiding and abetting murder," Alesha tells Wilson. James is proud of Alesha's 'bad cop' routine; usually he's the one pressing witnesses or suspects hard, but he's been encouraging Alesha to take on that role more often lately as he feels she needs the experience. He knows that George feels Alesha cares too much – he's accused her of having a 'bleeding heart' or wearing her heart on her sleeve in the past, but James knows she's tough underneath it, she just needs to learn how to show that toughness when it's needed. After they leave the prison, James drives them to the hotel, feeling relieved that George had agreed that they didn't need to rush back to London tonight. "You do realise this is the first night we've spent together away from London," Alesha says as he pulls into the car park. He glances over at her, smiling. "Yes, I did." She smirks, and he wonders what's amusing her. "It's a shame it's for work," he observes. "True. Mind you, Valentine's Day is coming up." Her smirk widens into a grin. "Yeah. Sadly it's too late to try and book anywhere half-way decent for that weekend." He looks regretful as he says it; he's not going to spoil his surprise and tell her ahead of time that he's actually booked a weekend away. He's even arranged with George that if they're not too busy with this or any other case, that they can finish up early on the Friday, and get in a little late on Monday morning. He just hopes that the gods will smile on them, because he plans to spoil Alesha rotten that weekend. "What are you smiling about, Mr Steel?" she asks, breaking in on his thoughts. "I'm afraid I can't tell you that right now," he says, smirking. "It's a secret, but all will be revealed." "Tease," she says, feigning annoyance. "Yeah, but you like it really," he says, now grinning. He parks the car, and they climb out, then grab their overnight bags from the boot and head inside to sign in. Alesha is amused when she learns that James has booked their room in the name of Mr and Mrs Phillips, and teases him about it in the lift until he silences her with a kiss. "That's cheating," she protests when he releases her as the lift stops. "All's fair in love and war," he tells her, taking her arm and guiding her along the corridor to their room. "Hmm," she says, and he sees a glint in her eye that excites him. "Do you want to order room service or eat downstairs?" he asks, swiping the key card and letting them into the room. "Let's eat downstairs," she answers. "No one knows us, so we can flaunt ourselves if we like." James chuckles. "Flaunt ourselves, eh?" "Well, not really flaunt," Alesha begins. "Oh, I think you should definitely flaunt," he interrupts, dropping his bag beside the big double bed and turning towards her. "If ever a woman should be flaunted, it's you, because you are beautiful." He sees her flush as she puts down her own bag, and he wraps his arms around her, pressing her body against his. "If I had my way," he says softly in her ear, "I would flaunt you the length and breadth of Britain." "James," she protests half-heartedly. "Alesha." He breathes her name into her ear, then brings his mouth to hers in a deep sensuous kiss. He slides his right hand down her back, over her bottom and under her skirt, and feels his arousal intensify when he touches the dampness of her silk knickers. "James." Alesha moans his name as he begins to touch her and he feels her quiver with pleasure. He lifts her up onto the bed. "I want you," he says, his voice husky with desire. "Yes," she gasps, lying back. He lifts her skirt up, tugs her knickers off, and then frees his erection from his trousers. He fumbles in his jacket pocket, trying to find a condom, but Alesha pulls him down on top of her, and has guided his swollen member into her slick heat before he's finished the search. "Are you sure?" he asks worriedly. "I'm on the pill," she answers, "and unless you've suddenly started shagging someone else behind my back, I know you're clean, so I'm sure." "Alesha, there's no one else who interests me even half as much as you." "Then fuck me, Mr Steel," she says, her tone suddenly commanding. "Yes my lady." He pushes himself deeper inside her, then begins to thrust as if he's trying to impale them both to the bed. She shoves his jacket off his shoulders, and he lifts his upper body sufficiently to shrug it off, not caring where it ends up. He stops thrusting for a moment, his cock buried deep inside her, so that he can unfasten the buttons on her shirt (she's wearing his favourite one, a deep red that suits her darker skin and makes her look even more gorgeous), and she retaliates by unfastening the rest of his shirt buttons. Suddenly he chuckles. "This might have been easier if we'd paused long enough to get undressed first," he observes. "But so much more boring," she answers, raking her nails down his chest and making him shudder with pleasure. "Mmm," he answers, leaning down to suck on her right breast as he resumes his thrusts. He always appreciates it when she chooses to leave off her bra, and it's something she's begun doing more often since they became lovers. He brings her to a shuddering, gasping climax that tips him over the edge soon afterwards, and once they've caught their breath, they finish undressing, then take a shower together in the rather luxurious en suite bathroom. "I think I've changed my mind about eating downstairs," Alesha tells him as he finishes drying her off. "Oh?" He lifts an enquiring eyebrow. "Yeah. If we eat downstairs, we'll have to get dressed again – and I'm not sure I can be bothered." He gives her a wolfish grin. "Like that, eh?" "Yes," she answers simply, picking up a second towel and approaching him with it. "Very well then, we'll – ah – order room service." He's startled into a gasp when she cups his genitals in her small hand, and feels slightly embarrassed that he almost immediately begins to stiffen again. She sinks to her knees in front of him, giving him a seductive smile, before running her tongue along the underside of his shaft. "I think I'd like that," she says, then gives him a little kiss. "And I think you would, too." "Anything you want to do is fine with me," he assures her, pulling her back to her feet for another lengthy kiss. "Are you sure about that?" she asks, when they break apart to catch their breath. "After all, I might say anything in response to such a tempting offer." She smirks and he laughs. "So long as it's not illegal," he says. "You're a bad man, James Steel, but I love you anyway." "That's handy, Ms Phillips, because I love you too." She leans her head against his chest and he wraps his arms around her loosely, thinking for the umpteenth time that he's very lucky Alesha came into his life.

Downtown Sunnydale on a Saturday night, an island of small-town ambience in the ocean of So Cal suburbia. Main Street, lit up with the glitter and sparkle of Christmas lights, hosts the usual good-time Saturday crowds augmented by hordes of shoppers. The Bronze, the Espresso Pump, the Sun Theater, all packed. Go further downtown, towards the docks, and the streets grow narrower, darker, and the seedier allure of the Fish Tank and the Purple Onion draw their own circles of clientele. If you are human, you keep to the light, stick with the swirling mass of high school kids with oversized jeans and backwards baseball caps, college kids in fashionable piercings and haircuts that had been out of date in L.A. for weeks, adults young and old grabbing the bit in their teeth and throwing over the traces of the workweek. If you are human, and have lived in Sunnydale any amount of time, you know something is out there in the dark, beyond the sodium glow of the street lamps. You join in the buzz of talk and ever-so-slightly-nervous laughter and hope that by refusing to name it, you can ward it off. If you aren't human, you keep to the darkness, stalking the mortal herd with predatory precision. You drift along the edges of the crowds, silent as the mist that legend said you could turn to--legend was wrong, but who needed special effects when you had strength and speed and senses far beyond the mortal? There's nothing human which could match you, much less best you. Scout the sidewalks, looking for tonight's victim. The blue-haired woman with the armful of packages? The lanky young man with the soul patch and the air of existential discontent? Or there, in the alleyway ahead, the young couple necking heedlessly against the wall, hands and mouths all over each other, lost in a carnal fog? If you are a vampire, you smile to yourself and glide forward across the gum-pocked pavement in front of the theater, cruel delight welling deep inside as you imagine your hand falling on the man's shoulder. You imagine his look of shock, the woman's terror as you tear his jugular open, the fear in their eyes as delicious as the blood in their veins. You suit action to thought, reaching out; but before your hand comes to rest upon its target, the man in the alley turns to face you in a swirl of black leather. His golden eyes and ridged brow and sharp-fanged, arrogant smile mirror your own, the only reflection you will ever know. If you are a vampire, you realize, too late, that there is only one heartbeat to be heard between them. You start to back away, thinking that you have intruded upon the other's kill; but there is no blood on his mouth, and his hand, cold as your own, closes about your wrist with a strength that exceeds your fledgling prowess by a century or more, pinning you in place. The delicate pink tip of the woman's tongue darts across her kiss-swollen lips, and her eyes are bright with excitement, not fear. If you are a vampire, you look upon the faces of the Slayer and her traitorous consort and know that you've made a terrible, terrible mistake. As the wooden stake plunges into your chest, there is one moment of needle-sharp, achingly brilliant pain which lasts forever, the forever you were promised when your sire first placed your dying lips to the wound at his breast and bade you suck. And then you are gone. ***** Buffy nudged the pile of dust at her feet with a disdainful toe, and the evening breeze finished dispersing the remains of the vampire who'd attacked them. Spike slouched against the brickwork, watching her with an admiring half-grin that didn't quite conceal his fangs. She watched him back from beneath lowered lashes. His pale hands drew a rising arc in the darkness as he brought his lighter up to meet the cigarette held askew in one corner of his mouth. His left thumb flicked the striker of the gold Zippo and the flame leaped up, conjuring twin gold-on-gold reflections in his eyes. The light lent the momentary illusion of warmth to his angular features, threw the brow ridges of his demonic face into sharp relief and cast the hollows of his cheeks into deep shadow. He cupped his right hand around the cigarette, and the red ember at its tip flared, dimmed, and brightened again as he drew it to life. She couldn't stand smokers, hated the smell of cigarettes, and was in full agreement with the old joke about the designated smoking areas in California being Arizona and Nevada. So why was the sight of Spike lighting up so god-damned sexy? Something about the way that sensual mouth pursed around the cigarette...or maybe the way those strong, long-fingered hands manipulated the lighter... He flicked the lighter off and returned it to his coat pocket. Smoke trickled from between his parted lips and coiled upwards in a lazy spiral. "Was it good for you, love?" "Not as good as this." Buffy dragged him down without waiting for him to shake off the game face, grabbed his cigarette, and tossed it over her shoulder. She was afraid for a moment that he'd take her curiosity wrong, but after a moment's surprise Spike responded with all the enthusiasm she could have wished, and they were feeling each other up and trading long nicotine-flavored kisses again. The first time Angel had kissed her he'd vamped out uncontrollably, and ever after had been wary of it happening again. If anything, Spike seemed to have the opposite reaction; he had to concentrate to keep from reverting to human at her touch. Buffy ran her tongue over his teeth, testing the sharp points of his canines. Different. Dangerous. Thrilling. She really had meant for tonight to be all business. Really. They had work to do. Vamps to kill, crazies to track. So naturally Spike had to show up looking hotter than a two-dollar pistol, and ride her around on what was essentially a two-wheeled, gas-powered vibrator until she was all hot and bothered. At least it wasn't just her. Spike had scarcely let her out of arm's reach all evening--always catching hold of her hand or touching her cheek or stroking her hair or brushing against her, as if to reassure himself that she was really there. Or maybe just to be touching her. For all her own longing, she'd never realized how starved for physical contact he was, too--going on two days' evidence, Spike was big on the PDAs. So they were being businesslike. Really. Here on the town's main drag it was ever so much more inconspicuous for the two of them to go arm in arm than to stalk along like a pair of Old West gunslingers lookin' fer trouble at the OK Corral. Ending up macking in the alley next to the Sun was just an occupational hazard of going arm in arm, was all. His soft cool lips tantalized her throat, his fangs making little teasing pinpricks against her skin that never came close to really drawing blood. Some part of her was completely astonished at all this implied about his control and her trust of it, but the rest of her shivered and melted as his hand slid up and over her shoulder, stroking the line of her collarbone where it ran beneath her jacket, then dropping to cup her breast. Her nipples went taut under his fingers. He had an unerring sense of what kind of touches, and where, turned her to goo. Best of all it was mutual; her hands were eliciting all kinds of happy little rumblings from Spike as they explored the lean hard lines of his torso. It was very easy to tell exactly what kinds of touches he liked, and where. She made an attempt to break free of his circling arms that barely qualified as quarter-hearted. "We should patrol." "We are patrolling." "Patrolling implies actually moving from place to place at some point." He nuzzled her collarbone. "I am moving from place... to... mmmmrrrhhrr...." Now this was a cool discovery; rub a vampire's brow ridges and he'd follow you anywhere. Fun with game face. Who knew? Spike tilted his head back with a goofily blissful expression, allowing her easier access to that completely lickable Adam's apple, and said hoarsely, "Got a dangerous vampire to keep an eye on right here, Slayer." "Really?" She took advantage of the invitation and licked his throat, reveling in his pleasurable shudder. "I always thought this one was kind of a creampuff. I hear he uses excessive amounts of hair gel." "How many times, pet?" His husky growl went right to the center of her being and pulsed there. "What?" "How many times did you bring yourself off today, thinkin' about last night?" Thump him on the chest, hard. Had to be hard; soft wouldn't make an impression on that rock-solid body. "As if!" Could she make a quick grab for his shirt pocket and find out what the heck he was hiding in there? Or would any such attempt degenerate into further sessions of Grope The Vampire, and would either of them really object if it did? Spike only laughed. "How many?" She looked up, biting her lower lip with a reluctant smile. "Twice." At his skeptical look, "Well, twice before Tara got home." Her smile went wicked. "And you?" He nipped at her pouting lip and chuckled. "If the whelp had shown up a few minutes earlier he'd've gotten an eyeful. I'll be in Guinness for non-stop wanking any day now if this keeps up. Not that I wasn't close already." Buffy reached down and toyed with the buttons of his fly, cupping the already sizeable bulge in his jeans and letting her fingers stray to one side, then the other, teasing him through the worn black denim. "Seems to me like you're keeping up very nicely." He groaned and his cock jerked and hardened further beneath her touch. So nice not to have to pretend Spike didn't exist below the belt buckle, especially when the real estate in that neighborhood was so choice. It was a little aggravating that he could scent her arousal no matter how she might try to hide it, but everyone could see just how hot she got him, and it gave her a heady, joyful jolt of sexual power. She did that to him, she, Buffy Summers, the one Angelus hadn't thought worth a second go, the one Riley had left for not needing him enough. Spike growled deep in his chest and ground his body into hers. She was half a breath away from yanking the jeans right off those narrow, muscled hips (damned if she could tell what besides his hard-on kept them up in the first place) and going down on him right then and there when the scream tore through the noise of traffic and Saturday crowds. "Bugger," Spike snarled with truly heartfelt viciousness. Buffy bit back similar sentiments. Time to save the world, or at least the local part of it. "Sounds like it came from across the street. Come on." They dashed out of the alley and down the sidewalk, dodging pedestrians and prompting a few more shrieks from the people who noticed that Spike was still all fangy. Vaulting the hood of an acid-green Nissan parked at the intersection, Buffy paused on the corner, trying to concentrate on the tingle along her nerves that meant vampires were nearby. She'd never been as good at this aspect of the Slayer biz as the hitting parts, and having to filter out Spike's overwhelming presence didn't make it any easier. Still... "There," she said, pointing. Spike's gaze followed her outstretched hand and he nodded, eyes lighting at the prospect of carnage. There were four this time. Smarter than the one who'd attacked earlier, too. Two of them, human features to the fore, were standing guard in the mouth of the alley behind the hairdresser's, camouflaged in seedy-young-adult uniforms of baggy jeans and oversized flannel shirts. Both stared insolently at the passers-by and silently dared anyone to venture past them. No one was taking them up on it. In the shadows of the alley behind them, two dimly visible figures loomed over a body sprawled out on the oil-stained concrete. Its leg kicked fitfully, once. The guard-vamps sprouted fangs and dropped into a fighting stance the moment the two of them approached. Buffy shot a look at Spike--all it ever took. She dove at the vamp on the right while he tore into the one on the left with a joyful roar. Instead of closing with her foe she feinted, dropped, and rolled under his swing to come up behind him. She back-kicked as she came to her feet and slammed her heel into his kidneys as Spike grabbed his opponent by the scruff of the neck and rammed his head into the wall. The force of Buffy's kick sent her target staggering forward face-first into Spike's waiting fist, but she didn't bother to track his progress; without hesitation she leaped at the pair who were feeding on the man on the ground. She dug her fingers into the nearest one's shoulder and yanked him upright. "Hey, Mr. Selfish! Didn't your mom teach you that you shouldn't eat if you didn't bring enough for everyone in the class?" The interrupted vampire snarled and lunged at her. She smashed a hard left into his jaw, sending him reeling back into the side of the nearby dumpster. Buffy grinned, flexing her hand. Oh, yeah, that felt good. The second one's head snapped up, runnels of crimson trailing from the corners of her mouth. "Make-up's running, Elvira. Have a wet-nap." She snapped a front kick at the crouching vampire, catching her right under the chin. "Oopsie. That was my boot." Number One kicked off the dumpster and pounced her from behind. She elbowed him in the nose, whirled in place and drove her fist into his solar plexus. His legs went out from under him and she brought her knee up to catch him in the face again. The sound of bones breaking was music. Yeah. This was the stuff. Get out all that... frustration. She caught a glimpse of Spike as she spun, engaged in his own dance with the other two. He was outright toying with them--he'd shifted back to human form, foregoing the extra advantage of strength and speed that letting his demon aspect surface gave him--saying, in essence, I don't need it for you. He'd leave himself open, let them get in a hit or two, think they had him going, and then let go with a lightning-swift series of brutal kicks and blows. His face was alight with that huge tongue-wagging grin, loving the fight, turned on as all hell by the act of pummelling someone into the ground. He caught her eye and winked, conspiratorial. You got off on it. And I suppose you're telling me you don't? The chill cramp of self-disgust in her stomach had a knock-down drag-out with the adrenaline rush of the fight, and lost--for the moment, anyway. The moment almost cost her; both of her foes took instant advantage of her distraction and for a second she staggered under the impact of their fists. She crashed into the side of the dumpster and the side panel fell open with a clang; one of the plastic bags inside burst and garbage cascaded out onto the ground. Buffy leaped to her feet, well and truly pissed off now. "Do you realize this blouse has to be dry-cleaned?" she snapped, whipping out her stake. "No more Ms. Nice Slayer!" Over at the mouth of the alley Spike had taken note of her slip and already disposed of one of his foes; now he wrestled the second one into a headlock and wrenched, hard. The guard-vamp's scream was cut off as his head and body parted company. Spike was coming for her, bursting right through the shower of grey-brown particles which were all that was left of his opponent. Buffy rammed her stake home, straight through the rib cage of the female vamp, and whirled, looking for the other one--no way was she going to let Spike dust more vamps in a night than she got. There he was, by the dumpster, just turning to face her. She readied the stake for a blow. Spike fell into position behind the remaining vamp, boxing him in. Buffy struck. The vampire howled in fear and dodged, but she'd taken that into account. Mr. Pointy arced towards his heart. It wasn't there. Giles had told her more than once during their training sessions that the opponent most to be feared was the inexperienced one, because they were the most unpredictable. Over the years Buffy had found the advice to be accurate, but pretty much useless--how could you predict something that wasn't predictable? Or in this case, even an opponent? The vamp gang's victim, still supine, had kicked the last vampire's legs out from under him. Her target was now flat on his butt on the ground, and her stake was now headed straight for Spike's chest. Time slowed to a crawl. She saw Spike's eyes go wide, and his right forearm start up to block her at the approximate speed of molasses in January. She screamed at the pokiness of her nerve impulses, which were moseying from her brain to her arm at much the same pace. She managed to divert her aim a fraction; he managed to block. The stake went flying. Shaking with equal parts relief and absolute fury, she bent and wrenched the nearest piece of sharp wood off the pallet leaning up against the wall behind the dumpster and stabbed it into the fallen vampire's chest. She stood there staring down at the place where it wasn't any longer, unable to control her shivering. That could have been--could have been-- "Spike! Are you OK?" He patted himself down. "Yeh. Still undead, no thanks to..." A fearful whimper at their feet broke the spell. Spike's head turned slowly, his eyes sparking gold. The man who'd almost been lunch staggered to his feet, clutching the dumpster. Dark-haired, husky, wearing a Dodgers t-shirt... "You. I know you," Spike whispered. "Ramon, innit?" He smiled, the sweet, bone-chilling smile which presaged casual bloodshed, and without any further warning his hand shot out to clamp around Ramon's throat. It had always been characteristic of Spike that he could go from edgy annoyance to full-blown murderous rage in the space of an eyeblink. It didn't happen often these days; two years of living with the chip had forced him to learn how to muzzle that demonic temper, but every now and then it chewed through the straps. It's OK, Buffy thought, the chip will... She flashed on the night a month ago when she'd been dragged unwilling back to life, and the fight with Magnus Bryce's men: the crack of gunfire, the fiery lash of the bullet creasing her arm, Spike's fangs sinking into the neck of the man who'd shot her, heedless of the pain the chip was causing... and for the first time it really sank in that the chip made it very difficult for Spike to kill people--and very difficult was not the same as impossible. Her fist met Spike's nose just before his fingers met flesh. He staggered with the double pain of her blow and the chip-shock, dropping the terrified Ramon immediately. Buffy heaved him up by the lapels with all her strength, tossing him across the alley and into the wall. He hit with an audible thump, slid down the wall and crumpled to the ground, clutching his head. Plainly dizzy and aching, he found his feet, then reeled back into the brick wall as Buffy's hard little fist smacked into his nose a second time. "You ASSHOLE!" she yelled. Buffy interposed herself between Ramon and Spike, balanced on the balls of her feet, fist cocked and ready to hit the vampire again despite the tears welling in her eyes and the quiver of her mouth. "What are you THINKING?" For a long moment the two of them remained frozen, eyes locked, Spike's bloodied face a mask of impotent fury, all the more frightening for remaining human. "Spike..." Her voice broke on his name, and perhaps he sensed the fear behind her anger. The rage in his eyes melted away as they softened from gold to blue, and he held out a placating hand. "Sorry, love--got a little carried away--" "Carried away? Don't 'love' me, you--!" Her fist lashed out and Spike's expression hardened again--he grabbed her wrist before she could connect, making no move to fight her, but pulling her close and holding on, hard, before she tore her arm from his grasp. Buffy slapped both palms flat against his chest, ready to shove him off. She made the mistake of looking up and was instantly lost in the lustful, adoring azure of his eyes. "Too late for that, pet." Buffy's breath made a little hitching noise in her throat. "This isn't a game! You could have killed--" Ramon? Anyone? Should it have occurred to her that he could kill her too? Spike shook his head with a rueful laugh and let her go, massaging his temples. "It didn't come off, did it?" He licked the trickle of blood from his upper lip. "And yours truly's got a bugger of a headache to keep me company for the next hour. No harm, no foul." There was a voice in the back of her head yammering No harm, no foul, no, it's wrong wrong wrong but I need him want him love--oh God, not that, not now, don't say it don't think it--still a monster, still a monster-- Ramon, his dark eyes like saucers, broke and ran, kicking up a shower of garbage. "Fuck!" Spike yelled as a crumpled milk carton smacked him in the head. "Yeah!" Buffy gasped. "I mean, catch him!" ***** The UC Sunnydale library had been built in the 70's, during a phase when architecture was all blocky textured cement pillars and plate glass. In the summer, in the daytime, the interior was pleasantly light and airy, but at night, in the winter, sitting too close to those vast blank windowed walls could give you the unnerving sensation of floating in some starless Lovecraftian void. Which just went to show, Willow thought, giving the page in front of her a moody flip, that you could make anything creepy if you tried hard enough. She sighed and pulled her German dictionary over to look up another irregular verb. Obviously she wasn't trying hard enough, because the evening remained as prosaic as it could possibly be. Other students with book bags slung over their shoulders or varicolored stacks of texts in their arms drifted past her carrel in knots of twos or threes, exchanging low whispers on the location of the nearest card catalogue terminal, or the periodical literature room. Willow peered at them over the stacks of dictionaries and reference books piled around her. No one seemed nervous. There were no ominous flickering lights, no manifestations of power. She hadn't been hoping for any, she told herself sternly. She was just doing research. Translating. Sure, the last time she'd opened this book she'd been caught up in a transcendent mystical experience unlike anything she'd ever known. But it had been wrong, and creepy, and evil, and anyway, things had been different then. Yes. Then you had power. Her hand tightened on the pencil and the point snapped off, leaving a snail-trail squiggle of graphite across her translation notes. "Oh--" She looked guiltily around. It was practically sacrilegious to swear in a library, wasn't it? "Bugger," she finished in a much softer voice. There. British swearing didn't count. Giles had done it all the time. Willow Rosenberg, too much of a weenie to say fuck in a library. With a sigh she returned to her task. The scribbled footnote she was currently translating ran over onto the next page. She turned the yellow, dog-eared vellum over and began the laborious task of translating the next section. In the next chapter," an oddly familiar voice said. Willow's head jerked up. Her reflection in the night-black glass gazed back, her but not her: a young woman in red lace and black leather posed seductively in her carrel, leaning on one hand and looking at her with a coquettish tilt of her head. Her hair, longer than Willow's, fell in russet sheaves about her pale, pixie-ish face. "Hi, Snuggles." She wiggled the fingers of her free hand at Willow. "What we want. In the next chapter." Her lips curved in a pouting smile and her voice grew husky. "Wanna look?" Willow jumped to her feet, sending several of the books tumbling to the floor. She rubbed her eyes, hard, but her vampire avatar was gone, and the reflection in the window was her own prosaic self. "I'd say this verges on the disturbing," she muttered. Well, she'd wanted a transcendent mystic experience... She looked down at the shabby little book on the desktop, and after a few false starts, extended her hand and ran a finger over the pages. What was that disturbing rust-colored stain sticking those two leaves together? Best not think about it. One by one, she turned the pages until the next chapter heading leaped out at her from the top of one of them. The crabbed, archaic lettering blurred into illegibility in several places further down the page, but the title was clear: Addressing That Which Abides In The Great Darkness. That didn't sound good. Let's face it, nothing in this puppy is Norman Vincent Peale material. She sat down again, tracing the lines of text with one finger and frowning at the difficult language. The first few chapters of the grimoire had been devoted to necromantic spells of various kinds: spells to bind a ghost to your service, spells to reanimate the dead, spells to create zombies. The next few chapters had dealt with living souls, but had been no less uncomfy to contemplate--here there were spells for influencing decisions and clouding minds. What she'd hoped to find was something that would restore a damaged spirit and allow her to regain her magic. This, however, was an invocation of some kind, though the author was cagey about what exactly was being summoned. Odd. Knowing the correct name of the being you were invoking was vital; otherwise you risked losing control. Who art beyond the light of sun or moon Who precedeth time, who art the final darkness My soul is yours; grant me therefore all that I desire, Yea, though my desires be as the boundless sea shalt thou satisfy them And in retu-- The rest of the page was hopeless; at some point, someone had spilt ink over half of it. Willow turned to the next page; it wasn't in good condition, but she thought that it might still be decipherable if she worked at it. Still, this wasn't at all what she was looking for. Summoning some nameless, really-not-good-sounding critter was not on the agenda. Even if it could satisfy desires as boundless as the sea. Which did kind of cover getting one's mojo back, didn't-- Willow slammed the book shut, stood up, and began stuffing things into her backpack. It was past time to get home. ***** Not catching someone was a good deal more difficult than it looked. Up ahead of them Ramon staggered to a halt and doubled over in the crimson glow of a NO VACANCY sign, hands braced against his knees. Lincoln had once been the main route into Sunnydale, back before the interstate came through, and was lined with a string of grungy little motels built back in the 40's--horseshoes of little detached cabins rejoicing in decaying pioneer ambience. Spike could remember staying in ones just like them on cross-country trips with Dru, in the days when they'd been new and fashionably kitschy. He made a mental note to mention the fun factor of faux log cabin sex to Buffy, and to leave out the part about having the inhabitants of the cabin next door for breakfast. Lurking in the shadows of the Ace Hardware store across the street, Spike watched as Ramon looked up, scanning the apparently deserted street. The vampire could see the droplets of sweat beading on his brow, each one reflecting the gory neon light. The breeze brought the ambrosial scent of blood and fear to his nose. Ramon'd tried to be tricky at first, but his pursuers knew downtown Sunnydale intimately, and they were both faster and had more endurance than he did. After ten minutes of dodging through alleys and doubling back, their quarry had taken a straight course down Lincoln towards the edge of town. And he was their quarry, no doubt about that. They'd loped along behind him for a good three miles now, like wolves wearing down a deer on the Discovery Channel. It had been a long time since he'd hunted a human being in earnest, but the old skills returned with gratifying speed. In the time it took the man to wipe the sweat from his brow Spike left the doorway, flowing down the darkened sidewalk with unearthly swiftness to crouch behind the wire lattice shading a bus bench twenty feet closer to his mark. Across the street he caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye: Buffy, leaving her own hiding place for new concealment. A breath later she was by his side, her gaze never leaving the back of Ramon's head. She carried herself with tense grace of a lioness stalking a gazelle. There was a wildness of spirit in her that called out to him in kinship, and reveled as he did in the hunt and the kill, that leapt up in joy within her when danger made the blood run quick and hot in her veins. Artemis of Sunnydale, Night's huntress/Shall I behold thy unclothed glory/and the hounds of my heart tear my flesh...? Oh, that's brilliant, that is. No improvement in compositional skills in a hundred and twenty years, I see. No, no cold, chaste huntress this beside him. She brooked no comparison to old goddesses, this woman who could out-fight and out-fuck the lot of them. Whatever siren song the night held for her, Buffy had always denied it sway over her life, living with a fierce resolve that the Slayer in her would be servant, not master. He wasn't sure if he loved her more because of or despite that resolve and the distance it put between them. He'd never been able to take Dru on a hunt like this; she was too easily distracted--ironic that he was finally getting to share this particular thrill with someone only after he could no longer bring it to its deadly conclusion. Buffy laid a hand on his thigh, splayed fingers warm through the black denim, and suddenly the lack of a deadly conclusion didn't seem such a hardship. Perhaps he'd take to carrying a camera like those ponces who couldn't bear to shoot the cute furry animals. She glanced at him and made a small motion towards Ramon, a question in her eyes. Spike shook his head. Normally he was willing to follow her lead on patrol, but this was his element. Buffy fought demons; she had little experience with hunting humans. Ramon straightened and jogged off again. Spike laid a restraining hand on Buffy's shoulder, allowing their prey to move on unmolested for a moment before continuing the pursuit. "He's headed for the dump," he whispered. Fifteen minutes later, they were half-crouched at the summit of a mountain of junk, peering over the crest and down into the valley below. Buffy brushed at the unidentifiable smear of black gunk on her sleeve with distaste. "Why can't more villains lair in luxury condos?" 'Villains' was stretching it. In an arroyo formed by two intersecting ranges of trash, half a dozen crazies were visible in the rubble. One of them going from one ramshackle shelter to the next delivering food--plastic-wrapped microwave burritos, it looked like. The others, under Tanner's supervision, busied themselves with the Sisyphean task of keeping the shelters from falling to pieces around them, adjusting the positions of old doors and pieces of plywood and sheet metal according to some arcane architectural plan. "Bloody Hooverville down there," Spike muttered. The aggravating thing was that this miniature Calcutta had been growing practically under his nose all summer--he came to the dump at least once a week to scout for useful discards. Not that he would have considered it anything more than a possible source of amusement if he had discovered it, but he'd probably have mentioned it to one of the humans, and they'd doubtless have felt the need to investigate, and the whole mess could have been nipped in the bud far earlier. Still, it wasn't as if they'd hung out a welcome sign. They'd done a bang-up job of hiding their little community among the winding canyons of trash. Nothing was visible from the area of the dump near the front gate, and since he'd often had Dawn with him on his own expeditions here over the summer, he'd avoided foraging too far afield. "Now what?" Buffy elbowed herself up over a broken-legged record cabinet and frowned down at the collection of huts. "Survivor: The Hellmouth! gets yanked for low ratings," she said. "Number one, we take Tanner out. Number two, we get the rest of his little Kool-Aid cult. Number three... I haven't gotten to number three yet." She dropped back down behind the crest of the trash heap and kicked a tangle of old Christmas tree lights out of her way. "Can't say that 'Get em's' not a plan after my own heart, love, but exactly what are we going to do with them once they're got?" She looked disgruntled. "If Tara's right and Will can't fix them up, I don't know what we can do. But they shouldn't be living here like this, no matter what. Maybe I can talk to Dawn's social worker about it. She's got to be good for something besides dropping by to snoop for dirty dishes." She glanced over her shoulder. "This bites. I don't do strategy. Giles does strategy. I hit things." Spike sucked his cheeks in. "The Watcher isn't going to be around to do strategy much longer, pet." That made her flinch. Without a word, Buffy got to her feet and began picking her way through the rubbish, back towards the front gate. Spike followed her in a small landslide of trash. He studied the set of her shoulders as they walked; her arms were folded across her chest and she kept her head down. The retreat into blank non-emotion was painful in contrast to the animation she'd shown five minutes ago. As they reached the gate to the dump Spike hesitated, then took a couple of longer strides to catch up with her, and fell into step at her side. He couldn't help feeling that he was taking an enormous chance, somehow, despite all they'd shared in the last twenty-four hours, but buggered if he was going to let her crawl into her shell again and pull the shell in after her. He put an arm round her shoulders. Buffy looked up at him, startled, and for an instant she stiffened, about to pull away. But she didn't, and bit by bit the tenseness drained out of her. At last she leaned into his side, butting her head into his shoulder with a muffled sigh. "It's so much easier when you can solve problems by killing something," she said wistfully. Spike's mouth twitched in a wry smile. "Tell me about it." It was well past midnight when they rolled into the Summers' driveway. Buffy pulled off her helmet and shook her hair out. "Gah. You are never, but never, going to con me into driving that monster again. It's like a recurring Driver's Ed nightmare." Spike leaned back in the seat and grinned at her. "Come on, if the Bit can drive it, surely it's not too much for the mighty Slayer! But if it makes you wobbly in the knees, next time you can take the bike." Buffy's speculative look made him regret the offer instantly. Her only advantage over Dawn as a chauffeur was possession of a valid driver's licence--he might drive like a maniac, but Buffy Summers drove like an inexperienced maniac. Following along behind her on the motorcycle for the brief drive from the Magic Box back to the cemetery would have been heart-stopping had his heart been beating in the first place, and went a long way towards explaining why she cadged so many rides with him when she had her mother's perfectly good SUV sitting in the garage. He gave the motorcycle a protective pat and silently promised it never to let her near the ignition. "Well. Suppose I'd better be getting on home." Buffy stood in the driveway, turning the helmet round and round in her hands. "Do you--I mean, it's not that late--would you like to come in for a bit?" Spike allowed himself a smirk at her incongruous attack of propriety. "This the bit where I'm supposed to shuffle my feet and look shy? Right--" He adopted a dreadful American accent. "Gosh, Buffy, that'd be swell!" "Oh, get off the bike and come on!" Buffy snapped, but her eyes were sparkling. "I'm only inviting you in so I can palm Dawn's gross casserole off on you." "The Bit's a culinary genius, and someday you Philistines will appreciate her." Spike let down the kickstand, and swung off the bike to follow her inside. The house was dark, not that that made any difference to him, and there was no sign of light from upstairs. Willow or Tara sometimes made a late night of spellcasting on weekends, but not tonight, apparently. Buffy maneuvered around the furniture in the darkened living room and turned on the light in the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator and began rummaging around. "Speaking of munchies, you want anything? Tara left some hamburgers--" "Thought you'd never ask, I'm half famished." Spike reached over her shoulder and snagged the carton of pig's blood, twisted the cap off and took a long swig. Buffy made an irritated noise and pointed across the kitchen to the cupboard where the glasses were. "Spike, were you raised in a barn? Don't drink out of the carton!" She looked nonplused for a moment. "Did I just say that? Kafka moment. I'm turning into a giant Mom. You've got my permission to kill me now." "There are worse fates, love," Spike said with a chuckle. He went over to the cupboard, took his usual glass from the shelf and poured himself a generous helping of the pig's blood. He stuck the glass in the microwave and took the carton back to the fridge; Buffy was examining one of the wrapped up hamburgers with a faintly queasy expression. "I think this one's yours--that, or Tara's getting really forgetful." She handed it to him; to Spike's delight it was practically raw and oozing blood all over the bun. "Now that was right thoughtful of her." Spike took a large bite and raised his eyebrows at Buffy's gagging noises. "Wha?" He retrieved his glass of blood and took it and the burger into the living room, set them down on the coffee table and sprawled out on the couch with a sigh of content. Buffy followed him in a moment later with her rather more well-done meal and a mug of decaf tea--mint, by the smell of it--shoved him over and curled up beside him. They were both too occupied with wolfing down their post-midnight snack to say anything for awhile, and Spike felt no need to break the companionable silence afterwards. Buffy didn't seem to be in a particularly amorous mood; she had the faint line between her brows which denoted deep thought, and was content to burrow into his side and draw comfort from his nearness. Spike sipped his slowly cooling blood, listened to her heart beat, and tried to figure out why he felt so odd. Bloody hell. I'm happy. "I lied to Will and Tara the other morning," Buffy said. Spike cocked his head inquiringly and said nothing. She continued, "I told them I'd had a revelation--about how no one's happy all the time, so it was normal that I wasn't, yippee skippee I'm getting better." She contemplated her tea. "I did have a revelation that morning, but that wasn't it." Spike made a non-committal go-ahead noise. The tension had returned to her limbs, as if what she was telling him was difficult for her to get out. "It was about you pulling me out of the way of that truck. I almost died. Again. And I realized--you're not going to be there every time a truck comes along. Sooner or later, I will die again. It was such a peaceful feeling. I don't even have to do anything suicidal--I'm the Slayer. You said it yourself--Death's always on my tail." His fingers tightened on her shoulder. "Buffy... you know that promise I made you, when you first came back?" Buffy looked up at him with solemn eyes; in this light they were stormy grey. "You're not backing out on it, are you? Willow claims the only reason you're sorry I came back is because I'm unhappy about it." Spike shook his head and set his blood down on the coffee table, disturbing her briefly with the movement. "Well... yeh, she's right there." He leaned back once more and tucked her under his arm, his free hand straying to her face and stroking her cheek. "No fear. When you die next, I'll make sure you stay dead. But fair warning, Slayer--I'm on your tail too, and if the bloke with the scythe thinks he'll get to you again without a fight from yours truly, he's in for a shock." He dropped his head to rest his forehead on hers, cringing a little at the broken note he couldn't quite keep out of his voice. "I'm sorry, love, that's the best I can do. I'm a selfish bastard, and it's all I'm ever going to have, this right here. I want it to last. I don't know where we vamps go when we get dusted, but it's bloody well certain to have a warmer climate than wherever you end up." A haunted look crossed Buffy's face for an instant. She reached up, her fingertips tracing a feather-light path down the arch of his cheek in unconscious mirroring of his gesture. As if, mirabile dictu, the thought of his not being there troubled her, and she sought reassurance of his presence. "I can live with that. So to speak." She laughed a little. "I'm beginning to think... maybe I wasn't lying to them after all." The line between her brows reappeared, and she tilted her chin up, regarding him with upside-down gravity. "You wanted to kill Ramon tonight." He raised his head and looked down at her for a long, level moment. She kept her eyes fixed on his, but he could feel a tremor running through her. He longed to say something that would soothe it away, return the laughter to her eyes. To lie to her. The one thing he'd never been able to pull off, even if he hadn't promised... You want it real, Buffy Anne Summers... He braced himself. "Vampire, love. I always want to kill them." She lay against him, quiescent, listening, neither drawing closer nor pulling away. He felt the restless urge to get up and start pacing, but as long as she was willing to sit here he wasn't minded to encourage her to leave. So why are you still talking, you git? "Most of them, anyway. Don't want to kill you. Or the Bit. Or the rest of your little gang of followers--well, Harris, sometimes, but he'd stain the rug. We do that, you know. Not kill the people we... get on with." "So basically we've got half a dozen people you wouldn't kill if the chip came out tomorrow, and then there's the rest of the world?" Her voice was remarkably steady; no one less attuned to her minute shifts of mood would have caught the quaver beneath the confidence. "You see, I need to know where I stand, Spike." Spike rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Not exactly. Look, there's always been categories, like. People who shoot you, or tie me up and sodding near turn my brain to tapioca--I'll always want to kill them. Most people, I don't give a damn about them one way or the other. Unless I'm bored or peckish or pissed off, and then I want to kill them. There's necessary people, like Bernie Kohlermann or Willy, and I won't kill them, even if I want to--" And let's not examine the laundry list of humanity piling up in this category too closely, William, because I don't fancy explaining exactly how Dawn's silly little bints of friends are vital to your continued existence, do you? It's like bloody stray cats, once you give 'em names- - "And then there's people I... love, and I don't want to kill them unless they're being particular bitches--oi, mind the leather! But it's not the wanting or not wanting that matters in the end, is it? It's whether or not they end up on the dinner menu." He hesitated. "And--" Both of them looked up at the noise on the stairs. Tara stood there, clutching her robe to her. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I fell asleep. I wouldn't have interrupted, but I heard voices, and--it's Dawn. I got the call right after you checked in at ten, and then I tried calling back, but you'd left and no place else I called had seen you. She--she got arrested."

The cavern was illuminated with rank upon rank of black candles, tall pillars and short squat votives crowded together on ledges, a great waxen pipe-organ with flames guttering low and sullen on each black and curling wick. Stalactites of drippings festooned the cavern walls. Willow watched a droplet of wax roll down the side of the nearest candle, slow, and freeze in the cool air. It smelled of licorice. One of the eyeless men--the leader, Willow guessed, though they all looked identical--knelt before her, his bald leathery head bent in obsequious reverence. A dozen or so of his companions milled about at the opposite end of the cavern, having taken their fawning to a discreet distance after she'd singed a few burlap robes. Harbingers, they called themselves, and that name was naggingly familiar, but she couldn't exactly stroll into the Magic Box and play Research Girl right now. She'd made them fetch her a bench to sit on. It looked as if it had been ripped out of one of the old Initiative labs--there were bolt-holes in the bottoms of the legs and the slate-blue leatherette upholstery sported some fairly nasty-looking claw-marks on one end. Better than bare rock, though; if she was going to play Evil Overlord, there were going to be amenities. (She was pretty certain that her current situation was in blatant violation of Evil Overlord Rules #22, 50, and 54, but she had #29 down pat.) "It's very simple," Willow said to the eyeless man. "You and your boss can't do diddly-squat without me. So let's ditch the cute little manipulation games, 'kay? Tell me exactly what the frilly heck is going on and maybe I'll just, you know, do something radical like help you. Not loving the mini-Armageddon concept." She avoided the creature's lack of eyes, her fingers picking at mildewy stuffing through the rents in the bench. "You're all pissy because I didn't kill Dawn and Spike didn't kill me and Buffy didn't kill Spike, but is any of that what you really want? No. What you want is to re-balance the Balance. Am I right?" The Harbinger raised his mutilated head and did the staring-into-space thing that passed for looking at her. "What we want," he said in his dry grasshopper whisper, "is to overwhelm this entire plane in a firestorm of destruction, and enslave those we do not slay outright for an eternity of torment." A rictus which vaguely resembled a smile distorted his face for a second. "However, correcting the Balance is an acceptable short-term goal." Willow swallowed. Never let them see you sweat, or stutter, or... even some of Spike's liquid courage would be nice right about now. "OK. So the problem is there are too many good guys running around. This can't just be happening because I brought Buffy back from the dead. There's been two Slayers ever since she died the first time." Raven-harsh laughter rang in her ears. "No. It is not just happening because you brought the Slayer back to a life she'd willingly renounced, but your rash actions in doing so precipitated the present situation nonetheless. Why do you think fate drew Daniel Tanner to you, to make you our agent? That, too, is balance." The laugh chopped off short and he struck the butt of his staff against the cavern floor, speaking a word that grated like the stone-on-stone scrape of an opening tomb. A many-leveled game board shimmered into being in front of her, Salvador Dali channeling Harry Potter. Pieces advanced, retreated, fought and died, and with every move the configuration of the board shifted around them, an ever-changing pattern of action, reaction and consequence. "Even this is a simplification, but the Balance, you see, is not a simple see-saw," the eyeless man said. "One piece for every living and unliving creature in this world. Any one of whom can, at the right time, in the right place, make an immeasurable difference. But there are certain individuals who, by virtue of power or determination, are recognized as warriors for one side or another." Willow gripped the edge of the bench and leaned forward, studying the pieces in fascination. There was Buffy, sword in hand, the white queen. Giles and a mini-Willow flanked her, clad in bishop's robes and bearing ancient tomes, and there was Xander carrying a knight's lance. Opposite them was the black king--the Master, with Darla as his queen and a court full of minions. A new figure entered the fray, black and white entwined: Angel and Angelus frozen in a terrible struggle, the man pinning the demon. The board shifted; Angel staked Darla and Buffy crushed the Master's bones. Another shift and Spike roared onto the board with Drusilla, a black knight in the service of a new dark queen. Angelus ascended the throne, the new black king, and Spike interfered with his queen's move to allow Buffy check and mate. Willow watched as Faith threw aside her white sword for Mayor Wilkins's obsidian knife, and stood at his right hand. Angel departed for the far ends of the board. Maggie Walsh died at the hands of her own creation. Faith changed sides again, Anya peered out of a castle that looked suspiciously like the Magic Box, Dawn arrived out of nowhere, neither black nor white, but a brilliant green. With each move and countermove the board changed, the dark pit at its heart slowly becoming a level plane, and an ominous upthrust of squares, like the burgeoning of a newborn volcano, began to form in its center. The eyeless man looked down upon the board, his slash of a mouth dragging lines of his wrinkled countenance down with it. "Historically the Slayer fights alone, but Buffy Summers has drawn others to battle at her side. It was for her sake that Angel rejoined the fight on the side of the Powers. It was through his intervention that Faith did likewise. There are not only two Slayers, but the side of Light commands the vampire with a soul, and controls the Key, which was never intended to take part in the great struggle at all. Further," the Harbinger's voice took on a tinge of disgust, "Buffy Summers has suborned one of the greatest dark warriors of our age." Willow blinked down at the tiny figure of Spike rearing back on his motorcycle, a jet-black anomaly among the assemblage of white pieces, and didn't bother to suppress a snort. "Spike? Near brush with sharp pointy teeth here! I'd call him part of the solution, not part of the problem." "You are alive, are you not?" the Harbinger said. "Therefore he is part of the problem." The tiny figure of Buffy fell to its death from a miniature tower, and the swelling in the center of the board ceased its expansion until mini-Willow pulled mini-Buffy through a glowing portal and into play once more. "Being what he is, he cannot change sides. The human soul is a mutable thing; a demon's essence is carved in diamond." "But Angel--" "Angelus did not change; he was subdued. William the Bloody is--" He clenched fleshless fingers into scarecrow fists, and hissed in tones of loathing, "--trying to do the right thing. Being what he is, his motives cannot but be selfish--he fights for good to sate his craving for battle, to gratify his vanity, to bring happiness to those he..." the loathing distilled into pure acid, "...loves." The eyeless man pronounced the last word as if it were poison and his lips would wither to speak it. "But still, he is trying. That in itself is... unprecedented. It shakes the foundations of the possible." On the board, Spike saved Daniel Tanner from a pair of anonymous vampires, and the Hellmouth boiled up like a witch's cauldron. "That's it?" Willow slid off the bench and dropped to her knees beside the board. She picked up the tiny jet figure and turned it over in her fingers. Weird to think that Spike without a soul was a bigger problem than Angel with. "That's what messed everything up? It's all Spike's fault for slacking off on the homicidal mania?" "No more or less than it is the fault of Buffy Summers's renewed existence on this plane. Either one is unbalancing. Together they threaten disaster." "What if we just teleport one of them to Maui or something?" The eyeless man managed to convey complete contempt without moving a single facial muscle. "Insufficient. They must either be removed from this plane, or enticed to our side. Else..." The vision of Sunnydale as a blasted field of corpses flooded her senses once more, heat and crow-calls and the stench of rotting flesh. Willow gripped the game-piece tightly, its tiny sharp projections digging into her palm, and fought with her heaving stomach. "Your side." "If you say so." The Harbinger's smile was edging into Hannibal Lecter territory. "The former would be simpler, the latter of more long-term benefit. To some extent the Balance is self-correcting. When it skews too far to one side, random factors combine to provide individuals with opportunities to act so as to increase the presence of whichever side is lacking. But the individuals presented with such opportunities must choose to take advantage of them." Willow frowned. "Like Spike did when he helped Buffy defeat Angelus... or when he turned against Adam... or when he held out against Glory, or..." Spike, it seemed, was large with the answering when opportunity knocked. She was beginning to see why the Black Hats might be peeved with him--not exactly the most reliable of employees. The Harbinger nodded grimly and Willow narrowed her eyes. "Wait a minute. Losing my magic bringing Buffy back...that's one of these random factors, isn't it?" The smile became an incongruously prissy smirk. "Your reputation for intelligence is well-deserved. And you, unlike your comrades, realize that maintaining the Balance is more important than petty hopes of victory for your side. Who, then, is the more virtuous?" Suck-up. Still, in the midst of stomach-churning fear and guilt it was a comforting thought. Just because the eyeless guy was evil didn't mean he couldn't be right. Spike had gone against his home team three or four times and had ended up helping save the world each time--why couldn't she do the same? Unlike Spike, she wasn't running off half-cocked in a passion to do the right thing for all the wrong reasons. She'd thought this out. She was responsible for this mess; it was up to her to clean it up. She looked up at the Harbinger. "Removed from this plane, or converted, huh?" Willow closed her eyes and reached out for the cords of power binding her to the remnants of Tanner's band, reeling them in. Deep within her was the sound of satisfied laughter. ***** Spike had never tackled brooding as an art--for one thing, Angel had staked out that emotional territory and guarded it with dog-in-the-manger ferocity for the last century, and for another, a proper brood required an attention span Spike didn't possess. A day or two of deep brown study, tops, and he'd be exploding with the twitchy compulsion to do something. The closest he usually came was a sulk, preferably accompanied by getting good and smashed. Right now he regretted his lack of expertise. They liked him. Tara'd said so, and Tara, of all people in the world, wouldn't lie. But they didn't trust him, not with the chip gone, not even Niblet. The knowledge was a gnawing ache in his gut, all the more painful for his inability to explain its presence. Buffy loved him. She lay draped atop him now, the afghan-wrapped chrysalis of some arts-and-crafts-minded moth, deep in untroubled sleep only inches away from the fangs which had come so close to meeting in Willow's tender neck. If that wasn't trust, what was? And shouldn't that have been enough, that Buffy trusted him with her life? Except, of course, that he knew better than anyone that there were plenty of things Buffy held dearer than her own life. Her sister. Her friends. Her world. Her sodding duty, however weary of it she claimed to be. She'd entrusted him with Dawn once, and he'd failed her, and was bidding fair to do so again. His arms tightened fractionally around Buffy's shoulders and he timed his breathing to hers, drawing just enough air into his unresponsive lungs to fuel the low frustrated rumble in the depths of his chest. Each heartbeat marked a moment he'd never have with her again--each one to be seized and drained to the utmost. Holding her was a small slice of heaven, but... ...it wasn't enough. Not good enough. Not for her. Never good enough. Got to find a way to do better. A sharp little elbow jabbed him in the ribs as Buffy stirred in her sleep, and the top of her head bumped against his chin. She'd been catnapping for an hour now, and he had no intention of waking her; she'd gotten less sleep last night than he had. Too late; a second later the chrysalis heaved, stretched, and split open. Buffy's tawny-blonde head emerged from the fuzzy blue and crimson folds, staring into the empty spaces of the night--kindred to the empty spaces behind her eyes. The windows of her soul had the shades drawn again. She looked down at him as if at a stranger, and the afghan bunched beneath her clenched fingers. Her nails bit crescents in his chest through the intricately knotted yarn. "Am I here? Is this real?" Her voice was a lost thing in the wilderness. God, for an enemy he could fight, something with spines and scales he could pound into jelly and know that it would never trouble her again! Nothing to do against this foe but endure, while emptiness mocked him through her eyes. He cupped her face in both palms and smoothed one hand across her forehead, pushing the tangled locks of hair away from her face. "Shh, love. It's real. You're real--were you dreaming? You're awake now, pretty pet..." For a moment she remained frozen in his grip, and then, to his enormous relief, a hint of spring appeared in the winter grey of her eyes. Buffy melted against him as the thaw spread through the rest of her, wrapping her arms around his torso. "Sorry," she whispered. "Just one of those... spells." "I know, love. I'm here." "Sometimes I think they're what's real. That I'm still dead, or I was never alive at all and all this is--" She broke off, racked with a continuous shiver. He'd never thought of her as fragile, or someone to be protected in a physical sense, but she felt so small like this, clinging to him like a burr. "I keep thinking--if I could remember. If there was some connection between me now and and me then. Something to fill up the empty place. I'd know. I'd be sure I was real. But there's nothing." Your fault she's like this, you selfish tosser. Your soul that fetched her back. Spike's teeth met in his lower lip, and the unsatisfying tang of his own blood flooded his mouth. Sodding guilt. He hated it; freakish, unnatural thing, what business had he feeling anything like it? In the last year it had infiltrated his mind and heart like an emotional bindweed, getting into everywhere it wasn't wanted. "Love," he whispered, miserable, "I'm..." Her fingers on his lips silenced him. "Don't be," she said. "Not now. I want to be here. Believe that." But she was still shaking, the shiver muted through the enveloping blanket. He tucked the afghan's folds around her shoulders, stroking her hair and crooning softly as if she were a nervous animal to be soothed. Gradually Buffy relaxed beneath his touch, the last of the tension easing out of her shoulders as she snuggled into his embrace. "I did dream something," she said, a frown drawing a pair of tiny lines between her brows. "You were in it. You, and Willow, and...something else. It was your birthday. There was a party. You were sitting at the head of the table, and you had a crown on, and Willow gave you a present. It was a beautiful box, all tied up with a big red bow, and when you opened it up there was this... this... this grail kind of thing, a golden cup." A wave of deja vu washed over him. He'd heard those words, or something like them, before--long ago and far away. Something Dru had said, maybe, but he couldn't remember, and like much of what Dru said, it didn't make any more sense the second time around. Buffy went on, "It shone and shone, and you picked it up to drink out of it... and I knew that whatever was in the cup was going to kill you. Burn you up." Her eyes sought his, haunted. "I tried to take it away from you, smash it, but you said you needed it--you were crying, oh, God, like your heart was going to break--" Her voice cracked. "And you raised the cup, and you drank, and you--you screamed, and there was light everywhere, and--and--you were gone." Spike brushed his lips across her forehead, kissing away the worry-lines, and summoned up a century's worth of experience in the fine art of handling women prone to prophetic nightmares. "Ah, is that all, sweet? You got any idea how often I've set myself afire? Takes more than a little charring round the edges to do Spike in. You even sure this dream's one of the special Slayer jobbies, and not just come of fretting over your sis all day?" An almost-smile flashed across Buffy's face and she scrubbed at her gritty eyes with her knuckles. "No, the nightmares about Dawn have a lot more whining for Kleenex and Seven-Up in them. It felt like a Slayer dream. But usually the Slayer dreams are more with the Cecil B. DeMille, not so much with the David Lynch. What time is it?" Spike glanced at the sky and consulted his internal clock. "Getting on for ten." Buffy struggled free of the afghan and sat up, stretching. Her nose wrinkled disdainfully at their general air of disheveled sticky mess. "We have got to stop doing this in places with no running water." "Sorry, pet. I can kick the head off a sprinkler if you like." "Ooh, chivalry is not dead! C'mon, Grr-Kitty, let's go get cleaned up. The night is young and we have multiple asses to kick." "Grr-what?" "Don't blame me. Blondie Bear was taken." Spike dropped the rumble an octave and growled, "Call me either one where anyone can hear you, chit, and I'll bloody well bite you." Buffy's eyes glinted at him beneath lowered lashes, and ooh, yeah, there came the pouty lip, plump and pink and very, very biteable. "Threat or promise, Spikey?" She leaned over the side of the sarcophagus and began rummaging for her clothing. "We need to make the rounds and see if anyone's got goss on Willow. If she's pulled a Saruman on us she may be hiring orcs." Spike's eyebrow went up. "What?! I saw the movie! He's the... the other beardy guy." She paused, shirt in hand. "I don't even know how to feel about Willow right now. Mad, and worried, and did I say mad? I kind of hate asking Tara to..." Spike laced his hands behind his head, licking the bitten place on his lower lip. "Yeh, not the most fun in the world, hunting down your nearest and dearest. Supposed to meet Clem at Willy's at eleven anyway; got business, and as of midnight Sunday last he owes me fifty quid. By the way, there's a Krallock demon in town we could do in any time we've a spare evening. Get me a fag while you're down there, love?" Her reply was slightly muffled. "You don't need a cigarette." Spike grinned. "Yeh? Came so hard that last time I thought my balls'd turned inside out. Believe me, pet, I need a ciggie." He could feel the heat rising in her; it was such a turn-on making her blush. For all her uninhibited verve between the sheets, Buffy liked to pretend a certain degree of innocence... or perhaps it wasn't pretend after all; part of her allure was the constant sense that he could astound her with her own body's capacity for pleasure. "Possibly three or four. Come on, world'll end at least six more times before you can expire of my second-hand smoke." Buffy abandoned her search and flung herself across him, straddling his hips, and pinned his arms over his head. "Uh uh. It's my sacred Chosen One duty to fight evil, and smoking is evil. All those TV ads say so." Spike regarded her for a second, catching his tongue-tip between his teeth, then twisted out from under her without warning and reached for his duster. Buffy dove after him, grabbed the other flap and managed to get a hand into one pocket. "Hah!" She waved the half-empty package of Marlboros triumphantly in the air, sending a few white cylinders flying gracefully into the night. "Bloody hell, give that back! Do you know how much those things cost when you're not nicking 'em?" Buffy stuck out her tongue, doing a little nyah-nyah lap-dance that set her breasts jiggling enticingly, and fuck if he wasn't packing wood again. She broke into a smug grin. "Make me." "Grrrraarhh!" He lunged for her. Buffy ducked inside his reach. Her fingers were digging into his ribs, skittering up and down over every sensitive spot she'd discovered in the last week and a half, and Spike's growl metamorphosed into a shriek of laughter. "Bloody--YIII!! Buffy! No! Not that! Not there, oh Christ, fuck, YOW!" They flipped over the side of the sarcophagus and landed in a tangle of discarded clothes and afghan. Spike's teeth were just laying claim to one pert little breast when Buffy's purse rang from somewhere underneath the small of her back. "Where'd it go, where'd--" Buffy flailed around for the cell with one hand, keeping the cigarettes at arm's length while Spike considered the delightful prospect before him. He gave the aureole a few preparatory circlings with the tip of his tongue and hummed as the delicate flesh crinkled beneath his touch. Buffy's eyes rolled back as she finally found the cell phone. "Hello? Tara? Yeah, I was just about to call you." She made furious get-off-me! gestures at Spike, who ignored her blithely. "See, vampire here, love." He blew on the damp spot and turned his attention to the other breast, coaxing the nipple higher and harder, relishing the little involuntary jerks of her hips under his weight. "Got the world's biggest oral fixation--deprive me of my fags 'n I've got to suck on something..." Spike vamped out and caught her nipple between the points of his fangs, nipping and savaging with a rough relentless delicacy, until he could feel the blood pounding beneath the translucent skin. Reverting to human shape, he drew one sensitive little raspberry nub into his mouth with a growl, suckling avidly until the wild look in her eyes let him know it was time to switch off. With the cell in one hand and his smokes in the other Buffy was helpless to retaliate, and her every little wriggle and gasp went straight to his resurgent cock. "Static?" Buffy squeaked. "No, that's Spike. Yes, I found him, and we had--a-ah!--long talk. He's, uh--oh!--looking for his cigarettes. Filthy, filthy habit. We were about to sally forth and--oooooh!--comb the underworld. But we can get his laundry off the couch first. Uh! Bye!" Buffy dropped the cell phone, clasping the back of his head and pressing him closer, her fingers buried in his curls. A long wordless moan urged him to make a more thorough mouthful of her. The cigarettes fell from the nerveless fingers of her other hand, and Spike immediately snatched them, rocked back on his heels and stuck one into the corner of his mouth with a smirk. "Tsk, Slayer, lyin' down on the job? What happened to sallying forth to comb the underworld?" Buffy glared, panting hard, then burst into giggles. Spike glanced down at himself; Little Spike was bobbing enthusiastically against his belly, desperate for more attention. Buffy rolled over, hiccuping with laughter, and shimmied across the pile of clothes to give it to him. "Isn't smoking supposed to stunt your growth?" Once Buffy's expert assistance rendered him once more capable of zipping up his jeans in comfort, Spike lay in lazy repletion, chin on hand, and watched her dress. She sat on the side of the sarcophagus with her shirt half-buttoned, the modest swell of her breasts visible over the abbreviated lace of her bra--she was small and firm enough to go without if she wanted, but that flash of the forbidden always made his heart yearn to race, so he was glad she sometimes didn't want. Her hands moved in sure, graceful arcs, combing out her hair. A hundred strokes, he thought; lucky brush, in such intimate daily contact with that cascade of spun sunlight. He loved her hair, the sheen and bounce of gold silk above and the musky tangle of chestnut curls below; all that's best of dark and bright indeed, and who was he to sneer at unnatural blondes? He ran a toe along her bare ankle and Buffy looked down at him for one moment of perfect radiant content, and then trouble entered her eyes once more. "Is it always going to be like this? I mean, eventually do we get to the point where we can touch each other without precipitating an exchange of bodily fluids?" Silly question. He'd be wanting her when she was wrinkled and grey--stake him now and his restless dust would follow whatever wind stirred her clothing. "'Spect eventually we'll wear each other out and be reduced to one or two shags a day like everyone else." "I guess. This, with us, totally refuses to suck. And I feel skeezy enjoying myself even a little when Tara's home worried sick and Willow's... wherever, doing whatever." Ah, yes, the Summers guilt complex reared its annoying yet endearing head. "I'm worried about Red too, love, but since we weren't planning on hunting her tonight I can't see we've set the schedule back any." Buffy looked at him, curious, and though he wasn't sure what he'd said to prompt it, she smiled, one of those glorious light-up-the-room smiles he'd happily endure a week-long John Tesh concert to see. She stuffed the brush back in her purse, buttoned her blouse up and slipped her kicky little suede ankle boots back on--where the hell had she gotten those? Sometimes he suspected Dawn wasn't the only light-fingered one in the family. "It's funny. The first time we ever kissed, that time Willow messed up that spell...the moment we touched, nothing else mattered. I was sure it was the spell. But it keeps happening. Now I get to worry that it's because of whatever freakazoid demony secrets are lurking in my sordid Slayer past." Spike allowed himself a nostalgic moment: Memories of their torrid clinch while the battle with the Chumash spirits raged around them had provided him with wanking material for the next year. He sat up and began pulling on his boots. "What of it if it is? Say you've a vamp fetish, say I've a Slayer fetish--good on us. Bloody brilliant luck for the both of us we met." Buffy shook her head. "You know, I've got to stop listening to you. If I do it long enough, you start to make sense." ***** The Zagros demon in the purple knee brace was leaving the bar as the motorcycle roared into the parking lot. It snuffed the air as they pulled up, and shuffled hurriedly out of their way as Spike swung Buffy off the seat. Buffy watched it limp off across the unusually-full parking lot, eyes narrowed. "Scales the exact same color as the Bridesmaids' Dresses From Hell, I swear!" she muttered under her breath, her haunted expression segueing into a fresh pout at Spike's chuckle. "Oh, sure, you can laugh--all you have to do is show up in something black. What a sacrifice." "Innit, though? Just goes to show what an altruistic bloke I am. 'Course I also have to be polite to Harris. Bad form to eat the groom on his wedding day." Spike offered her his arm; she took it, and he matched her quick glowing smile--a week and a half of shagging each other senseless in every position two exceptionally athletic and limber people could manage, and this simple public touch still lit him up like an electric torch. He didn't have to put on a show of swagger as they strode up to the front door; he was escorting his lady and for that reason alone he was king of the world. The noise hit him the minute they stepped inside--the jukebox was blaring "This Kiss" over the din of a few dozen shouted conversations in half as many languages. On a normal Tuesday night, Willy's place boasted half a dozen customers, lurking in the corner booths or holding up the bar, but tonight every booth and table was packed, and part of the crowd had spilled over into the normally closed-off storerooms in the back of the building, much to the disgruntlement of the kitten poker crowd. Spike scanned the crowd for Clem, but the Sharpesi demon was nowhere to be seen. The crowd wasn't the usual mix of vampires, demons, and a few down-and-out humans looking to score a suck job or just too fried to care who they drank with, either. The percentage of the weird and unusual had gone way up. A pair of Serevus demons, (obviously from out of town, judging by their matching I VISITED THE HELLMOUTH AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT attire) were posing beside the jukebox, their leathery wings poking through slits in the back of the shirts and fanning the smoky air. The tall, thin, bile-colored demon Spike recalled from their last visit was squinting at the Serevi through the viewfinder of a cheap 35mm camera and urging them "Closer! The wings are still cut off!" The looks of wariness, fear and just plain huh? at the sight of him at the Slayer's side, instead of a respectful three paces behind, were still pure gold. Word of Buffy's break with the Council was all over town by now, but no one was quite sure what it meant. Willy was swiping a rag around a glass behind the bar, with the effect of redistributing the smudges in new and interesting patterns. He looked up as they approached, the tip of his long thin nose twitching. "Hey, Slayer," he said, guarded. "Or is it just Miz Summers now that you're a free agent again?" "It's always Slayer to you, Willy," Buffy replied, leaning against the bar. Spike settled into a hipshot slouch behind her, arms folded across his chest. "Busy," she said, as the vampires on either side of her grabbed their drinks and abandoned their stools. "What is this, triple coupon night?" Willy shrugged. "Bad stuff in the downbelow, Slayer. Or good stuff. Either way, the Hellmouth's not real reliable-like these days, and it's messin' up a lot of prime real estate. You need a place to crash for the day, Spike, I'm rentin' out the storeroom. Only fifty bucks a day, and cheap at the price." "That would be the storeroom with the windows that let in the nice sunbeams around tennish?" Spike asked. "Grand-dad didn't recommend the view." "Suit yourself. What can I do you for? Got a nice fresh shipment of--" "We need some information," Buffy interrupted. "Willow Rosenberg. She disappeared Monday night, and we think she's gotten into something over her head. Have you heard anything--" "Yeah, well, my memory ain't none too good since that no-good skunk messed with my mind." Willy set the glass down and picked up another one. Spike observed with interest that the one he'd set down was now actually dirtier than the one he was cleaning. "Not to mention the recent unpleasantness with the Hellmouth. All these folks on the move, it's easy to miss one girl." At Buffy's hard-edged look, he added hastily, "I'll tell ya anything I know, Slayer, you don't have to bust up the place. But things is kinda hazy these days. I'm just sayin'." The corners of Buffy's mouth went pinched, and her hand started to travel towards her purse. Willy was fishing for a bribe, but considering the current strained state of the Summers financial empire, Spike was fairly sure she didn't have enough to make The Snitch pony up, and he wasn't inclined to part with any more of his own hard-earned dosh than absolutely necessary. "This shouldn't strain even your limited mental capacity, mate," Spike said. "Wiccan bird--red hair, green eyes, so tall, yen for the ladies? Seen hide nor hair of her, or not?" Willy smirked. "You're asking me?" He threw a conspiratorial look at Buffy. "Last time the witch went missing, Chip Boy here--urk!" Glassware went flying and the bartender's legs spasmed in a frog-kick as Spike heaved him over the bar. Spike cocked his head and smiled, very deliberately letting the man watch his face distort and his canines lengthen and sharpen. The room went silent, as if someone'd flipped the mute button on the whole chattering lot of them, and every head swivelled to the tableau beside the bar, taking in the fact of Spike holding Willy at arm's length a foot above the floor and not collapsing in agony. "You might think," Spike said pleasantly, "That this trick's working 'cause I'm not meaning to hurt you. Could just be I'm just holding you here for the Slayer to whale on, not that either of us'd do something that uncivilized--oh, wait." He drove his other fist into Willy's gut while Buffy watched with critical detachment--not hard; barely a love-tap by vampire standards, but Willy gave vent to a very gratifying 'oof!' "Yes, we would." "Spike, he can't tell us everything he knows with a crushed windpipe. Let him down." Spike let go immediately and Willy dropped, staggered, and narrowly averted a fall by grabbing the bar. Buffy pushed that delectable lower lip out. "Besides, I'm not having any fun. Next time I get to be the bad cop." Spike stepped back with an elaborate bow. "Deepest apologies, pet. Ladies first." Buffy shot him a flirtatious smile and rounded on Willy, grabbing the bartender by the lapels. She wasn't tall enough to hold him off the floor, but she got her point across. "So?" Willy rubbed his throat, and jerked his head in Spike's direction. His protuberant eyes were showing a greater than usual amount of white around the edges. "So he's...uh..." "Are we talking about Spike?" Buffy inquired, giving him a shake. "I don't remember us talking about Spike." "Look, honest, Slayer, I don't know! It's like a Rwandan refugee camp down there. Your Willow could be anywhere--but..." He hesitated, and continued in a lower voice, "May not mean anything, but the first folks to start moving, a couple of weeks ago, before all this got so bad? They weren't movin' away from the Hellmouth. They were kiting out of the section of the caves closer to where those Army guys were set up a few years back. If your pal's involved with something, it may be setting up shop there." Buffy let Willy go and exchanged a look with Spike while Willy made a hasty retreat to the relative safety of the area behind the bar. Neither of them had any very fond memories of that particular area of Sunnydale Underground. Spike pulled a twenty out of his pocket and slapped it down on the bar. "Right, then. Clem comes in, we're at the table over there. O-neg and Guinness, make sure it's the hospital stuff, and don't think I can't taste the difference. You want anything, pet? I'm still flush with nice clean eyeball money." "Diet Coke." She eyed the glasses on the counter. "In the can, please. And I could go for some nachos." "You heard the Slayer." Spike lapsed back into human shape and gave Willy his most charming and predatory smile. "Keep the change." They headed for the table, loaded down with drinks and Willy's Kitten Surprise nachos. Willy's limited menu was sadly devoid of blooming onions, and Spike wondered exactly how high on the evil meter breaking a few of the owner's fingers until he agreed to feature it would register. Probably fairly high, going by the glowing sense of anticipation the thought of doing it produced. Maybe he could just threaten finger breakage; contemplating that only gave him a small happy. Spike set his blood and Guinness down, delivered Buffy her Coke, pulled out a chair for her and slouched comfortably down on his tailbone. Buffy perched on the edge of her seat and picked up a nacho, nibbling on the edge. "We can recon the caves--" she yawned. "Tomorrow, I guess. Maybe Tara will be able to narrow it down to, oh, only fifty or sixty miles of tunnel by then." She looked at the nachos, then down at herself, eyes large with sudden doubt. "You'd tell me if I was getting fat, right?" That made it official; he was absolutely, positively The Boyfriend-- bizarre changes of subject and the most dreaded question a woman could ask a man all wrapped up in one. "Is there any answer to that which won't get me staked? 'Love, hate to tell you, but you're in grave danger of ballooning up to a size two?'" She smacked his arm. "I'm serious! I've been eating like a horse lately. Do these pants look tighter to you?" Spike favored her with a lascivious grin. "Yeh, and the strange thing is, seein' you in 'em always makes my trousers tighter, too. Think it's psychological?" Buffy rolled her eyes. "You like getting slapped around, don't you?" "Depends on who's doing the slapping." He waggled an eyebrow at her. "Still got those manacles under the bed, you know." "And once more, we enter into 'ew' territory. Like I'd ever let you chain me up again." "Thinking more of letting you chain me up." She snorted, but there was a gleam of--anticipation? curiosity?--in her eyes. Make a note of that one for the one-month anniversary. Buffy scooched her chair over, leaned into his side and gave his biceps a squeeze as he slipped an arm around her shoulders. "You're a big ol' pervert, and if you ever tell anyone I even thought about it the world will find out that you purr when I scratch your lumpies. Hey, there's Clem." "I do not--oh, you're thinking about it, then?" Spike sat up and waved Clem over, and the bile-colored demon's flash went off right in front of them, a hot needle in his light-sensitive eyes. "Watch it, wanker!" He was half-way into game face, blinking white and violet splotches from his vision and lunging over the table when Buffy caught him by the collar and yanked him back to his seat. "Chill, Spike. Save it for the nasties." "Sorry, sorry, sorry!" the creature babbled, its pale bulging eyes darting back and forth between them. "Finger slipped, wrong button, there's no film in it, please don't--" Wrapping the camera in batrachian fingers and clutching it to its boney chest, the demon backed off--a gratifying change from their last encounter, to be sure. A that moment Clem bustled up with a pleased grin, his skin-flaps wobbling, and the would-be photojournalist made its escape. Clem beamed at him. "Hey, Spike! You're looking good. For a dead guy, anyway. Here's that list you wanted. There's only five of them so far, but once people start seeing that you can come through I think-- oh, my." He gaped at Buffy. "You really are going out with the Slayer? Who was that guy?" "Dunno. Some arsewipe who picked a fight with us a couple of weeks ago, and now apparently wants an autographed photo." Spike perused the list: five names, five potential customers. In time, he hoped, they'd be seeking him out through Anya's advertising, but right now he needed a jump-start, and a little industrial espionage--er, word of mouth never hurt anyone. "Been dealing with Teeth, this lot?" Clem snagged a chair from the next table and plopped himself down. Buffy waved him towards the nachos and the demon grabbed a handful and crunched them down. "Yeah. Except for that last guy; he's been going to Rack." Buffy frowned. "Should I know these people?" "Yeh, you should," Spike replied. "But you don't, so listen and learn." Buffy smiled very sweetly at Clem and kicked Spike in the shins. "Spike and I are--hey! That's not why he owes you fifty dollars, is it?" She turned on Spike with an outraged glare. "Were you making bets with him over whether or not I'd go out with you?" In hindsight, that was when it all began to go pear-shaped. "I bloody well was not!" Spike retorted, indignant. "That would be--" Ungentlemanly was the word that leapt to mind, but would blow his badass reputation completely. Clem held up a conciliatory paw. "Oh, no, nothing like that! It was just a little wager on that Krallock demon that blew in from Seattle. Some of us--us demons, you know--didn't believe you'd really stopped working for the Council, so I bet Spike you'd kill it before Sunday night. But you didn't, so--" He fished a wad of crumpled bills out of the folds of his tunic and handed them over to Spike with a cheerful, saw- toothed smile. Spike took them with a sense of dread; something was about to go terribly wrong. "Krallock demon?" Buffy asked, her eyes sharp as throwing daggers. "The one you just told me about tonight?" Oh, buggering hell, this can't be good. Spike became extremely interested in the foam on his beer. "Uh... yeh. Since you're not working for the Council anymore," he cleared his throat significantly to remind her that Clem was right there with his great flaps of ears twitching like weathervanes, "didn't figure you'd need to know from me." He ran a finger around the mouth of his glass and licked beer suds off it. Buffy grew ominously quiet. "Even if I'm not working for the Council any longer," she said, "don't you think I might need to know about the big boys in town?" There was a tightness in her voice he couldn't quite analyze. "After all, Krallock demon... I'm not the big expert you or Giles or Anya is, but aren't they on the large and vicious side?" Clem nodded vigorously. "They sure are! Why, when it showed up for poker night last week--this was after you took off for L.A., Spike--it bit Ralphie's head clean off after he bluffed it into folding on a straight when all Ralphie had was a pair of fours." Clem shook his head ruefully. "Man, that Krallock sure doesn't like vampires! Dust everywhere. We were sweeping Ralphie out of the furniture for hours." "Gathering I needn't to go into mourning for Ralphie." Buffy's tone didn't lighten any. "But let me get this straight, Spike. You kept from me the fact that there was a dangerous new demon in town--a demon that for all I know has been snacking on sweet little old ladies and their poodles every night for the last week--so that you could win a fifty dollar bet?" Spike squirmed. "Well, yeh." He was getting all defensive and bothered, and wasn't sure why. This was demon business pure and simple, and done in defense of her little scheme, too. Mostly. "Don't know what your knickers are in a twist about. All I bet on was you wouldn't kill it by Sunday, 'cause of, you know; whether you knew it was in town to begin with never came up. Never suggested to 'em you knew it was there. 'S not cheating--much, anyway." Buffy had drawn away from him and was sitting up very straight, looking at him with huge wounded eyes, and Spike frantically reviewed the last several minutes of conversation, trying to figure out what was wrong. Krallock demons, large, dangerous, poodle snacking, little old ladies, not cheating, much... Oh bloody buggering fuck. It was the little things that got him. Hadn't he used up his quota of irony yet? Nobly turn aside from warm-blooded murder and trip up on a stupid sodding sin of omission. Not a little thing to her, though, those hypothetical old ladies. "Harris and I were going to take it out Sunday night," he said, painfully aware of how feeble he sounded. "We just got distracted by the Hellmouth going arse-up on us. And it's not as if we've had time to hunt the bloody thing anyway! In fact--" "That's not the point! You kept something from me that affects my job--my real job, not whatever I end up doing to pay the bills." Buffy drew a deep, dejected breath and let it out. "And people could have gotten killed. Maybe they have." She wasn't even angry, and that was the worst part of watching the walls that had recently been breached between them slamming up again behind her eyes. She was just... resigned. As if she didn't--as if she couldn't expect better of him. This is the way the world ends, this is the way the world ends, not with a bang... Spike sat there, gripping his glass, eyes glued to the scarred tabletop as Buffy rose to her feet and slung her purse over her shoulder. Get mad at me, love. Flay me up one side and down the other. Hit me, threaten me with stakes, do something, say something. Angry means we've got a chance, angry means you think I could've done better... "I'm tired, Spike," she said. "I'm going home." He looked up, met her eyes, his own all anguished desperation; she turned her head aside, as if from the sight of some terrible wound. "Buffy, look, I cocked up--" "Yes, you did." She was going to leave him his pride, for all it was worth; no stomping out, no public humiliation. Small favors. Buffy bent over and dropped a chaste kiss on his forehead, and when she straightened her eyes were bright with emotion, fathomless pools fringed with jet. "I love you," she whispered, fingertips so very gentle along the side of his face, the line of his jaw. "I do. I will always..." Her voice cracked in two, shattered into shards so painful he could see her throat closing in agony around them, and how could he soothe away pain he'd caused? "But this is one of the times it's very, very hard." The room was spinning, and Spike squeezed his eyes closed to shut out the sight of the hurt in hers, and found himself dragging in huge harsh lungfuls of breath. As wounds made by words go, not so deep as the grave nor wide as a church door, but 'tis enough, 'twill serve... She was gone when he opened his eyes, and Clem was shaking his shoulder. "Spike! Hey! Spike, are you OK?" Spike gave one short bitter bark of laughter. "Yeh. 'M okay. Just okay." ***** He was sitting in Buffy's living room. He wasn't exactly sure why; everyone else had gone home or to bed. "You can get the phone, can't you, Giles?" Buffy asked as she waltzed out the door. "Of course," he answered, though he was really quite tired. She tossed her hair and smiled at him, and he didn't have the heart to complain. The phone rang the moment the door closed behind her. "Is Dawn there?" Breathless, giggly girl-voices; Lisa, Megan, Janice, who could tell them apart? "She skipped school and giant snakes ate the cafeteria, and only the Key can fix it." "She's indisposed," he said, but the other line was ringing. "Hello, it's just me!" Clem, cheerful and faintly apologetic. "I need to get this stuff to Spike." The demon's wrinkled paw emerged from the receiver, holding a bouquet of squirming eyeballs. "Can you take a message?" "I think it might be better if--" Rrrring! "Mr. Giles? Have you seen my daughter? I have to tell you, if you've let Willow go off to destroy the world on her own I'll be forced to report you to MOO. I didn't sign her permission slip." He was juggling three or four receivers now. "Giles!" Buffy chirped through one of them. "I found Spike, and it's OK--he made me a vampire, and we're going to get married and live happily ever after, except not so much with the living. Giles? Giles? Are you there, Giles?" Giles woke, his heart pounding, and lay there for a moment, clutching his pillow and coming to the groggy realization that the shrill insistent ringing in his ear was coming from the telephone downstairs and not the remnants of his dream. He groped for his glasses on the bedside table, crawled out of bed and staggered downstairs, barking his shin against a box full of books. He swore bitterly, and grabbed the receiver, expecting news of Willow, erupting Hellmouths, or gods on parade. What he got was Quentin Travers. "Rupert, are you mad?" Giles slumped against the breakfast bar, putting one of the leaning towers of books in grave danger of toppling, and squinted across the darkened living room at the time on the VCR. "Very possibly." He'd gotten home past midnight, stared at the pile of notes and journals on the kitchen table for a moment, and very deliberately turned his back on the whole mess and gone upstairs to bed. He ran a hand through his hair. "Quentin, it's three in the bloody morning over here, and I have a beast of a headache. Can't this wait?" "How long have you known that Buffy Summers has been... involved..." Travers invested the word with such concentrated bile that Giles was surprised the phone lines didn't corrode, "with a vampire?" Damn. Giles picked up the phone and sat down on the couch. "Involved? Are you referring to Angel?" he asked, schooling his voice to blankness. "You know precisely to whom I am referring. In the last several weeks our local sources have been claiming that Buffy Summers is carrying on a public affair with William the Bloody and that you are not only aware of the situation, you condone it. At first I dismissed it as unfounded rumor, but within the last hour I've received a copy of a photograph of the two of them in a... compromising position, and I can no longer ignore the matter. We've had our differences, Rupert, I won't pretend we haven't, but all your past betrayals of the Council have been in the name of a misguided devotion to your Slayer. But this..." Travers sounded genuinely grieved. "Is still in the name of that misguided devotion," Giles replied coldly. Why couldn't he be having this conversation at nine A.M. after a strong cup of Earl Grey? Travers knew exactly what time it was in Sunnydale, he had no doubt. "In my considered judgement, Buffy's association with Spike is doing her more good than harm at the moment. Should that perception ever reverse itself, I am more than prepared to take the appropriate steps to end it." There was a hissing silence on the other end of the line. "I'd hoped that your researches would have borne more fruit by now. It would make explaining the situation less... traumatic. There are reasons--" "The extreme likelihood that the Slayer's powers have a demonic origin of some sort? Yes, I deduced that some time ago, Travers." Giles suppressed an urge to smugness; Travers would only trip him up with it if he gave in to overconfidence now. "I fail to see its bearing on the current situation." Spluttering. "You fail--? Good Lord, Rupert, what do you think's driving her to this unhallowed liaison? We've seen it happen again and again--the power grows with age and use, and if it's not channeled correctly, disaster! The Slayer who gives in to her baser urges and engages in this... this miscegenation, invariably destroys herself." "Odd." Giles fought down a flare of anger. "My research indicated that a number of them were destroyed by the Council." "All Slayers die sooner or later. The point is, they can die in battle for us, or against us. Buffy Summers has been teetering on the edge of rogue status for years--" "No, Travers," Giles hissed, his hand tightening on the receiver. "That's not the point. I've seen Buffy die twice. Until you can say likewise of a Slayer you've Watched, don't presume to tell me what the point is. She will die. But she can die whole, as a warrior, fighting for people she loves and a cause she believes in, or she can die broken, with despair chipping piece after piece of her soul away long before her body ceases to breathe." He realized he was shaking with anger, and took a deep breath, calming himself. "I don't pretend to understand why Spike is necessary to her. I do not approve of Spike taking the place he has in Buffy's life. But so long as he poses no danger to Buffy or the others, it is not my place to approve or disapprove." He waited tensely for the response to that. Did the Council's unknown informant know of the chip's deactivation? If so, that would narrow the field considerably, give him some idea who was peaching on them. Travers sighed. "The Council does not react well to extortion, Rupert. This... work stoppage of hers is the second time Miss Summers has resorted to it to gain her way with us, and in light of this new information we will not--no, we cannot stand for it. A desire to provide for her sister is one thing. Shirking her duties in order to... cavort with a demon, the very creature it is her sacred duty to eliminate from the world--that, sir, is a very different matter. "Because of our past friendship, Rupert, I'm giving you a chance I'd give no one else--a chance to do your duty. Buffy Summers has gone through a tremendous amount of trauma in the past year, quite aside from her return from the dead, enough to push the stablest person to the edge. She needs help. Help we can give her." Giles closed his eyes and leaned back against the couch cushions. "Indeed. Your concern for her welfare touches me, Travers. Do go on." An eager note slipped into Travers's smooth dry voice. "I can have a Council team in Sunnydale within forty-eight hours. Counselors, parapsychologists, and so forth to examine and develop a treatment program for Miss Summers, and a few of the more...physical types to deal with the vampire. The creature's still cooperating with you, I presume; as it's unable to attack humans it should be easy enough for you to capture and restrain it." They didn't yet know about Spike's unleashing, then, though Giles couldn't imagine Spike keeping it a secret for long. "Mmm, yes, so it should. Considering that our last several personal encounters with Council representatives have left me inclined to trust you only slightly more than a soulless creature of evil, perhaps you should explain to me why I should want to?" The question seemed to floor Travers. "Rupert, why do you think the Council exists? Why do Slayers have Watchers? To record their triumphs and failures to be sure, but first and foremost to guard against just what is happening now. To channel their abilities into a form which will aid humanity." His tone was deadly serious. "You've faced a rogue Slayer. And Faith was half-trained, undisciplined, sabotaged by her own passions. Do you really want to face another one, this time a Slayer who is, as you've pointed out yourself, the most experienced and determined of her kind for a century? Allied, moreover, with one of the most vicious and deadly vampires the line of Aurelius has produced? It is your sworn duty to protect the world--with her, but also, if need be, from her, should Buffy Summers decide to throw her lot in with the demonic strain of her heritage." Travers cleared his throat. "And on a more mundane level, if you aid us in containing the vampire for study and in gaining us access to Miss Summers, I'm prepared to accede to Miss Summers's demands for a salary." "I see." Giles sat silent for awhile, watching the shadows of branches move across the drawn curtains. Travers's offer deserved half-serious consideration, if only because Spike was, after all, a vampire, and potentially dangerous for that reason alone. Still, Spike was a vampire who had saved his life once, however self-serving his reasons had been, and while Giles would have had no qualms about sending Spike to a dusty death should it prove necessary, turning him over for vivisection seemed... tacky. And there was a more important factor as well. "Quentin... regardless of my opinions of Buffy's personal life, I will not lie to her on your account again for any price. I'm afraid I couldn't possibly accommodate you without discussing the matter with her first, and I think we both know what her response would be." "Ah." It was rather chilling that Travers sounded perfectly calm, as if this had been the answer he'd been expecting all along--well, it may have been. "Then it is with very great regret that I must inform you that your association, and that of Buffy Summers, with the Council of Watchers, is over." "Haven't we gone through this before, Travers? Without a Slayer, what do you intend to--" He could hear the frosty smile all the way across the globe. "That, Rupert, is no longer any of your concern." And the line went dead.

She'd been caught. She couldn't believe she'd been caught. That wasn't supposed to happen. She wasn't supposed to be in Sunnydale's Second Precinct, locked up in a bare holding cell that smelled like six years worth of stale barf. Dawn huddled on the grimy bench that ran along the back wall, staring down at the loops and splatters of stains decorating the worn linoleum between the toes of her sneakers, and tried very hard not to throw up. "Pretty," the old woman crooned, shuffling a little closer and reaching out towards Dawn's hair. "Such a pretty green." Dawn flinched away, and the woman's brown-paper-bag face crumpled into lines of hurt and disappointment. She drew her three layers of tatty sweaters more closely around her and shuffled away again, muttering under her breath. Dawn drew a silent breath of relief and relaxed her guard slightly. She hated the fact that even though her career as a mystical McGuffin was supposed to be over, she still roused unpredictable reactions in people who weren't quite in touch with reality. They feared her or adored her, and there didn't seem to be anything she could do about it but try to avoid them. The two of them had been playing musical chairs around the cell for the last hour, except without music and without chairs. The old woman was probably a harmless kook, in for panhandling or loitering or something, she told herself. Not every street person in Sunnydale is a member of Mystery Man Tanner's gang of Nutcase Commandos, out to suck your brains. "Looks like you've made a new best friend," the girl on the other end of the bench observed. She was maybe a year or two older than Dawn, with thin, fox-sharp features, and a vaguely Goth-y air--dead black hair, raccoon-mask of mascara, and artfully ragged layers of black skirts over black tights bagging a little at the knees. She'd asked Dawn if she had any cigarettes when she came in, and had ignored her since. Dawn shrugged, keeping her eyes on her toes. "This your first time?" Dawn shrugged again. Shut up. Don't talk to me. I'm not really here. The other girl smiled, a knowing grin that didn't reach her ice-colored eyes. "Yeah, first time. I can tell. You're all twitchy and stiff, like you're too good to be here." Shut up, shut up, shut up... Dawn chanted to herself. Couldn't the floor swallow her? Where was the Hellmouth when you really needed it? The embarrassment was almost worse than the fear. She'd been in worse places, in far more danger. But this was different. This was no surreal nightmare with demons and magic which would fade in the light of day. This was stupid, boring, real-world trouble which would only get worse when the sun came up. "You'll get used to it," the Goth chick concluded. Dawn felt her face growing hot. No, I won't! She let the wave of self-pity wash over her and tried to distract herself with the daydream she'd been constructing ever more elaborate versions of since she'd gotten here. By now it was practically a five-act epic complete with orchestra and hors d'oeuvres during intermission. It was about Christmas, which imposed a high lameness factor. But Halloween had been a nightmare, what with Buffy's Raising and their dad freaking and everything, and Thanksgiving had been a Family Value Bucket from KFC, so she figured she was due one good holiday this year. She knew just how it would go, and if she scrunched her eyes really tight she could see it all play out. On Christmas Eve, Willow would be all recovered and she and Tara would be laughing together again. Spike would show up early, dashing from car to porch and trailing smoke in the last rays of the setting sun. Buffy would make some sarcastic remark about the brain-deadness of certain vampires, but she'd be smiling. The witches would curl up in the big overstuffed chair, and Spike and her sister would sit on the couch with her, and they'd have popcorn and Christmas cookies and cocoa. Down the hall where the men's cells were someone was yelling, a hash of words that didn't make any sense. Dawn clapped her hands over her ears, but it didn't help much. The black-haired girl laughed. Dawn tried to melt into the bench while touching as little of its surface as possible. She added phantom jimmies to the illusory cookies. "You know, you'll be more comfortable if you take that pole out of your ass," the black-haired girl said. "Shut up," Dawn muttered. They'd have sandwiches and turn on the TV and watch Ralphie scheme to get the Red Rider air rifle, and toss back eggnog with a splash of rum (or in Spike's case, rum with a splash of eggnog) every time someone said "You'll shoot your eye out!" and everyone would get a little bit silly. Then they'd watch Jimmy Stewart race down Main Street in the snow while Spike complained that the SNL sketch where the townsfolk banded together to beat Mr. Potter to death was a much better ending. When the movies were over she'd go to the record cabinet that still held Mom's collection of LPs, and pull out the scratchy old Bing Crosby album and put it on. And she'd pretend she was too old and sophisticated for carols, and Tara would tease her and she'd let herself be convinced and they'd sing along to "White Christmas." The old woman shuffled over again and picked up a lock of Dawn's hair, running it through her fingers. "Pretty shiny light..." Hating the tears of stress that pricked her eyes, Dawn jerked her head away, jumped to her feet and hissed, "Go away!" The woman stared at her for a long moment and then tears began spilling from her eyes, winter rains flooding the eroded planes of her face. Deep wracking sobs shook her, the sort of unguarded weeping no one over the age of five should be doing in public. Dawn stood in the middle of the cell, thin fingers clasping her arms in an agony of embarrassment. Great. Now on top of everything else, she felt like shit for making a crazy old woman cry. And everyone would go to bed, and Buffy would get Spike a blanket and a pillow for the couch, but if Dawn stayed awake long enough there'd be footsteps on the stairs. She'd shout them out of bed at six-thirty in the morning, snicker at Buffy's feeble attempts at explaining why Spike was there, and have sisterly blackmail material for the next week. And Tara would put the turkey in the oven, and her sister would put on airs because she remembered what a potato ricer was, and Spike would hang around being male and nuiscancy and try to steal the marshmallows which were supposed to go on the mashed yams. She craned her neck, staring down the institutional green tunnel of the long hall to catch a glimpse of the clock on the wall down at the end, but the angle was so sharp she couldn't tell where the hands were. How long had she been here? It had to be past midnight. The security guys had pounced on them at nine, just before the mall closed. An hour's worth of humiliating interrogation by store security, and then the cops had showed up. Lisa's parents had come and picked her up hours ago, and dragged her home in a protective fury, declaring that she was not going to be allowed to associate with a bad influence like Dawn Summers any longer. Buffy was coming. Buffy always came, even when she was sick and tired of dragging her stupid little sister to safety for the seven zillionth time. Didn't she? Dawn swallowed a pathetic little sob. God, what if Buffy'd decided it would teach her a lesson to be left here all night? What if a Zarkroth demon had eaten Tara before Buffy got home and her sister never got the message? What if Spike was nailing Buffy to the mattress in his crypt and--SO not thinking about that one. Anya and Xander would come over, and Giles, who'd decided not to go back to England after all, and they'd all watch "It's a Charlie Brown Christmas" and Xander would do the Snoopy dance. And then dinner would be ready, and afterwards they'd open presents and everyone would get exactly what they wanted. She'd look at the pictures of her and Buffy and Mom scattered around the living room, and feel kind of achy because Mom wasn't there, but it would be a good ache. And it wouldn't matter that her sister was the Slayer and Spike was a vampire and most of all it wouldn't matter that she had done something as incredibly stupid as get caught stealing an egg-strangler from Williams & Sonoma, because it was Christmas and they were a family now and weird love was way, WAY better than no love. Voices echoed down the hall from the admitting desk, distorted by distance and the muffling effects of acoustic tile. A second later the screech of unoiled casters pushing away from the desk was followed by the overlapping clack-clack of several pairs of approaching footsteps. Dawn shot to her feet. "Please be Buffy, please be Buffy..." It was the policewoman from the desk at the end of the hall, and with her was Buffy with her eyes crackling green and her mouth in that thin hard line that meant someone was going to get it but good. Spike loomed behind her, hands thrust into the pockets of his duster, sucking on an unlit cigarette with a scowl. The homeless woman shrank back into the corner of the cell at the sight of him; the people who lived on Sunnydale's underbelly were more willing to admit to the things that walked among them than the town's daylight inhabitants. The Goth chick was either bolder or less experienced than she'd have had Dawn believe; she got up and sauntered over to the bars, eyeing the newcomers speculatively. "Hey. Got a cig?" Buffy ignored her, and stood with arms folded impatiently as the policewoman searched through her jingling mass of keys. Spike favored Dawn's cellmate with an unfriendly leer. "Might. What's it worth to you?" He grinned a little as Buffy gave them both the Laser Death Glare, and winked at Dawn. She felt a rush of relief; surely Spike's presence would shield her from some of Buffy's wrath--if nothing else, diverting Buffy from being mad at her into being mad at Spike was usually a piece of cake. The policewoman at last found the key she was looking for. She shooed the older women away from the door, and Dawn rushed over as soon as they vacated. She grabbed the cold steel bars, barely restraining herself from bouncing up and down. At last the door swung open, and Dawn flung herself out into the hallway and broke down in relief. "Oh, God, Buffy, I thought you were never coming, I was so scared--" Her sister's angry facade slipped for just an instant. Dawn was caught up in a fervent, awkward three-way hug, her face wedged between Buffy's head and Spike's shoulder with the familiar comforting scents of L'Oreal hair conditioner and smoke-impregnated leather filling her nose. She had never felt safer. Buffy pulled away first. "Let's get out of here. Dawn, you've got a lot of explaining to do." Gah. That was the tight, calm Buffy-voice. She'd been hoping for the outraged yelling Buffy-voice. Worse, her sister was breaking out the Mom phrases. Dawn nodded meekly as the warder closed the cell door behind her. Its ominous clang followed them down the hall as they left the cellblock and made their way through the precinct room. Buffy was pissed. Really pissed. She glanced up at Spike, who shrugged elaborately and made a 'better you than me' face. She shivered. Much less safe-feeling, now. The ride home wasn't any better. Buffy drove with both hands locked to the SUV's steering wheel, looking neither right nor left and daring any lesser traffic to challenge her. Luckily the bar rush hadn't started yet and the streets were relatively empty. Spike slouched in the passenger seat, playing with his lighter and occasionally looking sideways at Buffy. The wind, which had been just a playful breeze earlier in the evening, had picked up, and was slapping the car with fitful little sprays of raindrops, just enough to get the windshield dirty. Dawn had intended to stay cool and calm, but the oppressive silence expanded by the minute, filling the car's interior and finally squeezing words out of her. "It's not like I took anything important!" "That's not the point," Buffy snapped. "Point is, you got caught," Spike said, in tones of deep disappointment. "That's not the point either!" Buffy took out her fury on an innocent paper cup blowing across the lane, swerving to crush it. Dawn and Spike unobtrusively grabbed their respective door handles. "The point is, stealing is wrong!" Dawn glared sullenly at the back of her sister's head. Now that she was no longer in immediate danger of becoming someone's prison bitch, Buffy's attitude was beginning to grate. "Oh, right. I remember all those calls Mom and Dad got from Bullock's when we lived in L.A., Miss Oh-I-Meant-To-Pay-For-That." "Slayer!" Spike exclaimed in delight. "And here I thought nicking that rocket launcher was your first time! I knew you were a girl after my own heart!" Buffy's eyes narrowed dangerously, and Dawn saw her opportunity and seized it. Sorry, Spike, you're going down. "Besides, Spike steals all the time and you never rag on him! Half the stuff he owns is stolen!" "Yeh, but I don't get caught," Spike countered. "There's a big difference here." One didn't need vampire hearing to pick up the sound of Buffy's teeth grinding. "We're not talking about me, and we're not talking about Spike, and hello, the using of someone who spent the last century eating people as your model for good behavior? Not ideal! And I didn't steal the rocket launcher, Xander did!" She returned her attention to the road in time to avoid a close encounter with the palm trees along the median. "Are we agreed that stealing is wrong?" She shot a look at Spike, who jerked to attention in his seat. "Wrong," he agreed, sounding more nostalgic than disapproving. "Vile, wicked, evil..." Dawn transferred the sullen glare to Spike. "All right, I get it." Her sister's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. "You'd better get it--both of you. This isn't a joke. While you're out auditioning for Second Punk on the Left, have you thought about the fact that the moment this gets back to Social Services you will be shipped off to Dad Fed-Ex? Is that what you want?" Spike looked somewhat chastened and Dawn bit her lip. "No." "Good. I - " Buffy's shoulders slumped. "I can't do this right now. I'm tired, Dawn. We'll talk about it tomorrow." ***** The crypt door was, as usual, unlocked. When Buffy slammed it open into the stone wall the clang reverberated through the crypt, and the echoes hadn't entirely died away by the time she'd clambered down the stairs to the lower chamber, and stormed into the bedchamber to glare at the still-slumbering occupant. Spike was the picture of repose in a nest of feather pillows and hunter-green quilting, one arm folded over the coverlet and the other curled under his cheek. His chest rose and fell just often enough to startle you into realizing it was still most of the time. Exactly when had Spike gone all hedonistic? When she'd come barging into the crypt last year at this time, she'd usually found him stretched out corpse-fashion on the top of the bare stone sarcophagus upstairs, hands crossed over his chest--playing vampire, she'd thought to herself scornfully at the time, talking the talk while the chip prevented him from walking the walk. Unnatural creature that he was, he looked far more at home in the bed. Well, we'll just have to do something about that. Buffy bent down, grabbed a handful of blankets and yanked them ruthlessly into the air. Spike's eyes flew open. Half-way into game face, he spun over with a yip of surprise and a futile grab at the bedclothes. "Grraahr--oh, it's you." "How long has this been going on?" Buffy demanded. The vampire's eyebrows took a tour upwards. He ran a hand through his sleep-tousled hair, then leaned back into the pillows and laced his fingers across his stomach, displaying a great deal of muscular and distracting ivory flesh. "How long's what been going on? Me getting some well-deserved shut-eye, or you rudely interrupting it? Not long enough and too long, respectively." Without warning he jackknifed forward, grabbed the trailing edge of the blankets and hauled back. Buffy teetered, lost her balance and toppled onto the bed in a tangle of coverlet and Spike's overly cold and boney shins. She scrambled to her hands and knees, determined to hold onto her outrage despite the awkwardness of her position. Spike was leering at her, and she realized that from this angle he could see all the way down her shirt. Not that there was anything down there he hadn't already seen, but it was the principle of the thing. Flushing, she sat upright and tugged her blouse into place. "You know what I'm talking about--Dawn stealing! And you teaching her how!" Spike went wary. He rubbed the back of his head. "Haven't the foggiest, love. She was doing the Artful Dodger routine well before yours truly entered the picture. We got chummy over her nicking Giles's journal, remember?" He rearranged his feet under the covers to take advantage of the warm spot where she was sitting. Buffy folded her arms and resolutely avoided looking down to where the toes of his right foot were stroking her thigh. With some effort she kept her voice as cold as said toes. "She said you showed her how to shoplift over the summer." "I never!" Buffy kept looking at him; Spike was pathetically easy to crack if you did the little skeptical eyebrow thing. A trace of guilt crept into his eyes. "All right, I might have given her a pointer or two. More a demonstration, like, of how I do it. But I never gave her the nudge to use 'em. I knew you wouldn't want that, and you know I'd never do anything to hurt Dawn, Buffy!" He leaned forward and caught her hands in his own, looking so genuinely distressed that had the matter been any less important she would have been tempted to forgive him immediately. But this was serious. Buffy remained adamant. "But you knew she was stealing things, and you didn't stop her." Spike sighed. "I guessed. Didn't exactly know for certain. She gave me a little something once or twice, aftershave for my birthday, that sort of thing. I never asked where it came from--wouldn't've been polite--and she never told. Didn't seem to matter then. You were gone, and Dawn was going to your Dad..." "It matters a whole heaping lot now!" He leaned over the side of the bed and rummaged around until he came up with his jeans, got up and began pulling them on. "Look, I'll talk to her if you think it'll help--give her any load of righteous bollocks you like." Buffy flopped backwards onto the bed and stared up at the cobwebby ceiling. Spike has a birthday? "Because the gospel of virtue is ever so convincing coming from you?" His dark brows angled downwards, accents on a frown. "I mean it, Buffy. I..." He stalked over to the dresser, pulled a drawer out and studied the half-dozen identical black t-shirts intently for a moment before pacing away again. "...am getting shagged out on basic black. Look, it's hard, this not being evil," he said, low-voiced. "Like I said. But I've got to try, don't I? Especially if I've buggered things up for the Bit. At least let me try." There was a pleading note in his voice, and Buffy felt her resolve crumbling. "I guess it couldn't hurt." She rolled over onto her stomach and traced the thin gold curlicues on the coverlet with one dispirited finger. "I called the store this morning and they're willing to drop the charges since it's her first time, but she's banned from the mall for six months. She's already going through withdrawal." She buried her face in the sheets; they smelled of smoke and Spike, and she didn't want the combination to be so comforting when she was mad at him. r0;This morning she hit me with that camper we stole last spring. I've got to be a better example. You've got to - " "Establish a legal identity, get a nine to five job, and become a fine upstanding undead American? Not happening, pet." She turned her head enough to give him the evil eye from behind a fold of blanket. "I was going to say, stop stealing things in front of Dawn, but watching a vampire with a fake green card dodging La Migra would make up for a lot of sucky days." "Ah?" Spike pulled open the wardrobe door and rooted through the tangle of coat hangers, finally emerging with a charcoal grey turtleneck which, Buffy couldn't help thinking, would look absolutely gorgeous with his eyes and go very nicely with her own taupe-and-silver outfit. Color coordination, always a plus. "And what happens the next time you lot need me for a spot of breaking and entering or grand theft auto? You're not the most law-abiding little group yourselves, you know--I'm just better at it." Buffy lifted her head and groaned. "I know, I know! God, Spike, I can't do this! When I was fifteen I was doing the exact same thing, except for me it was all about Mom and Dad's divorce. How can I lecture her on Thou Shalt Not Steal when my whole life is Thou Shalt Not Steal Unless It's Necessary For The Slaying or You're The Slayer's Vampire Boyfriend In Which Case We'll Overlook It?" Spike stopped in the middle of pulling the sweater over his head, looking down at her with an incongruously sweet, tender little smile. What? She ran the last few sentences backwards. I used the B word. Tactical error. Maybe he won't notice. Right. This is Spike, owner and proprietor buffyobsession.com. I'm so doomed. Spike tossed his shirt on the bed and sat down beside her. She felt a firm hand on her back, cool fingers working along the tense lines of her muscles. "You do what every mum and dad in the history of the universe has done, love. You lie so hard that you forget you ever had a misspent youth, and if that doesn't work, you pull out the classic 'Do as I say, not as I do' line of shite. I'll help, if I can--if you want me to." She summoned up a wan smile and laid her cheek on his thigh. Astonishing how quickly that cool body soaked up heat. "I don't want to be the grown-up," she said, hating the sulky note in her own voice. Her hand crept up to rest on his knee, and she scrunched a little closer. There was some magnetism between them, that flesh called to flesh the instant an invisible line was crossed. "But I guess I've got to break out the sensible shoes and PTA notes. I may be off the hook with Social Services if they're not pressing charges, but if the police called them already--" "Best defense is a good offense, right?" Spike had that glint in his eyes that meant trouble. "Don't wait for someone to tell tales, go runnin' to 'em right off and bleat for counseling and pamphlets and sodding educational filmstrips. Dawn'll bloody well hate you, but you'll look all responsible-like." Buffy raised her head and looked at him oddly. "That's... a halfway decent plan. Who are you, and what have you done with Spike?" He chuckled. "I know a thing or two about strategy, Slayer. It's sticking to it where I cock up. Give me a day or two and I'll chuck the whole thing for whaling on the bastards with a tire iron." He glanced at the clock on the nightstand next to the bed, and his hand wandered down to caress the curve of her hip as his voice dropped to a sultry growl. "'Sides, I think I can make bein' grown up worth your while." She shivered under his touch and looked longingly at the clock. She had an hour before she had to get to Giles's place... She slid her hand further up his thigh and felt him shiver in return. "Well... As long as we're on overlapping schedules, I guess we might as well..." Spike twitched violently. Ooh, he's ticklish. She smiled, feeling very wicked and decadent and... grown up. "Overlap." ***** Crisp black letters on heavy, cream-colored paper blazoned with the Council of Watchers' arms on one corner, signed by Quentin Travers in ink which had undoubtedly come from a fountain pen or perhaps even a quill--a weighty letter, full of weighty news. Giles wondered if he was supposed to be grateful that they'd rated the bother of a real letter, not some smudged fax or ephemeral scatter of phosphors on a monitor. "It's not good news, I'm afraid." Buffy, sitting at attention on the couch, tucked a strand of honey-blonde hair back into her ponytail--she had arrived somewhat disheveled, for reasons Giles felt it better not to inquire into very closely, and was still effecting repairs. She studied the results in her compact, granted them provisional approval, and tucked it back into her purse. "My brilliant powers of deduction told me as much when you said you wanted to talk to me in person." She clasped her hands in her lap, poised against the backdrop of half-packed boxes and half-sorted piles of books. His house, like his life, was stuck in transition. "My hatches are battened. Fire away." Giles folded the letter back on its creases and glanced it over once more, in the futile hope that the words would have changed since his last look. In the lull of his momentary hesitation, Spike stuck his head out of the kitchen and held up a box of Weetabix. "You're scarpering off soon, so you won't be needing this, right?" Giles's face went stony. He really hadn't expected Spike to be here for this, if for no other reason than that it was the middle of the day. When he'd opened the door to Buffy's knock, there Spike'd been on the porch behind her, looking as if he'd had a day at the beach sans sunscreen. Last night's rain showers had evolved into a sullen grey overcast. Exactly what was needed; more excuse for Spike to lark about in the daytime. More irritation crept into his voice than he intended. "If you can tear your attention away from the larder for five minutes, Spike... sit." Spike's brows twitched, but he stuffed the box back into the kitchen cupboard and prowled back into the living room. He collapsed into a boneless sprawl beside Buffy on the couch, near arm flung over the back of the couch behind her, thumb and forefinger brushing the nape of her neck, playing with the wisps of fine tawny hair. It was a gesture unselfconsciously intimate, as was Buffy's slight list backwards into his hand. You should want to kill him for that, the cool, analytical part of Giles's mind reminded him. You should have killed him years ago, really. If you could doom Ben for the crime of having been born Glory's vessel, how much more does this creature deserve execution? He couldn't call up the old certainty where Spike was concerned any longer. He had always questioned Buffy's insistence upon sparing Spike's life in exchange for the assistance, willing or unwilling, he'd given them over the years. One killed vampires, one did not associate with them. Foolish, dangerous sentiment sprang from such familiarity, of succumbing to the fallacy that a vampire was a person with human loyalties, human loves, rather than a thing bred of chaos which would, sooner or later, be driven by its nature to destroy one. To his chagrin, it was a fallacy he found himself increasingly prone to. There was no way this liaison between the living and the dead could end well. It was his duty to protect his Slayer from less tangible dangers than the ones she faced nightly. But he watched Spike's thumb move along her hairline, and the slight curve of her lips, and knew in his bones the reason he would not object to Spike's presence. He cleared his throat. "I'll spare you Travers's overview of the last five centuries of precedent regarding Council support of Slayers. Here we are. '...in short, it has always been the responsibility of the Watcher to ensure that his Slayer is adequately fed, clothed, and housed. After reviewing the terms of your salary and making inquiries into the cost of living in your area, we have determined that your current financial arrangements with us are sufficient to the task, assuming of course that due economy is practiced--'" Giles held up another sheet of paper. "How thoughtful--he's included a budget. 'Therefore we must regretfully decline your request to issue a separate living allowance to Buffy Summers--'" "'Cordially yours, Quentin Travers, enormous git,'" Spike growled. He scratched his nose, which was beginning to peel. Giles set the letter down on the coffee table and began polishing his glasses. "Excellent summation." Buffy forced a chipper look. "It's not as if we expected them to go along quietly. We'll just have to--I mean, we can have Anya do accountanty stuff, can't we, and show them that their figures are all wrong?" Giles shook his head. "I've already gone over them twice, and Travers is quite correct--I could support you if put to it. I cannot, however, support your sister, your house, and yours and Dawn's future education, as such frivolous items are not included in Travers's idea of due economy." He sat back in the chair and rubbed his eyes, deciding not to mention Travers's implication that if he returned to England as planned, he'd be taking a cut in salary as he'd no longer be Buffy's active Watcher. That felt almost just, a fit penance for his desertion. Over on the couch Buffy glanced at Spike, her lower lip caught in her teeth. The vampire's arm dropped from the back of the couch to her shoulders and she straightened a little. Spike cocked an eyebrow at her and she shook her head ever so slightly. Nonverbal communication concluded, Buffy turned back to Giles. "All right," she said, determination coming back into her eyes. "If they want to play hardball... can I use your phone? I need to call L.A." "Yes, of course." Giles waved her towards the phone. L.A.? The only people Buffy might be calling there were her father or Angel, and neither of them seemed likely to hold any solutions to the current dilemma. Buffy shoved one of the ubiquitous piles of reference books to one side and pulled the phone free. She tucked the receiver between her shoulder and her ear and tapped out the number quickly. Spike shot Giles an inquiring look behind her back, apparently just as much in the dark as he was. Buffy stood tapping one foot impatiently, waiting for the phone to pick up and twirling the cord around her free hand. "Hi, Cordy? Yes, still alive again. No, I'm not--that's really none of your--Cordy! Focus! Slayer business! Angel's still in touch with Faith, right?" Spike made a soft derisive noise at the sound of his grand-sire's name and Buffy made a shushing motion at him. "Shut up, Spike." Spike complied, but listened to the rest of the conversation with a tense attention to every nuance of Buffy's words and body language. "Not you, Cordy. I just need to get a message to Faith. The sooner the better. The Council's probably going to be contacting her soon with an offer she can't refuse, and I need her to refuse it." She rolled her eyes at whatever Cordelia's response was. "I know. I admit I wasn't Miss Junior Impulse Control. But this is vitally important." She grabbed the letter off the coffee table before Giles could stop her, and began reading it, her eyes darting back and forth across the page. They froze on one passage and Giles saw her stiffen, an angry light joining the determination. She covered the receiver with one hand and hissed, "You didn't tell me they were trying to blackmail you too!" She handed the letter to Spike, who took it from her and squinted at it at arm's length for some minutes before looking up to regard Giles with an uncomfortable intensity. Buffy's attention was back on the phone. "Look, just tell her the Council is out to screw us again, and don't believe a word they say, and I'll explain when I can talk to her in person. Have Angel call me with the number of the prison, and tell him not to freak if Spike answers the phone." More eye-rolling. "Yes, he does. No, I'm--just have him call me, okay? Thanks. No. No! This is me hanging up on you, Cordy... right. Later." She set the phone down and heaved an exasperated sigh. "She is so protective of him these days! I swear, if I didn't know better... urgh." "Faith?" Giles asked. "What exactly do you have in mind, Buffy?" "Strategy," she said with a look that might have been mischievous had it not been so deadly serious. "As president and fifty percent of the membership of Slayer's Local 101, I'm calling a strike for higher wages. Or wages period." Giles gave her a hard look over the top of his glasses. "And you want to ensure that they don't pull strings to--" "--break the potential scab out of stir," Spike finished. "Exactly. Even if she still hates my guts--and big love on my part for her, believe me, not in the program--I'm betting she'll see that we're better off hanging together on this one. If I can break them she'll get bennies too." "Surely you can't seriously intend to stop patrolling." Buffy gave the eye-roll another workout. "Yes, Giles, Spike's corrupted me hopelessly, I care nothing for the lives of those I formerly worked tirelessly to protect--of course I'm not going to stop patrolling! I just have to make the Council think I have." She met his skeptical look with a defiant jut of her chin. "Somehow. I'm working on it! I'm new to this strategy thing. You two are both older and sneakier than I am--some help here!" Spike leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. "Right. Old Niccolo hasn't a patch on us. So how does the Council of Wankers get the skinny on happenings in dear old Sunnyhell?" "I send regular reports--which I could doctor, naturally." Giles stroked his chin, thoughtful. How long had it been now, since the Council had been trusted allies rather than polite adversaries? Long before Spike had started his erratic journey in the opposite direction. "But they'll have other channels as well--anything from local informants to bound demon servitors to something as prosaic as subscribing to the Sunnydale Press. Deceiving them will be no small task." Buffy flashed Spike a little grin and elbowed him in the ribs. "Ooh, cool. Deception, fraud, and chicanery--right up your alley. Get to work." She stuck her lower lip out and shook Travers's letter in Giles's direction. "Now what's this about them going all Ebeneezer Scrooge with your salary?" Giles snatched the letter back. "They're cutting out the field duty bonus, which is only fair as I shan't be on field duty--but since this didn't come up when I applied to come back the first time, I'm assuming that their true purpose is to coerce me into staying here to keep an eye on you. They will, of course, send someone to replace me if I leave, but I'm fairly certain it will be an observer rather than a... er... mentor." He added drily, "You have a reputation for being difficult to work with." "They have yet to comprehend the difficulty that is me." Buffy tucked another loose strand of hair behind her ear, eyes sparking. "Giles, I hate the idea of you leaving. I think you're completely wrong about us not needing you. I'd give anything if you'd stay. But I swear I'll wear nothing but Blue Light Specials for the rest of the millennium if I let them force you into it." She stood up and pulled the scrunchy off her hair. "And now I'm going to borrow your bathroom. I'm all Night Of The Living Buffy and serious renovations are in order." She got up and headed for the hall; Giles watched her go with anxious eyes. In actuality she looked better than he'd seen her since her return; there was almost a bounce in her step as she disappeared down the hall. Across the room Spike propped one boot on top of the coffee table, his eyes following her retreating form appreciatively. Buffy Summers, dragged into the land of the living by a dead man's hand... God, but he was sick of irony. Spike's pale eyes slid back to Giles, full of sardonic challenge--and Giles looked away. He knows. Spike's expression was victorious, but his words lacked bite, perhaps because he was wise enough to realize that he didn't know what kind of battle he'd won, nor why his opponent had chosen to abandon the field. "Never thanked you for the other day, Watcher," Spike said, voice pitched not to carry down the hall. "Not for me--I don't need your blessing, but it meant a lot to her, you not telling her she was barmy to be seen with me." "Yes, well, if you cock up I'll make you beg me to kill you," Giles replied with a tight smile. Spike tilted his head to one side and matched it with something that was a little too self-mocking to be a smirk. "If I cock up she'll beat you to it." He ran the tip of his tongue over his teeth and arched a brow. "Part of the appeal." And that was probably the truth, Giles reflected with mild disgust. Spike didn't give him a chance to use the admission against him. "I've always thought this business of going home because you're useless was bollocks, and now I'm sure of it. So you're getting a bit long in the tooth to be out fighting nasties first-hand--you're a bloody walking library, and you've forgotten more about front-line demon fighting than the rest of those Council tossers ever knew. Useless my lily-white arse." His boot hit the floor with a thump and he leaned forward, the aspect of the demon a burning shadow behind every plane and angle of his face. "You see it, don't you, Watcher? The rest of them, they don't look, but you see it. 'A traveler betwixt life and death;/The reason firm, the temperate will,/Endurance, foresight, strength and skill;/A perfect woman, nobly planned,/to warn, to comfort, and command...'" Giles looked down; his knuckles were white against the dark upholstery. He forced himself to unclench his fingers from the arm of the chair. "'And yet a spirit still, and bright,/with something of an angel light.' I wouldn't have thought Wordsworth your style." Spike made an impatient gesture. "You get bored enough in a hundred and twenty years, you'll read anything. But you see it, damn your eyes, and you're leaving her anyway--why?" What truth did he owe Spike, and why? All he can bear, because he is staying. He kept his voice clipped and precise. "Because I've seen her die twice now, and I cannot bear it again. Cannot. You... can. You are a braver man than I am, William the sodding Bloody, and I hate you for it." Spike looked taken aback--had he expected something else? The vampire sat back slightly, resting his wrists on his knees. "There's fitter things you could hate me for, Rupert." Giles took off his glasses and ran a hand through his hair--how much of the receding hairline was due to Buffy? he asked himself wryly. "Undoubtedly so. But I can't think of any of them at the moment." "I'll wager the lapse of memory clears up right quick. Look, Watcher, you chew on this: she'll die sooner or later no matter where on the globe you've parked your arse. If it's here, it's got a better chance of being later. In fact--" He cut himself off, looking over his shoulder at the front door. A moment later Willow knocked as she swung it open and stuck her head inside. "Hello? Giles? I thought I could get on those transcripts 'cause I'm all with the catching up--umm, Spike? You look kinda toasty. Zinc oxide. It's your friend. You guys aren't busy making me more work, are you, 'cause I thought Fridays were interview days." She came inside, edging around several boxes labeled 'MISC RECORDS' and set her laptop on the dining table. "I downloaded this trial version of some voice-recognition software from Tucows this morning, so I thought we'd see how that works--though with the accent, maybe it won't. Work. But if it does than I can take the tapes and do them at home, you know, telecommuting without the commuting--" She plugged in the laptop's adapter and flipped the lid up. "--and I hear there was a big Dawn crisis last night." A slight edge entered her voice. "I must have slept through it, as so often happens when no one wakes me up." Buffy emerged from the hallway, looking subtlety better groomed without there being any one difference that one could point to as the reason for the improvement. She adjusted one earring. "It's no biggie, Will. Dawn's gone all West Side Story on us again. Tara was asleep when you got home, and then there didn't seem much point in waking you up for the big angst-fest." "Of course not." Willow hit enter as if it were her worst enemy. "It's not like I could have done anything useful in my current not-useful state. Might as well let me get my beauty sleep." "Will, it's not--" "It's OK, Buffy. I get the logic. Needs of the many. Don't worry about it." She looked up with a bright and genuine smile. "Where's one of those tapes?" Giles got up and went over to the tape case, and Spike rose to his feet. "Enthralling as I find the sound of my own voice, I'd best get on, see if I can find anything needs killing--not that often I can take a midday stroll in this climate. The Bit's still at home, Will?" Willow, distracted by her struggles with the audio settings, nodded. Buffy snorted. "She'll be at home for a long, looong time. She is more grounded than dirt." "Right. I'll push off, then. Later, love." He kissed the top of Buffy's head, brushed his knuckles across her cheek, and headed for the door. "Don't forget your blanket, it might clear up!" Buffy shouted after him. She turned away from the door and walked over to the table to examine Willow's setup. She hitched herself up on the table and swung her legs back and forth. "Do you think I should get him one of those big black umbrellas for Christmas, or would that just encourage him to more extra-crispy adventures? Is there any kind of anti-vamp-combustion spell, Wills?" "If there were, vamps would be beating a path to our door and we'd be rolling in cash. Or dead. Give me a minute or so of tape to test this, Giles," Willow said. Giles slipped the tape into the recorder and Willow plugged it into the laptop's incoming audio. He pressed the 'play' button and Spike's raspy North London accent filled the air: "...so by this time I was off my nut with boredom--you try living in a coal mine for a month and see how you like it--so I waited till Angelus had Darla's heels about her ears one night, and I took Drusilla topside for some entertainment. We'd been living off the miners, and I wanted someone who didn't taste of coal dust for a change. So we come across this bloke, the local preacher, it looked like. He's a shrunk-up little pissant 'thout enough blood in him to get your mouth wet enough to spit, but he's not caked solid with anthracite and that's all that matters to me at this point. He asks us if we're saved--thought Dru was a tart, I reckon--and Dru, bless her mad black heart, she starts rattling off the Pater Noster, and the pruny little chap sodding near explodes yelling about us being a couple of Papists. Which is both inaccurate and annoying, as I'm C of E myself, or was when--anyway, I snap his neck, and this is the really funny part--" Giles hit the pause button, looking up at Buffy, who stood listening to the narration with an unreadable expression. Willow grimaced. "Um. Guess you don't want to hear that, all things considered." Buffy shook her head. "No. But I need to hear it. I need to remember--" She took a deep breath, and her fingertips brushed her cheek. "Everything about Spike. Everything."

There was a monster in her bedroom. Dawn lay in bed, watching him through her eyelashes. The monster had been sitting in a straight-backed chair, reading The Maltese Falcon in the dark, but at some point in the night he'd fallen asleep and slumped over sideways onto the foot of her bed. Pearly predawn light washed over the curve of his shoulder and spilled into his pale hair--another half-hour and he'd be in big trouble if he didn't wake up. His mouth was open slightly and the wire-rimmed reading glasses he fondly imagined he'd kept hidden from her over the summer were askew on his nose. Monsters drooled in their sleep. She felt like crap. Someone had vacuumed out her insides, and there was a weird crawly feeling in her stomach when she looked at Spike. It took her awhile to pin it down. It wasn't fear. It wasn't disgust. It wasn't shock or horror or any of the things she really ought to have been feeling while looking at a monster. It was just... the knowledge that he was a monster, a hot, embarrassed how-could-I-be-so-stupid feeling akin to the day she'd realized that Santa Claus really was just Dad in a funny suit, except with massacres. If this was adulthood, it sucked. The door to her room eased open a few inches and Buffy's right eye appeared in the crack, followed shortly by the rest of her, slim golden hands clutching a burqa of white terrycloth tightly around her torso. Her eyes, even sans eyeshadow and mascara, were huge hazel pools in her small, sharp-chinned face, her posture drawn in brushstrokes of apprehension. When she saw that Dawn was awake, she let out a small sigh and with it some of the tension. She slipped inside, caught Dawn's eye and held a finger to her lips: Don't wake him, walked over to the window and pulled the drapes shut. "Why?" Dawn whispered. Buffy gave her a duh look. "Not looking forward to explaining the burnt vampire smell to the insurance adjuster when I try to claim the charred carpet on our homeowner's policy?" "Not that." Dawn struggled upright against the pillows. Her limbs were leaden, like she had bowling balls strapped to her ankles. "I mean... OK, today you love him. But you didn't used to. Why didn't you ever kill him?" Her sister stopped beside Spike's chair and reached down to straighten out his glasses, smoothing his hair back from his high forehead. "I don't know," she said. "I tried. Just like he tried to kill me." Buffy tugged one wavy lock free, gel crackling as she wound it around her forefinger and let it spring back into its natural curl. "I guess our hearts weren't in it." Buffy's heart hadn't been in killing Angelus, but she'd done it. "Did you ever see anyone he killed?" Slim golden fingers, playing through hair the color of bleached bones. Buffy sighed. "You want a catalog? Dell and Dwayne Robichaud, throats torn out. Sherri Addison's dad, broken neck. Steve Laughton's dad, broken... everything. Sheila Martini--technically Dru killed her, but Spike's the one who brought home take-out. That was Week One." The moving fingers paused. "Dawn...is something--?" "I was just curious." Dawn sank back down into the bed and burrowed down under the quilt, poking Spike in the nose as her feet shifted beneath the covers. Spike woke with a snort, losing his glasses entirely as he jerked himself upright. He stared wildly around the room for a moment, yellow-eyed with surprise, then broke into a huge grin when he saw she'd woken up. "Dawn! How're you feeling, Pidge?" "I'm OK." This was where she should reach out and hug him, because she knew Spike loved getting hugged but was too much ultra-cool vampire guy to ever admit it. Her arms just lay there like slugs on the patchwork squares of the quilt. Dawn pasted a return smile onto her face, but she didn't know what to say to him any longer, and a second later his smile faltered. He knew. Predator's senses or just reasonably perceptive guy, he could see the wariness in her eyes and feel the new distance stretching between them. Spike swallowed, picked up his book and got to his feet, not even bothering to get embarrassed about the glasses. "I'll just be off, then, let you get some more sleep." A pang lanced her heart as she watched him leave, leaving a hollow ache behind. She and Spike had possessed something between them that he didn't have even with Buffy, and now it was gone. Should she call him back, tease him about the glasses and try to pretend everything was the same as it had been? Only yesterday she'd have known exactly what words to use. "I'll bring you some breakfast later," Buffy said, pausing in the doorway with one hand on the frame. "And I'll call in sick for you at school. Assuming they're open again after the whole cafeteria demon thingy. Giles says you should just try to rest as much as possible today." A small vertical line appeared between her brows as she looked from Dawn to Spike and back again, aware that something was out of kilter but unable to ascertain what. Dawn rolled over and pulled her quilt up over her ears, and after a second of lip-biting, Buffy left. Spike remained in the doorway a moment longer, a sweet wistful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "G'bye, Niblet." "Goodbye, Spike," she whispered as he followed Buffy down the hall. Did she want to cry? She wasn't sure. In the end she just lay there, empty, too tired to feel anything at all. She should have asked about Willow, but maybe Buffy didn't know. It took her longer than she wanted to get back to sleep. ***** Three drops of ink squeezed from the eyedropper, one after the other, drip, drip, drip into the pie-plate full of Evian. Willow sat cross-legged on her old bed in her old room at her parents' house, gazing intently at the makeshift scrying bowl balanced on the coverlet before her. She passed a hand over the water. "Reveal," she whispered. The ink swirled, forming a fractal whirlpool of indigo on the surface of the water. The Summers house emerged from the coiling lines of ink, with Spike's motorcycle parked in the driveway, in the middle of the oil spot left by the DeSoto. She made another pass over the water, and the image wavered, but she couldn't bring up the interior of the house. "Are you sure you don't want any breakfast, dear?" Willow chewed on her lower lip. "No, Mom," she hollered through the closed door. "I'm not hungry. I'll fix some cereal before I go to class." There was a pause. "You know, Willow, if you and your...um...friend had a fight, then opening an honest dialogue is paramount to--" Willow ground the heel of her hand into the bridge of her nose and tuned her mother's voice out. She'd spent half of last night in a frantic casting of spells of obscuration and concealment around herself, and twice already this morning she'd felt the feeble scratchings of someone trying to penetrate them--Giles, maybe, or Anya; it hadn't been Tara's familiar touch. She'd had five hours of sleep, had a pounding headache, and the more she thought about last night the worse things got. She couldn't be a bad guy, could she? No bad guy was so lame as to have to run home to Mommy and Daddy with some cheeseball story about a fight with Tara, begging for a place to spend the night. No, she just needed time to sort things out, that was all. "...so if you're questioning your ego definition on this level, honey, maybe it's time to..." "I'll think about it, Mom. Aren't you late for work?" There were spells of ward and protection laid about the Summers house, too--nothing too fancy, just the old standards. They coccooned the house in an intricate cat's-cradle of rose and saffron threads. Tara had cast them when the two of them moved in; Willow had been too weakened in the aftermath of Buffy's Raising to help. Now she could rip right through them, but the idea of wantonly destroying Tara's work made her ache. Willow reached out with something that wasn't her hand and began picking the spell apart, thread by thread by thread, slowly insinuating herself into the weave and allowing her own power to flow through unhindered. "Reveal." The ink swirls, and she is drawn into the world it inscribes upon the quicksilver surface of the water. Willow walks. It is not she who is the ghost, but the world around her; walls part like smoke, and misty wisps of brick and stucco cling to her skirt as she passes them by. Here is Dawn's room with its teen-aged clutter of posters and books and clothes. The hidden corners are still drifted with toys, too childish to play with and too beloved to give away. Dawn lies on the bed, the human shell of her tossing in the restless slumber of innocence lost, the ageless heart of her being pulsing raw green power for any who dares grasp it. The part of Willow still sitting on the bed drew a sob of relief. Dawn was alive. She hadn't burnt all her bridges yet. She'd lost her way in the woods, and though the slick black voice in her head was no Virgil, maybe Tara would still be willing to play Beatrice. She could honestly claim she'd had no idea that the spell would harm Dawn. Of course, then she'd have to explain where she'd gotten the part of the spell which tapped into Dawn's power...and worse, why she'd tapped into Dawn's power in the first place. She couldn't just go traipsing back, not without knowing more about Buffy's mood and what the others thought had happened. Another pass. "Reveal." Swirl. Buffy's room is empty. The window is open and the morning breeze lifts the curtains, carrying away the musk of sex and blood. The scents are old, and the walls carry no echo of soft cries and sharp pleas--the bed is rumpled, but there was no sporting in this room last night, nor any room. The top drawer of the dresser is open slightly, and there are a few pairs of newly-washed black t-shirts visible through the crack. In the bathroom across the hall, there is a third toothbrush in the holder. The vampire stares blearily at the nothingness in the mirror (his sleep schedule has been shot to hell) and draws the razor carefully along the line of his jaw; when he flicks the shaving cream off into the sink, it abruptly pops into visibility. Being a monster, he cannot truly understand why the fact of his being so troubles the girl in the room down the hall. Yet her withdrawal pains him terribly, in a manner no monster should feel. In the master bedroom, Tara lies sleeping, curled around the empty space where her absent love should be. Her beautiful face has none of its usual serenity. She moans and cries out as she feels Willow walk unseen through the secret places of the house, reaching out with her round soft arms, and Willow shies away, fearful of waking her, fearful of breaking the spell. Buffy is downstairs. Worry and fear coil around her, a grey miasma, but she denies them power--she is cooking breakfast; waffles enough to feed a small army, and eggs and toast (there are no strawberries, and this is a source of vast unease, because there should, there should be strawberries with waffles, but they are out of season and they have no money and the lack means she is a bad sister, a bad friend and a terrible Slayer). There is the ritual of breakfast for sick people: Buffy brings waffles on trays, and Dawn and Tara wake and stir and pick fretfully at their food, and demand newspapers or milk or whatever Buffy has forgotten to bring. Spike comes downstairs and he and Buffy eat the rest of the waffles, syrup on hers, pig's blood on his. They talk about last night in low voices; Buffy has grasped that the removal of the chip was not something he sought, but she suspects nothing of Willow's involvement, and the cobalt bonds of the geas still hold Spike mute. They move gradually closer as they talk, their auras sparking, red-gold and crimson-lit ebony-- A burst of unfocused tantric energy shattered the image into wild ink-squiggles and Willow fell back, almost kicking over the pie plate with one rabbit-slippered foot. "Whoa." She shook her head and sat up. She shouldn't have been surprised; two supernatural creatures of diametrically opposed natures making whoopie was bound to produce a few mystic aftershocks, especially when supernatural creatures in question acted like they'd spontaneously combust if they went for more than twelve hours without an orgasm. Willow slumped a little and rubbed her eyes. Should she try the Magic Box? The shop had far more effective wards, though, and she wasn't sure if she could hack them without alerting Giles. Besides, she had a mission: find out when Tara was recovered enough to talk. The squicky fascination of spying on your friends was just bonus material. She attempted to visualize the kitchen again and got one fleeting glimpse of Buffy licking syrup off Spike's chest before another wild surge of static kicked her out again. It was impossible to spy effectively when she was constantly forced to pan to fireplace. I'm never, ever going to eat off the dining room table again. Periodic checks in the scrying bowl over the remainder of the morning revealed that when Buffy and Spike were alone, they were groping each other 75.3% of time. Spike made another attempt to give Buffy grocery money, and the fifteen-minute argument over same culminated in the wig-inducing spectacle of Buffy taking the money and roaring off in the Cherokee. No wonder Spike used to get so disgusted when we foiled his plans. Possibly insane, power-mad witch on loose, Slayer on major shopping spree at Albertson's. When Buffy returned, Spike had thoughtfully cleaned and oiled her various implements of destruction, and was on the phone with Clem, having a mysterious conversation about customers and the fact that someone named Teeth wasn't going to like it, whatever it was. The two of them spent the rest of the morning doing exciting things like dishes, laundry, and each other on top of the dryer, which shorted out the scrying spell again (and a good thing too). Even Slayers and vampires had to spend ninty percent of their lives doing everyday ordinary stuff, or at best supervising minions who did it for them, but watching them at it was boring beyond belief. An hour later, Willow sat in the back of the darkened Art History 302 lecture hall, watching the slides of Rosso's "Descent From the Cross" melt into Parmigiano's "Madonna With The Long Neck" on the screen and listening to Professor Alpert drone on about the philosophical underpinnings of the Mannerist school of painting. She scribbled out 'Mannerism -- 1525-1600. Artist's inner vision supercedes twin authorities of nature & the ancients. Deliberate physical & spatial distortions employed to make aesthetic point.' She could relate to that. She felt distorted out of all recognition. She could look back over all the things she'd done over the past two weeks and see that each individual decision made sense as she made it, but when she put it all together, the picture was subtlely off. Pretty sure that begging Spike to kill me isn't normal behavior. Her fingers tightened on her pen, and Willow added, 'Kid in painting looks dead. Gross' to her notes. Except...she'd wanted it. Even as she'd listened in horror to the words pouring from her mouth, something within her had exulted when Spike's fangs grazed her neck, and wailed in abandoned fury when he pulled away. You didn't want to bite me, I just happened to be around. But ugh, ick, blech, that couldn't be her! She didn't want to die! Of course not. The girl in the seat in front of her turned around and smiled at Willow with her own face gone ridged and fangy. "But you're sure he wouldn't have left you dead. I work with what I'm given, oh Willow-titwillow-titwillow," she said with a pout. "Some little part of you wonders what it would be like to be immortal and invulnerable--is that my fault?" Willow bent over her notes, and whispered, "One: Shut up. Two: Leave." The ebony voice purled through her skull, closer than her skin to her flesh. Leave? As well tell your shadow to walk away. I am within you, I am of you, as you are of me. We are one now, of your own free choice. A choice that cannot be unmade. I have given you everything you desired, have I not? It had. She could still feel it, a La Brea Tar Pit of dark power bubbling away beneath the surface of her soul. But she couldn't use it. She buried her face in her hands, grateful for the darkness of the auditorium. At least she'd completed her three tasks, and the bargain wasn't hanging over her head any longer. An amused chuckle reverberated through her mind. Isn't it? There remain eleven of Tanner's people who are still quite mad. Until you have used the Key's power to cleanse their minds, your bargain remains unfulfilled and your power is only on loan. "I don't want your stupid power anymore!" Willow hissed, attracting stares from her classmates on either side. Cheeks flaming, she oozed down into her seat. "Does that matter any longer? You have it. And it cries out for use." Willow swallowed a shocked yip; Professor Alpert had been replaced by Jenny Calendar. None one else seemed to notice anything peculiar; the rest of the students were dutifully scribbling notes about the stylistic contrasts between Mannerist and late Renaissance art. Jenny leaned forward, arms folded against the podium, and smiled. "But let's not get hung up on details. What I want, Willow, is to restore the Balance. Have you forgotten that it's still in danger?" Well, boo big flipping hoo, Willow shot back. I may be special needs girl for not figuring this out sooner, but the whole 'let's kill your best friend's sister for the good of mankind and if that doesn't work attempt suicide by vampire' thing kind of gave it away. You're not working for the same side Whistler was, and if you think I'm going to kill Dawn or Buffy or even Spike to fix your precious Balance, you're crazier than Tanner! The illusion of her high school Comp. Sci. teacher sauntered over to the AV screen and tapped it with her pointer; the cool formalism of the long-necked Madonna was instantly replaced with an overhead view of Sunnydale. Jenny indicated the wreckage of the old high school. "The side I represent is irrelevant at this point. If the Balance isn't restored, then the Hellmouth will turn itself inside out in a matter of weeks. The forces of Light will over-run Sunnydale and slaughter the forces of Darkness, and anyone they see as having aided the forces of Darkness." She smiled, delighted by the prospect. "Do you have any idea how many demons live in this town, or how many people they deal with every day, all unawares?" Willow gripped the arms of her seat and said nothing. Faux-Jenny continued, "Now, I'm not going to ask you to interfere on my behalf. Oh, no--that wasn't part of our bargain, and I always keep the letter of my promises. I don't even object to the slaughter. There are always more demons to be had. I'm just pointing out that our bargain is not complete, and at the moment, my advantage is your advantage. Unless you want to see your town laid waste... for its own good." Luminous shapes with wings of light and swords of flame mow down students like wheat. The wind carries screams and the charcoal stench of burnt skin. She stands knee-deep in blood as arcane energies bath the skies overhead and bodies boil and explode from within like turkey giblets in a microwave. The campus is a demonic Arlington, an endless field of corpses human and otherwise, bloated and rotting in the pale winter sunlight. Flocks of ravens fight seagulls for the eyes of the fallen... She was hyperventilating and everyone was looking at her funny. You're lying. "No. I may not tell the whole truth, but I've never needed to lie to you." Oh, right. Like 'Dawn won't be harmed if you use her power to cast this spell,' which is totally true, except for the part about Dawn not being harmed? Jenny sighed and tossed her dark curls over one shoulder. "Harm is such a relative word. The Key cannot be destroyed, only transformed. By all means let's wait and do nothing, Willow. Buffy waited, and that worked so well for me, didn't it?" Jenny's eyes bugged out and her smile split into a hideous death's-head grin, drooling blood as her head lolled broken-necked to one side. Willow jerked backwards, scrambling half-way over the back of her seat with a shriek. "Hey!" yelled the boy beside her. "Take a pill, will you?" "Silence!" Willow snarled, fingers crooking in menace, and the boy's words choked off. He clutched his throat in panic as she gathered up her books and ran out of the auditorium. ***** It was late afternoon when Tara descended the stairs, feeling as shattered as Picasso's nude. She'd slept off and on all day, rousing groggily when Buffy brought her sandwiches, but her brain was still floating several feet above the top of her head. Disjointed scenes from last night were starting to bubble one by one out of the foggy pit of her skull, brightly-colored blobs in a mental lava-lamp. Buffy cradling Dawn in her arms, tawny blonde hair spilling across chestnut brown. The girl's body was frail and hollow as the shed husk of a cicada. Dizzy kaleidoscope of buildings and streetlights flashing by outside the SUV's windows. Hands, warm and cold, hauling her out of the car and upstairs. Spike limping up scorched and shaken, his pale skin flecked with ash and the diamond-sharp angles of his cheekbones blunted with soot, a charcoal sketch of defeat. Power surging through her, far more power than Willow should have been capable of summoning up. Power recoiling as she realized to her horror that Dawn had been standing on Kether from the beginning of the spell. Xander flying at Spike, demanding to know what he'd done to Willow, and Spike turning on him with a wild-eyed snarl. Giles separating the two of them with a sharp word. A hundred desperate repetitions of Where is she? I have to find her! which no one would answer. Voices drifted up to meet her, tone poems without meaning, Buffy's clarinet-crisp and light, Anya's staccato brass, Spike and Giles's tenor and alto sax... what was Xander? An accordion? A trombone? Tara repressed a giggle, afraid that if she started to laugh she'd never stop. "...should've noticed sooner. Kept thinking there was something missing, and it turns out to be Dawn. What's the bloody good of..." "None of us noticed." That was Giles. "Willow's an extraordinarily powerful witch, more than capable of tailoring the spell to affect you as well as the rest of us. It's difficult to cloud a vampire's mind, but not impossible. Especially one as, er, lacking in mental discipline as you are." Spike growled, but said nothing. "Dawn's young and healthy; she should recover, physically at least." "At least?" There was a worried edge to Buffy's voice. "There's an other than physical?" There was a rustle and a creak, as of bodies rearranging themselves on furniture, and a soft indrawing of breath from Spike. "Does that still hurt?" "Not so's it matters. She hadn't much juice left to hit me with, thank God for small favors." She? What she? Couldn't be Willow. Not possibly, not Willow who donated to Amnesty International and had frog fear and wouldn't shop at WalMart and hadn't wanted to shoot the horsies. Willow didn't hurt things. No, no, no... "Second bloody shirt I've done for in as many days." Tara rounded the corner into the living room. Giles was leaning up against the mantelpiece in a brown study, glasses in hand, studying them as if they were the last artefact of a ancient demonic civilization. Xander and Anya were scrunched up together at one end of the couch, and Spike was scrunched up next to Buffy at the other end. The no-man's-land in the middle was divided by a Maginot Line of half-folded laundry, stacks of black jeans, black t-shirts, and not-quite-so-black button-down shirts. The charred remains of Spike's striped sweater were stuffed haphazardly into the nearest wastebasket, and he was matching up pairs from a tangle of identical black socks. Every eye was on her, and Tara wanted to sink into the floor. Unfortunately she couldn't muster the magic to sink a toothpick into cream cheese right now. "Tara!" Buffy leaped to her feet with desperate cheer. "You made it down!" Before she could protest, Tara found herself the target of a whirlwind of overwhelming Slayerly concern--Buffy wasn't exactly good at the whole nurturing thing, but she really, really tried. Five minutes later, she was ensconced in the armchair with Xander tucking one of Aunt Caroline's afghans tucked around her. "Here you go!" Buffy plunked a glass of warm milk (microwaved) a bowl of soup (Campbell's tomato, woefully lumpy) and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich down on the nearby end table with a bright smile. "You shouldn't--" Tara started, but Buffy waved her objections away. "No big. Your girlfriend's gone postal; the least I can do is provide comfort food. Is peanut butter OK? Do you need anything else? Green vegetables? I went shopping this morning, and I think some of the stuff I bought had leaves attached. Would you rather have chicken soup? We have cans; I can do cans--" "And if you need a nip or two to set you up--" Spike indicated his hip flask and his heroic willingness to sacrifice the contents to her well-being. "Um... thanks, but I already feel like I have a hangover." Tara picked up her sandwich and took a dutiful bite. If she didn't eat now she'd regret it tomorrow. Everyone was being extra-nice, even Spike, which always heralded badness. After several minutes of furtive looks and strangled 'You!' 'No, you!' noises, Giles lost the battle for non-dominance and cleared his throat. "Tara, I'm sorry to press you on this so quickly, but is there a chance that you can cast a location spell to help us track down Willow?" Tara held her sandwich in both hands and stared at the blob of grape jelly oozing slowly out from between the crusts of bread. Sugar and starch and protein, just what she needed, however unappealing the thought of chewing and swallowing was right now. "I... probably not for another day or so. I'm pretty much drained. You can't--?" But Giles was shaking his head. "Anya and I made the attempt this morning. To make a long story short, we failed. All else being equal, Tara, you have a far more personal connection with Willow than I." Once. Not anymore. Did she look as wretched as she felt? She had no idea who Willow was anymore. Had she ever known? And if she no longer knew Willow, who on earth was Tara McClay? "I--I'm not even sure what... I know the spell went bad. I don't know if Willow's..." "She's fine," Xander said. Everything but his voice was screamed that Willow was anything but. "Fine." Anya squeezed his hand and for a second Tara hated them both, because they were all coupley and together and Willow was gone. "She was just... startled. By the end of the spell. She needs space. Spike went after her. Which is totally wrong. I should have gone. I--" "I blame myself," Giles said, rubbing his eyes. He hadn't taken the kind of hit that Dawn or Tara had, but he did possess a modicum of magical talent and hadn't escaped the spell's backlash unscathed. "I should have supervised her more closely after--" He glanced across the Summers' dining room in the direction of the kitchen, where Buffy was attacking another loaf of bread as if it were all the fiends of hell. "The first... incident." "You shouldn't," Tara protested. She shifted in the armchair, pulling the afghan closer around her shoulders against a sudden chill. "If anyone should have realized what was happening, it's me. I knew how hard she took losing her magic, I knew it was suspicious that she got her powers back all of a sudden--" A sob gathered in her throat and Tara forced it down with peanut butter. "Ah, kitten, we all cocked up," Spike said. "Some of us more than others," Xander muttered. "Captain Wrong-Way Peachfuzz here seems to have confused 'bring her back' with 'scare her off.' Spike bristled. "Oh, sod off, Harris. Teleporting's not among my many talents. We'd better find her fast, though. Something nastier'n I am's got its hooks in her." Tara ventured a timid interruption. "What happened to Mr. Tanner and the others?" Xander glared, rubbing his temples. "They got away while I was helping Giles get you and Dawn into the SUV." "Highly effective lot we are," Spike said with a derisive snort. Xander honed his glare on the back of the vampire's skull for a few minutes, then accepted the lack of a direct attack as tacit truce. "Yeah. Finely tuned machine." Buffy returned with more sandwiches, which she started passing around like rations. "So, to sum up--Willow may or may not be under the control of something yicky which may or may not be providing her with her nifty new powers, but she absolutely for sure involved Dawn in a way dangerous spell which almost killed her. This after yanking me back to life without a permission slip, and nearly dusting Spike in the process." Her lips thinned. "I think I need to have a little talk with Will." Giles replaced his glasses. "Spike, perhaps you'd better fill Tara in on the details of your final encounter." The vampire's jaw clenched. His eyes never left the pile of socks as he ran through a brief description of his conversation with Willow, or whatever was wearing Willow at the moment. Tara listened with mounting horror. "You... you mean your chip's not...?" "Gone the way of the dodo," Spike said. "And you almost killed Willow." Tara found she was shaking, alternating waves of fear and anger racking her shoulders. "My Willow." Spike finally looked up, his eyes bleak as Arctic ice. "Yeh. That about covers it." "So excuse me," Tara said, her voice cracking with the effort to hold it steady, "Can someone explain why all of you are so worried about what Willow might do? OK, putting Dawn in that spell was bad. Really bad. But I know she didn't mean for Dawn to get hurt!" She flung off the afghan and swayed to her feet. "Willow's got problems, but she's a good person! She cares about people! She wants to help them, she wants to fix things, and sometimes she goes too far--" A beseeching look at Buffy, who was sitting stone-faced on the couch, her folded arms a barrier across her heart. "She does bad things sometimes, but she's good! And Spike--I'm sorry, I like you, you've helped us a lot, but--but--you're not. Willow almost killed one person last night--you almost killed two. So--" "You know, she's got a really good point there, Buff," Xander said. "We got any guarantee the Peroxide Wonder here isn't planning out the week's menu with us as the main course as we speak?" The iron bars of no argument slammed down in Buffy's voice. "That's enough, both of you! In case it's escaped your notice, Spike's the one here, helping--" Spike rose from the couch, all lithe black-clad grace: ...black as the Pit, and terrible as a demon, was Bagheera ... He faced her, a terrible demon indeed for all that his face was as human as her own. He reached up and stroked her trembling cheek, his nostrils dilating as he drank in her fear-drenched scent. His fingers were cool and dry. He smiled, and the expression managed to be horrifying and heartbreaking at the same time. "No, pet," he said, and though his eyes never left Tara's he was speaking only to Buffy. "She's right. Just like Will was right. Clever birds, the both of them." And he was gone, just like that, between one breath and the next. "Spike!" Buffy cried. She grabbed an armful of afghan from the back of the couch and was gone too, almost as quickly, and Tara was falling backwards into the armchair and Giles's and Xander's arms, sobbing as if her heart had not already broken. ***** Spike's motorcycle was still in the driveway, crouched in the shadow of the Cherokee, but he was nowhere in sight. Buffy ran down the front walk, her eyes going automatically to the oak tree where she'd so often caught him standing in the past, but there was no trace of him, not even a trampled cigarette butt in the grass. The last molten sliver of the sun was still visible above the horizon, but it would soon be gone, and the shadows were already plenty long enough for a vampire as indifferent to his own flammability as Spike was. Maybe she wouldn't need the afghan after all, but she wasn't taking any chances. He couldn't have gotten far. The whole blurry-vampire-speed thing was only good for a block, tops. Had he taken to the sewers? Which way would he have gone--back to the crypt, or--? She didn't have to guess. Buffy closed her eyes and concentrated, and a thrill ran down her spine, out through every nerve and back again: not just vampire nearby but Spike, right there, magnetic north to the lodestone of her soul. She found him beneath an olive tree at the edge of the little park on Cavenaugh, lazing against the treetrunk with hands in pockets, his head tilted to meet the gnarled bole. He was still as only the dead can be still, an unliving shadow among the silver-grey sprays of olive leaves, and though he was standing in plain sight, eight people in ten would have walked right past him. A cigarette smouldered between his lips, half an inch of ash undisturbed at the tip. A thin tendril of smoke curled upwards to wreath his head like some infernal halo. Half a dozen children were racing around on the other side of the park, playing some complicated game of tag through the monkey bars. Their distant shrieks of laughter cut the air like the cries of tropical birds, a sound far more exotic to Buffy's ears than the roars of demons or the wailing of the damned. Spike watched them across the straw-colored expanse of dead Bermuda grass, and a shudder ran over his body, ravenous yearning and revulsion entwined too closely to distinguish. He didn't move, didn't speak as Buffy approached, but she was certain that he sensed her presence as surely as she'd sensed his. After a moment one languid white hand rose to his mouth, and she saw his cheeks hollow and his chest expand as he took a drag on the cigarette. "I could walk over there," he said very softly. "I could walk over there, and I could kill them all before the last one had time to scream. Not going to. But I could." All her senses were focused on the tremor in his voice, the glitter in his eye, the tension in his every muscle--once more Spike was the only real thing in a universe of shadows. Buffy folded her arms across her chest and regarded him, unafraid, but... watchful. "Spike, haven't we had this conversation?" He turned to look at her, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. "We will never stop having this conversation, Slayer." He peeled himself off the tree trunk and set off in an aimless zig-zag across the park, stalking along with his head down. Buffy followed, speeding up to keep pace with his longer stride. The few stars visible overhead were hard brilliant points of light, and the waning moon now rising over the rooftops to the east was still bright enough to paint long black shadows on the grass to vie with those drawn by the nearby streetlights. "I keep thinking I've got the answer, you know?" Spike flung his cigarette at the nearest Requiescat in Pace. "And every bloody time I think I've got it pinned to the wall, the question gets more complicated. I didn't kill anyone last night! Supposed to be a good thing, right? What we're aiming for here, keep old Spike on the straight and narrow? But the Bit's looking at me like I'm something a dog wouldn't roll in, Glinda's set to give me a mystic bitchslapping, and let's not forget Xander 'Stake 'Em All And Let God Sort 'Em Out' Harris--" They'd left the park behind and were walking along the berm next to an irrigation canal. A five-foot wrought-iron fence ran along the bottom of the embankment, and ranks of stately junipers marched off across the manicured grass beyond, dividing the rows of headstones--no elaborate carvings or monuments here, just discrete flat rectangles of bronze or polished granite. She didn't have the disguise spell on, but as long as they were out, they ought to make themselves useful. She tugged Spike after her and slid down the embankment, and a moment later they were over the fence and strolling through the cemetery, alert for movement, though chances were that Spike's continuing tirade would scare off anything with ears. "Yeh, if it'd been anyone besides Will last night, there's a chance I'd've killed them!" The vampire aimed a wild sweep of his arm and a belligerent glare at the nearest juniper, daring it to make a move. "You know how that makes me feel? Like dog's dinner, that's what, because it would tear you and Dawn to shreds if I had! But part of me's screaming 'Only a chance? What happened to rock solid certain?' and another part's off blubbing in a corner because it was Will and I almost did kill her--" His voice held a rising note of panic. "There's nothing I do feels right anymore! I know I've buggered things up with Dawn, but I don't understand why! It was so simple with the chip. Didn't matter what I felt, what I want, try anything with a human and I'm flat on my arse with a migraine, and now I have to bloody think about every sodding move I make!" Spike strode over to the hummock of new turf which signified a recent grave, bent down and plunged a fist through the grass, halfway to his elbow into the soft earth below. He hauled the dazed fledgling who'd been in the process of clawing her way free up in a shower of damp clods. "I'm doing the best I bloody well can here!" Spike bellowed to the graveyard at large. "In fact, better! I've twisted my insides into a sodding pretzel, and it isn't good enough! Did it right, didn't I? Didn't do anything evil. Didn't kill either of 'em, and I wanted to--it's the wanting to, isn't it?" he snarled at the newborn vampire, who nodded her head in desperate agreement seconds before Spike ripped it off with a roar of frustration and tossed her disintegrating body aside like a rag doll. "Bloody buggering hell, I can't change that!" "Damn it, Spike!" someone said in an aggrieved whine. "That was our minion! It took us a year to find a good one!" A matching pair of older vampires materialized from the shadow of the largest juniper, looking more nervous than menacing. They were dressed in a patchwork of worn shirts and out-at-the-knees jeans, and one of them was wearing a knit green wool cap that made him look like an undead Michael Nesmith. Buffy choked back a squeak of totally inappropriate laughter--it was the same timid, scruffy pair of vamps Spike had dragged her after last winter, on the ill-fated 'date' preceding the whole Drusilla-and-chains incident. Damn it, she should have sensed them. There were disadvantages to having Spike's electric presence thrumming through her system twenty-four seven; other vampires were starting to pale in comparison unless they were right on top of her--definitely not a position she wanted to encourage. Buffy whipped her stake out of her coat pocket and dropped into a fighting stance. "Oh, fuck, it's the Slayer!" Scruffy #1 took to his heels, and after a gape-mouthed moment Scruffy #2 followed his example. "Right, I've had about enough of you pair of limp-dicked would-be wankers!" Spike howled. "You're for it, the both of you!" He tore off after them. Buffy beseeched the heavens for patience or the ability to fake it, and dashed after, the red and blue pinwheels on the afghan flapping behind her. The chase led into an older part of the cemetery--the Scruffy Twins were heading towards the moonlit limestone bulk of an open mausoleum. Buffy leaped over a tombstone, plunged her stake between Scruffy #1's shoulderblades, and spat out a mouthful of vamp dust in time to see Scruffy #2 dive for the marble lid of the sarcophagus in the center of the mausoleum. Spike grabbed him by the collar, yanked him back and slammed a fist into his jaw. The other vampire made a wild swing at Spike which Spike didn't even bother to block. Lips skinned back over his teeth in an insanely joyful grin, Spike delivered three swift vicious blows to Scruffy's gut, grabbed him by both ears as he doubled over, and bashed him face-first into the sarcophagus. There was a wet crunch; teeth flew and a spray of dark crimson splattered across the pristine marble. Scruffy slid bonelessly to the ground in a smear of blood and mucus, moans of pain bubbling out of his ruined mouth. Spike licked his lips and stepped back, breathing hard, to survey his work. He looked up at Buffy and smiled, a heavy-lidded look of satiety. "Now this," he purred, "this is more like. I don't bloody think. I bloody fight and fuck and feed and beat the shit out of things." As he met her eyes and saw the shock on her face, the smile vanished, replaced with sick self-loathing, and all of a sudden Buffy knew with complete and equally sickening certainty exactly what was coming next. Lips compressed to near-invisibility, she walked up the mausoleum steps, knelt beside Scruffy and drove the stake into his heart, ignoring the sudden wrenching emptiness in her own. She stood and faced Spike, fists planted on hips. "Really," she said, then realized she was still clutching the afghan--the Linus Van Pelt vibe had to go. She tossed it away and smashed a hard right into Spike's nose with force enough to rock him back on his heels. "'Cause I think we can do better than that. "OW!" Spike reeled back and clapped a hand to his nose. "What the bloody hell was that for?" "Got your attention, didn't it?" Buffy danced back on her toes, crooking a finger in a come-hither gesture. "I'm just a little bit pissed off right now, Spikey. Just a tad." She lunged forward and Spike leaped to the top of the sarcophagus, staring at her all wide blue-eyed shock, as if she'd lost her mind. She leaped after him. Spike blocked the right to his jaw, dodged the left to his solar plexus and fell for the kick which swept his legs from under him. He fell on his ass, hard, and immediately kicked out to sweep her own feet out from under her. Buffy leapt over his shins. Spike jackknifed up in one of those flashy moves everyone thought was a vampire thing but was more likely attributable to those two hundred crunches a day, caught her ankles in mid-leap and flipped her backwards. Buffy landed on her back, twisted sideways to avoid Spike's grab at her wrists, and was on her feet again with a roll. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of a shape in the graveyard beyond, a vast half-translucent figure like the shadow of Ghede which had followed Tara before possessing her fully. The woman stretched, her dark limbs gaunt and muscular against the sky. She rose from her bed of bones, her hair a wild veil across her face--was it slashed across with white clay? Behind her a male figure strode out of the night, pale as death and bearing at his side a drum. His footfalls and the slap of his palm on the drum-head were the sounds of cities falling to ruin. The woman held aloft the severed head of a slain demon in her left hand, and in her right the knife which still dripped with its blood. She threw back her head and laughed, red tongue lolling from her sharp-toothed maw. The necklace of skulls which was all she wore rattled like dead leaves, and the smell of burning flesh was on the wind as she danced to the pounding beat of her ash-white consort's drum. "What the hell is wrong with you, Slayer?" Spike yelled. He was on his feet again, skirting one of the corner columns of the mausoleum, and Buffy forgot the nebulous shapes in a fresh wave of fury. It was only another god sighting, and they never did anything but hang around looking portentous, so who cared? "What's wrong with me?" She feinted right and aimed a devastating wheel kick at his head. "Listen to yourself! Pot insulting kettle's color scheme much?" Spike rolled with the kick, blocked a follow-up punch and got a nasty jab to her stomach through her guard. "Better talk to myself than you," he said between clenched teeth, "I'm the only one in this bleeding conversation making any sense!" Buffy kicked him in the kneecap and dodged his two-handed blow to her jaw--not quite fast enough. She staggered backwards, faked a stumble, and flipped him head over heels. Spike dragged her down after him, slammed one size-9 Doc Marten into her belly and flung her halfway across the mausoleum. Buffy sprang to her feet, scarcely feeling the impact, and dove at Spike. He met her with an exultant snarl. The fight developed a rhythm sensuous in its complexity, thrusting and blocking, striking and feinting. Buffy gave herself up to it. It was good to be pushed this hard and fast, good to watch the yellow light flicker in his eyes as they circled, good to watch the bunch and slide of muscles in his arms and chest. Either Slayer's blood was some kind of vampire steroids, or she wasn't the only one who'd put on a little extra muscle in the last month, because when he landed a blow, damn, it hurt. And that was good too, in the weirdest possible way. Sick as it was, she'd missed this. It had been years since she'd fought him, really fought him, and she'd forgotten how swift and deadly he was, forgotten that the only thing better than fighting with Spike was fighting with Spike, and the only thing better than fighting with Spike was... OK, hadn't forgotten that part, but oh, that was lost forever now because--because-- Vast inhuman shapes, light and dark, danced behind them, slashing patterns of horrible beauty across the night sky. For a second they broke apart, panting, and the divine shadows which mimicked them did likewise. "Is this about anything in particular?" Spike asked. "Or have you just gone off your nut?" "Like you don't know!" Buffy gasped. "I have this one by heart, Spike! I can sing all twelve verses from memory! 'It's too haaaaard! I can't do it without the chip, or with a curse, or when I'm not super-soldier!'" She vaulted over the sarcophagus and drove both bootheels solidly into Spike's midsection; he went down with a strangled 'Oof!' grabbed her calf and yanked her after him. "So which is it going to--ung!-- be, the 'Guess I'll go evil' speech or the 'I'm no good for you' speech? Or hey, why not combine both? Then you ride off into the stupid sunset on your stupid Harley for my own stupid good, and I h-hope it fries you, you stupid, stupid... GUY!" Spike caught Buffy's wrist, flipped her around, wrenched her arm up behind her back, and pinned her down on the lid of the sarcophagus, his whole weight thrown into keeping her off-balance. "Bloody right it's too hard," he hissed, and it was obvious he wasn't talking about life in general. "And for the mercy of Christ, it's not a Harley, it's a sodding Triumph Bonneville! Where'd you get the fuckwitted idea I'm going anywhere? Or giving up? What was the first thing Angelus told you about me, love?" Buffy rammed an elbow into his gut and twisted free, glaring at him. "That once you started something, you..." She gulped, and Spike's whole expression softened at once into that terrifying killer's tenderness as he took in the pain in her eyes. If her churning insides were any indication, a similar merry-go-round of emotion was whirling across her own face. "...you don't stop until everything in your way is dead." "Yeh, well..." His voice had gone husky. "He was right, if you replace 'dead' with 'sorted,' and add in 'unless he gets bored or something good comes on telly.'" They stood there, eyes locked, frozen in place. Spike's hands slid from her upper arm, over one breast and down her stomach, fingers brushing lightly over her aching nipple, sending little jolts of fire through her. Spike watched the progress of his hand with hungry eyes, the tip of his tongue running slowly along his upper teeth. Her whole body throbbed under his gaze. She could scarcely breathe. Spike licked the trickle of blood off his upper lip and grinned. He tapped her playfully on the shoulder. "Don't feature you boring me ever, and there's bugger all on Tuesday nights. Tag, pet, you're it." And he was off again, laughing, shadow-boxing round behind her. He spun into her reach and threw a right to her jaw--playful, now. She blocked the blow and aimed a roundhouse kick at him. Spike absorbed the impact and launched himself at her again, barreling into her like a guided missile and slamming her up against the nearest column. Somewhere inside Good Buffy was carping that there wasn't time for this, that they should go home and make responsible Willow-finding plans. Good Buffy could stuff it. She let her hands slide down his pectorals, mimicking his earlier caress, felt him take a deep, ragged breath as her thumbs swirled over his nipples and felt him let it go with a high-pitched whimper as her teeth closed on one firm little nub through the fabric of his shirt. There was a faint sheen of sweat across his forehead in the moonlight, but he wasn't at all hot after all that exertion. Holding him was like embracing a piece of the night made flesh. He kept on whimpering as her fingers undid his belt buckle and began working the zipper of his jeans, stroking their languorous way downwards. His cock thrust eagerly against her palm, yearning towards the wellspring of slick warmth between her thighs, pulsing--not to the beat of his silent heart, but her own. "How the heck do you manage to fight like this?" she asked, running a fingernail along the straining inseam of his jeans. "Lots of practice," Spike gasped, fumbling with her zipper in turn. A shudder ran through him as his hand slipped into her jeans and caressed her warm flesh, and she realized his cheek was wet where it pressed against her neck, and not with sweat. "Love, I'll try till I'm dust, though it's you that makes me so, but I just can't care the way they want me to! I try. I try so hard. I look at some chit on the street and I think--I think 'There, she's Dawn's age, someone loves her like you do the Bit,' and it's all right in my head but there's nothing in my heart, nothing!" Buffy ran the tip of her tongue along the acute angle of his cheekbone, tasting salt. "This is nothing?" she whispered. She kissed his eyelids, lipping tears from the long dark lashes--so unfair that lashes like that got issued to a man. "It doesn't taste like nothing. It doesn't feel like nothing." "It's not enough!" he moaned, burying his face between her breasts. "Not enough for Niblet, not enough for Tara--how can it possibly be enough for you?" When had what anyone besides her thought of him become something to agonize over, and should she be throwing a party? "I guess you know, then." Spike lifted swimming blue eyes to stare at her. "How you act. When they stop treating you like a man." She held his head in both hands, her fingers lost in the bleach-roughened curls, and let her own head fall to meet it, forehead pressed to forehead. She was dizzy, aching for him in every sense of the words, and far, far out of her depth. Words--Spike lived by words, great glorious piles of them. He needed words, and words were what she sucked at so very, very much. Couldn't she somehow make her hands and eyes speak for her, tell him what he needed to hear? Could he tell that the fact she was here, with him, and not with Xander and Tara, was an essay in itself? "Spike... you said once that I treated you like a man, but you're wrong--it would be an insult to treat you like a man. You work harder at being human than any man I know. I treat you like a vampire, a vampire who's...who's reaching for something. Something you shouldn't even be able to see, something most of the people who're supposed to have it take completely for granted. You make me see how precious being human is, Spike, every day, and I need that to go on doing what I have to do. Even if you haven't touched it, even if you can't, I love that you keep reaching. I love you." He laughed, a wild, awful, half-sobbing sound, and leaned forwards, winter-sky eyes devouring her. His hand was on her cheek, stroking it-- not with the impartial gentleness he'd used with Tara, but with feverish intensity; she could feel his fingers trembling. "Help me touch it, Buffy. Help me feel it. Make me feel it. Beat it into me if you have to! When I'm inside you I can almost touch it--make me--" "I can't," she gasped, "I can't ever make you anything." His mouth was on hers, teeth scraping teeth with the ferocity of his kiss, tongues sliding past and twisting together in sleek velvet caresses as he drank warmth from her mouth like blood. She moaned as he slid in and out of game face, fangs pricking her lips like rose-thorns. Her fingers tore the buttons of his shirt free of their holes. Marble beneath her, hard, cold, smooth, and dry. Bas-relief olive wreaths cut into her shoulderblades through the scratchy warmth of the afghan; fifty years of weathering blurred the once-sharp edges of the carvings. Spike above her, firm, cool, smoother, hair escaping in sweat-dampened ringlets from its comb-and-gel-imposed order. Even she was not strong enough to dig her fingers right into the stone, though she tried, she tried, as his fangs nipped at her collarbone and up the swan-curve of her throat, pinpricks of ice and fire. The lean hard length of his body was molded to hers, belly to belly, and she lay back, trying to wriggle out of jeans and underwear (and she'd thought ahead for once--pads, this time) without losing an inch of contact with his skin. She kicked the clothing free, and dipped her fingers between her own thighs. She brought them to his lips, glistening with milky fluid shot with crimson. "Think it's ripe?" Spike's growl vibrated through her body so violently that she bucked and gasped and almost came without another touch. He sucked her fingers deep into his mouth, the wet-velvet-and-steel of his tongue swirling around the pad of each one, His hands were on her shoulders, her body bounded by the rock-solid pillars of his arms, hips flexing together in relentless rhythm. Starbursts went off inside her with every stroke, building to nova intensity--oh God, he had been made to fill her, she'd been made to enfold him. Before the afterimages could fade she was atop him with one quick lunge and roll, his narrow hips captured between her thighs. Tonight she was going to push that non-existant vampire refractory period to the limit. She spread both hands gloatingly across the muscled expanse of his chest, raking her fingers across the sharply defined pectorals, down the sheer planes of his abdomen while he arched and shuddered beneath her. Her nails traced the sparse line of hair leading from his navel to the dark nest of curls below, eliciting ticklish shivers. He was slick and warm still from her heat and moisture, and she took him in one hand, stroking lightly, then with greater firmness, playing with the foreskin and the sensitive flesh beneath. His body came to life again immediately, swelling beneath her hand--so soft, so hard, satin over granite. His eyes held hers captive, so dark a blue they seemed black. "Thou art my life, my love, my heart,'" he breathed. "The very eyes of me; And hast command of every part, to live and die for thee...' Make me live, Buffy. Make me..." "I can't make you anything," she repeated. "Except this." She bent and breathed on the head, her tongue flicking out to taste another kind of salt tears. Every slightest touch and movement of hers elicited some fascinating twitch or quiver from that beautiful pale body, some new expression of lust-drowned rapture on that expressive face. "I can make you come. All. Night. Long." The wheel of the heavens turned above them, the earth groaned beneath them, and in the graveyard beyond, their dance was mirrored by the Black Mother, impaled in rapture upon the lingam of the Lord of Destruction. And in the labyrinth of passages deep below Sunnydale, Willow Rosenberg walked into an echoing cavern, took a deep breath, and announced to the assemblage of eyeless men, "OK. From now on, we're doing this my way."

Dawn threw out one arm as she raced up to the corner. Whang! the aluminum pole of the street sign slapped into her palm, and muscle-shock tore up her arm to her shoulder as her weight swung over, out, around--she was Sheena of the Jungle, legs scissoring over the curb as she used the sign to slingshot around the corner. She took off down Main the moment she touched ground again, her feet pounding down the narrow stretch of sidewalk, breath ripping in and out of her lungs. Anyone chased by monsters on a regular basis really should go out for track. That stupid story from second period English kept running through her head, the one about the magic of getting new sneakers. She could use some magic sneakers about now. When had Main Street gotten so long? It was only a block or two from the corner of Main and Laramie to the Magic Box, but it was a block or two that stretched for miles...there! The mouth of the alley was choked with people--Spike, Buffy, Tanner, three more crazies. Her sister's small lithe body blocked the sidewalk on one side, and Spike loomed opposite, boxing the crazies in. In two more of Dawn's flying steps the tableau broke apart, the crazies charging Spike, Buffy lunging for the one in the blue cap. Dawn saw an opening in the melee and swerved for it just as Blue Cap flinched away from Buffy. His head came up, and his rheumy eyes widened with childlike delight as they met Dawn's. He lurched forward, reaching out to embrace her with a gap-toothed grin. Dawn made a futile effort to un-swerve--Spike and Buffy performed impossible maneuvers all the time, surely she could straighten out one turn--but momentum was not her friend. She felt herself losing control, one body part at a time: feet skidding out from beneath her, arms flailing, center of balance shifting disastrously to the left. She slammed into Blue Cap full-force, bowling him over and falling backwards onto her butt. He hit the pavement with a pained grunt, a flailing tangle of limbs and Salvation Army-reject clothing. Still reaching for her, even now--gnarled fingers with black half-moons of nails pawed her ankles. Dawn kicked free and was on her feet again with a clumsy roll-and-scramble, clipboard clutched to her chest. Buffy sidestepped her to get at Blue Cap, but otherwise neither she nor Spike gave her a second glance. Time to dump this thing. She made to skim the clipboard away frisbee-style, but a voice shouting "Dawn! Over here!" interrupted her. Half-way down the alley, Willow leaned out from behind a pile of boxes on the loading dock, hopping up and down and waving an arm. The auburn flag of her hair burned against the backdrop of alley-grunge. Dawn dove for cover behind the dock and Willow yanked a stove-sized box emblazoned SCRYING BASINS, 1 DOZ. THIS SIDE UP in front of the both of them. She burrowed into the corrugated cavern, utterly unfounded relief flooding her as the scent of glue and cardboard evoked childhood secret hideouts, where the monsters couldn't come. She tossed the clipboard aside, drew her knees up to her chest and hugged them, trying to catch her breath. Willow nudged her knee with the corner of the clipboard. "Keep it," she whispered. "Just in case." "It doesn't work on them!" Dawn whispered back, making frantic beating motions in the direction of the crazies. Willow sat back on her heels and gnawed on her lower lip. "Shoot. I never thought of that. They can see your Keyness. Stay here. We should have them under control in a minute." She started backing out, then paused, her eyes shifting from emerald to onyx. "I really need you to keep hold of that clipboard, Dawnie." She was off, and Dawn sat there in a long-legged heap for a minute or so, trying to decide if she should just stay where she was or sneak out and try to get inside the Magic Box. Either option involved scouting, so she grabbed the clipboard again (because, really important) and crawled forward on hands and knees, peering around the edge of the loading dock. Willow was crouching beside Tara, who was kneeling beside Tanner's crumpled body. Dawn suppressed a shudder; Tanner's breathing sounded like the drugged-up wheeze of a patient she'd had to pass on the way to visit Mom in the hospital last year. One day the bed had held a sheet-swathed lump surrounded by machines that went ping, and the next it'd been empty. The crazy in the blue cap was sprawled on the sidewalk, and Giles had the older one in the yellow windbreaker backed whimpering against the alley wall opposite Tanner. Xander's car was just pulling up to the opposite curb, and Xander and Anya piled out and raced across to grab the third crazy, a non-descript, balding man with no convenient identifying clothing, before he could take advantage of Buffy's distraction and escape. And Buffy was big-time distracted, but why? Dawn felt like the clue bus was coming and she'd lost her transfer. Spike knelt on the sidewalk in front of her sister, his head thrown back and throat bared like some out-take from Animal Planet, the vampire propitiating his mate. Buffy stared down at him with big frozen eyes, and Dawn didn't think she was just stupefied by the sight of that dorky striped sweater he was wearing. Xander, still wrestling with his crazy, cleared his throat loudly and nodded at Blue Cap, who was beginning to stir. "You know, if you and the undead Marcel Marceau here can spare an invisible room to put these guys in, or even just lend us a hand--" Buffy came to life and hushed him with a gesture. She dropped to one knee to bring herself level with Spike, the glint in her eye indicating that she was having a National Geographic moment of her own. Her hand fumbled at the clasp of her purse. Her gaze never left Spike's face as she pulled out--ohmigod, a stake, Mr. Pointy no less, you could tell because it was slimmer and sharper than the ones Xander turned out on the lathe, and sort of twisty, because for all her virtues Kendra hadn't been any great shakes at whittling, and was she going to she wasn't going to--she was going to! "Buffy!" Dawn screamed. But no one noticed. ***** There were eleven heartbeats thumping away within hearing distance, and he could match each one to a name each one without even thinking about it. Jim, Blue Cap, and the Third Murderer (well, he had to call the bloke something), erratic with terror. Tanner's, slow and labored. Xander's, racing with the exuberance of youth; Giles's strong and steady but with less resilience than his younger companions'. Willow's, a wild triphammer of anticipation; Tara's, sweet and smooth; Anya's bird-quick and fierce. (And someone else? Younger, been running hard?) The only one that mattered was Buffy's, three feet in front of him. You'd think hers would be another bird-flutter in that tiny chest, but no--the Slayer's pulse was as deep and powerful as that of the earth itself, strong enough to shake him to the bone. His sensitive ears caught the rustle of clothing as she dropped to one knee, and his whole body quivered as something hard and sharp jabbed him in the abdomen. The wooden point didn't penetrate the skin. "That's not my heart, love." "Shut up." Her voice was brittle with tension. The stake-point slipped under the waistband of his jeans and tugged the hem of his pullover free. "Why didn't you tell me?" "Tried," he gasped. "Couldn't." The muscles of his stomach twitched as the sharp point snaked its way upwards, pulling his shirt with it and drawing cool night air across his exposed skin in its wake. "How long has it been?" Buffy whispered. Spike swallowed, one convulsive bob of his Adam's apple, and heard her breath hitch. Never could see the sense in her fixation with his throat. "I can't tell you that." "Did you get it taken out?" She leaned towards him, straddling his thighs. Her scent was a ravishing medley of blood and sweat, anger and arousal. Her pert little breasts brushed his bare chest through her thin rayon blouse. The stake-point traced its way higher, up over the vault of his ribcage, digging into his flesh slightly with every irregular panting breath he took. "Or did it just stop working?" Hoarsely, "I can't tell you that either." "Can't?" The deadly sliver of wood traveled up and down the line of his sternum, then wandered across to his left pectoral, drawing ever-tighter circles around the fading scar where Glory's fingers had dug through flesh and bone. His nipples went taut and he unsuccessfully tried to stifle a groan. Buffy's warm breath, smelling of orange Tic-Tacs and the second-hand traces of his cigarettes, caressed his cheek. "Or won't?" The stake-tip flicked his left nipple, then dug in a few inches above it, imprinting its mark on his skin. Right over his heart. Oh, God in Heaven, he was either going to die or come in his jeans, and either one would be a relief. To hell with tradition; his eyes flew open to meet Buffy's. "Can't! I've tried! Tried with you, tried with Dawn--the words won't come, I--" The stake disappeared. Buffy surged upright, taking her weight off his knees, and something small, oblong, and black rushed towards his face at supersonic speeds. Thwack! The purse smacked him across the nose and Spike lost his balance and toppled over backwards. "Next time," Buffy hissed, "try a little harder!" Spike lay spreadeagled on the sidewalk, blinking up at her. Hey, Slayer, I can see up your skirt from here didn't seem to be the cleverest segue to a new topic of conversation at the moment. "Not going to kill me, then?" he croaked. Buffy grabbed Blue Cap by the scruff of the neck and hauled him to his feet, hustling him towards the alley. "Maybe tomorrow." Thus speaks the Dread Pirate Buffy. Spike sat up and got to his feet, yanking his pullover down over his middle and slapping the worst of the sidewalk grit from his duster. "You didn't ask--" The big question, the do-I-need-to-stake-you question, the question that should be first and foremost in a Slayer's mind when she finds out her demon lover has his bite back. Buffy turned. The anger had fled, leaving her face grave and quiet. She looked up at him, moss-agate eyes searching his. "If you've killed anyone?" She'd worn that look the night she died, the night she said Come in, Spike. "I didn't think I needed to." She turned away and Spike followed her, chest drum-tight with an emotion too deep and terrible to be joy. There had to be something he could kill, just so he could lay it at her feet. ***** Willow's hands clenched as Buffy leaned forward, pressing the stake to Spike's chest. The air in the alley went heavy, glassy, an oily heat-mirage shimmer of emotion. Her own appalled gasp, Dawn's shriek of warning, were both stifled under the weight of an alien anticipation. Tara sensed it and looked up from her preparations, trying to pinpoint the source of the disturbance. Then Buffy was on her feet and Spike was flat on his back and undusty. The tension ebbed away in seconds, and Willow felt the anticipation give way to a philosophical acknowledgment that something which seemed too good to be true usually was. When are you going to tell me what is this all about? Willow demanded. You will know within the hour . Willow probed further, but her only answer was quelling silence. Her bravado was starting to fray around the edges. Much more of this and she was going to dissolve into a puddle of nervous goo. Spike caught Willow's gaze as he and Buffy herded the crazies into the alley, his own still asking Why? Willow turned away, digging into a heaping helping of feeling crappy with guilt sauce. She couldn't give him whys when she didn't have any herself. She hadn't yet been able to get the vampire alone to cast the forgetfulness spell on him, and she had the awful feeling that he'd recognized the Lethe's bramble for what it was in the Magic Box. They all tended to forget that while Spike didn't normally trust magic, Drusilla'd dabbled in it. He'd helped his one-time vampire love conduct more than a few dark rituals in his day. She couldn't even say Trust me. He would, she knew. He'd charge through a crowd of foes he couldn't fight, up a tower to meet an imminent sunrise and an unknown menace of indeterminate strength just because she asked him to. Because she was Buffy's friend, or because on some weird post-geek supernatural creature level, they shared an understanding? Or because Spike was, or had been becoming, her friend? And she was betraying him. Maybe. There wasn't anything intrinsically bad in keeping her role in the chip removal a secret, she reassured herself. There had to be a good reason for it, something to do with the crazy-curing spell, maybe. Maybe everything really was for the best in this best of all possible worlds, and she wasn't just playing Pangloss to her vampire Candide. She squeezed her eyes shut and breathed in, gathering calm to the center of her being and tacking it down with a stapler. When she opened them again, Tara was draping the silver chain over Tanner's head. Her love centered the medallion of twisted silver wire and amethyst on the unconscious man's chest. Sitting back, she drew her athame from the pocket of her sweater and pulled the sheath from the short triangular blade, whispering a few words of sanctification. She held it up and pricked her forefinger, letting a single drop of blood fall on the central crystal (probably, Willow thought, the darkest spell Tara'd ever ventured) and placed the funnel over it. "With silver I find you, with heart's blood I bind you," Tara whispered. "Be sealed in this covenant till I release thee, on the names of Maktiel, and Abdiel, and Alekh-Madab." She grasped Tanner's limp shoulders in both hands and cried, Powers of the mind, and heart, and soul! Cunning of the fingers and cunning of the tongue! Be ye a spring dried, a wind stilled Be ye a fire quenched and a field made barren! Thus I command ye, and what I say three times is so. Thus do I bind the strength of Daniel Tanner Thus do I break the staff of Daniel Tanner's power Thus do I drain the virtue that lies within Daniel Tanner. Be it so, be it so, be it so! Light flared from Tanner's body all around the necklace, swirling into the mouth of the funnel and out through the nozzle. Tanner's eyes shot open as his body convulsed in Tara's grasp. For a full thirty seconds his rigid body was wreathed in witchlight, and then all went dark as he sagged back against the bricks. Tara's head fell forward to rest against Tanner's, and for another few seconds both of them were totally limp. Then he stirred, and Tara drew back. His mouth worked for a moment, and he wet his lips. "What... what did you..." He lifted one hand to the necklace. Sparks flared and the scent of ozone filled the air, and he snatched his fingers away. "I've bound your magical abilities, Mr. Tanner," Tara said. "Just for the time being. We couldn't risk you doing what you did to Willow again." She ducked her head, a little embarrassed at being the focus of everyone's attention. "We really do want to help you." The corner of Tanner's mouth quirked, halfway between bitter and humorous. "And you couldn't just toss me some spare change, or a temperance pamphlet?" He squinted up at Willow, as if she were out of focus. "Rotten. The heartwood's rotten... you silly girl, I had nothing to lose. It'll betray you. That's its nature." The dark mad eyes flicked to Spike. "Ask him. He knows. He's part of it at the root, the roots go deeper, deeper, digging into your brain and all the little moles... mole-runs in your head..." "Is this the pointless, insane rambling, or the creepy, prophetic rambling?" Xander asked. Spike shrugged, looking baffled. "Never got the hang of the difference, myself." "Either way," Willow said, "we're here to go Sigmund Freud on its tookus." She turned to Tanner. "I can fix you. And them." She waved a hand at the other three crazies. "Do you get that? I can make you all better, for good, and you won't have to live like this anymore." She dropped to a crouch beside Tara and put a hand on her shoulder. "I remember what it was like, when Glory did this to her. I remember what it was like when you did it to me. It's horrible, and I want--I need to fix this. You can make it easier by helping, but one way or another I'm going to do it." Because Buffy is depending on me, and this time I won't screw it up. Tanner stared at her for a long moment, and then his thin shoulders began to shake. He broke into a thin, scary chuckle that choked off in a half-sob. "Honor among thieves," he gasped at last. "Oh, God, kid, go ahead. Why the hell not? I should get my thirty pieces of silver, shouldn't I?" He braced himself against the wall and began levering himself painfully to his feet. "Spread the wealth!" Willow let out a breath of relief. "Let's get cooking." She clapped both hands together. "'Get these three onto Tiphareth... that's the sephira in the center of the tree... right, that one there. See how everything comes together there? It'll all flow through that center point." "This isn't all of them," Anya pointed out as Xander grabbed the crazy in the windbreaker and dragged him over to the central sephira. "There are more. Should we find them first?" Willow forced herself to stop worrying her lower lip. At this rate she was going to own the west coast Chapstick monopoly before midnight. Anya was right; this wasn't even half the band, and she'd promised to cure all of them. Maybe she should have pushed for a raid on the dump after all; it would have been much easier to do all of them at once that way. Now she was going to have to come up with some other scheme for getting Dawn in position to cast the spell a second time. And speaking of which-- "If this works, I'll get you the others," Tanner said. He hobbled over to the edge of the tree-of-life diagram, wincing a little at each step, and looked down at it, frowning in uncertainty. "Spiderweb," he whispered. "Spinning, spinning..." He took Jim's elbow and urged him forward. Jim whimpered and balked, and Tara got up and came over to help. Together the two of them coaxed the three men into a loose huddle around the centerpoint of the tree. Jim tried to follow Tanner when he stepped away. "Be still," Willow said, laying a finger on the man in the windbreaker; caught in coils of power, Jim froze in place and stood shaking on the sephira of rebirth. She wished she'd learned a little more Hebrew than was necessary for her bat mitzvah; her translations, she was certain, sucked the big one. She swallowed her nerves and stepped back. "OK, everyone--almost ready. When I call you, come stand on the sephira I point to. I need a minute to, uh, meditate." She backed over to the loading dock; Dawn was leaning against it, making a futile attempt to comb the wind-tangles out of her hair with her fingers while still holding fast to the clipboard. "I'm such a feeb," Dawn snarled. "I totally suck." "Dawnie," she whispered, "You don't suck. I need someone to stand on Kether. That one right there at the top. For balance. I was going to have Tara do it, but I think that first spell's pretty much drained her." She was only half fibbing there; Kether had been intended for Dawn all along, but Tara was slumped in place, her face the color of oatmeal. Dawn looked doubtful, and Willow gave her a companionable nudge. "Please? I really need someone in the top spot. It's necessary to the spell, and if you don't do it I'll have to, and it'll work better if I'm free to--" Willow saw the doubt in Dawn's eyes vanish, replaced with determination to make up for her big scaredy running away-ness. "OK. I'll do it. Do I need to do anything or say any--?" "Just step up when I call, and stand there," Willow assured her. "I'll do all the rest." ***** Dawn fidgeted beside the delivery door, twisting a strand of hair around one hand while Willow walked back over to the chalk diagram. The others formed a ragged circle around the edge. She wished she could chuck the clipboard and really participate, but somehow she just couldn't seem to get up the nerve to drop the thing. There'd be Buffy freakage, and there'd be questions, and the squirmy possibility that her sister would realize she'd been following them when they'd gone all Roman Polanski on the street corner. At least this way she could do something useful tonight. Willow stopped at the top of the tree, bowed her head, and said something in Hebrew. Then she straightened and held her hands high overhead. "AIN SOPH AUR, from whence all things proceed, I invoke thy blessing! Addonai Elohim! I invoke the Supernals! I call on the Crown, the First Emanation! I call upon thy virtue; thou partest the veils of nonexistence. Kether!" She made a discreet beckoning motion with one hand, and Dawn edged nervously past Giles to stand on the sephira at the pinnacle of the whole design. A tingle ran through her scalp as she stepped onto the symbol, and the hairs at the back of her neck lifted. This wasn't the first major ritual she'd participated in. She'd helped Willow raise Buffy from the dead, and she'd been hanging out around witches for years now--Dawn knew a few things about magic. The Raising had taken hours, and involved all kinds of repetitious chants and waving of hands. She and Spike had had detailed lists of instructions telling them where to walk, where to stop, what powder to sprinkle and what words to say when they got there. The description of the loa-summoning had sounded like a lot of the same thing. But here--Willow was just waving people into place willy-nilly. It felt weird, with none of the intricate buildup of word and gesture and symbol Dawn had grown to associate with really big magic. But this was really big. She could feel the vibrations in the long bones of her arms and legs, like when she was six and her Dad took them to LAX and they parked under the flight path of the jets. Willow was already moving on. "I call upon Wisdom, the Second Emanation! Great Father, the giver of life! Through thee is creation engendered. Chokmah! I call upon Understanding, the Third Emanation! Great Mother, the nurturer of life! In thee is creation made manifest. Bineh!" As Giles and Willow in turn stepped into place, completing the Supernals, Dawn felt the tingling surge downwards, lapping over her shoulders. Willow's singsong chant continued: "Addonai Elohim! I invoke the days of Creation! I call on Mercy, the Fourth Emanation; in thee is the Law with ruleth the universe, and from vengeance shall you forge mercy. Chesed!" Anya took her place, and the electric-wintergreen feeling skittered down to Dawn's elbows. Was this right? Was it normal? Willow hadn't exactly told her what to expect. "I call upon Severity, the Fifth Emanation. Thou art the destruction that cleanses, that we may create anew; from thy chaos shall we forge order. Geburah!" Spike stepped gingerly into his place, and Dawn's fingers jerked as if she'd touched a light socket. Verdant sparks dazzled her eyes for a moment. "I call upon Harmony, the Sixth Emanation! Thou art the balance of all things, thou art the rebirth of the spirit. Thou restorest what is broken to wholeness! Tiphareth!" Many-layered strata of censer-smoke drifted past, teasing Dawn's nose with the heavy drugged scent of incense. Willow was really into it now, her eyes like jet in her pale face. "I call upon Victory, the Seventh Emanation! Thou art the power of the heart; in thee we feel, in thee we love! Netzach!" As Xander moved in, Willow herself stepped onto the next sephira. "I call upon Splendor, the Eighth Emanation! Thou art the power of the mind; in thee we think, in thee we reason! Hod!" Dawn gasped, trying to hold herself upright; her backbone was a T1 cable carrying a million jolts of energy a second. All the lines connecting the sephiroth were glowing neon serpents in rose and gold, and she couldn't tell if it was her eyes or if they were really moving. Willow's voice was inexorable. "I call upon the Foundation, the Ninth Emanation!" Tanner, his drawn face and blank eyes making him look deader than Spike, stepped into place, and Dawn almost fell to her knees as the jolts of energy converged down there. Was this the feeling that made Buffy jump Spike on a street corner? She'd felt bits and pieces of this, thrills when giggling over Teen Beat with her friends, sweet liquid fire in her first taste of cool male lips. This was bigger, this was dangerous, the kind of danger you'd do anything to taste again. Appalling, intriguing thought: If I'm made of Buffy... Was something in her drawn to that kind of danger, too? Willow kept going. "Thou art the channel whereby enlightenment passes from Heaven to Earth; thou art the sign of magic and of the sacred union. Through thee shall pass all things! Yesod!" A vast soundless roar battered at Dawn's ears, or perhaps she was the vast soundless roar. The censer-smoke was underlit with green now, and in the eerie light--where was it coming from? Not Willow. She could see the whites of everyone's eyes, a sickly, glistening cerise. Willow's voice rose--or did it? It was no louder, but it filled the alley from gutter to the bruised-indigo vault of the sky overhead. "I call upon the Kingdom, the Tenth Emanation! Queen of the Underworld, thou rulest the Manifested Universe, That Which Is! Malkuth!" Buffy took a step forward and as her feet touched the last of the sephira, a circuit closed and power surged from Dawn's head to her toes. "By this Key let every gate be opened!" Willow cried out, "Let the fire of heaven descend to Earth, and be these men healed thereby!" And something within Dawn blossomed like a terrible flower. Her blood had razed the walls between worlds before, but then she'd felt nothing but the pain of the knife-cuts in her side. Now she was light. She was sound. She was nothing and everything. Worlds without end, an infinity of infinities, tesseracts of possibility nested one within the other--all the worlds that ever were or ever could be, and she was the reality beneath the reality from which they sprung. Power beyond measure, beyond imagining, was hers--not to command, for no Key could turn itself--but to channel. Torrents of emerald light lashed outward, the raw unformed stuff of creation, crackling through the net Willow'd woven to trap them. The rays shot down from Kether through Chokmah and Bineh, seared through Chesed and Geburah to collide in Tiphareth and lance out again through Netzach and Hod, converge in Yesod and finally in Malkuth, and from Malkuth shoot back to Yesod once more. The Tree lit up like an insane pinball machine, energy racing from point to point and back again, growing in power and intensity with every new circuit. In the past Dawn had wondered, idly, how things would have turned out if the monks had made her a toothpick or a Porsche or a grain of sand in the Gobi desert instead of a human girl. Would Glory ever have found her? Would the ritual for using her still have required blood, or would it have magically revised itself to suit whatever form she was assigned? She'd never know the answer to those questions, but she knew this: a toothpick or a grain of sand wouldn't feel like she did now. The human shell that was Dawn Summers screamed and clutched at her head as the forces ripped through a form never designed to contain it, scouring her mind to the bedrock. Memories flashed past, a jumble of precious lies, things that had never happened but which defined the scope of her manufactured life. She tried in vain to grasp them before the floodwaters bore them beyond her reach. Scenes from her childhood, scenes from her teens--backyard cookouts, Buffy and cousin Celia tying her to the tree while playing Power Girl and forgetting her, the spelling bee, lying awake in the night and listening to Mom and Dad argue while Buffy held her tight, the divorce, moving to Sunnydale, Angelus's mocking eyes and sharp fangs--whirled away from her one by one and sucked into oblivion by a savage undertow of power. She was dissolving, eroding from the inside out, and no one could see her, no one could tell. She didn't see the man in the Dodgers T-shirt stumble around the corner of the alley and stand there swaying back and forth at the sight before him, a bubbling moan rising from his throat. She didn't see Spike, staring at her through the humming beams of light, his dark brows twisted in an expression of desperate confusion. Dawn Summers was beyond seeing anything at all. "!la muchacha verde del sol!" wailed Ramon, rushing towards Dawn and enveloping her in a bear-hug. His weight staggered her, pushing her off the sephira, and at once the net of power snapped and collapsed in a tangle of hissing green loops. Dawn, rag-doll limp, sagged in Ramon's arms while he hugged her and babbled broken prayers and entreaties in Spanish. A bone-chilling snarl of rage split the night, thin and small after the music of the spheres still ringing through Dawn's head, and a lean black-and-ivory blur tore Ramon away from her. "Not this time, you sodding bastard!" Ramon's garbled entreaties became a scream of terror, choked off short as Spike slammed him into the pavement, fingers clamped around his throat--the grip that could snap a human neck in an instant, long before Buffy, at the opposite end of the alley, could reach him. If Buffy and everyone else hadn't been jarred off their feet by the unexpected breaking of the spell. If Buffy and everyone else weren't blinking and trying to figure out what Spike was doing with the... something, someone, nothing important. She was still carrying the stupid clipboard, and couldn't for the life of her let go. The vampire's eyes were flat golden coins in the dim light of the alley, and his fangs gleamed. "Spike!" Dawn choked out. She couldn't get up and stop him. All her joints were on fire. She was dizzy and aching, her whole body a taut rind of pain surrounding a ringing emptiness which yearned after the very power which had nearly destroyed it. But even before she spoke, something in his stance changed, lapsing from immanent slaughter to a relaxed predator's stillness ready to explode into violence again at any moment. His free hand went to the inside pocket of his duster for a second, and his eyes dropped to Dawn's. "He hurt you, pet. Shall I kill him?" His tone was utterly conversational, as if he were commenting on the weather or asking her if she wanted sausage or pepperoni on her pizza. She'd fantasized about this, hadn't she? Her own pet vampire--better be nice to me, or he'll bite your head off. Only now it was real, and Spike was looking down at her with those terrible eyes and Dawn knew without a single doubt in the world that if she said yes Spike would rip Ramon's head right off, slam-dunk his skull in the dumpster and use his severed carotid for a drinking fountain. And the only possible thing that would stop him would be Buffy saying no a little bit faster, but Buffy was still shaking shards of green light out of her head and crawling over to see if Willow was all right. And the worst thing was seeing the eager, vicious light in his eyes and the way his tongue curled over the rending points of his fangs and knowing, also without a doubt in the world, that her good pal Spike was really, really hoping she'd say yes. "No," she rasped. "No, he didn't... he kinda saved me, I think. The spell..." Her knees wobbled, and in an instant Spike had dropped Ramon and was at her side, holding her up. "Dawn-love, you're--" He placed one palm, chill as the air around them, on her forehead. Felt so good, like pressing her face to an air-conditioned window-pane in summer. "Burning up! What're you doing here?" His eyes, blue again but no less deadly, scanned the alleyway. He glanced down at the clipboard and raised an eyebrow, then yanked it out of Dawn's hands before she could object. "Who gave you this?" "Willow," Dawn said. Spike growled, a sound like a jaguar swallowing a rusty buzzsaw, and flung the clipboard across the alley with force enough to shatter it against the far wall. Uh oh. Willow would be pissed. Dawn's head felt muzzy. I just saved a man's life. Ramon would be little shredded bloody lumps right now if I'd said 'yes.' All Spike's cool stories about little girls in coal bins had happened to people as real as Ramon was. "Dawn!" Buffy shrieked, scrambling to her feet. "What are you doing here? Are you all right?" The world was starting to spin. How come she always ended up fainting just as things got exciting? It wasn't fair. "Spike..." "Yeh, snack-size?" "You're evil." His face didn't show anything, and that in itself was unusual for Spike. "'Fraid so." He gave Ramon a kick in the head to make him stay down, whipped off his duster and wadded it up. "Here, have a lie-down." Part of her wanted to protest that no, she wasn't going to lie down, this was important, but Spike's big cool hands felt so wonderful on the hot papery skin of her cheeks, and it was easier to sink down onto the cushion of worn black leather, breathe in the comforting smell of bourbon and smoke and close her eyes. She heard her sister's anxious voice from a million miles away: "Give her here--oh, Dawn, oh, God, Dawn..." Buffy reached for her, taking her from Spike's arms and cradling her to her chest. Small and slender as Buffy was, Dawn felt insubstantial in comparison, translucent enough to see through her own flesh to her bones. Spike gave her hand a last squeeze and got slowly to his feet. A swirl of dislodged memories fluttered down onto the surface of her consciousness: Spike slumped in the beanbag chair in a mute, inexplicable fury, the emberglow of Willow's hair in the basement light, and the prickly-musty scent of crushed herbs. Dawn had a moment to think Waitaminute, the chip-- And then there was darkness, and it felt awfully good. ***** When the veils of everyday reality were stripped away, the world was a CGI wonderland of interlocking lines of force. A vast matrix of mystic lines of force, indigo, black, and violet, swirled round the vortex of the Hellmouth. Crumpled sheets of shimmering bronze and copper underlay them, power of the earth itself, too vast for any single wizard to bend to his will. The trace-lines of a thousand thousand spells cast in Sunnydale over the last century wove and tangled throughout, glowing in mauve and azure and gold: old spells, new spells, spells of ward and guard, spells to lure, spells to deceive, spells to find money and love and power, all paling before the new-cast glory of the spell she was weaving now. Tides of magic surged through and around her, and Willow reached out, grasped them bare-handed and wrested them into the shapes she desired. No clumsy approximation of word and gesture here, no dithering over whether toadflax or motherwort would produce the effect closest to what she wanted. She was working directly with raw magic, fresh from the heartspring of the universe. Auras shone around her--Buffy and Spike in gold and ebony, Tara in pale springtime green, Xander royal blue, Anya violet, Giles a startling black-shot scarlet. Dawn outblazed them all, a pure and endless paean of brilliant emerald light radiating outwards in all directions. Willow trapped the power in the rose and gold net of the sephiroth, bound it, shaped it, sent it singing back in complex chords of emerald and olivine. Without the strength provided by her silent partner, she could never have hoped to control this wild floodtide of power. It would have burnt her to the bone in seconds. But with it--with it she was Morgan Le Fay, Titania, Endora, all rolled into one. She could see the traces of Tanner's brainsuck spell as sluggish bruise-colored whorls in the auras of the crazies, and of Tanner himself. The flaws in his technique were obvious, as was what she'd need to do to repair the damage to her minds for once and all. With complete assurance Willow plucked a strand of light here, tweaked a node of power there, calling on the green just as she'd called on Glory's stolen power to heal Tara. Malachite arpeggios with descants of aquamarine danced from node to node along the net, meeting and parting and meeting again in cascades of creme-de-menthe sparks. Tanner first. Child's play to send verdant cascades of light down the ley-lines of power, focusing the energy she commanded on Yesod and illuminating a mind cloaked in the shadows of madness. The torch of her power banished the horrors back to the sub-basements of thought they'd crawled up from, forging new paths from axon to dendrite in a springtime glow of renewal. She could sense Tanner's connection to the three crazies within the compass of the spell, and all the others as well, bonds forged of a long summer of shared misery. Willow's senses telescoped out along the lines of power. Three more in Weatherly Park, six more back at the dump, and a lone figure shambling down Main Street, goal-less and forlorn. Ramon. She knew his name, his history, could see in the mangled remnants of his mind a wife, a daughter, a life--he'd been an auto mechanic in the Chevron station on Fourth an eternity ago. And she, Willow Rosenberg, was going to return him to all that. Fix him. Fix all of them. She could do that. So simple, so easy, to take up the reins from Tanner's lax grasp and make them her own. The spell-cords binding the crazies to Tanner lit up like a bundle of glow-sticks at a rave as she sent power flooding through Yesod and into Tiphareth. Come to me! Her partner was pleased with her; she could feel its dark rejoicing thrumming through her veins. Could she go farther? Do more? Could she just reach out, like so, reel in the cords and draw them all here...? The cords resisted her efforts. Impatient, Willow called on more power, and it answered her summons willingly. The universe could well spare this tithe of its substance in a good cause. Somewhere someone was crying out in pain, but no matter--she'd fix that too, in good time. It would take too long to wait for the crazies to come here, she decided. Why not send healing to them directly? First to the six in the dump, then... Without warning the spell snapped with all the force of an axe-cut hawser, and Willow howled in agony as it lashed her mind in a whip-crack of thwarted power. NO! screamed the black voice. Too soon! She was supposed to die! The Tree of Life contained and deflected the worst of the damage as Willow tumbled headlong from the exalted heights of pure magic, falling back into the confines of her own body with bone-jarring force. At first she thought it was the black voice again, but no, it had come from outside her head. Willow realized she was lying face-down in a heap in the alley, her nose mashed into the oil-spattered concrete. She fumbled with her hands--she couldn't remember exactly how to work them for a minute--got them underneath her torso and shoved herself upright. Groans and whimpers reached her ears from all sides; only Buffy and Spike were still more or less standing, courtesy of supernatural muscle, but everyone seemed to be moving. A warm trickle crawled down her neck and her fingers came away smeared with crimson when she rubbed at it. Something had gone wrong. The crazy she'd called--darn, he hadn't been bound by the spell, and he'd blundered into Dawn, wrecking the whole thing. She'd have to start it all over to take care of the rest of them... An inhuman yowl of rage interrupted her meandering thoughts. Seeing Dawn in physical danger must have been enough for Spike's natural vampiric resistance to spells of mental confusion to kick in. For a second he crouched over the terrified crazy, a hawk over a rabbit, his duster mantled like great black wings. A second later he'd abandoned his prey to rush to Dawn's side, and a second after that, the clipboard spun past Willow's ear and smashed into three pieces against the bricks. Oopsie. Buffy, just putting a hand to Willow's shoulder and ask if she were all right, froze as she realized what had been going on in front of her eyes for the last several minutes. She took off towards her sister like a scalded cat. Willow groaned and buried her face in her hands. It was all going wrong! The chill black voice demanded, Renew the spell. Do it now, while all is still prepared. Whoa, whoa, whoa, Willow protested. Do you fail to notice the mass disruption, here? Buffy freakage? General debilitation and achiness? No way can I put this spell back together right this red-hot minute. And what's this about the dying? No dying! Maybe we should all just take a juice break or something and calm down-- You blind, stupid little fool, the dark voice said. The Key's mortal form was to be destroyed in this spell. The vampire would then turn on you as the author of her demise, and the Slayer would be forced to destroy him. Or he would destroy her--either outcome would have been acceptable. Thus would the Balance have been restored. But now the Key lives, and-- It cut off as Willow looked up and saw Spike rise and begin a fluid stalk towards her, murder burning in his ice-colored eyes and every lineament of his body. But perhaps, it continued rather more cheerfully, all is not yet lost. ***** "You lied to me, Red." Half a dozen swift steps covered the distance he'd taken in a single leap going the other direction. "Told me Dawn wasn't going to get hurt." Willow was still on hands and knees in the alleyway, looking up at him with her hair all wild about her pale, shocky face, her sweet little strawberry of a mouth hanging open. She swayed to her feet, alley dirt all over the knees of her hippy-dippy Indian-print skirt and the top that almost but not quite didn't match--never was a clotheshorse, was Red, not in her high school days, not now. Spike kept coming, step by step, backing her up against the alley wall, slapping palm to the bricks behind her and blocking her escape with his outstretched arm. She shoved at him, but she might as well have been shoving brick and steel; no one without Slayer strength could hope to budge a vampire who didn't intend to be budged. "What happened to 'I can kill you,' Red?" He lowered his face to hers, nose to nose, and he knew it was a hell of a lot scarier that his features remained perfectly human while the look in his eyes was anything but. "Dr. Evil leave you a bit short on the old mojo?" She was bleeding from a scrape on her temple, and scarcely noticing what he did, Spike drew a finger across her cheek, held it up to the light, and licked it clean. Always suspected Red would taste divine. Willow cringed back against the bricks. "No! I didn't mean...I never thought... Spike, you--you like me! You wouldn't--you said you wouldn't--!" His voice dropped to a rasping growl. "I like lots of people, Red. Doesn't stop me from getting a grin out of their messy demise." He wasn't enjoying this nearly as much as he should have. Bugger. "Bloody hell, Will, you sodding near fried Dawn! What the fuck are you playing at?" By the time he'd finished the sentence there was more bewilderment than threat in his voice, and the face before him changed. There was no other word for it; panic and confusion and horror drained away, replaced by a hard, calculating smile in a transformation as complete and profound as if she'd switched to game face. "I'm not playing, Spike. Your mistake if you think I am." Her eyes went onyx, and she drove both small fists at him simultaneously, a blow he'd barely have felt had it only been physical. The stink of ozone bit his sinuses, and black-violet lightning arced from her hands to his chest. Needles of fire and ice exploded throughout his quiescent heart and Spike reeled backwards with a scream of agony. Willow took to her heels and ran. For future reference, Spike old lad, if Will says she can kill you, she means it. If she hadn't been weakened from the backlash of the interrupted spell, he'd be ash right now; power that could send a Harrier packing could incinerate a vampire in seconds. Hugging the excruciating throb in his chest, Spike turned for a quick look at Buffy; she was talking to a still-groggy Giles about the pros and cons of taking Dawn to a hospital or just getting her home to bed. She caught his eye: Take care of it, Spike. For a moment he thought of bringing Tara along; she might be able to reason with Will where nothing he could say would penetrate. But Tara didn't look much better off than Dawn was, huddled in a sick soft heap on the ground with Anya fussing over her. Xander was trying to keep Tanner and company from panicking. Well, then. Looks like the cavalry is you. Tracking conditions on Main were terrible--cold dry air that didn't hold a scent well, and hundreds of competing odors to confuse the trail. But Willow'd passed this way only a minute or two ago, and creature of the sodding night, here. Spike vamped out and stood still as death, listening with ears that could hear worms crawling in the ground below the sidewalk. He took a deep breath, held it, testing the air--Yeah. That way--and took off running, following the distant drumbeat of running feet and the fugitive scent of cinnamon. She'd been smart, taken a corner as soon as she could to get out of his line of sight, but it wasn't enough; he caught and cornered her against a parked Mercury within three blocks. This time he didn't press his luck, keeping a wary distance between them. "Don't want to hurt you, Will--" "Oh, don't you?" Willow said with a wild laugh. "Sure looked like you wanted to back there! And I didn't see Buffy the Vampire Layer rushing in to save me, either!" "Bit occupied with her sis, don't you think?" "It wasn't supposed to happen this way!" Willow's resolve face peeled away, revealing bone-deep misery beneath. "You don't get it. You can't get it. I couldn't let her down again! You don't know what it's like to be this--this boring, ordinary, mouse of a person, when everyone else around you is magic! When you'd do anything to be special, make them notice--" Spike threw up his hands with an eye-roll that would have done Buffy proud. "Oh, give it a rest! I'm a fucking vampire, Will! How'd'you think I got this way, sent in boxtops?" He schooled his restless body to stillness again and tried for coaxing. "Come on back with me, pet, tell us what's going on and all's forgiven--you know that." "With you? After that little performance in the alley? Incendiere!" Willow gestured and red and gold flames blazed up in a ring all around her, scorching the paint job on the Mercury, and Spike fell back with a surprised yelp. "How stupid do you think I am?" Spike, you're evil. Well, so he was, he'd never made a big secret of the fact. "Stopped, didn't I?" he demanded. "Both times. D'you think Buffy would've sent me after you if she thought--" "Stopped?" Willow laughed. "Come on. Got stopped, you mean. Wittle Dawnie got upset. Well, Dawn's not here, and Buffy's not here, and you don't care quite as much about the rest of us, do you?" His hand moved towards his duster pocket, tracing the outline of the flat stiff rectangle within. "As a matter of fact--" Willow's face underwent another transformation, from desperation to wicked amusement, unnerving in its swiftness; for a second Spike was reminded of expressions Darla used to get. The ring of flames parted for her like the Red Sea, and Willow swayed towards him. "Didn't you want to kill me there for a moment, when you thought I'd hurt your precious little Dawn? And you do like me, Spike. I can tell." Her voice had grown low and sultry, almost teasing, and her eyes were orbs of polished jet against the pale, flawless skin of her face. She walked straight up to him and slipped her arms around his waist; Spike, stunned into immobility, made no move to stop her. "Maybe it hasn't sunk in yet." She reached up and tapped a finger to the tip of his nose. "No. More. Chip." She arched her neck, exposing the pale, perfect line of her throat, and the roots of Spike's fangs began to ache; he could feel the points of his canines digging into his lower lip. "You know you want it," Willow whispered. "It would be easy, right now, when I'm not so much with the big magic. You could bite me right here. Bite me, take me. Up against the wall. I'd scream. You'd like that, wouldn't you? How long since anyone's been really afraid of Big Bad Spike?" Oh God in Heaven, far, far too long. Hypnotized by possibilities, his head dropped towards the delicious angle where her neck met her shoulder, lower, lower. "That's right," Willow crooned. "This is what you're meant for. You're so tired of fighting yourself, aren't you?" The blood-scent was fresh and maddening, far more so than such a small cut should have been. "You want this. You ache with every fiber of your being for the simple, sure days when you were Death incarnate, clad in power and glory. You don't have to pretend any longer. You can take what you want again. I'd be afraid," she whispered. "I'm not really into boys any longer, but you're very pretty, and maybe I'd even--" Her scent rose up around him like an herb garden in summer, mint and cinnamon and rosemary and Willow, warm and living. Willow who'd given him a cookie to wash the Buffy-taste out of his mouth. Spike shoved her away with frantic strength. "No," he gasped, chest heaving like he'd just come off a marathon. "No." Willow fell back through the flames and banged into the door of the car, face twisted in fury. She slammed her fist against the hot metal, heedless of the blistering paint. "Who do you think you're kidding, Spike? You want this! I can feel desire coming off you in waves!" Spike shook himself, drawing the back of his hand across his mouth. "Sounds awfully familiar, this. Someone gave me a pretty speech just like it once before. Blah-de-blah, beast who must and will be free--soon as you do what I want you to, Spike, soon as you play fetch and carry all over Robin Hood's barn, Spike, soon as you change the leash you're wearing for the shiny new one I've got behind my back, Spike. Well, tough on you, the chip's out already and you've no more cards to play on me. And maybe I still have a yen for slaughter now and then, but you don't. You're not Will. I don't know what--" "Oh, I'm Willow, all right," she sneered. "You think anything but what Willow wanted, what Willow decided was best, got us here tonight? This is the way it always works. I suggest, I explain, I point out the obvious--but it's always they who act. But you?" Her voice dripped scorn. "You were magnificent, once. You were an extraordinary monster. Now? You're pathetic, pretending you're on their side when everything in you cries out to be on the other. You can try for the rest of your damned existence and you'll never be good, never be more than a killer on a leash--and your leash is gone, Spike. You say you know what it is to want more? Well, more's right here." She yanked the collar of her blouse down. "All you have to do is reach out and take it. Because you can." Spike stood trembling. That was the only reason he'd ever done anything, when it came down to it--because he could. Two years, two long years defined by can'ts-- can't hunt, can't feed, can't so much as kick someone in the shins without calling a firestorm of pain down on his head. Over now, and had it really sunk in yet? He could kill. "No." Willow smiled, licking her own blood from her chin. "Give me one good reason," she whispered, "why not." Spike squeezed his eyes shut, seeing the face of the woman he loved, the woman he'd live for, die for, kill for--not kill for. I didn't think I'd need to. In that moment he almost got it. Almost, not quite--as close as a creature of sodding darkness could come, maybe, on short notice with the smell of blood and smoke in his nose. Spike opened his eyes, and his hand went to his duster pocket again. He pulled out the envelope Lisa had given him that morning, slightly dog-eared now, and flipped it at Willow. The uprush of heated air caught it and sent it dancing across the flames for a moment before it fluttered, dipped, and burst into flame. For a brief second the bright colors of the card within showed through the charring envelope, and then they too were gone. "Because I've gotten a taste for being treated like a man, Will. Or whatever you are. Found I quite fancy it. And if I want to be treated like a man, I'd bloody well better act like one, hadn't I? What the fuck has a century of being evil gotten me? Dru left me, Angelus betrayed me, Darla--that bitch never gave me anything but grief to begin with! At least I know the white hats'll stand by their own." Willow flung back her head and laughed, a completely delightful sound. "Act like a man? You mean pausing to ask permission of a fifteen-year-old girl before eviscerating a man for... what, exactly? Being in your way? All that stands between you and total carnage again is the whim of a couple of children less than a fifth your age. Spike, Spike, Spike--if this is the best imitation of a man you can manage, what happens when they stop treating you like one?" With that she brought both hands together with thunderclap force. The ring of flame roared up, twenty feet tall and red as blood, then winked out, taking Willow with it. Spike stood alone on the sidewalk, staring at the ring of charred pavement and blistered paint which was all the evidence left that Willow had ever been there at all, ran a hand through his soot-streaked hair and muttered, "Bloody hell. Knew there had to be a catch to it."

By the time they left Xander and Anya's place, a fire truck and a brace of police cars had arrived on the scene, and the parking lot was alive with strobing red lights and the garble of police radios. At least the car alarms had been turned off. Several towering, husky firemen and a pair of officers were herding the bystanders away with soothing stories about gas mains and methane build-up and explosions which were all under control now and everyone please return to your homes. So they'd done just that, Willow and Tara on foot, Buffy taking Spike up on his offer of a ride. Dawn had met them at the door, woken by the motorcycle's roar, and despite the lateness of the hour insisted upon exercising her rights as resident vampire medic to House Summers. "Spike, sit down!" Dawn's voice, peremptory and commanding, echoed down the hall. "Not until you let go the sewing kit, Hawkeye. Contrary to popular opinion, I do possess working nerve endings." Buffy paused in the bathroom doorway and bit her lip to stifle a laugh. Spike was backed up against the laundry hamper, glaring at Dawn, a force to be reckoned with in pink flannel pajamas, who was facing him down with equal determination and an extremely large and deadly-looking needle strung with coarse thread. The counter by the sink was littered with bandages and adhesive tape and tubes of burn ointment. Buffy hadn't the heart to tell her sister that the ritual was probably pointless; Spike was immune to infections and healed even faster than she did--and a good thing, considering how prone he was to getting himself beaten to a pulp. Still, Dawn obviously enjoyed fussing over Spike as much as Spike enjoyed being fussed over. Let them have their fun. Besides, though his face wasn't too bad--the duster had shielded it from the worst of the Harrier's light--the burns across the backs of his hands were all crusty and oozing in the center and dark angry red around the edges. The sight of them made something inside her squirm, despite knowing perfectly well that he'd taken far worse injuries in the past, and weathered them alone and helpless... maybe Spike was due a little pampering. "Come on, Spike, you do too need stitches!" Dawn was deep into stubborn mode, hands on hips and lips pressed together. "Your guts are practically hanging out. You could get--" She cast about for something sufficiently dire. "Peritonitis! I've been reading up on this. I think I want to go to medical school." "Consider your dedication to humanity commended, Snack-size," Spike interrupted, "but, in case you hadn't noticed, somewhat inhuman here, and I don't recall volunteering to be your personal experimental cadaver. No stitches without brandy. Lots and lots of brandy." Dawn's eyes narrowed. "It's for your own good. Buffy, tell him to--" Buffy bent and gave the long gash across the rippling musculature of Spike's stomach a cursory examination. The crimson furrow intersected the white-on-white traces of half a dozen older scars, oozing a sluggish trickle of red where Dawn's cleaning the clotted blood away had opened it up again. Someday we'll have to compare sexy wounds. The Harrier's blades had parted pale skin and underlying tissue with laser-like precision--deep, but it hadn't quite penetrated the layer of muscle. "Sorry, Dawn. Distinct lack of visible guts. Have to vote with the vampire minority here." She snatched up Spike's shirt, currently wadded up on the counter, and headed out into the hall. "Love, you don't need to--" Spike made as if to follow her out, only to be blocked by Dawn. He stuck his head out into the hall and yelled after her, "Oi! I need that!" "Oh, come on, live dangerously! Wear a nice plaid!" Buffy yelled back, waving the shredded t-shirt at him. Honestly, you wouldn't think an immortal would get so attached to clothes, especially a t-shirt that was one of a set of a dozen clone-brothers. Entering the kitchen, she turned on the cold water in the sink and dumped the shirt in--it was a complete loss; the Harrier's blades had left it in tatters all across the front, but if there was one thing she'd learned in her career as Slayer it was that throwing away bloodsoaked rags was an invitation to trouble. People always took it the wrong way. She watched the blood swirl Psycho-style down the drain and wondered idly what police forensics would make of it. Victim has been dead approximately a hundred and twenty years, and really likes garlic wings . She sluiced the shirt under the faucet and frowned; there was something off about the weight of it. Something in the pocket--whatever it was Spike had been trying to hide last week? Her questing fingers met chill metal amidst the wet folds of cloth. Cigarette case? No... Half an hour later, Dawn had reluctantly downgraded her plans from major surgery to first aid, and shuffled yawning back to bed. Buffy had traded her own worse-for-wear clothes for a white terrycloth robe and retired to her room to recline on her bed, legs crossed demurely at the ankles and the copy of Fitzgerald Spike'd given her propped open in her lap. She left the door ajar--an open invitation, if someone chose to accept it. Spike materialized in the doorway, his duster thrown over his shoulders and his alabaster skin gleaming in the lamplight--a slightly shopworn angel with shabby black leather wings. He was sporting a neatly taped bandage around his lean middle, and both hands were swathed in gauze and redolent of burn ointment. He propped an elbow against the doorframe in a stiff parody of his usual grace, wincing a little as the motion pulled at his wound, and looked around the room uneasily. "Er... where'd you put my shirt, pet?" Buffy assumed a big, perky, helpful-girlfriend smile. "That old thing? I tossed it." An expression of mild panic crossed Spike's face. "You didn't--" He stopped. Noticed the pair of old-fashioned wire-rimmed spectacles in her hand. Closed his mouth with a snap. Buffy held the glasses up, dangling them from her fingers by one earpiece. "Looking for these, Master William?" "Oh, bloody hell," Spike growled, stalking over to the bed and snatching the glasses. Buffy giggled and scooted over, patting the mattress, and he dropped down beside her with a disgusted snort, examining the lenses for damage. "I found them in your shirt pocket when I was rinsing the blood out. You really are out a shirt, by the way, unless the ventilated look is in among the fangy set. What are they for? I mean, the trophy coat is squicky yet understandable, but trophy glasses? We're getting a little fetishy here." "No." Spike held the glasses up to the light, drew a deep breath, scrunched up his face as if he were expecting a firing squad to open up at any moment, and slipped them on. "They're mine." "No way!" Buffy sat up and got onto her hands and knees, peering into his eyes. "You need glasses?" She'd run into vampires who wore glasses before--that librarian guy for one--but Spike? Glasses were the antithesis of Spike. Giles-y and bookish and definitely un-hot. Except... except when they were perched on that aquiline nose, emphasizing the arch of those incredible cheekbones and the depth of those luminous blue eyes and providing a scholarly counterpoint to tousled platinum hair and all those lean ropy muscles... "Uh." Oh, God, he's hot. Indiana Jones hot. Buffy realized her mouth was hanging open and closed it before her tongue could loll out. "I mean, you need glasses. You really, really need glasses. What happened to superior vampire eyesight?" Spike looked testy. "Brilliant for spotting a moving target at five hundred feet in the dead of night. Doesn't do bugger all for your ability to read fine print. And I don't need glasses. Dalton, he needed glasses; blind as a bat he was. I'm just a touch far-sighted. Do fine without 'em." He folded his arms across his chest--definitely sulking now. "Dunno why you're so surprised. Cecily didn't give you the full and pathetic run-down on the life and times of old William?" Buffy clamped her lips down on a smile and settled down at his side again. When Spike started talking about William in the third person it generally meant his ego wanted soothing. "Cecily lost me somewhere around the point your Aunt Letitia lost her husband." "Good place for it. Auntie was a miserable old bat. Uncle Charles was well out of it." She had to ask. She wasn't sure she wanted to know, but she had to ask. "Did you kill them?" Spike cocked his head. Spike-head-tilt with glasses was possibly even more meltworthy than without. "Could you be a bit more specific, love?" "Your family. After you got turned. Did you--" His breath escaped in a hiss of leashed annoyance. "Dad died when I was fifteen, and my Mum..." Back to being William in the first person, Buffy noted. "Yeh, I killed her. But not for joy of it, you understand that!" He swallowed hard. "Sickly, she was, when I died. TB. What we called consumption then. I thought--I thought I could make her like me. Save her." She should be horrified. She was horrified. But there was such anguish in his voice-- "It didn't end well. Main reason I've never been keen on siring anyone since." His eyes glinted behind the oval lenses, lost in time and distance for a minute; then the glint went vicious. "Ask about the wankers at that party and it won't be such a touching story. That's one bit my official Council biography's got right." "Party?" Obviously Cecily had been just about to get to the good stuff. She was still trying to digest the concept of Spike's mother as a sweet little old lady vampire. "The one I went to on the night I died." Spike was watching her as he always did when he laid the horrors of his past out on the table for her, measured regard in his ice-blue eyes--would this be the confession that sent her packing? "Didn't go well. A week later I earned my nickname right and proper. Railroad spike through the head, nice and slow. One after the other. Among other amusements. Roger last, so he could see what was coming to him. He'd screamed his throat bloody by the time he died. Angelus was proud of me." A wry twitch of his lips. "First and last time, I think." "Oh." She swallowed the bile in the back of her throat--not at the description of the carnage, but at the dreamy satisfaction in his voice as he described it. "You know, I keep thinking we've done this part. You tell me something awful, I react with shock and horror--and it never gets any easier, hearing this stuff." His eyes were drinking in her face as if every nuance of her expression was his life's blood. Anger, horror, even revulsion he'd take in stride; it was her contempt that would break him. Buffy's fingers closed pre-emptively over his forearm, feeling the quiver of muscles even through the leather. "Which is good, I think. The day I start treating Spike's Tales From The Crypt like a Sam Raimi movie is the day Ward starts worrying about the Buffy." Spike looked down at the five small fingers making half-moon indentations in the leather of his sleeve. "Did you know, I've told you the story of my life a hundred times?" Without meeting her eyes he reached over and enveloped her hand in his, turned it over, his thumb caressing the lines of her palm. He took nothing for granted with her. Probably better he should--she was still in the business of killing his kind, after all. How many times would they repeat this ritual in their lives? "Over the summer. Every pathetic detail. Tried telling you all different ways. Always came down to a bourgeois git with delusions of social grandeur and a portmanteau full of bad verse." A bitter smile chased across his face and was gone. "Sometimes it's a bloody sight easier to talk to you when you're not really here to listen. And then I'd get past the story of my life and into the story of my death, and it'd hit me after a while... I haven't done anything. I came, I saw, I killed--story of my unlife. That's what I am--what I'm here for. I'm a killer. Creature of sodding darkness. Ought to be enough, oughtn't it?" There were hairline cracks in his voice. "There shouldn't be this... this wanting more, like I was still that poncy little twit I got shut of a hundred and twenty years ago." His canines sharpened and his eyes went golden for a second. "I got more, didn't I? So why's it not enough anymore?" "I don't know." Buffy laid her head on his shoulder, the scuffed and battered leather cool beneath her cheek, and felt the tension in his body start to ease, fiber by fiber. "But I'm glad it's not. A pretty smart guy I know told me once that just because I was a killer, that didn't mean that a killer was all I was." Spike's arm shifted to accommodate her weight, curling round her waist. She felt his intake of breath, his chest rising and falling in perfect unison with hers, the cool, supple, inhuman vitality of his body against her own. This close, his angelic face and Elgin marble body revealed subtle flaws: the ghostly fretwork of old scars that even vampire healing left as evidence of battles lost and won, the netted laugh-lines at the corners of his eyes, the nicotine stains on his fingers (but not his teeth; did going fangy and back again get rid of them? Or did he just use a good toothpaste?) No pure, cold, Anne Rice marble perfection, this undeath of his--a body that, however strong and fast and impervious to damage it might be, still got hungry and hurt and horny, needed exercising and shaving and flossing between the fangs. Somehow the imperfections just made him more achingly beautiful--knowing as she did that she'd put some of the lines on that ageless face. "I want to hear it, Spike--the story of your life, I mean. From you. And the Tales From the Crypt? I need to hear this stuff. Angel and I--we never talked about... what he did, not really. I thought it wasn't important--he had a soul, you know? Why would I need to know all that icky old stuff that would never come up again?" She managed a laugh of sorts. "And I'm not a very talky person. You may have noticed." "I've gotten the suspicion off and on." Spike dropped his head with that look which meant he'd have been blushing if he were still capable of it. "Not a lot to tell about my human life, really. And dull enough it can wait until you're not already about to fall asleep." He shifted uncomfortably, stuck one gauze-swathed hand through a Harrier-made slit in the front panel of his duster and wriggled his fingers. "Getting to be more hole than coat. P'raps I can get Will to waste a bit of the old mojo fixing it up. Though I'd've thought she'd be less apt to waste it after running out the once." Buffy allowed the change of subject without comment. "She seems to have a lot to waste." Willow's mysteriously-restored magic nagged at her; things that seemed too good to be true usually were. She debated telling Spike of Tara's fears that Willow would never recover her magic, but Tara'd given her that information in confidence. "Just let Wills hold it together until tomorrow night, that's all I ask." She began playing with the lapel of his duster, curling the point up and unrolling it again. "I know I wasn't making with the master plans out there tonight, but I wish she hadn't zapped that thing. We could have found out more." Her fingers brushed across his bandaged stomach in a tentative caress. "You gonna be in shape to not hit people tomorrow night?" "Yeh, I'll be there." Impossibly firm muscles tensed and relaxed again under her touch and Spike looked down at himself. "Didn't even feel it at first. Sodding things were so sharp I could have lost my head and never dusted for not noticing." "It was willing to kill Xander to get to Anya." Buffy nibbled on her lower lip. "So the extra credit question is, is it coming back, and is it bringing friends? Are we positive this was one of the good guys?" Spike's cheeks hollowed, and he pulled his lighter out of the duster pocket and played with it for a moment before stuffing it back in. "It'll be back. Thing about demons, pet, good or bad... we're not complicated. We've got a job and we do it, and it doesn't much matter what's in the way." One corner of that expressive mouth quirked. "'S one reason the pure ones can't stand us vamps. Too much humanity left in the worst of us, all those petty desires and conflicting emotions--affection and jealousy..." He laughed, short and sharp, and pressed his free hand to his midriff. "You ever stop to think, pet, that pure good's got as little use for mercy as pure evil? What could a bloke who never does wrong ever understand of we poor sods who do?" Buffy winced as if it were she whose gut had been sliced open. Faith, staring at her with pain-filled eyes. "You got no idea what it's like on the other side..." Even when he wasn't trying, Spike threw up unpleasant truths like stones from a plowshare. It struck her that she'd already made the choice she'd been pondering earlier in the evening, walked through Door Number Two without a glance at the curtain where Carol Merrill was standing now. This was becoming the heart of her life, these moments alone with Spike, bathed in the glow of candles or the harsher illumination of tungsten filaments. She could be the Slayer alone, but this was what allowed her to be Buffy, gave her strength to battle the league of mundane foes that awaited her outside the boundaries of their charmed circle. "Tonight, with the car? That was...I don't want to say this like I'm giving you Snausages or something, but--you did good, Spike. I was proud of you. Well, except for the axe thing, that could have used some work." His hand sifted through her hair, honey-dark against the white of the gauze, twining the tawny locks around his pale fingers. He smiled, a self-deprecating light in his eyes. "Ah, the heroism bit. Well, pet, I know you get off on it. Even when you're supposed to be on strike." "Well, yeah." With some effort she kept the smile from her lips. "Suppose you're telling me you don't? How many of my kind have you saved, Spike?" He pulled back, deep suspicion in his eyes, shoved his glasses higher on his nose and stared at her. "Would the answer be 'Not enough?'" he asked. Buffy nodded. Oh, he so deserved this. "Mmhmm. And they just keep coming, don't they? And some part of you wants it. Not only to make me happy--but because you're just a little bit in love with it." Spike jolted back against the white-iron curlicues of the headboard with the look of a man upon whom a horrid and seductive truth had been sprung. Payback, Spikey! He blinked, momentarily speechless, then sputtered, "You incredible bitch, how long have you been waiting to say that?" She smirked, slipping her hand beneath the duster and splaying the fingers over his silent heart. "Awhile." His eyes had the most incredible expression, regret holding wonder at bay. "Not like I cared deeply about her, love. Don't give me credit I'm not due." How carefully she had to pick her words. "No... but you cared about saving her. It's something." Spike snorted. "It's perverted." Turning in the circle of his arm, she raised her hand to his cheek, tracing strong bones and the sandpaper roughness along his jaw--incipient 5:00 AM shadow. "So you're perverted. I like my vampires a little kinky that way, you know?" Lips met parted lips, warm and cool together, touching, tasting--so soft for such a hard man, that luscious mouth of his. Spike nuzzled along her jawline, nipping at her earlobe. "How about other ways?" "Out of curiosity, do you ever think of anything but sex?" "Not while you're around." He cupped the impressive bulge in his jeans with his free hand and leered at her. "Nurse Buffy, I've got a swelling. Wanna kiss it better?" Buffy poked him in the stomach. Spike yelped, but if anything it appeared to increase his enthusiasm. "Do not tell me this is the fun kind of pain." He didn't laugh--probably it would have hurt in the non-fun way--but his eyes were dancing. "Nah, but it could lead to the fun kind." His hand cupped her breast, cool confident fingers kneading the soft flesh before giving her already-alert nipple a firm pinch. The hand dropped away and she yearned after it, all tingly-warm, calling his fingers back to tweak and tease. Spike callously ignored her imperious little whimper and reached for the book lying on the coverlet beside them. He flipped it open, cleared his throat, and began to read-- not, for once, squinting and holding it at arm's length. I sent my Soul through the Invisible, Some letter of that After-life to spell And by and by my Soul return'd to me, And answer'd "I Myself am Heav'n and Hell" She listened, happily mesmerized. He could get her off with that voice alone, rich and rolling, raspy with a century's worth of too much booze and too many cigarettes. Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire, And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on fire, Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves, So late emerged from, shall so soon expire. Buffy reminded herself that Dawn was asleep just down the hall, and Willow and Tara might get home and walk upstairs at any minute, and letting her hand wander down to Spike's fly was just asking for trouble. She'd always been a troublemaker. God he looked hot in those stupid glasses. Oops, there went the buttons. No wonder, with the kind of pressure they were under, day in, day out, poor things, set the impossible task of restraining not-so-little Spike, ready to stand up and do his duty for Slayer and country. Wasn't three hours of sex in a day enough for anyone? Obviously not. How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop? Let's find out! One, two, oh, way more than three... Spike started to take his glasses off and set them on the nightstand, but Buffy reached up and laid a hand on his arm. "Leave them on, William." As her golden head descended upon him once more, Spike leaned back on the pillows with a happy groan and a grateful wonder in his eyes, as if she'd given him an unexpected gift. She looked up one last time, eyes sparkling. "And keep reading." ***** Dawn Summers sat at the kitchen table, drawing figure eights with her spoon in her cereal and trying to decide exactly how pissed off she was at her sister. Not allowed to sit in on the summoning. Not allowed to go to Anya's shower. Buffy was totally over-reacting to the shoplifting thing. It was bad enough that she was persona non grata in Sunnydale Mall; grounding her from everywhere else was beyond the pale. Not pissed off enough to tell Mrs. Kroger that Buffy was dating a guy who thought he was a vampire--no, that would be going entirely too far, and get Spike in trouble. On the other hand, that edifying scene she'd caught a glimpse of through the crack of Buffy's bedroom door, before Buffy had slammed it behind her in their morning race for the bathroom--Spike, dead asleep with a sated smile on his face, wrists still lashed securely to the iron headboard with what looked suspiciously like a pair of her sister's underwear--that had possibilities. Not that she'd actually tell The Kroger that Buffy was engaging in bondage fun with a vampire (or anyone else) a mere twenty or thirty feet from her impressionable younger sister. That way lay a one-way bus ticket to L.A., and Joyce Summers hadn't raised any dumb children. But letting Buffy think she might was another matter. In the midst of her internal debate, Spike ambled into the kitchen, decked out in mostly-buttoned jeans and little else, all sleepy purry stretches and bed-head. Someone needed to explain to Buffy that cleaning out a drawer for her demon lover wasn't particularly productive if he wasn't given the opportunity to put anything in it. Dawn studied him critically; if the way he was moving was any indication, the gash across his stomach was healing nicely beneath the bandages. Move over, Noah Wyle. "Hullo, Bit." Spike wandered over to the refrigerator, ran a hand through his unruly hair, and hung on the door, gazing into its depths as if he could read omens in the disposition of leftovers. "You look peaked." An uneasy thought appeared to strike him. "Didn't keep you up, did we?" "No." Dawn weighed the decorative advantages of a shirtless Spike wandering around the house against the disadvantages of having to fight someone even more hair-obsessed than Buffy for the bathroom of mornings. Tough decision. "Mrs. Kroger's coming over after school and I have to sit through the big Shoplifting Is A Cry For Help speech. It's like, I've got it already, okay? Stealing's bad. I'm not gonna do it again. So what's their damage? My language comprehension's at college level, they have no clue what my life's like, and getting all Grover and Ernie to explain to me how I feel is the height of lamitude." "So far as authority's concerned, it's not enough you don't repeat your sins--you've got to suffer for 'em. Hence the lecture." Spike pulled out the remains of the experimental macaroni-hotdog casserole and sniffed at it. His eyes lit up. "Curry?" Dawn nodded. "And ketchup. Gives it kick." She started to scowl at her cereal, reconsidered and turned on the puppy eyes instead. Spike was a sucker for the puppy eyes. "I did suffer. Still suffering. Big time, paper bag on the head suffering." Spike set the casserole dish on the kitchen island, fetched a spoon from the silverware drawer and dug in. (Spike was, Dawn often felt, the only person she knew who had any sense of culinary adventure.) "Wankers, the lot of them, but--" He gestured with the spoon between bites. "Wages of getting caught, Pidge. Fair cop, innit?" Dawn rolled her eyes. "Yes, Mr. Undead Citizen Of The Month." "Next time you'll know better." She shot him a conspiratorial grin. "Not to get caught?" Spike winked at her and laughed. "Got it in one. Look, pet, been thinking about it, what aside from nicking stuff might give you that feeling you're looking for..." He had? "I can't wait to hear this one." "...and doing a naff job of it since most of what I come up with I'd have to use your guts for guitar strings if you tried it and flense anyone you tried it with--but there's always killing things to cheer a chap up on a rainy day. Could show you a few moves. If I can talk your sis into it, anyway. You're old enough to kick a little arse, and it's not like I could hurt you by accident." Did that mean what she thought it meant? An entry into the elite Scooby patrolling circle? Self-defense lessons beyond what she could scrounge spying on Buffy's training sessions? Realizing that a delighted squeak wasn't exactly the reaction of a mature woman of the world, Dawn repressed her impulse to bounce up and down in her seat. Cool, calm, collected. A second later she burst out, "Omigod, that would be so cool! Can you teach me that thing where you just go snap--" She demonstrated graphically with both hands-- "and break their necks like a stale Dorito?" "Absolutely!" Spike paused, visibly reconsidering. "Er, well, p'raps not right off. Not a big supply of necks to practice on, once we've used up Harris. But eye gouges, kicks in the balls, that sort of thing..." "Spike, you are so great!" Dawn leaped out of her chair, sending it screeching across the kitchen floor, and gave him an enthusiastic hug. Trepidation hit her like a cold wave. "Buffy's not gonna go for it. She's going to think it's too much fun or something--she even grounded me from Anya's dumb old wedding shower!" "Let me handle your sis." Spike smoothed Dawn's hair away from her face affectionately and his expression went serious. "But you've got to give me something to work with, Platelet. That means no larking about or having The Kroger on. Nod 'n smile and pretend like they've nailed your psyche to the wall with darts of incisive analysis, even if they're spouting utter bollocks." Dawn nodded vigorously. "Got it. I'll be so non-recidivism girl. Buffy will think I've been replaced by Pod Dawn." She would have pressed for further details of the neck-breaking thing and possible demonstrations, but at that juncture Willow and Tara appeared, juggling backpacks and overflowing book bags, and the kitchen erupted into the normal chaos of House Summers on a school morning. Dawn flung herself back into her chair, twining her feet around the legs to defend her claim in the face of potential squatters. "Are we completely out of orange juice?" Willow asked, ducking under Tara's arm and burrowing into the terra incognita of the vegetable drawer. "And what happened to my Raisinettes? Did Hurricane Buffy blow through on a post-slay binge again, because they most definitely said 'Willow' right on the box, and--" "Might have been Spike," Dawn pointed out, excessively helpful. "He eats like a horse too." Spike looked affronted, but as his mouth was full, any attempts at a snappy comeback were momentarily thwarted. "Check behind the milk," Tara advised, stuffing a handful of granola bars into her bag. "Dawnie, do you have a ride, or--" "There's nothing behind the milk but pig's blood. Oh, wait, here they are. But no OJ, and a day without orange juice--" Spike perked up. "Hand that out, would you, pet?" "Yeah. Megan's mom's picking me up." Mrs. Kendall, fortunately, had not gone into overprotective parental meltdown over The Incident, probably because Megan hadn't been involved, for once--or maybe having an elder daughter currently sporting lumpies and fangs made her a kinder, more tolerant person where merely human peccadilloes were concerned. Yeah, right. "--is the kind of day we get until the next Social Security check arrives." Buffy came trotting down the stairs in full war paint and Office Drag, fixing her conservative gold stud earrings and displaying every sign of pre-interview jitters. "And don't even say it; I didn't have enough money with me when I stopped by the store to get everything on the list. I had to leave the Minute Maid melting in the magazine rack on the way to the checkout. I'm never going to be able to show my face in the frozen goods aisle again." She turned and fixed a gimlet eye on Spike, who was in the process of reaching over Willow's shoulder for the pig's blood. "How much of that stuff do you drink a day, anyway?" Spike froze with the carton half-way to his lips, looking alarmed, faintly guilty, and puzzled as to what exactly he had to be guilty about. "Two pints, give or take," he said cautiously. "Sometimes three. More if I'm mending." Buffy said "Hmm," in the disapproving tone she used for any subject connected with The Budget, the one that made Dawn feel like a traitor for shooting up three or four inches in the past year and thus taking up valuable space, food, and new clothing. "If you're going to be over here twenty-four hours a day, I've got to plan for it. You're not going to be living solely on Dawn's radioactive mutant leftovers." Spike fished around in his back pocket, pulled out a handful of crumpled bills, and laid them on the countertop. "Blood and orange juice all round. Knock yourselves out." Tara gave him a grateful smile. "Thanks--we can stop by the store on the way back from--" Buffy grabbed Tara's wrist before she could take the money. "You know we can't take that, Spike." "We can't?" Tara asked. "Why? It's not counterfeit." She picked up one of the bills and examined it. "Is it?" Spike's jaw set in concrete. "Not asking you to support me, Slayer." Buffy's eyes went slitty. "I have no intention of supporting you, but I'm not taking your money, and you know perfectly well why." A deep throaty growl and a burst of vampire speed put the two of them were nose to nose. "No woman of mine's going to be put out keeping me in blood and beers--that's the bloke's job--" Behold the male ego in its natural habitat. Dawn hid a grin behind her hand as icicles formed in her sister's eyes. Way to go with the convinciness, Spike. "That would be 'job' as in 'bank job?'" Buffy asked sweetly. "I'd rather be put out than put away." There was a knock at the kitchen door, and Lisa peered cautiously through the blinds. Dawn stood up, scooped up the last few spoonfuls of cereal and reached for the door, mindful not to open it far enough to let the morning sun in. "Lise! Does your mom know--" "Hey, maybe I could do a water to blood spell or something," Willow said, eyes lighting up at the prospect of magical usefulness like Spike's at the scent of curry. "Or water to orange juice. We'd never have to shop again." Tara, who'd taken advantage of Buffy's distraction to slip Spike's money into the petty cash cookie jar, shook her head and made a throat-cutting gesture. "No, I didn't tell her we were getting you," Lisa whispered. She looked nervously around, expecting hidden cameras, perhaps. "She just thinks I'm riding with Megan." She inched one hand through the door and held out a square envelope with a wreath sticker on it. "I just wanted to drop this off for..." "If you really want to make yourself useful, Will, magic me up a tunnel from the basement to the sewers. It's bloody annoying making a mad dash for the nearest manhole." "Really? I could--" "NO!" Buffy and Tara shouted at once, as Willow raised a casual hand and an ominous underground rumble shook the house on its foundations. Spike, looking rather shaken himself, mouthed "Joking!" at Willow. Megan's pert and over-mascara'd face appeared below Lisa's in the gap of the door. "Dawn? Was that, like, an earthquake? Are you--" She caught sight of Spike. "Oh. My. GOD!" "I can get you a mop to go with that tongue, if you want," Dawn said acidly. "The floor needs washing." She took the card from Lisa and handed it over to Spike. "Look, Slayer, if you won't let me look after you, at least let me look after myself!" Spike and Buffy looked to be a hair away from either kissing or punching each other, having taken their argument from zero to sixty in five seconds flat. Spike diverted his attention from the Slayer stare-down for a second to give the card a puzzled look, which he then turned on Lisa. "It's a Christmas card," Lisa squeaked. "Because of saving my life and all." Spike looked from Lisa to the card and back again, a little startled, and, Dawn suspected, far more pleased than he was about to let on. After an awkward silence he nodded. "Thanks." Out at the curb Mrs. Kendall was honking her horn for them to hurry. Lisa gave Spike a watery smile and ducked out. Megan remained in the doorway, gazing at Spike with the adoration she usually reserved for guys with staples in their navels, until Dawn shoved her bodily out into the driveway. Willow and Tara followed them out, arguing earnestly over whether or not an off-the-cuff tunnel spell would have resulted in the sewer backing up into the Summers' basement, and set off down the street towards the bus stop, book bags banging at their sides. "How do you live in that house and not, like, absolutely die?" Megan asked. Did Megan absolutely have to undermine her noble resolve at every opportunity? Dawn gave the eye-roll another workout. "It's a constant struggle. Geez, Megan, he's not only my sister's boyfriend, he's your sister's ex. Generational issues much? Plus, smoker. He probably kisses like sucking an ashtray." Megan tossed her hair and giggled. "Ooh. So maybe I should take up smoking. With one of those, you know, long holder thingies?" Dawn reflected cheerfully as they trotted down the driveway that soon she'd know how to snap Megan's neck like a stale Dorito. Not that she would; that, she reminded herself with a pious giggle, would be wrong. But it was sure fun to think about. Spike might be right about the rainy day thing after all. ***** "Did she buy it?" Buffy stood on tiptoe at the kitchen window, pulled the curtains back and pressed her nose to the pane, craning to see the curb where Dawn was sliding into the back seat of the Kendalls' Aerostar. Radiant bars of sunlight striped her face like Harrier's blood and made a corona of her hair, pricking out every errant strand in molten gold. He didn't miss the sun much for himself, but he loved to see her limned in fire like this. His battle maiden. Pick me, Chooser of the Slain. "Hook, line and sinker." Spike pulled a clean bowl out of the cupboard, rummaged around through the three or four half-full boxes of cereal on top of the fridge for the revoltingly healthy and vitamin-enhanced one Buffy claimed to favor, and filled it to overflowing. "Now I'll convince you, you'll give grudging permission, and Bob's your uncle. Here, stop flitting about and eat." He appropriated a chair and dropped into it, slid down on his tailbone, and took a gulp of his blood. "We'll have to be careful, pet--the Bit's smarter than the two of us put together, and if she suspects we're playing her instead of her playing us--" "Hellmouth hath no fury. Right." Buffy let the curtain fall back and stepped away from the window, diminishing in two paces from Valkyrie to potential office help. This wasn't his Slayer, this buttoned-down mouse in the sensible shoes and the skirt of old-lady grey--not the warrior, not the woman. It ate at him to see her like this, all her fire damped in the service of fitting in. Buffy Summers should never have to fit in; she should be sashaying through the world in designer clothes and deigning to allow it to conform to her whims. She strolled over to his chair, spun round and dropped down on his knee. Against him was one place she fit in perfectly. Both hands came to rest on his shoulders and worked down his chest, massaging his pectorals, fingers dancing across the ticklish spots on his ribs till he shivered. Her lips brushed his ear. The warmth of her breath took his away, and all the perfume and deodorant in the world couldn't wholly mask the rich musky female scent of her courses. His Slayer after all, beneath the clever disguise. "Now. Where were we?" "Five seconds away from ravishing you on the kitchen table. Spikey wants his Slayer snacks." Spike ran a hand up her inner thigh until his fingers encountered a barrier, gratifyingly damp already. Nylons. Interesting texture, that, when circled against very sensitive skin just so. She melted against him, stormy eyes half-lidded and rosy lips half-parted, and he felt the surging pulse of her blood all around him as her hips arched into his. He pulled his hand away. "But eat your brekky first." Buffy pouted and smacked him on the shoulder. "Jerk. I was going to skip breakfast. Anya said I was gaining weight." She pushed the cereal away. Spike dragged it back. This was familiar territory, though Dru's refusal to eat had generally stemmed from illness, ennui, and a fear of invisible blood-dwelling giraffes infesting her liver. "Good. You could stand another five pounds." He gave her rump a cheerful slap, which, to his interest, did not set off the chip in the slightest. Possibilities there. "Eat up. Can't live on vampire jizz." "Gack. Like I can eat anything with that image in my head." Nonetheless she curled all kitteny in his lap and let him pour milk for her and didn't argue until half the cereal was gone. For all her protests of independence, Buffy liked her cosseting once you talked her into it. A droplet of milk threatened to spill and her little pink tongue darted out to catch it, running over the smooth bowl of the spoon until it was clean enough to eat off of. Spike shifted to ease the pressure on certain delicate portions of his anatomy, and Buffy gave him a sly look from beneath her lashes and popped the whole spoon in her mouth. "Mmmmmmm," she said, withdrawing it with agonizing slowness. "I meant where we in the... discussion." "Oh. That." He ran a fingernail along the back of her knee, enjoying the sensation of her ass wriggling against his crotch. "You were being completely unreasonable." His hand came up to trace the curve of her jaw with a finger, tipping her head up to meet his eyes, and he injected a coaxing note into his voice. "Love... can't you let me take care of you, just a little? I was good at that once, though you might not think it to look at me now. This chip's made half a man of me, but I could still do my bit if you'd let me." Her fingers stilled on the button she'd been toying with, and she tore her eyes away from his, seeking refuge in the patterns of spilled cereal on the tabletop. "Spike... stop it. Please." She met his gaze again, the sunlight bringing out tawny flecks in the grey-green depths of those big beseeching eyes. Her warm little palms flattened to his chest, stroking the taut muscle. Beat me, whip me, rip my heart out and stomp on it--only keep touching me while you do so... "You don't know how tempting it is when you say things like that to--to just throw up my hands and fall into your arms and let you take care of it! I hate living like this! I suck at money, and interviews, and--I've got to draw the line somewhere, Spike. Decide when I'm going to look the other way and when I'm going to bust your chops. Especially with this thing with Dawn. And until I can figure out something better, the line's at my threshold. Stolen goods, stolen money, and anything bought with stolen money, not invited." "Swindled money all right?" Buffy banged her forehead into his chest with a groan. "Teasing, sweetling." He buried his nose in the shining mass of her hair, still warm from its passage through sunlight. It would save them all a great deal of aggravation if she'd give in, but he suspected that some small part of him, the part that connected, however briefly, with small Chinese girls intent on killing him, and took secret perverse pride in pulling complete strangers out of cars, would have been forever disappointed if she had. "But look here--if I come up with honest dosh, you'll have to take it, pet. No excuses. I'm yours. And I take care of the people I belong to." "Deal." Far too quick and pat an agreement; didn't think that was a possibility, did she? The eldest Miss Summers was in for a surprise. William the Bloody was nothing if not stubborn. She went all serious on him then, as he'd gone on Dawn, bending her head to press kisses to his collarbone. "Spike--don't ever think that chip makes you half a man." Her voice muffled against his skin, the words vibrating from her lips and into his chest as if she would instill them directly into his heart. Buffy circled his waist with both arms, interlacing her fingers across his spine. "It forced you to find out how much more than a killer you are. It's why we're standing here. Sitting here. Whatever. Without it one of us would be dead by now, and not coming back. If Riley ever shows his face in Sunnydale again, I'm going to give him a big smooshy kiss." At his irate rumble Buffy looked up with an impish grin, the point of her chin digging into his chest. "All right. Just for you I'll make it a hearty handshake." "Wear rubber gloves," Spike grumbled. "You don't know where he's been. About this grounding thing for Dawn, love, I think it's wearing on her. If..." Buffy's hands immediately stopped the lovely things they were doing to his back muscles. She sat back and folded her arms, one eyebrow climbing for her hairline. "Spike..." "What?" Comprehension dawned. "She's playing me, isn't she?" "Like a trout. I just had the most horrible thought." "Eh?" "All those times I put one over on Mom--was I really putting one over on Mom?" She gave an exaggerated shudder. "That way lies getting drummed out of the rebellious teenagers union. I've gotta book; my interview's in half an hour. Do you want to hang here today?" "For a bit, but I won't be here when you get back, most like. Things to do." He bestowed a kiss to her brow as she hopped off his lap. "I'll do the manhole dash and see you tonight." Buffy grabbed her purse and the car keys, gave her reflection a last spit-check in the side of the toaster, and dashed out the door. Spike sat at the kitchen table, deep in thought, finishing off his pig's blood and macaroni-hotdog surprise while the tame whine of the SUV's engine died away down the street. When the only thing audible outside was desultory birdsong, he went upstairs. Things to do, indeed. A longer-than-really-necessary shower and a leisurely toss later, he wandered back into the bedroom. It was starting to look like a room again, very slowly--the single book on the bare shelf had been joined by a magazine or two, lipstick and eyeshadow and face cream jostled together on the dresser, and a Gettysburg of clothing lay strewn about the floor near the closet, victims of Buffy's compulsive search for the perfect outfit. She'd left the blinds drawn for him, and the room was dim and cavernous, still redolent of Buffy and blood and sex. Spike took a deep breath, all the way down to the bottom of his lungs, and held it: essence of Buffy to tide him over, at least until the next time he had to do something stupid like talk. He wandered around the room for a minute, a deep thrumming growl of content rolling around inside as he picked up little bits of Buffy, examining them, setting them down. He imagined them migrating insensibly over to the crypt, a slow invasion of girly scents and textures trooping past a counter-invasion of Racing Forms, bottles of Guinness, scuffed up motorcycle boots and fugitive copies of Swinburne he'd deny owning. It pleased him, this image of their living spaces insinuating themselves into each other, a long-distance house-fuck. He prowled naked through the rest of the house room by room--a predator thing, leaving his mark in the subtle disarrangement of bric-a-brac in his wake. His territory, now, his pack, his pride in more ways than one. At last he returned to Buffy's bedroom and pulled on his jeans and boots again. He started to grab his glasses from the nightstand, where they'd eventually ended up, and hesitated. Very good, falling asleep to her soft feminine snores and the lovely heat of her body wrapped around his. Infinitely better waking up to the painful-pleasant stretch of his arms still bound overhead, and the pressure of her warm little fingers closing possessively around his cock, which had woken well before he had. Not as good as waking up to her every morning, but before he could make that particular fantasy a reality, he was going to have to do something about Buffy's stubborn refusal to take anything from him. Until then... he folded the glasses carefully, got up and put them in the empty dresser drawer, a placeholder for things to follow. He picked up his duster from the bed and shrugged into it. Damned if he'd let her support him. He had his pride back again, and seeing as it was she who'd resurrected it from the ashes, she could bloody well deal with the consequences. Spike galloped downstairs, taking the steps two at a time. Home, and then for a sewer-crawl; if possible, he wanted to retrieve the trank gun. Vague plans which had been bubbling since L.A. were beginning to coalesce into something which might actually be a good idea. There was a first time for everything.

When Anya walked to the vending machine and back, she passed doctors with clipboards and nurses in crisp white uniforms, but deep down, she still expected monks. She hated hospitals with a passion which exceeded Buffy's by several factors of magnitude. None of the others realized this, or would have understood why, not even Spike; puppy that he was, he'd grown up in a brave new post-industrial world where carbolic acid washes and ether and the Public Health Acts were the order of the day. A century's worth of progress couldn't wipe out a millennia's worth of certainty: a hospital was where you went to die. She frowned at the shiny rows of greasy, sugary, unhealthful snack food. Why, in an institutions supposedly devoted to improving the lot of mankind, did they encourage you to eat this stuff? Return business, probably. Anya looked for the distinctive bright red wrapper of the Chocolate Hurricane, even though it was a weird off-brand chocolate bar that could only be got by special order or in the lairs of evil clowns. They were Xander's favorite, and she always checked. Even if he couldn't eat one now, it was the thought that counted, though of course, the action of buying one would count even more than the thought. Thwarted, she finally punched the button for a Three Musketeers, tucked it into her purse, and set off down the long sterile corridor. It was hushed in the intensive care ward, but never quiet. Voices fell to whispers the moment the speakers crossed the threshold, shoulders grew hunched and footsteps tentative. But there was always noise, always the whoosh of tubes sucking out and needles pumping in, the faint hum and click of machinery. Important noises, acting like they knew what they were doing, acting like they helped, but she knew better. All they did was mask the sound of labored breathing and the moans of the dying. Anya hated them all. She wanted to jump up screaming and run around the ward, pulling everyone's tubes out and smashing the machines. She didn't. She sat down in the uncomfortable straight-backed chair and crossed her legs and arranged her purse in her lap. "I'm back, Xander," she whispered. "I realize you can't hear me, but I'm going to keep talking to you anyway, because I'm really scared and talking helps. Not much, but some. I'm scared you're going to die. I don't want you to die. But I'm more scared that you'll live, and that you won't want to. That you'll think it's not worth going on because you're hurt very badly. So I just want to tell you some things. I love you. I still want to marry you. Even if it turns out that you're paralyzed and can't walk or satisfy me sexually. You have a lot of parts, Xander, and while I like the ones between your legs a lot, they're not as important as the one here." She laid a hand on his chest and bent closer and closer, until she was whispering in his ear. They didn't have any tubes in his ear. An oversight, she was sure. "And that one will work forever. So please don't die, and please don't want to." Xander looked pale and awful, with a day's worth of dark stubble and dusky purple cumulo-nimbus bruises spreading beneath the waxy surface of his skin. None of the surviving crazies looked this bad. She could see a few of them from her chair at Xander's side. Earthquake victims. The Hellmouth's collapse had given them a wonderful excuse for bringing in half a dozen unconscious people. Anya had decided that she approved of Daniel Tanner--he sat in the background and got things done, quietly, efficiently--well, as efficiently as someone recently insane could manage. He was loyal, and Anya could appreciate that in a man. Tanner had been talking to Social Services last night, trying to work something out for the last of his charges. At least Xander had insurance. As long as he had his job, which he might not have for long, because there were only so many openings in a construction company for people who couldn't walk for an indeterminate length of time. Maybe it would be OK for her to really hate Willow now. But it wouldn't do any good, Willow being dead and all. There was nothing more unsatisfying than pre-empted vengeance. "Anya?" Buffy and Dawn stood behind the plate-glass observation window, tropical fish in a sterile aquarium--Dawn with her nose pressed to the glass, Buffy standing back a bit, with her arms folded across her stomach. She waved, pointing towards the door with raised eyebrows. Anya got up and pushed the swinging doors to the ward open. "I don't think you're supposed to come in if you aren't related, but I don't particularly care. The nurse can throw you out when she comes back." "We were downtown for Dawn's custody hearing," Buffy whispered. Infected by the silence meme already. "So afterwards we thought we should...has he...said anything?" "No. The doctors said a lot of things after you left last night. If he wakes up today it would be good, but he hasn't. Yet." They followed her back to Xander's bed. Dawn made a wary detour around the bed of the nearest crazy, a blonde woman with fingernails bitten to the quick, but the woman only watched her pass by with dull, incurious eyes. Anya's magpie brain filed the incident away. A second later, "You're not the Key any longer, are you? That's probably for the best since no one really understood the whole Key thing to begin with." Dawn gave the blonde woman a look--relieved, wistful, confused. "Yeah. They didn't make with the green glowy soliloquies last night at the ER, either. Closing the Hellmouth must have used me all up." She forced a laugh. "Not like it makes a big difference. All I had was a superpower trust fund." "True," Anya agreed. "And you didn't even get to live off the interest." She supposed the monks who'd made Dawn had finally been proven right. They'd thought maybe the power of the Key could be used for good, and closing the Hellmouth was good. It made more sense than Xander's scenario of Key Woman in a domino mask and spandex. Or perhaps it was bad, since she'd closed it after the reversal. In which case the Knights of Byzantium were right. Yes, better all around to be done with the Key business altogether. She missed Xander's stupid scenarios. Anya took his hand, tracing the calluses with the tip of one finger. "Did the hearing go well?" "It went fine. I'm well-adjusted and eat meals containing all four food groups." Dawn stared down at Xander, chewing her lower lip. "He's still--he's not half healed already. I keep forgetting that's normal." Buffy stood there holding on to Xander's other hand with tears threatening to spill over her cheeks, saying nothing. The burn on her face was half-healed already. It wasn't fair. Willow should have picked on someone her own size. Anya gave them both a bright and artificial smile. "Have you cut Willow's head off yet?" Buffy made a choking noise and bright red spots appeared on her cheeks. Anya regarded her with suspicion. "That is the correct procedure for suspected vampirism, isn't it? Cut the head off? Burn the body? Before they have a chance to rise as a soulless bloodsucking fiend and kill even more people than--" Her sentence ran into a sob and derailed. Buffy stood there clutching Xander's hand, looking small and miserable. Dawn fiddled with her hair, looking tall and gawky. "I can't just--" Buffy started. She dropped Xander's hand and began worrying the collar of her blouse between thumb and forefinger in the gesture that always meant she was hiding something. "We don't know for sure she'll--it might not work. I haven't even told her parents yet. It's Willow." "No, Buffy, it's not," Anya snapped. She wrapped her fingers around Xander's and closed her eyes, feeling the hot prickly sensation of having run dry of tears. "That's the whole point, isn't it?" "Ahn?" Something was clinging to her hand. Anya looked down with a broken gasp of joy. Xander's eyes were open, clouded with pain and morphine. "Hey," he croaked. "Hey," she replied, wrapping his limp hand in her shaking ones. She looked up at Buffy. "You can go away now." Xander made a raspy noise of protest, but Buffy shook her head. "No, she's right, you need to rest, I'll come back later with Wi-with--when you're more awake. She grabbed Dawn's arm and pulled her sister towards the door as an irate nurse bore down upon the both of them full of stern admonishments about visiting hours and restrictions. Holding Xander's hand with all her might, Anya barely noticed when the door banged shut behind them. ***** Spike hooked his fingers into the coarse black cloth of the last Bringer's robe, heaved it up by the scruff of its neck and swung it head-first into the nearest wall. Bone met stone with a sickening crunch, and the mutilated face disappeared in a drenching cloud of scarlet mist that should have obscured the memory of another pale, desperate face from his mind, but only succeeded in etching it deeper. He let go, and the body squelched to the cavern floor. Behind him, Buffy dispatched her foe, and the two of them crouched in tense formation in the middle of the cave, listening for any sign of more Harbingers. The only sound was their own breathing and the metronome drip of distant water. Buffy picked up her dropped flashlight, squared her shoulders and twirled it around the cavern's circumference. "One altar destroyed, check; assorted minions squished, check the second." Spike relaxed a trifle. Relax one notch more and he'd be flat on his back. If someone had told him a week ago there'd come a point when he'd get sick of killing things, he would have laughed in their faces, but tonight came damned close. The remaining Harbingers milled through the tunnels with the aimless despair of ants who'd lost their queen; this wasn't a fight, it was just mopping up. He licked a smear of Harbinger blood off his knuckles and spat it out with a grimace. Still tasted like shit. He pointed at one of the dark openings in the cavern wall. "We been down that one yet?" Buffy's eyes followed his outstretched hand, as if the effort of moving her entire head was too much, then turned with a resigned and unfeminine grunt. "No. Damn." The two of them trudged off down the tunnel, passing the abandoned cavern where the crazies had set up shop. The tunnel made several serpentine bends, shook itself straight, and decamped in a smaller cave furnished with a cot, a desk, and a bootlegged electrical cable. A laptop sat in the middle of the desk, and when Buffy nudged the mouse, the screen leaped to life, casting a crepuscular glow across the surrounding piles of books and color-coded folders full of neat, cross-indexed notes. Spike walked over to the cot and turned the pillow over. Willow's scent lingered in the blankets, a day or two stale but still identifiable. He was mad as hell at Willow, but he missed her already. Buffy sat down at the desk and laid a hand on its surface, fanning the scattered papers out in front of her. "I still can't believe she's..." She wiped her nose on the back of her sleeve, a small-child gesture of loss. Spike's knees went out and he found himself sitting on the cot. He ached all over, in every bone and ligament, but the sorest muscle he possessed right now was the unmoving one in his chest. "God, I'm sorry, Buffy..." "It's not your fault!" she snapped, then pressed her fingers to her closed eyes with a small wounded noise. "She chose. She..." Buffy took a deep breath and opened her eyes. "I should have cut her head off right away. It'd be better than this waiting." "No, you shouldn't." Spike leaned back against the cavern wall with a bitter snort. "Sire's right, that is." Once upon a time in the alternate universe that was last summer, he'd sat up with Dawn on the roof of the Rosenbergs' house at one in the morning, and they'd talked about happy endings. There weren't any in real life, he'd said, because there weren't any endings. Things just kept happening. When you looked around the next corner, everything's fucked up again. Dawn had countered that at least that meant there was always a next corner to look around. He closed his eyes. Letting his guard down, but he didn't care. He was tired of looking round corners. Last night they'd saved the world, but things kept on happening. "Will she rise tonight? If she... got enough?" Buffy kept shuffling through the papers on Willow's desk. Spike rocked his head against the stone, slow and tired and helpless. "Could happen, but probably not till tomorrow night. 'S different for everyone." He'd never bothered to keep track of the averages. Since the debacle with his mother he'd never sired anyone he gave a piss about; what did he care when they rose, or if they rose at all? They were just minions, and like as not he or Dru would have killed them in a fit of temper before a month was out. They hadn't mattered. Willow... mattered. Buffy leaned over the desk and rubbed her sleeve across her forehead, leaving a pale streak in the grime. "I wanted to save her," she whispered. She flipped open another folder and paged listlessly through its contents. "Just once, I wanted..." Her voice trailed off, and that funny little line appeared between her brows. "Spike...how well do you remember the spell Willow used to get your soul back the first time?" Spike's eyes flicked open and he sat forwards again with a frown. "I remember the gist of it. Not word for word. Why?" Her voice was taut and dangerous as a garrote. "Look at this." Spike got up and circled the desk, looking over her shoulder and squinting to bring the small type into focus. The folder in her hands was labeled in Willow's tidy, draftsmanlike script: Ritual of Restoration, Revised, Version 3.4. The spell itself was only two-and-a-half typed pages, and half of that was the list of necessary components; the rest of the folder was filled with notes explaining why Willow was changing this line of the chant or substituting this herb for that, and detailing different patterns for laying out the components at different phases of the moon. He would have given a good deal for the use of Angelus's dead-on visual memory for five minutes, but even without...Spike let out a low whistle and tapped a line with a forefinger. "This bit here's different, and this. I think the patterns she's got the rubbishy bits laid out in are different, too, but I can't be certain there." He straightened with an admiring shake of his head. "She told me once she thought she could get around the happiness curse if she had the time." Buffy stared at the folder, lips pursed, and it began to dawn on him what she was suggesting. Bloody brilliant, she was, and no mistake. Orbs of Thessulah were a dime a dozen; Anya probably had a crate of them tucked away in the Magic Box basement. They'd just do the spell, bring Will back to herself--well, perhaps not exactly herself, but...buggering hell. Spike drew a frustrated breath and let it go. "You sure about this, love?" "No." She dropped the folder and buried her face in her hands. "I used to be sure about everything. I used to know exactly what was right and what was wrong. And why it was right and wrong. Now I'm not sure about anything, and it's like I'm doing a jigsaw puzzle without the picture, and I have to really look at every single piece, trying to figure out if it's water or sky." A half-smile lifted the corner of his mouth. "Welcome to my world." What comfort he could offer might be cold, but better that than nothing. Spike draped an arm around her shoulders and Buffy leaned into his side, letting her fingers slide down his arm to curl around his wrist, a warm and living bracelet. "Tara... if Tara won't... well, then, we can't. But--" She picked the folder up again with shaking hands. "I can't not try. If she were just dead... but she's not. She's worse than dead. And here's a chance at getting Willow back. Really Willow, not just--" "Really Willow stuffed into the same dead body as a demon," Spike interrupted. "I'm not saying no here, love; I'll take Red back any way I can get her, but I'm--" A vampire warning the Slayer about the possible dangers of black magic; Christ, what had the world come to? "The white hats wouldn't approve." Buffy looked up at him with the other half of his smile, rueful and forlorn. "Didn't you get the memo? Not exactly a white hat any longer. More a tasteful ecru." He gave her a squeeze. "Goes well with the off-grey, d'you think?" ***** She rose out of deep water. It took a long time. Days. Maybe years. At first she floated upwards gently, almost imperceptibly, towards the surface, but towards the end she was fighting, struggling, kicking her way to freedom, agent of her own rebirth. Light and sound and scent burst upon her in an overwhelming, brilliant wave. Willow's eyes flew open, and she sat bolt upright in the bed, chest heaving in airless, exultant gasps. There were moments when everything was perfect. Like when you were a little kid, and you woke up in the morning and it was a Saturday in the middle of summer vacation, and the sun was shining and birds were singing and there were cartoons on, and you knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that you could do anything, anything at all. It was like that, waking up a vampire. "...better hurry." There were more voices, farther off, chanting something--Latin? She sucked at Latin, which had been embarrassing, once. She could scarcely hear them for all the other noises crowding on her ears--the discordant thump of multiple hearts, the creak and groan of pipes, the distant whoop of neighborhood kids in the street outside. Willow looked around her with wonder. Same old dresser, covered with an eclectic mix of makeup and magical trinkets, same old chair with Tara's blue sweater draped across it, same closet neatly divided between her clothes and Tara's. Each item was invested with new and iconic significance. The curtains were drawn, but the room was aglow nonetheless; to her new-made eyes, the darkest corners were laid bare down to the last dust bunny. No wonder Spike was so big on candles. Electric light was painfully bright to vampire eyes--her eyes, now. Someone had bathed her and washed and combed her hair, stripped off her burnt and filthy clothes and replaced them with a clean nightgown, all fluffy pink flannel. Willow's lip curled in revulsion. That would have to go. She was so over the cuteness thing. But later. The air was thick with the smell of burning sage and...something else. Something delicious. It rose out of the sheets beneath her, the perfumes of Araby aged to rich mellow perfection, and wafted sharp and fresh and tangy across the room. Tara's scent. Blinding, all-consuming hunger blazed up in her, and Willow spun around on her hands and knees in the tangle of cream-colored linen, fixating on the origin of that divine odor. Buffy was standing between the bed and the doorway, watching Willow with hooded eyes and the stone-faced expression which had grown so familiar last year. Her arms crossed over a stake. Behind her, in the threshold of the room, Tara was seated cross-legged on the floor, bent over a red velvet pillow holding a small glowing object. Giles and Spike flanked her, holding a sheaf of papers and a bundle of smoldering herbs respectively. A familiar arraignment of bones, stones and candles surrounded the pillow, but none of that mattered; the only thing in Willow's universe was the smell of fresh, living blood. "...let the orb be the vessel..." Tara, so beautiful in her determination and power, so vital, such a banquet of warm, tender flesh, all moist and salty-sweet with perspiration. Willow licked her lips, entranced by the mouth-watering throb of the pulse-point in her lover's neck. A twisting, pulling sensation shot through her brow and jaw, hurting in that good way it does when you rip off a scab. For a second her skin stretched too tight across her shifting bones, and then her new features settled into place. Willow ran her tongue across her fangs, and hissed as the unaccustomed pinpoints cut the flesh. The taste of her own blood only intensified the ache in her gut. She flowed off the bed, moving like liquid silver across the floor. This was beyond cool. There was delightful anguish in Tara's blue-grey eyes, and her voice trembled with the effort of getting the words of her spell out. "Don't be thcared, honey," Willow cooed. "It'th jutht me." Ugh. She was going to have to do something about that. Buffy moved to block her, stake at effortless ready--if she was quicksilver, the Slayer was liquid steel, Terminator II-style. Behind Buffy, Spike lowered his head, his eyes glowing lantern-yellow beneath his gnarled brow. He bared his fangs and growled, a take-no-prisoners sound she knew instinctively for a warning rather than a challenge, and Willow had to laugh. Like she'd roll over and play adoring fledgling for a pathetic screw-up of a sire like him. He was such a dog in the manger. No intention of eating them himself, but was he going to offer his starving offspring a bite? Jerk. Maybe she could she grab Giles and snap his neck before one of them jumped her. It would be fun to try. What an idiot she'd been to think of this as an ending. This was her true beginning. She felt free and light. Stronger than she'd ever been in her life. Utterly reborn. For about three seconds. "...anima instaubitur! Nunc!" Tara's eyes rolled up in her head and she slumped forward, knocking over a candle or two before Giles caught her. The object on the pillow disappeared in a flare of white light, and a dozen spears of blinding pain impaled Willow from the inside out. She might have screamed, but there was no air in her lungs, and all she could do was pitch over in a shaking, spasming ball until the agony cooled from raging bonfire to glowing embers. It was back. All the guilt and horror, weighing her down with chains that could anchor a battleship, and all the worse for having lifted for a few moments. "Willow?" She couldn't even tell whose voice it was asking the question, her ears rang so. Willow looked up, shivering. Tara was staring at her with mingled hope and terror. Giles's face was a pallid mask of itself, and he was fingering his own stake. Buffy and Spike were twin sentinels, one thin-lipped and stone-faced, the other radiating a feral, territorial watchfulness. "You brought me back," she whispered. She'd cut her lip on her fangs, and her own blood spotted the pillow; on top of everything else she was still starving, every cell crying out for blood. Tears welled up in her golden eyes, big fat hopeless buckets of them. "You--" In a nonexistent heartbeat she gathered herself and sprang at Spike. "You brought me back! You BATHTARD! I HATE you! All of you! You rotten, creepy, awful--" She slammed into him head-on, clawing at his face, screaming and wailing and running out of air half-way through her litany of PG-13 abuse, so that she puffed ineffectual soundless curses into his chest. Her newfound strength proved less than overwhelmingly effective against someone with a century's head start in same; Spike caught her wrists, yanked her arms up behind her back with one swift brutal motion, and ignored her wriggles and kicks with the aplomb of a lion enduring a cub chewing on his ears. He glanced over at the others. "She's wild, starved. Best you leave her to me for a bit, let me get some blood in her, and you come back in five or ten when she's more... herself." "Are we certain the spell was successful?" Giles asked, with a cool note of inquiry which allowed a ray of hope into Willow's still heart--he'd use that stake in a New York minute if he thought-- Spike gave Willow a little shake. "She's got her soul all right. She stinks of it." Tara flinched and bit down hard on the knuckle of her thumb. "I should stay--" Buffy took Tara's shoulder with a look of compassion and steered her towards the door. "It's a vamp thing. Let Spike calm her down. Come on. It won't be long." She shot an impenetrable look at Spike, who returned it in spades. Giles followed them out the door, looking somewhere in the neighborhood of Spike's age. As soon as they were gone, Willow twisted free and head-butted Spike in the stomach. Spike backhanded her full-strength across the face. Her head snapped back on her neck and violet stars exploded before her eyes. Willow staggered backwards, sprawling across the mattress, and before she could make another move Spike pounced, pinning her wrists over her head and holding her in place with his weight. "Listen up, Red," he snarled, nose to flattened nose. "I'm your sire. Didn't ask for it, didn't want it, but here it is. If you've got any poncy sentimental notions about what that means, forget 'em. All it means is I'm older than you and I'm stronger than you and I'm always going to be older and stronger than you, and if you take one step out of line, cause Buffy and the rest one more sleepless night, I'll feed you your fingers, one joint at a time. You wanted to be a vampire? Fine, you're a vampire. You don't get out of this so easily." Willow said nothing, hating him, hating herself. She'd been here before, staring up into Spike's ferocious demon countenance, and this time--this time-- This time it didn't really hurt, except in a tingly excity sort of way. That was, the hitting part hurt, but it didn't really matter so much. Think about that--Spike had hit her. Hard. As hard as he'd hit another...Willow's face crumpled in grief, and she took an awkward, sobbing breath. The hatred cracked and shattered, its thin, bitter black shell falling away into a thousand tiny needle-sharp fragments and leaving her damp and draggled, a new thing, naked and exposed. "I'm a vampire. I'm really a vampire. Oh, God..." Spike eased back a little, his hand sliding from wrists to shoulders, and after a bit, as Willow continued to sob, he wasn't holding her down any longer, just holding her. His hands had always been chilly--not freakishly icy, just the kind of chilly anyone's hands might be on a cold day, or when they'd lost circulation for a bit. Mouse-hand, Tara used to call it, when she'd been sitting at the computer too long in a non-ergonomic fashion. He didn't feel cold now, just... there. Their bodies were exactly the same temperature. Room temperature. She wasn't crying blood or something oogy like that, was she? Because ew, and also yuck, and thirdly, think of the dry-cleaning bills. No, no--vampires wept salt water like everyone else; she'd seen Spike do it often enough. When at last her sobs wore themselves out in a series of exhausted hiccups, Spike eased her over onto one of the pillows, rolled off the bed and walked over to a small cooler tucked away beside the dresser. She heard the hollow thup of the lid coming off, and the clink and rattle of ice cubes as he fished something out. A second later the mattress shifted as he sat down beside her. "Here," he said, holding out a Styrofoam cup with the Kohlermann's logo on the side and a straw. "Drink up. You'll feel better." The pig's blood was cold, and something deep inside her was still screaming for hot fresh living! but it was still the most wonderful thing she'd ever tasted. Like...like a Beef Wellington-flavored hot fudge Sunday, or, or, chocolate-covered deep-fried bacon cheesecake--there weren't even words for the yumminess. Willow sucked down the whole cup with ravenous dispatch, licked her fangs and grabbed the second container Spike had ready for her with embarrassing eagerness. He was right; as the raging hunger in her belly calmed, she couldn't help but feel a little better. Her bitten lip was already healing. It occurred to her that being dead was the first decent rest she'd had in weeks. And maybe the last. Spike sat on the edge of the bed with one leg tucked under him, watching her drink, like he was grading her performance or something--was she doing this right? Did she have a blood mustache? Did she look like a big vampire dork? "Why?" she asked at last, setting the cup down and letting her eyes follow it. "Why did Buffy let you...?" Spike's cheeks hollowed, and he made a small grumbly noise. "This was Buffy's idea, pet." Instant karma. She'd dragged Buffy back from the dead; Buffy had just returned the favor. "There's thome petard-hoithting involved, huh?" "Won't say there wasn't." Willow turned the cup over, her thumbnail making little cornrows of crescent-moon indentations in the Styrofoam. They still looked the same, her hands, but across the room in the mirror over the dresser, there was no one there, just an eerily rumpled sheet. Makeup. How was she going to put on makeup? Because redhead, with serious foundation issues, and vampification wouldn't get rid of freckles. She'd wanted to erase herself; all she'd succeeded in doing was blinding herself. Spike jerked his head at the doorway. "By the pricking of my thumbs, something Wicca this way comes. You might want to put the fangs away." "What?" Willow picked up the sound of shuffly feet and worried murmurs in the hall, and ran her fingers over her face, trying to push the brow ridges back in with panicky little hand-flutters. "How? What if I can't change back? What am I going to tell Mom and Dad? And thchool? I have day clathes!" She grabbed his wrists and turned on him with a wail of anguish. "And I thound like I thould be thinging 'Gary, Indiana'!" "Should have thought of that before you tried to make me your one-way ticket to oblivion," Spike said, not entirely unsympathetically. There was a darkling humor in his eyes. "Just relax and think thoughts unrelated to slaughter and mayhem." He extricated himself from her panicky grip, and got up to open the door. It took a couple of tries, but she managed to wrestle herself back into human shape before Tara came in. Willow crumpled up the Styrofoam cup with its residue of sticky red and shoved it under the covers, overcome by the irrational terror that Tara would transform before her eyes into a giant lamb chop or something, like one of those cartoons where Elmer Fudd was starving on a desert island. But no--Tara looked like Tara. Drained, bewildered Tara, wheaten hair pulled back in an unflattering braid, dark half-circles smudged beneath her eyes by an artistic thumb. Arms crossed, hands tucked beneath her armpits, awkward and vulnerable as a Degas painting. Not quite sure how things had come to this. Tara at the end of a very long rope. She wasn't going to get to bury her head in Tara's shoulder, and be told that everything was all right. Spike gave Tara an awkward shoulder-pat and slipped out; Willow caught a glimpse of him taking Buffy's hand, and the two of them standing in the hall, forehead to forehead, whispering together. She wasn't yet accustomed enough to her new keenness of hearing to sift their words from the background noise. And besides... Tara. "You let them bring me back," Willow said at last. "You helped." Tara turned her head, her bones all too evident beneath her translucent skin. "I did," she whispered. "It's easy to say how wrong it is when it's someone else. When it's you...I...I d-don't think this was right. " Her eyes scrunched shut and she wrapped her arms around herself. "But it wasn't f-fair, what you did! To Spike. To all of us--to me! How could you do that to me? How could you m-make me k-kill you, Willow? When you know I love you so much, when--" "All I wanted was to make things right! To fix everything. To--" Willow clutched the blankets, heard the startling noise of shredding cloth, and dropped them in sick dismay. "You can't love me. Not like this." Tara's head came up, her mouth set in a line at odds with its essential softness. "Don't tell me what I can't do." "I'm..." Willow stopped. Sorry didn't cut it, not any longer. But she was sorry; she was composed entirely of sorry molecules. She was Sorry Woman and her sidekick Apology Lass. What could she possibly say that would show she meant it this time? She drew an unsteady breath--so much harder, when you had to think about doing it every single time. "I'm giving up the magic. So you know. All of it." Tara's eyes dropped, veiled behind sandy lashes. "That's...Willow, y-you're a vampire. You're dead. You're never going to change again. Which means your magic's never coming back any more than it is right now. Like--like Drusilla, she's never saned up." No magic. Not rejected in an act noble self-abnegation, just...gone. Nothing but the dry, empty ache inside, forever. Willow bent her head to her flannel-covered knees. "I guess that's poetic justice. And not just a couple of limericks, either. A whole epic. Childe Willow to the Dark Tower came." "I wouldn't have wished that on you." Tara's breath was soft and ragged in the room's silence, her heartbeat strong and swift. How strange to hear the sounds of life so clearly now that she was dead. "You know that. But you didn't give me the live Willow choice. You gave me two flavors of dead Willow. I--" "I'm not blaming you. I think I've kinda given up my blaming rights for eternity." "It's not the magic, Willow." Tara's fingers twined in frustration. "It was never the magic. It was how you used it. You could go out right now and try to conquer the world as--as a computer hacker." I wanted to make things right. But it wasn't things that were wrong. It was her. It was herself she had to fix. She should get up. She wasn't an invalid--or if she was, it was only a moral one. Willow swung her legs off the bed, thin white ankles protruding from the pink flannel, and started for the door, only to stop...well...dead after a single step. One of the curtains had been knocked askew, and a pale line of winter sun threw a paper-thin wall of light across the room. Spike had walked right through it on his way out. Like someone passing their finger through a candle flame, Willow guessed; do it fast enough and you were safe. But Spike was older and tougher than she was, and her knees were shaking. She looked beseechingly at Tara, but Tara only leaned against ths doorframe, sad-eyed and motionless, and Willow realized that Tara was not going to come to her. They were five feet and all the world apart. Distance she'd put between them, and Tara was not going to close it. And if Tara wouldn't do it... How much worse than any loss of magic would be remaining the person she was now? "You're wrong," Willow said, "About me not being able to change. I know a vampire who did." She closed her eyes, and stepped through the fire. When she opened them, Tara was staring at her through the veil of smoke rising from her own skin. ***** "...I mean, it just got me thinking. Vampires go all the way back to the Neolithic, right, so why crosses? Why not stars of David? Why not ankhs? If you turn the cross sideways, does--" "Christ, Will, give it a rest! No wonder Angelus beat me black and blue at every opportunity!" Spike bounded up the porch steps ahead of Willow, jingling slightly--his Christmas present from Buffy was a black leather motorcycle jacket, which he was apparently determined to break in by the simple expedient of never taking it off. Tara had seen the discarded tag for a second before Spike had rescued it from the piles of wrapping paper the next morning:--=To Spike: This one's for bringing a Slayer back to life. Love, Buffy. Tara followed the two vampires up onto the porch, her hands tucked into her sweater pockets and her head down. After the crisis which had ensued when Xander announced that he still wanted Willow to be his best man... woman...vampire...had been weathered, the wedding had gone off with only a few minor hitches. Xander's father had been drunk and disorderly, as usual, and one of his cousins had been caught with one of the bridesmaids in the janitor's closet at the reception. An ex-victim of Anya's vengeance days showed up and tried to disrupt the ceremony. Nothing out of line for a Sunnydale wedding, when you thought about it. After Buffy and Spike dispatched the former Stewart Burns, things had gone off...well. Ceremony. Bouquet-throwing. Photos. Reception, cake, dancing. Wary detente between Xander's family and Anya's demon associates. Anya holding Xander's hands and laughing, spinning his wheelchair around to the strains of Garth Brooks. Xander's cousin Carol flirting with anything that breathed and a few things that didn't. Buffy and Spike superglued to one another in the blue light, swaying together in their own schmoopy little world. Our lives are better left to chance, I could have missed the pain, but I'd have had to miss the dance... She'd danced like that with Willow once, the two of them caught up in one another to the exclusion of all the rest of the universe. Dancing on air. There'd been no dancing for the two of them tonight; Willow'd gotten sick after trying to eat a slice of wedding cake and spent the next hour heaving up her guts in the ladies' restroom. Buffy and Dawn crowded up onto the porch behind her, giggling madly. "...come on, you thought the horns were cute, didn't you?" "So not!" Dawn protested, laughing. "You're the freaky demon-lover in the family." "Dawnie's got a boyfriend!" Buffy chanted. She'd had maybe one more glass of champagne than was good for her. "Agh, get the door open, we have to escape the evil clutches of these dresses!" She waved at the offending garment, a bright green sheath which exploded into a profusion of ruffles in the most inconvenient places, and made spooky woo-woo theramin noises. "It's the invasion of the asparagus people!" "You birds got off easy," Spike grumbled as he unlocked the front door. Spike had his own key now. "I was stuck being Roller Boy's chair caddy all night. I fucking hate those things." "I hope there's wheelchair access gambling in Vegas," Willow said. "I gave him a quarter to bet for me." Tara hung her sweater on an unoccupied hook as they trooped through the foyer. Dawn hitched up her skirts, yelled "Dibs on the bathroom!" and made a dash upstairs, followed closely by Buffy. Knowing from experience that letting the Summers sisters fight it out for hot water access was the better part of valor, everyone else dispersed into the living room. Spike divested himself of tie and suit jacket in record time, flopped down on the couch, grabbed the TV remote, and started flipping channels. Willow sat down in the armchair. After a moment she gave Tara a hopeful smile, and made a scootchy little sideways motion that said share? Tara smiled back, nervous, but made no motion to sit down. "I--I need to get the dress off," she said. Willow's face fell, but she picked her smile up and pasted it back in place over her disappointment. Tara hurried upstairs and lingered over changing into a shapeless pullover and skirt as long as she could manage--which still wasn't a patch on Buffy, who was still in the bathroom when Tara finally forced herself downstairs again. Everyone was still there; Dawn and Spike were wrestling for the remote and Willow had pulled her laptop out and was checking the end of one of her eBay auctions. It was all back to normal, wasn't it? Except that Xander may never walk again and Willow's dead. Tara swallowed, pried her fingers off the bannister, and started across the room. She could do this. She could. She was the calm one who always had it together, right? Willow was really trying. She needed help, and...OK. She could sit down. In the chair. With Willow. Touching Willow. Willow's nervous, goofy little smile was still the same. She set the computer aside and shifted around so Tara could have half the chair, Willow's right leg draped over Tara's left. Willow's nose brushed her ear for a second. Was Willow smelling her? Was that a normal human shifting-position grunt or a creepy vampire noise? Willow settled back and Tara forced her tense muscles to relax. There. This wasn't so bad. She could put an arm around Willow's shoulder. Pull Willow's head against hers. Just like they used to do. Except Willow's chest doesn't rise and fall against her any longer, and Willow's heart doesn't beat in tandem with her own. It would be okay, Tara told herself. She just had to ease into this. "I've been working on what to tell my parents," Willow said. Her sharp inhalation to get the air to talk with made Tara's heart race. "I'm thinking porphyria." She nodded. Decisive Willow. "It's got pedigree, you know? Madness of King George, and plus? Versatile. All-purpose explanation for vampire OR werewolf." "That might work," Tara said cautiously. Except that Willow's hand, tentatively resting on her arm, was still as chilly as the night outside had been. Spike snorted. "Easier to tell 'em the truth." Willow's eyes went saucery and she made a panicked little meeping noise. "Are you kidding? This is my mom. If I tell her I'm a vampire she'll just start talking about Sheridan LeFanu and the id and open the curtains on me or something." Tara's fingers tightened on the arm of the chair, raising little clouds of upholstery dust from the worn brown fabric. Except Willow had almost gone up in flames stepping through a stray sunbeam. Buffy tripped downstairs, wiping the last of the cold cream from her face; stripped of makeup, the only trace of last week's battle was a thin silver scar across her left cheekbone. She'd exchanged the chartreuse nightmare of a bridesmaid's dress for sweats, floppy pink T-shirt and toe socks. She swung round the newel post and back into the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, "You want anything, Spike?" Spike looked up from his doomed search for meaning amidst the wasteland of after-midnight cable TV. "Yeh, long as you're up. Ooh, Changing Rooms." Just an offhand thing, the way Buffy made the offer, the way Spike accepted it. Like it was normal. Willow perked up slightly. There hadn't been any blood at the wedding; at some point, Anya had given up on trying to satisfy the diverse dietary needs of her guests and gone with the chicken Kiev. "Maybe I could keep something down now," Willow said, with just the tiniest hint of wistful in her voice. "I think it was the buttercream that got me." Tara remonstrated with herself. She should get up. She should offer to get her poor queasy lover (whom she hadn't touched in a week) some blood, because Willow was probably hungry (and could go wild and tear someone's throat out). She sat there, frozen. Buffy emerged from the kitchen a minute or two later, set her coffee down on the nearest coaster and handed Spike his mug like it was Columbia's finest instead of stinking slaughterhouse run-off. She curled up beside him on the couch to thumb through the UC Sunnydale course catalog. Spike took a swallow of pig's blood and Buffy stretched up to kiss him. Her lips met his without the slightest flinch and came away tinged with red. Spike grinned and bent to lick the blood from her mouth. Tara's belly clenched. Buffy grinned back, and pulled his shirt up to blow raspberries on his stomach. Spike growled and rolled her over, and they were wrestling like kids, Buffy shrieking "No fair, no fair!" until they thumped off the couch and onto the floor and Tara couldn't take it any longer. She leaped to her feet and pressed her hands to her mouth to keep the screams inside and fled sobbing out into the night. ***** Buffy caught up with Tara half a block down Revello Drive; she was slumped against a winter-bare mulberry tree, her face buried in her arms, shoulders shaking. Sobs fell like mulberry leaves, thin and dry and tissue-paper fragile. "I can't do it. I c-can't. I still l-love her, I love her so m-much, but--she's dead." Uncomprehending grief underscored each word, a mourning for something she hadn't lost. "Willow's dead. I can feel it, every second. She doesn't breathe. She's cold all the time. I k-keep thinking--if I reach out and t-touch her, she'll be stiff. I keep waiting to smell the decay." She looked up at Buffy with swimming, reddened eyes and blinked tears away. "I'm afraid to get in the same bed with her because I keep th-thinking--I'm lying here next to a corpse. How do you d-do it, Buffy?" Buffy jammed her hands deeper into the pockets of her yummy new shearling jacket--"For extra protection on those cold nights," Spike had said as she ripped the gold and silver wrapping paper off, with a tongue-curl that would have turned 'Mary Had A Little Lamb' into base innuendo. She scattered a drift of crackling brown leaves with the toes of one boot. "Just lucky enough to be born a kinky demon-infested necrophiliac, I guess." Tara slid down the tree with a little moan. "I d-didn't mean it like that!" "I know." Buffy sat down beside her with a sigh. The ground was damp and cold beneath its sparse covering of winter-killed grass. "I guess it helps that I never knew Spike or Angel when they were alive, but..." She'd thought Angel was alive when she'd first met him, though. Tara's reaction was one that she had the feeling she could never really understand; the difference between dead and undead was a palpable thing to her. Spike could be still as unbreathing stone and she could still feel him humming along her nerve endings. Tara didn't have that, but she had other sensitivities, which were just as revolted at the presence of the undead as a Slayer's senses were excited. "It's... not the body. It's what's inside." She ventured a conspiratorial smile. "Besides, even the body part's not bad once you get used to it. The growling? Wicked sexy. And come July, believe me, lack of body temperature becomes a major selling point." Tara shuddered. "I'll never get used to it," she said--not complaining, just a flat statement of fact. "I won't give up on her. As a friend, as--I just don't know if I can... be with her." "I don't know if..." If she can be without you,Buffy thought, but didn't finish saying. The tension between Willow and Tara had taken a different shape than she'd imagined it would, and she wasn't sure if she could see the details well enough to poke at it without losing a finger. By the time she coaxed Tara back to the house and delivered the damp and sniffly witch to the threshhold of her and Willow's room, the living room was deserted, and she could hear faint snores from Dawn's room. Buffy waited outside the door until she heard the soft interplay of voices inside, then went down the hall to the bathroom to grab a couple of Advil. The pleasant buzz she'd brought home from the reception champagne had transmuted itself into a slight headache. She shook the tablets into one hand and washed them down, staring thoughtfully at Mirror-Buffy. It was getting harder and harder to remember that Tara's reaction was the normal one. Spike was waiting for her in her bedroom, lounging on top of the covers in nothing but his spectacles and a copy of Naked Lunch. Buffy wrinkled her nose; his idea of what constituted a good bedtime read was a far greater obstacle to potential happiness than the not-breathing thing. "You left the seat up." He tipped his glasses down the aquiline length of his nose and surveyed her over the rims. "I use the loo twice a week, tops. Deal with it." "I see the honeymoon is over." Buffy unfastened the clips from her hair and shook it down over her shoulders, turning on him with a stern look and an admonishing wave of her brush. "You will be punished suitably for the transgression, of course." Spike closed his book with a slow, salacious grin, set his glasses on the nightstand, and stretched, all muscle and impudence. "Sticks and stones will break my bones, but whips and chains excite me. Tara all right?" "Yeah. Well, no, but the hyperventilating's stopped." Buffy gave her hair one last stroke, stripped off her t-shirt, and crawled into bed beside him. She spent a minute playing with the settings on the electric blanket--one of the dual control ones, another Christmas present. They'd discovered by trial and error that keeping Spike's side on low kept him warm enough to alleviate the vampire heat sink effect. "I don't know what to do about it, and as far as vampire/human relationship counseling goes, it's either us with our record-breaking three-and-a-half weeks together, or the nearest vamp brothel." Spike burrowed down under the blankets with a rumble of content and made himself at home with her body, wrapped around her like an affectionate boa constrictor. "Will's not in the best place herself," he murmured into her hair. His hand fitted itself to the curve of her hip, thumb inscribing little circles along the sacral arch. "Terrified she's going to bite the chit by accident." Genuine puzzlement crept into his voice. "She's got her soul. All she's got to do is listen to it." "You may have forgotten this part, but sometimes? They don't talk all that loud." Buffy traced the knotted white scar tissue spiderwebbing his chest, watching the little quivers and twitches of his muscles beneath the tender new skin. "I hate to see a little thing like death come between a couple." He chuckled and for awhile they lay in comfortable silence, curled up warm and drowsy together in the nest of blankets while Spike played with her tits--it was hard to get worked up about those few extra pounds when he was enjoying them so much. She should tell Tara about the electric blanket trick; it was the little things, sometimes, that made all the difference. Spike morphed into game face, rubbing one cheek and then the other against her breasts, the wild, deep vibration in his chest intensifying as her fingers massaged the convolutions of bone across his brow. Buffy shifted position to capture Spike's face in her hands, watching the fangs recede and the sunrise gold of his eyes shade into midday blue. How could Tara not go for this? She felt a lingering doubt that she'd done the right thing. Willow deserved the chance to make amends...but would the stake have been kinder, in the end? No. Not this time. She had other gifts to give than death. Listen. Watch. It can be good, I promise. Not better, not worse, just different. I can tell you how to make her purr... "You happy, love?" Spike murmured, thumbing a nipple. "Mmmm?" She lipped the line of his jaw. "I am a very happy Buffy. What brings that on?" He pulled her a little closer, fingers stroking up and down her upper arm with that light, sure touch that made her tingle in all the right places. And all the wrong ones. Equal-opportunity tingles. "Ah, well...Harris's wedding and all, got me thinking..." He wasn't going to say something stupid about him being a vampire and her not, and it never working, was he? Oh, God, he was going to say exactly that because they always said that. And then ran off to L.A. when the apocalypse was over. Either Spike was running behind schedule or Anya's wedding must count as a minor apocalypse. Spike was looking at her, all earnest and Victorian, face at complete odds with the things his hands were doing. "You gave up a lot to be here with me, Buffy-love. Heaven, and...and so forth. The rest you'd earned. Felt you had to stay here to keep saving this sorry old world, because you're the Slayer. It bothers me, sometimes. Wish I felt worse about having you here, but I don't." Relief washed over her in Point Break-sized waves, and Buffy almost laughed--but didn't, because Spike sounded so serious. "So you feel guilty about not feeling guilty?" Spike propped his head up on one hand, mildly disgruntled, a stray curl skewing over one eye. "Well... yeh, when you put it that way, it sounds a bit daft." She kissed the tip of his nose. "Well, stop it. I'm not saving the world because I'm the Slayer. I'm saving the world because... because I'm Buffy." He rolled her over, eyes dancing. "Ah, I see. Big difference." She'd told Dawn once the hardest thing in life was to live in it, and she hadn't changed her mind about that, but she'd forgotten the important part. The harder something was, the better it felt when you finally started to get it right. "Actually? Yeah, it is." They lived together for eight wonderful years, until-- Soft, sex-drenched growl. Heavy-lidded cornflower eyes. "What d'you think you're doing, Slayer?" Until... Limited ethics, and infinite heart. Neither one of them was who they'd been, and it remained to be seen what they were becoming. She had no idea how it would end. Only the conviction that, doom or joy, they'd be facing it together. Buffy lifted her mouth to his, tasting...mint-flavored toothpaste. And underneath, always, the hint of blood and smoke, of something wild and dangerous and hers. "Getting it right," she whispered. Not anywhere near The End

Angel had never hated Spike. In the days when Angel had been unencumbered by a soul, Spike had been a stupidly rebellious minion tolerated only because he kept Drusilla occupied when Angel had no need of her. Barely worth noticing, much less hating. When the two of them had met again three years ago, during Spike's brief and eventful tenure as Master of Sunnydale's vampire population, it had quickly become obvious that for all the outward trappings of power he'd assumed, Spike was still the same volatile mix of insecurity, viciousness, and bravado he'd always been. Soul well-lost once more, all the new improved Angelus had had to do was aim a few jibes at the soft underbelly of Spike's pride and it was like old times again, Drusilla dancing attendance on Daddy and Spike reduced to jealous, impotent fury. Easy. Until Spike had broken all the rules, and allied with Buffy to bring Angelus crashing down. Buffy's hands had held the blade, but Spike's shadow presence had been right beside her, crowing in triumph as she thrust it home and sent the once-more-souled Angel to hell. All that came later hinged on that moment when Spike had made the decision--for proper, selfish vampiric reasons--to fight for a day on the side of light. Now Angel brooded in the sparkling, modern kitchen of Hank Summers's L.A. apartment, and tried to decide if it were finally time for him to start hating Spike. He definitely hated the whispers, the looks, the smiles, the touches--oh, he really hated the touches, teasing and tender--the way Spike's shoulder kept brushing Buffy's, the way Buffy's hand kept meeting Spike's on the way to the salt. Spike was still indulging his bizarre addiction to human food, and was devouring a revolting mixture of scrambled eggs, pig's blood, and tabasco sauce with every indication of enjoyment. Angel had always scorned that particular affectation; who was Spike trying to fool? Now he was almost glad of it; concentrating on the repulsiveness of Spike's breakfast kept him from dwelling on the far greater repulsiveness of Spike and Buffy exchanging besotted looks, or the rancorous exchange going on in the next room. "...knew, and you didn't tell me?" Linda's voice was clearly audible through the closed bedroom door. "Tell you what? 'By the way, dear, my daughter's dating a guy with no pulse?' Why should I think you'd believe it?" Hank's voice wasn't quite as emphatic, but just as irritated. "I still don't believe it!" Spike cocked his head in the direction of the master bedroom, thoroughly amused at the discord. "Think we're going to be sleeping in the car tonight, pet?" He dunked his toast into his mug of warm pig's blood until it was sodden with gore, and tore into it with gusto. Don't you get it, Buffy? This is what a demon is. Strife is his raison d'etre. Buffy did not get it; she just wrinkled her nose and poured herself more orange juice. "I don't know, but I hope you have a blanket in your trunk just in case. Watch it, you're dripping blood on the hash browns." "Don't knock it till you've tried it, love." "I'll stick with ketchup, thanks." Buffy aimed a little half-frown at Angel, the worried hostess fretting over a finicky guest. "Are you sure you don't want anything?" Angel shook his head. "I'm fine." Any moment now his brain was going to explode with the impossibility of the situation. I can't move on, he'd told Buffy once. You can. I can't. But he'd begun to, this last summer after her funeral--not to someone else; that was impossible for someone in his circumstances, but to a place where he didn't feel her loss with every breath he didn't take. Living in a world without Buffy had proved infinitely easier than living in a world where Buffy existed and he couldn't have her. When they'd dragged her back, damn them--Willow and Dawn, anyway; Spike was already taken care of--he'd braced himself for the renewal of that old pain, but it hadn't come. The wound had finally closed, and he'd walked away from their post-post-mortem rendezvous with regret and a tremendous feeling of freedom. Until today. It wasn't that she'd moved on--it was to whom she'd moved. "No, I take it back. I do want something. An explanation would be good." Spike's knuckles whitened on his mug of blood and the muscles in his jaw worked. "I love Buffy, Buffy loves me, we've been shagging like minks for a week, and with luck will continue to do so for many years to come. Anything else you need to know?" Angel watched the younger vampire with loathing, imagining that smug face beaten and bloody, eyes swollen shut, that oily smirk smashed into broken-toothed ruin... Buffy's hand closed on top of Spike's, her fingertips barely extending to the first joints of his fingers, and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Angel pressed his fingers to his temples. He could feel his skull starting its slow-motion, Technicolor expansion now. Linda's muffled tirade continued. "I can't believe you'd put us in danger like this! He could have--" "Talked us to death?" Hank rejoined. Spike jerked upright. "I heard that, y'wanker!" Buffy finished her orange juice, got up, tiptoed over to the bedroom door and rapped on it. "Uh... Dad? We have to leave now." The argument within silenced itself abruptly. "Fine, honey. I'll see you later." Buffy aimed a stern look at Spike, who mouthed 'Do I have to?' Buffy gestured emphatically at the bedroom door. Spike sulked for a moment, then heaved a sigh and recited, "Linda, I'm sorry I scared you, I promise never to eat anyone even remotely connected to you ever, and could you please not have your grandmum uninvite me while we're gone?" More silence, then a grudging, "I'll think about it," from Linda. Ordeal survived, Spike got to his feet, locked his hands over his head in a contented cat-stretch, and chuckled. "Your Dad can pick 'em. Bet she's a dab hand with a battleaxe." He scooped up a random assortment of breakfast dishes and dumped them into the sink to dessicate--only semi-domesticated, then. "We're taking the DeSoto, Peaches. I'm not entrusting my flammable hide to a sodding ragtop." Angel watched stolidly as he walked over to Buffy and hooked his arm around her waist. He felt his fists starting to curl in on themselves again, and forcibly relaxed, muscle by muscle. He wasn't going to give Spike the satisfaction of reacting further. Buffy rolled her eyes as Spike pulled her close, a little smile playing about her lips--very much aware of what he was up to, but not complaining about it. The kiss was deep, leisurely, and intense; far from prolonging it to tweak his nose, Angel got the distinct impression that the two of them had forgotten his existence entirely. They finally pulled away from one another, a reluctant, molasses-slow separation. Spike tossed his car keys into the air and caught them, shot Angel a cocky, infuriating grin, and sauntered out whistling. Buffy's eyes followed him out the door, the little smile lingering. Angel entertained a vivid, satisfying image of running Spike over with his own car, grinding his body into red jelly on the pavement, and felt momentarily better. Ten minutes later he stood with Buffy in the lobby of the Allman Luxury Apartments, waiting for Spike to bring the car around from the underground garage. Not by the southern exposure of the front doors, where morning sunlight streamed in through the plate-glass windows and set the brass door fixtures ablaze. They'd dodged the gleaming spears of light and crossed to the west-facing side entrance, still in deep shadow. Buffy hadn't hesitated, or checked the position of the sun. "So. You must have planned this all out pretty well ahead of time," he said with a nod at the front entrance. "Figured out all the places you can't go, all the things you can't do with a vampire in tow." If Buffy noticed the sarcastic edge to his voice, she ignored it. "I'm all about meeting the challenge." She sounded almost cheerful about it. "They don't design buildings for daytime vampire access. This being of the good under most circumstances. Spike's scarily inventive when it comes to getting around in the daytime." "It is scary, isn't it?" Definite oozing of sarcasm there. Definite ignoring of oozing sarcasm on Buffy's part. He should have known there was something wrong at their awkward meeting last month, but he'd been too stunned by the fact of her return to do much but wonder at her presence. Buffy, in turn, had been tired and withdrawn. They might as well have been on different planets for all the connection they'd made. He wished he could lay it all to the anomaly of her death and resurrection, but no, this was simpler: two people apart, lives diverging day by day, month by month, year by year. If he'd walked into this lobby today and seen her for the first time, would she arrest his eyes and heart as she had six years ago? Then it had been her innocence which drew him as much as her beauty, the terrible unfairness of this girl being made a sacrifice, sent all unawares to fight horrors beyond imagining. The slender young woman in the camel pullover was still beautiful, but no longer a child, no longer fresh and innocent and unspoiled. Death was her companion now; her eyes had seen too much of it, her hands had dealt too much of it, and now--why, God, why had he never killed Spike? It would have been so easy!--she'd taken Death into her heart. The blazing joie de vivre she'd displayed at fifteen was no more; would he notice her at all? Or would he pass by, his encounter with Buffy Summers nothing more than a moment of curiosity, quickly forgotten? If he caught her eyes, perhaps he would pause a moment, still. The fire had dimmed, but the coals still glowed, waiting only the right breath of wind to blaze up again, the more fiercely, perhaps, for having been banked. Buffy gave him a look as he stood brooding by the potted ficus, a quick lift of the head--pleading, almost shy, balancing lightly on the balls of her feet as if at any moment she might run to him--or away. She sought his eyes, apology in her own. "I didn't want you to find out like this," she said, quiet, sincere. "I was going to tell you. I was going to find the perfect words to explain it all, and tell you at the perfect time." She essayed a small, hopeful smile. "I haven't found the perfect words yet, but I'm pretty sure the perfect time is coming up in March, 2012." Did she want him to accept this with no more cavil than he'd accepted Riley Finn? As if it were right and healthy, just one more instance of how she'd gone on with her life? "No time like the present. Tell me how you could do this. With Spike, of all--my God, Buffy!" Anguish tightened round his heart like barbed wire; not dead enough to ward off this pain, not yet. "Spike! You know what he is!" He strode towards her, towering over her (uncomfortable to do so; he'd grown used to looking Cordelia in the eye). His hand went to her neck, fingers tracing the fading line of bruises. "And you let him do this to you?" Buffy stiffened at his touch. She pulled down her collar on the other side, exposing the overlapping white scars--the marks of vampire's fangs, two from enemies who'd wished her dead or defiled, the third... "And I let you do this to me," she said. Her voice was trembling, very slightly. "What I let Spike do is my choice." Self-recrimination sprang up in his breast like a weed no amount of reason could kill: he'd been dying, she'd provoked him, no vampire in creation could have shown any more control than he had under such circumstances... but all the rationalizations in the world couldn't change the fact that none of the bite marks on that fair neck belonged to Spike. It was queerly jolting. "He hasn't..." Buffy smiled, a mischievous little feminine smile. "Are you kidding? He got offended when I brought it up, in a cute sort of punk-Victorian way. I thought he'd want to... but biting me? Not even on the radar for him. Except for those play-bites that make you go all tingly and... OK, TMI. Sorry." Angel regarded the top of her head with bleak disapproval. "You do realize that if you ever use the word 'cute' to describe any aspect of Spike again, I will have to kill both of you?" She took a step closer and laid a hand on his arm, earnest entreaty in her gaze. "I'm sorry. I don't want to make this hard for you. I really don't. But I can't--I can't pretend he's not important to me. I can't pretend he doesn't make me feel... whole." "Whole? Buffy..." Angel hesitated, closed his eyes. She was still looking up at him when he opened them again, big solemn grey-green eyes searching his face, soft ripe lips parted ever so slightly... obscene, to think of their living human warmth pressed to Spike's chill dead flesh, as once they'd pressed to his. "You're right, this is your choice. But if this is the choice you're making, there's something wrong. I was in a bad place last year. The despair, the--I did some stupid things, things I regret. I thought they'd make me feel better--I thought they'd make me feel, period. But it only made things worse." Her eyes were attentive, but blank; nothing he was saying was striking any chords. He swallowed hard and forged on. "This isn't you. The Buffy Summers I know is a good person, a caring person. You can't tell me that Buffy Summers is capable of falling in love with a thing that's killed tens of thousands of people and doesn't care--that a monster like Spike is what it takes to make you whole." He'd struck a nerve; she flinched as if every word had barbs attached. Tears welled up in her eyes and she blinked them back. "You don't understand, you can't--when I first came back... the whole world was grey, and flat, and so was I. I didn't feel good, I didn't feel bad, I didn't feel anything. At all. Everything was just... nothing. Except Spike." A shaky little laugh. "The last month's been my own personal vampire edition of Pleasantville, minus the extra who looks freakily like an ex-boyfriend." She wrapped her arms around herself, and her voice fell to a whisper. "Maybe I'm not the Buffy Summers you know. Maybe Willow screwed up. And if I'm not, what are you going to do about it? Take me back and trade me in for next year's model? I never asked to come back, but I'm here and you're stuck with me--this me. And this me needs Spike. Loves Spike." Her voice steadied, and she repeated, "I love Spike," almost to herself -was this the first time she'd said these words aloud to anyone else? "I know what Spike is. He's killed more people than I can get my mind around. Just like you." Angel started to protest, but she cut him off. "I know who he is, too. He's the one who sat with me when I found out Mom was sick. He helped me fight Glory and risked his life for my sister and stuck around after I died and helped my friends. He feeds me disgusting gooey nachos and cheats at poker and quotes Shakespeare and Johnny Rotten and watches my back and sort of repents of teaching my sister to shoplift." Her head came up, and she looked him right in the eye; the light was back in hers. "And he loves me. Spike loves me, and knows it's impossible, and is willing to fight to make it work anyway. He may be a monster, but he does a pretty good imitation of a man." "And that's all it is. An imitation. He's not William." She was angry, now, her gaze gone stormy. "No, he's not. I didn't fall in love with William. I fell in love with the thing that killed him. Do you think I forget that, ever?" "Yeah, I do. I was at your funeral. I got the whole 'Spike's a good guy now, he loved Buffy, the chip's just as good as a soul' lecture from Dawn." It had shocked him, Dawn's fierce defense of Spike, almost as much as the gaunt, limping, hollow-eyed specter Spike had been at the funeral. "It's bullshit. We both know it. He's--" "Here," Buffy said, as the DeSoto pulled up to the curb and Spike laid into the horn. "Are you coming or not?" "Buffy... I gave up everything we had so that you could have--" Something clean, something sunkissed and normal and good in your life. If you had to throw your life away on a vampire, why couldn't it have been me? But it was far too late to ask that question; he'd been the one to leave, after all--not just once, but at every turn when fate seemed determined to thrust them back together. He had a destiny, after all, more important than his happiness, or hers. Her eyes softened, storm turned to sea-mist, and for the first time in any of the fights they'd had over that decision, he saw pity in them rather than wounded betrayal. His was not the only old wound which had begun to heal. "Yes. That's right. You gave up everything we had. And now we don't have it anymore. Please, Angel--don't break what we've still got." She turned and straight-armed the door, and after a moment Angel bowed his head and followed her out tothe curb, to the place where sunlight and shadow met. ***** It wasn't a backup plan, Willow told herself, because she was going to come up with a miracle. She was just exploring her options. So far this option didn't look very promising.She'd been down to the Department of Social Services building with her parents half a dozen times over the summer, to deal with assorted Dawn problems, so she hadn't exactly expected marble halls and augustly bearded Viennese doctors selflessly toiling away on behalf of the indigent in libraries that made Giles's look like the Scholastic Reader Book Bus, but she hadn't expected quite so many roaches, either. The balding, shirt-sleeved man across the desk from her smacked a dog-eared Ellery Queen paperback down on their visitor, inspected the corpse for a moment and flicked it into the trash can."Pleased to meet you, Ms. Rosenberg. Aaron Gustavsen." He offered her a large flabby hand and Willow shook it gingerly. Gustavsen sat back in his chair and rubbed his brow. "Sorry. It's like the Apocalypse in here." "It can't--oh." A squeaky nervous laugh died on her lips. "Figure of speech, right? Because the whole plagues-of-Egypt motif?" "Might as well be the end of the world--they've been tearing up the sewer lines over on Alpert, and the damned things have been coming up through the drains in the bathroom. We're supposed to be getting an exterminator in Wednesday." He pursed his lips. "You said you were concerned about a group of homeless people squatting on city land?" Willow nodded. "Concerned. Very. But not in a call the police way--I want to know what can be done to un-homeless them. And I think a lot of them aren't all there." "How many did you say there were?" "I'm not totally certain. Maybe eight? Or... fifteen?" Willow made an apologetic gesture. "I'm sure there's not more than twenty. But they're all living in the dump, which can't be sanitary, and, you know, winter's coming and I know we're not on the Russian Front or anything, but it gets nippy. I'm worried about them. So I wanted to see if I could do anything helpful, because that's me, always helpful." Gustavsen gave a noncommittal grunt and began shuffling through the mass of papers on his desk--case histories, forms, menus from The Pizza Guys. "Let's see. First of all, you'd have to--are you related to any of them? No? We'd need to send a caseworker to make contact with them, convince them to come into the Center on their own, and sign up for one of the transitional programs. That would be difficult. Once that's squared away, you can get them into the Grapevine Clinic for diagnosis and prescription meds, with followup to make sure they're taking them, get them into a halfway house and employment assistance program..." Willow brightened. That didn't sound too hard. "Well--that's great! How long will that take? Can we do it tomorrow? I can take you right there, and we can round them all up!" He stared at her for a minute, then laughed--not unkindly, but as if her enthusiasm pained him. "First of all, we'd have to assign a caseworker, and we're so understaffed right now it's not funny. Two weeks, if we're lucky. Then we'd need to make sure there's room for more people in any of the programs. What with the energy crisis last summer and the state's budget hemorrhaging to death, our DMH and PATH grants have been cut to the bone." He looked up from his papers and handed her a California Department of Mental Health pamphlet. "Three to six months, assuming no more budget cuts. They're good programs, when we can afford them." Willow stared at the pamphlet. Helping the Homeless Help Themselves! it said, with a happy little picture of a kindly volunteer leaning over the shoulder of a sweet old woman who looked way more together than any of the bag ladies of Willow's acquaintance. "Six months? That's..." "What we have to deal with." A note of sympathy entered his voice. "The other option is to get yourself appointed the legal guardian of the person you're concerned about, with power of attorney. Assuming the court granted your petition, then you could have them committed to the state mental hospital. Though they're so full I don't think you could keep them there very long; they'd have to go out-patient, and someone would still need to see that they kept taking their meds... And you'd have to go through this process individually for each one of them. Believe me, I wish we could just wave a magic wand and help everyone immediately, but it can't be done." He smiled wryly."About all we could do in the timeframe you're suggesting is call the police and have them kick them out of the dump and maybe arrest them for squatting." "I--I see. That's not really what I had in mind." Willow got up and turned to leave, dejection in every limb of her body. Halfway to the door she turned and rushed back. "Isn't there any way to speed things up?" He smiled--wistful, almost--and wasn't that weird and disturbing in a pudgy middle-aged bureaucrat? "There's corners you can cut here and there, but three months is the best you could hope for. If you want me to put your name on the waiting list for the Sunnydale Community Outreach, that's the most comprehensive--" "Thanks, but I've got to--this is a lot more complicated than I thought it would be. Talk. I've got to talk. To people--uh, relatives. And--thanks for the pamphlet." She waved the little slip of paper at him, feeling like an idiot, and beat a hasty retreat out the door of the cramped little office before she could make a more elaborate and detailed idiot of herself--something involving tinfoil hats, maybe. "Ms. Rosenberg!" Gustavsen called after her. Willow turned to see him standing in the doorway of his office, his scalp pink with exertion. "Some advice--don't try to deal with this on your own. I know it's heartbreaking--believe me, I know--but you can do more harm than good, especially if some of these men are mentally ill. If you want to help, volunteer at the Salvation Army or the Battered Women's Shelter, or someplace where you can learn the ropes. Please." Willow nodded, her eyes falling to the toes of her Birkenstocks. "I understand." She turned once more and scuffed down the corridor with her book bag bumping along behind her, discouraged. She'd missed lunch to come downtown, she hadn't accomplished a thing, and--she glanced at the clock over the deserted receptionist's desk in the lobby--she was going to be late getting back to campus for her biology class if she didn't hurry. "Wave a magic wand," she muttered. "Yeah. Right." She shouldered her bag and blinked as she walked out into the bright December sunlight. The book bag thumped against her back as she trudged down the sidewalk, one sharp corner digging into her shoulder blades with every step. Poke, poke, poke. A reminder of what the bag contained, down under Social Construction of Realityand Jansen's History of Art . In the end it all comes down to what price you're willing to pay to get what you want, doesn't it? You were wiling to give up your soul to get your friend back. Or so you claimed at the time. How much are you willing to give up to redeem a dozen lives? She left the DMH building and walked across the dry lawns, past the cooing flocks of slate-colored pigeons with iridescent necks that congregated around the little hotdog carts which catered to Sunnydale's population of civil servants. There was the Municipal Court building, and Parks and Recreation, poured-concrete monstrosities dating from the '50s. Willow stopped at the fountain in the center of the square; the fountain itself was turned off, but the pool still held water, along with a selection of dead leaves and a scattering of verdigris-encrusted pennies. There was City Hall, with the Mayor's office front and center, where Buffy'd had to rescue her from the late Mayor Wilkins. She tried to remember who the Mayor of Sunnydale was these days, and failed. The Right Honorable Not-A-Wilkins. She gazed down at her wavery reflection in the water. She didn't have any change to make wishes on. Her reflection smirked up at her. Is there anyplace in Sunnydale where you haven't been kidnapped and held captive at one point or another? "Shut up. Shut up! Do you think I'm stupid?" Willow shouted, causing several pigeons to flutter away in alarm. She dropped the book bag on the rim of the fountain with a thump and slapped the water with her open palm, sending droplets flying and breaking the face beneath her into a thousand crazy shards. "I know what you're doing! I know what you're trying to get me to do!" A silent laugh echoed through her head. Do you, clever Wicca? No more games. No more illusions.Just the voice. Cold and smooth and dark, like deep water, like liquid obsidian. Then the only question before us is, are you going to do it? ***** Over the last six years Buffy Summers had developed a very firm set of rules concerning vampires, and kept them constantly in mind when dealing with Spike. 1. All vampires are to be staked, immediately. 2. There will be absolutely no flirting, taunting, or barbed sexual innuendo exchanged between Slayers and chipped, helpless vampires who are not staked out of misplaced pity and consideration of previous world-saving assistance. 3. Flirting, taunting, and barbed sexual innuendo between Slayers and helpless chipped vampires will never, ever lead to furtive contemplation of what big hands he's got, Grandma, or to sweaty, naughty thoughts about the implications thereof. 4. Sweaty, naughty thoughts about helpless chipped vampires will not lead to embarrassing over-reaction when one discovers said vampire harbors similar thoughts about Slayer, at least until vampire makes tactical error of chaining one to wall and threatening to sic ravenous ex-girlfriend on one, thus justifying over-reaction. 5. Slayers will never, ever forgive vampires for stupid chaining-to-wall stunt, regardless of degree of heroic suffering endured by said vampire for self and sister at hands of excessively bitchy hell-goddess. 6. Having forgiven vampire, Slayers will never be so silly as to re-invite said vampire into her home. Having re-invited vampire into home, will not give slightest hint of encouragement to said vampire's heart-melting declaration of devotion. 7. Slayers will never use dying and returning to life as excuse for hanging out with morally deficient vampire half responsible for resurrection, no matter how impressed she may be at younger sister's tales of what vampire did on his summer vacation. 8. Hanging out with morally deficient vampire will be on purely platonic, business level only. There will be no flirting, taunting, or barbed sexual innuendo (see Rule #2); neither will there be any undue appreciation of vampire's wit, fighting ability, supermodel-grade cheekbones, muscular yet compact build, et. al. Arguments and the occasional fistfight are not to be considered expressions of sublimated passion. 9. Having succumbed to sublimated passion, Slayers will never be so idiotic as to fall in love with morally deficient vampire. Having fallen in love with morally deficient vampire, Slayers will never be so idiotic as to tell him so. Having confessed love to morally deficient vampire, Slayers will never be so idiotic as to attempt actual relationship. 10. In hammering out relationship with morally deficient vampire, Slayers will never engineer a weekend involving said vampire, previous vampire boyfriend, father, and father's vampire-phobic girlfriend. It cannot end well. She was still working on Number Eleven, which would involve Slayers never driving long distances in the same car with current and former vampire boyfriends. It wanted polishing. They were tooling down Highway 91 towards Corona as fast as the law allowed or a little faster, the mid-morning sunlight striking a galaxy of miniature rainbows off the DeSoto's grease-clouded windshield. Spike was wearing a pair of welder's goggles to protect his eyes from the sun--in conjunction with the black leather duster, they made him resemble a demented World War I ace. "'....rock all night, sleep all day, it don't matter what they say...'" Spike jounced up and down in the driver's seat in time to the music, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. He took a deep drag on his cigarette and exhaled a plume of smoke, trailing the butt out the window. "Fuck, I love this song!" "Is that what it is?" "Oh, you love it too, baby! Better than that Chieftains bollocks, innit? Lights a fire under you!" "It's gonna light a fire all over you if you don't roll up the damn window." Angel slouched further down in the back seat. "On second thought, go right ahead and leave it down. And what's wrong with the Chieftains?" "Nothing, if your idea of good music begins and ends with 'Danny Boy.'" Spike pulled his arm back in just before his hand began to smoulder, his manic grin never wavering. "Have to roll the window down if I'm going to have a smoke around you health nuts, don't I?" "Let's not make that literal, hm?" Buffy opened the glove compartment and pulled the Triple A map from the mess of repair receipts, broken tire gauges, and general crud, unfolded it and re-traced their route for the dozenth time. "It's the second exit, right?" "Love, it's twenty miles yet." "Right. Twenty miles. Ceasing to panic." Buffy started to re-fold the map. "Not that I'm panicking. Large with Zen-like calm, here." She regarded the abstract origami sculpture in her lap with dismay, gave up and stuffed the map back into the glove compartment in ignominious defeat. Spike looked at her, cigarette cocked at a jaunty angle in one corner of his mouth, and it was like fighting the magnetic pull of the earth not to scoot across the expanse of sun-warmed black leather between them and take refuge against his side, ridiculous goggles and all. That would upset Angel. On the other hand, wasn't it unfair to Spike to act based on what would upset Angel? On the third hand, Angel was doing them a favor and it would be tacky to rub his nose in her new relationship. On the fourth hand... ...on the fourth hand she was headed to see Faith and her stomach was tying itself in knots--not weenie little granny knots, either, good solid double-hitches--and after days of planning she still had no idea what she was going to say. Spike's leather-clad arm slid round her shoulders, and he snugged her up against his lithely-muscled torso (when had she crossed the seat?) as if they'd been machined for one another, interlocking Buffy n' Spike action figures, stakes sold separately. The discordant twinging of her Slayer senses mellowed into Mmmmmmm, Spike, the tense knot between her shoulder blades eased up, and she felt a faint hope that she could engage Faith in civil conversation for five minutes before resorting to communication via blunt instrument. Next on Oprah: Vampire Valium--Moral Support or Co-Dependant Wackiness? You Decide! But whichever it was, it worked, and if the fact that Spike slacked off on baiting Angel for the remainder of the trip meant anything, at least she wasn't the only one jonesing for a PDA fix. There was covered parking, or close enough for government work; no one caught fire on the way to the door. There was an hour-long delay while they signed in, were searched, and cooled their collective heels waiting for a private booth to open up. There were a dozen other people in the waiting room with them, including a few fretful children, so discussing what they'd come for was problematic. Every now and then a man with a clipboard popped out of a door, called out a name, and disappeared, apparently terrified of seeing his own shadow and causing six more weeks of incarceration. The lucky winner would get up, collect their children or CARE packages of cigarettes and toiletries, and file out through the same door. Buffy perched on the edge of the bench, one hand fiddling with the cool silver weight of the ring on the chain around her neck. Spike was sliding progressively lower on his tailbone beside her, eyes closed, one hand thrust into his belt and his booted feet obstructing as much of the aisle in front of him as he could manage. Angel occupied the chair opposite, watching the two of them with folded arms and a melancholy frown. A pair of guards marched by in the hall outside, escorting a sullen woman with short-cropped hair and an expression of dull resignation. Buffy watched them disappear down the corridor, feeling twitchy. The atmosphere was oppressive--the guards, the stark institutional rooms, the impersonal humiliation of the routine. Hello, prison! Duh! She'd wanted Faith here. Scratch that, she'd wanted Faith beaten to a bloody pulp, suffering every second of misery she'd put Buffy through tenfold, but prison was the right thing to do, so she'd settled. Or so she'd thought. Stalag 17 this wasn't, but...Buffy tilted her head in Spike's direction and whispered, "So if you did something awful, which punishment would you pick--get beaten up, or do ten years?" "What d'y'mean, if?" Spike opened one eye. "Getting off scott free's not an option, then? Beating. Lock me up and I'd go starkers inside a week." "Total agreement. I mean, it hurts, but then it's over. Does that say something about us?" "We're not just masochists, we're impatient masochists?" "I am strangely not comforted." Mr. Clipboard did the human cuckoo-clock routine again. "Summers?" Buffy got to her feet, all the knots in her stomach untying at once, releasing a flock of mutant killer butterflies. Angel looked up. "You want me to go in with you?" Buffy nodded, and he rose silently to his feet. Spike didn't say anything, but he didn't have to; that he'd watch her back was a given. Her hand found his and hung on tightly as the three of them followed their guide out the door and into the large hall where the line of glass-divided booths stretched from one end to the other. Buffy watched as they brought Faith into the cubicle, two big guards with crew-cuts and hands the size of Easter hams. Buffy wondered idly how long it would take Faith to turn them into cold cuts if the mood took her, and if Faith would enjoy doing it. Faith of the long dark tresses and heavy-lidded eyes, the face of a street-worn Madonna and the mouth of a Long Island dockworker, stood there while the guards uncuffed her hands, trying for nonchalant and mostly succeeding. Buffy pulled out the chair on her side of the barrier--it was the same kind of chair they'd had in her elementary school, bright blue plastic seat and all--and sat down. On her side of the glass Faith did the same. Slayers, dark and light. Worlds apart. Or maybe, these days, not so much. As the guards left them, Faith ran the palms of her hands down the tails of her blue denim prison shirt, licked her lips. Nervous. Faith. Dark eyes flicked past Buffy's shoulder to the two vampires in the background, doing their own little yin-yang thing--Angel loomed, Spike lounged. She looked to Angel first, seeking reassurance, then to Spike, full of questions. "So. B. You building a harem, or what?" She pressed her hand to the bridge of her nose, grimacing. "That was so not the first thing I planned on saying." "You had a first thing planned? One up on me." Oh, this was going well. Maybe she should just launch herself at the glass screaming now and avoid the rush. Spike's hand drifted over to rest on her shoulder, cool and solid, an anchor to a world where she wasn't Psycho-Bitca Buffy. Pause, rewind. Angel stirred. "Faith, this is Spike. He's..." He stopped, struggled with it for awhile, and shrugged."Present, for reasons beyond me." Spike smirked and gave Faith a little wave. "We've met." Faith peered out at him from between her fingers. "Figured that out, huh?" "Yeh." His smirk intensified. "Lost your chance for that confrontation I promised you, though. I'm taken." "Let's just embrace the weirdness and move on, shall we?" Buffy interrupted. Temper-holding exercise #1: Count the nose-smudges on the barrier between her and Faith. My, what high-quality plexiglass. "I think the Council of Watchers is going to contact you soon, if they haven't already. I think they're going to ask for your help and offer to get you out of here. And I--" The words caught in her throat, "I'm asking you to turn them down." Faith braced one foot against the counter and rocked back in her chair, a frown twisting her brows. "Turn 'em down?" "With a rousing chorus of 'Look For the Union Label.' We're on strike. I'm trying to get us paid. I know you hate me and I'm not too fond of you, but--" "Fuck, B., I don't hate you. I--" "No!" Buffy cut her off with a sharp, one-handed chop. "Don't. Don't tell me you're sorry. There's not enough sorry in the world. Just... do this thing for me, and..." Think about bills. Think about Dawn. Think about Dawn's tuition. "...we're even." Faith studied her, pinching her lower lip between thumb and forefinger. When she spoke her voice was quiet, serious. "I'm copacetic, B. I owe you. But... not exactly the Council's poster girl for good behavior, here. What makes you think they'll hit me up?" Buffy shrugged. "Because with me out of the picture--not patrolling, not making with the world saveage--you're the only game in town. And the Slayer line's through you, now. If the Council wants a Slayer, they need you. Or they need you dead." "Think they'd croak me?" Faith's tone held mild curiosity, no more. "Well, hell, even if I wanted out of this pit ahead of schedule I wouldn't kiss their mildewed British asses to do it. I didn't get tried as an adult for nothin'. And if they want me dead..." She licked her lips again, and this time it wasn't a nervous gesture at all. "I could use a workout. What?" "Nothing. You just... remind me of someone all of a sudden. There's one more thing." Buffy glanced over her shoulder, catching Spike's eye. His scarred brow lifted fractionally; she nodded just as fractionally, and Spike heaved himself off the cubicle wall he'd been supporting and shoved his hands in his duster pockets. "Come on, Peaches, we're wanted elsewhere." Angel looked to Buffy for confirmation--what, hadn't he seen her explain it to Spike? Obviously not onboard the non-verbal Slayer/vampire bandwagon. "I'd like to talk to Faith privately." Angel gave Faith a small encouraging smile and reluctantly followed Spike out of the booth. Buffy took a deep breath and turned back to her erstwhile nemesis. Faith looked a little older, a little more tired-- don't we all?--but solider, somehow, as if the whirlwind of rage and loss within her had spun itself roots. "So, you're looking very... rehabilitated." "Yeah, I'm rehabilitated as all hell. If I'm a real good girl they'll let me off the Group W bench next year."Faith kicked back in her chair and began winding one of her long dark locks around her index finger. The shadow of her old sly grin flitted across her face. "You look like you're getting laid well and often. I almost didn't recognize you without the pole up your ass. You and Soldier Boy still going at it?" The mention didn't hurt nearly as much as she thought it would. Of course, Faith wouldn't be up on the latest episodes of The Many Loves of Buffy Summers. "Riley and I broke up last year. His unit got... reassigned." "So who's the lucky--fuckin' A!" Faith dropped her chair back on all fours with a crash and slapped a palm on the counter before her, the shadow-grin metamorphosing into the old lunatic glee. "B.! You vamp-lovin' she-dog, you! It's short, blond, and lickable, isn't it?" Buffy buried her face in her hands with an embarrassed little wail and looked up, fixing Faith with huge stricken eyes. "Is it that obvious? Am I walking around with 'Spike's Lust-Puppy' stamped on my forehead? " Faith snickered. "Something like. I never figured you for the kind to take that particular walk on the wild side, but the vibe you two got going is something else. You better watch out, B., or you might start enjoying life." Despite herself, Buffy smiled."You laugh, but the possibility's a constant threat to my peace of mind these days." You are not having a conversation with Faith. Stop it, right this minute. "There is something else I need to tell you about. When Giles talked to the head of the Council about the money sitch, part of the song and dance Travers gave him was a lot of hints about Slayers of a certain age going wonky somehow. For what it's worth." Faith snorted. "Oh, yeah, I fear that. Been there, done that, got the commemorative margarita glass." Buffy began playing with the ring again. "So true--I don't know how they'd tell with you. But--to channel Cordelia for a minute--it may be to your advantage that you're kind of a whack-job. I don't trust the Council any farther than I could punt City Hall, but I've got... outside evidence that they may be right." She laced her fingers together on the countertop to still the tremor in them."When we... when you first came to Sunnydale, you got me to touch it. The power. Whatever's inside of us. But then--well, it made you crazy, giving in to it. Can't be of the good." "I was fucked up long before I got Called, B." Faith shrugged. "Can't blame everything on the Slayer mojo." "Yeah, well, after that I thought I could put slaying in a neat little box. Just what I do, not what I am. Riley thought that was the way to go, too. Then two years ago we had to perform a spell to tap the power of the First Slayer to defeat the baddie of the month. Whatever it was we touched, it was old, and it was strong, and it had a really nasty temper and a permanent bad hair day. I channeled it. Ever since then, I've been..." She clasped her hands together, hard enough to leave white marks on the skin. "I don't want to say different. This stuff was always there. That's what's scary about it. It just keeps coming closer and closer to the surface." Leaving Riley asleep in their bed, oblivious, while she roamed unsatisfied through the night, hunting, searching, for-- "When I slay--"Deep, trembling breath of confession; what she could not admit to Spike, even though he already knew the truth of it, what she feared to admit to Giles, what she had barely begun to admit to herself--she could admit to Faith, who was also a Slayer, who had swum these same dark currents, navigated the same riptides of the soul. "I enjoy it." For once Faith's face was unreadable. "I told you a long time ago, if you don't you're in the wrong line of business." Spike's voice, sandpaper and honey, over the rush and whine of traffic: Christ, love, I hope you enjoy it! But Spike was a vampire, her opposite, her prey , just as she was his, and she couldn't quite trust--not yet--that what was sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander. "Since I got back..." She stopped, her throat aching. "Since I got back, we go out patrolling, Spike and I--no. We hunt. We find vampires and demons and things that go bump in the night, and when we fight--it's like we're this, this force, this--the rush is incredible. I love it. And since we--I feel him, all the time. I can't keep my hands off him.We come back to his crypt or my house and pig out on everything in sight or make love for hours. Or both. I'm sleeping better than I have in years. I think I've gained three pounds. I. Feel. Fantastic. "And it's wrong," she finished quietly. "I know it's wrong. I know there's a chance that it the chip ever breaks down Spike's not going to be able to control himself. He's trying, and I'll help him any way I can. But he's a vampire, a demon, and he... if Spike falls off the wagon, people die. I shouldn't be taking the risk." Faith frowned. "So you're, what, all guilty over this thing with Spike? And you think that's the wonkiness Travers was jawing about?" Buffy shook her head. "No. The wonkiness is that I am taking the risk. I want to take the risk. Angel told me I shouldn't need a monster like Spike to make me feel whole, but... I think I do. I think maybe...these things I'm feeling... I'm kind of a monster too. There's something wrong with me, or I wouldn't--I wouldn't be this happy. And I like it. If I'm wrong I want to stay that way." She met Faith's eyes, her own level and sad. "I love him. And someday, I may have to kill him.I'm afraid that if I--if I get more wrong, I won't be able to do it--not fast enough. I might even... someone might have to go through me to do it. You're probably the only one who could do it. That's why I'm telling you this." For a long minute Faith sat there, staring at Buffy with bemused sloe-dark eyes. Then she began to laugh, and in another breath she was doubled over, clutching her stomach with both hands and howling with mirth. Buffy stared at her, eyes narrowed and lips pressed even narrower, unable to decide if Faith's Cheez Whiz had slipped completely off her cracker or if she were just really, really annoying. "I'm so glad my slow descent into moral quicksand is amusing." "Oh, B.," Faith gasped, sitting up and wiping her eyes. "I'm sorry, but you're so damned funny, sitting there with your trembly lip and your Brave Little Toaster face on! You think you're goin' over to the dark side, and your first move as a rogue Slayer is setting yourself up to get spanked if you get too naughty! Buffy Summers, the world's most goody-two-shoes villain!" "It sounded a lot more dramatic the way I put it," Buffy muttered. She sucked in her lower lip. It is so not trembly. "B., if it makes you feel better, if the day comes you can't keep sweet William in line, I'll do it." Faith chuckled. "I owe him a confrontation. But don't sell yourself short. You're still the top bitch around here, you know? And hey, I'm glad you've got something good goin'." She leaned forward, forearms crossed on the counter. "He is good, I hope?" The corner of Buffy's mouth twitched. "No. He's not good. Yet. But he's getting better." She got up and started to leave, then halted and came back with a little hip-twitch in her walk. She leaned forward over the counter, resting her weight on her fists and lowering her voice to a throaty, eat-your-heart-out purr. "And the way you're talking about?" She straightened with a smug little grin, and gave Faith the same little finger-wave Spike had earlier. "Don't you wish you knew? See ya, F."

"It's quite simple, Quentin." Giles set his saucer on the coffee table and sank back into the armchair. "Her position is that her first responsibility is to raise and educate her younger sister, and she simply cannot afford to depend on my charity, as she puts it, to accomplish this. Unless the Council sees fit to recompense her for her work on their behalf, she has no choice but to cease patrolling and, er, 'get a real job.'" There was a long, static-ridden pause, during which Giles reviewed his own words half a dozen times--too indifferent? Too threatening? He sat back in the armchair and took the album from the top of the stack on the coffee table, turning it over and over in his lap, and slipped the record in its inner sleeve free. Eric Clapton and Cream. The black vinyl gleamed fitfully. Bulky, fragile things, records, a bastard to ship. He could have replaced most of them with CDs, but to his mind that would have been as great travesty as replacing his library with an E-book. No tiny, shiny, digitized scrap of plastic could compare with the glory of analog sound and full-sized cover art. Besides, he'd seen Spike's lustful glances in his record cabinet's direction, and had a good idea where half of them would end up if he did get rid of them. He was reluctantly resigned to Spike's liason with Buffy, but damned if he was going to leave his record collection to a vampire. A trans-Atlantic sigh emerged from the hiss of line noise. "I see." Travers's tone implied that he did see; with the bulk of the planet between them, his displeasure still came through the phone lines loud and clear. "And have you pointed out to her that this decision will cost lives, even worlds?" Giles set the album down again and picked up his teacup, taking a sip. Now for the tricky part. "Well, er, actually... she was rather worried about that. I pointed out that, technically speaking, her first death released her from her duties as Slayer. The Powers evidently intended her to be a short-timer--the Pergamum Codex had only the one prophecy regarding her, after all." He reached over and flipped the work in question open, skimming the relevant passages. How worried they'd all been, all those years ago--and over a vampire. How quaint. "She did say that she might try to get a little slaying in on weekends, time permitting." There was an indistinct noise on the other end of the line. Best not get too facetious; Travers was neither stupid nor easily manipulated. No one who rose to become Head of the Council was. Giles continued, "Several of her friends and associates did offer to patrol in her stead, but I persuaded them that it was far too dangerous for normal humans to attempt this alone." "Indeed?" Travers's voice was as dry as the California desert. "You managed adequately all summer, as I recall." "Mmm. Yes. We managed. With the help of a vampire and a powerful witch. I'm sure you're aware that summer is the period at which vampire activity is at its lowest ebb, the Hellmouth is quiescent, et cetera. Willow is still suffering the effects of over-straining her magical abilities last month. Spike has, of course, no inclination to risk himself on behalf of innocent bystanders if it brings him no personal gain." Travers wouldn't, he hoped, start pondering the question of exactly what sort of personal gain had prompted Spike to help over the summer. "This leaves Tara McClay as our sole supernatural resource, and while she's a competent practitioner, combat spells are not her forte." "I do sympathize with Ms. Summers's financial woes, but the Council's resources are not inexhaustible. Forty years of a Labor government--" "Yes, yes, men living on the dole from birth to death--I grew up in the sixties, Quentin, and they've been over for quite some time now." Giles reined in his temper and stirred his tea. "Our resources are not inexhaustible, true, but neither are they anywhere near exhausted. That retreat in--" Travers cut him off. "This is a matter of principle, Rupert, for me as much as it is for you. The Slayer is the Council's instrument--" "The Slayer is a twenty-year-old girl who's died twice in the Council's service!" "No, Rupert, Buffy Summers is a twenty-year-old girl." Travers's voice grew cold. "The Slayer is far more than that. She existed long before Buffy was Called and she will exist long after Buffy is dust." "Buffy's been dust. Twice. And both times she's returned to her calling despite there being no reason for her to do so. You're right, Quentin--she isn't the Slayer. Faith is. Buffy is a good person who's been aiding our cause because she knows it to be the best use she can make of her talents. We owe her. Quentin, think. How often do we have a truly experienced Slayer at our disposal? How many survive the Cruciamentum--how many live to take the Cruciamentum? There is no comparison between the girl I met five years ago and the Buffy Summers of today. I scarcely dare imagine what she will be capable of in a few more years." "Yes... what will she be capable of? That's the question, isn't it?" Travers said. There was a note in his voice that Giles couldn't interpret and therefore distrusted. "There are reasons for the Council exercising such control over the Slayer, Rupert, reasons that you don't--" "Why don't you explain them to me?" Silence again. Travers was no fool. He wouldn't drop obscure hints out of carelessness; he was on a fishing expedition of his own. "I'm not free to tell you anything I please, Rupert. But I will say this. Slayers who survive as long as your Buffy has have a tendency to become ... willful." "Ah. Very helpful. And I'll be able to distinguish this from her normal behavior precisely how?" "Perhaps my terminology is imprecise. Extraordinarily focused upon their work, and more vulnerable to... dangerous urges. And therefore in greater need of guidance than ever. Making a Slayer independant of her Watcher at this point is the last thing I would advise. I'll take the money matter under advisement, Rupert, but that's all I can promise you." Giles sat there for some time after Travers had hung up, frowning into space and turning his cup of cooling tea round and round in his hands. Travers meant to make him suspicious of Buffy's behavior, he was certain, but to what end? To make him stay in America? To quash the idea of Buffy getting a separate stipend? What, from the Council's point of view, could be considered bad about a Slayer becoming more focused upon her job? She's already keeping company with one of them; how much more focused can one get? His frown deepened. Surely that couldn't be it... Could it? Last year Buffy had been worried about the increasing allure that her midnight hunts held for her, and asked him to stay and delve into the origins of her powers. Joyce's illness and death and Glory's hunt for Dawn had derailed that plan before it had begun, but now... He sat back and looked about the room, at the stacks of books and half-packed boxes. Life in transition. Bloody hell. ***** The Krallock demon's cavernous nostrils flared, and its barnacle-encrusted head swung ponderously to face the back of the room, spattering seawater all over the floor. Its damp, weed-draped form filled the entire doorway, making the utility room of Willy's even more claustrophobic, and absorbing the sound of clinking glasses and barroom squabbles that otherwise drifted back from the front of the building. "Vampire," it rumbled. "What the hell is he doing here? Bad enough the owner lets his kind into the bar." The three demons at the table shuffled their feet (or whatever passed for them) looked uncomfortable, and examined their cards, the floor, the pipes in the ceiling--anything but the Krallock demon or the object of its displeasure. Said object tapped his cigarette into the nearby ashtray and leaned back in his chair, a faint smirk enlivening his angular countenance. Into the silence he drawled, "Playing poker, which is more than I can say for you." The dealer's rheumy eyes took on a distressed squint, and his wrinkled, pouchy throat bobbed as he swallowed. He laid his ears flat against his skull and tried to still their nervous twitching. "He's ... uh ... Spike." The nictating membranes slid over the Krallock's slit-pupiled, basketball-sized eyes, followed by the true lids in a contemptuous double blink. Apparently this was insufficient explanation. Spike's snide grin widened. He was enjoying their discomfiture--Clem, the dealer, wasn't so bad, but as a rule, demons despised vampires. Vampires were the lowest of the low, hybrids hopelessly tainted with humanity: fast-breeding, stupid, expendable cannon fodder. Not that this didn't sum up Spike's opinion of most other vampires as well, but he objected very strenuously at being lumped in with the common throng. Admitting that they were a little bit afraid of a mere vampire wasn't going to win Clem and his pals any points with the big-shot out-of-town demon. Admitting that the mere vampire's propensity towards taking down big-shot, out-of-town demons wasn't an entirely unwelcome trait amongst the smaller fry of Sunnydale's demon population would win them even fewer. "I'm no ordinary vampire, mate. Scourge of Europe, done a couple of Slayers in my day, used to be the Master of Sunnydale..." The creature in the doorway shook its head and gave a disdainful snort, perfuming the cramped room with smell of dead fish and salt. "Used to be?" Spike's eyes narrowed a trifle. His nerves were singing with that lovely frisson of adrenaline and anticipation which presaged a fight--and just a touch of fear; Krallock demons were definitely out of his league. As usual, he fed the last emotion into more swagger. "Gave it up for Lent. You gonna ante up or stand there like a mop in need of a wringer?" The Krallock demon gave the four of them a disdainful once-over. "I don't consort with his kind." It snorted again. "Nor do I consort with those who do." It gave Spike a last look. "Your blood is unworthy to stain my talons." With that it backed out of the doorway, its claws leaving a trail of ragged scars in the apparently worthier linoleum. With its departure the atmosphere in the room lightened perceptibly. Spike relaxed, and Clem breathed a sigh which might have been relief. True, the Krallocks were a noble line, among the closest to pure, Ascended demons to be found on this plane. It would have been an honor to have one join them. On the other hand, they had a habit of biting off heads when annoyed, and like most pure demons, they were easily annoyed. The small fuzzy purple Skibbnir demon to Clem's left shuffled through his cards and glared at Spike, and Clem hurriedly joined in with a ferocious, wrinkly scowl. "He probably had a dozen tabbies in his brood pouch." Maintaining face, as expected. "Just enough to cover what you owe me, eh?" Spike studied his hand--two nines, a queen, a ten and a three. Plus the jack of diamonds he'd palmed earlier, if you wanted to get technical about it. He rearranged his cards and tossed the three on the discard pile. "One. Hit me." Clem burst into guffaws of laughter and dealt him another card. "I thought that's what you hung around the Slayer for." The Skibbnir made a chittering noise like a forest full of demented squirrels and high-fived Clem's wrinkled, loose-skinned paw with two of its six limbs. "Good 'un, Clem!" Spike turned his new card over and slid it into his hand. Eight of clubs. And a good thing or you'd be eating those ears. He exchanged one of the nines for the jack tucked away in the sleeve of his duster--vampiric speed was a wonderful thing. "Now, now, boys, no rude remarks about my lady, or I'll have to give you a refresher lesson in manners." Purple snickered. "Your lady now, is it?" "Me 'n the Slayer're working together now, remember." He blew a smoke ring at Purple with entirely unfeigned smugness. "Though it's not so much work these days. She's got better things to do with the undead than stake 'em." The third demon, a spidery-thin, pearly-skinned humanoid with glittering encrustations of blue crystal scattered over its body, discarded a pair of cards and received his replacements with an impassive face. "We've heard that song and dance before." Spike's grin got wider. "Yeh, well, you'll be hearing a lot more of it. The Slayer's finally kicked over her traces. Told the Council to piss off. She's going into a better-paying line of work." "Uh huh," the crystalline demon said, obviously skeptical. "And we all jumped for joy when her Watcher got fired, but here they still are, making our lives miserable." "Dealer takes two." Clem examined his new hand, cards held up before his protuberant nose. "I'm in. See your shorthair and raise you a Persian." "I fold," Purple said with a disgusted hiss. "Your life? As if the Slayer knows you exist." Spike focused on the crystalline demon's heartbeat (or whatever it was making noise in there) and tried to decide whether the speeding up meant he had good cards or bad ones. Clem's right ear was twitching again, and that meant he had a good hand, or was in the process of manufacturing one. Cheating was part of the game, accepted until someone felt like making something of it--they were demons, after all. "Live and let live's my motto," Clem said. He glanced at Spike. "Present company excepted. The Slayer's never bothered with the likes of us. Vampires, greater demons... Why, my cousin Ferlie--" "Like that Krallock demon," Spike interrupted. "Think she'd let that soggy blighter ponce about town, insultin' the locals, if she were still on the job? I'll bet you anything you care to name that come Sunday next, she won't have lifted a finger against it." Purple and Blue Crystal looked interested. Clem shook his head, setting his jowls to wagging. "Uh uh. Last time I took one of your wagers I ended up stuck on top of a fence with my britches caught on a nail." Spike's Cheshire Cat expression didn't waver. "You see any nails around here?" "Done," Blue Crystal said, and the other two chimed in. "But just a friendly bet--money, no kittens." ***** "Not exactly an encouraging conversation," Giles said, "But better than it could have gone." "Willful?" Buffy said with a little frown. "It makes me sound like the heroine of a Gothic romance. If I get a sudden urge to run across a moor in my nightie, Giles, by all means stop me." "They're being ridiculous," Anya said, setting the Council's letter down and sliding it across the table to Giles. "Slaying is a public service job like a police officer or firefighter, so Buffy should be making at least as much as they do at similar levels of experience. Did you point out that it's far more cost-effective in terms of lives saved to maintain one experienced Slayer than it is to constantly be training new ones?" Willow's fingers tightened around her pencil. She forced them to unclasp, lest she snap it in half. Again. What was it about Xander that made him unerringly seek out the most annoying women in Sunnydale to fall for? It wasn't even that Anya was saying anything rude or clueless. She was making sense for once. It was just that it was Anya: all by itself, the sound of that whiny nasal voice had the ability to drill into Willow's skull and start chipping its way out with a pickaxe. She stared down at the pile of notes in front of her, trying to concentrate on anything besides the sound of the soon-to-be Mrs. Harris prattling on. The notes were just the way she liked them: alphabetized each in their own folders with the color-coded tabs. Blue for the original spells she'd based her research on, green for the spells she'd actually used in the creation of the new one, red for the new spell itself, yellow for notes on the changes and substitutions she'd made in creating it, orange for miscellaneous additional notes which might come in handy. The pile of bright manila folders stood square-cornered on the central glass insert of the table-top, exuding that new-paper-and-glue smell which conjured up her favorite time of year, the beginning of school. A week's worth of effort, boiled down to 'I can't do it.' Willow shuffled the stack again, unhappily aware that the nervous dampness of her palms would wilt the folders' crisp clean newness. The queasy twist in her stomach, the barely-leashed panic which made her heart pound were familiar. She had nightmares like this. She couldn't remember the combination to her locker. She'd forgotten to drop the calculus class, and now she had to read the entire semester's worth of material in the hour before the final. She was standing at the front of the classroom, stumbling through an oral report to the accompaniment of bored snickers from her classmates. She Wasn't Prepared. "You don't want to antagonize them more than necessary," Anya chirped, innocent of the effect she was producing. "If we can make them realize Buffy's a valuable commodity, it'll make for much better labor-management relations in the long run." The really annoying thing, Willow decided, was that no one else was annoyed. Tara was nibbling on her pencil and sketching out one of the weird organic-looking doodles that she claimed helped her concentrate on new spells--this one looked like a cross between a bagpipe and an okra bush. Spike and Buffy were poring over a street map of L.A. spread out across the pages of Aurelius the Seer: A Comprehensive Index of Prophecies and alternating between listening to Giles and an incredibly pointless argument about the best way to get to Buffy's father's apartment from the freeway. Dawn, sulking a little because she wasn't going to L.A. with them, perched on the bottom rung of the ladder up to the balcony where the restricted books were kept, knees akimbo and her nose in another grimoire. Funny how no one gives her the fish-eye when she starts pawing through Really-Dark-We-Mean-It-This-Time Magicks. My raise the dead spell didn't bring back a shambling zombie, but noooo, let Dawn at the Crowley, she'll be fine... Giles, who should have been annoyed if anyone should, was adjusting his glasses and nodding sagely at Anya, making little notations in the margins of the letter. He tipped the glasses down and peered over the rims at Spike. "Progress on your end?" "Dropped a word or two to Clem and the kitten poker crowd the other night that Buffy was going into retirement, and let a few other blokes down at Willy's overhear." Spike shot Buffy a wicked smile. "It'll be all over town by tonight that the Slayer's taking a holiday." The shop bell rang and Xander swung in with a brace of pizza boxes balanced on one hand. "Dinner is served!" he announced, plopping both boxes down in the center of the table. He planted a kiss on Anya's cheek in passing and dropped into the chair between her and Willow. Yuck. We know you're googly-eyed over Anya, Xander, do you have to rub it in? "Brain food all around. We've got half veggie--and yes, I remembered the bell peppers--and half black olives and pepperoni. The one on the bottom's half ham and pineapple and half sausage and mushroom. I think that caters to everyone's unreasonable topping prejudices. Oh, and extra garlic all around just for you, Spike." "Didn't know you cared, Harris. Ta ever so." Spike grabbed two slices of pepperoni, trailing cheese strings all over the engraving of his great-great-ever-so-great-grandsire. He handed one to Buffy and took a large bite of his own. "Don't fill up on food before you've eaten your real dinner," Buffy admonished, accepting the offering and taking a sedate bite. "Wow. I said that with a straight face. New heights have been reached on the surreal-weirdness-of-life index." Willow stared at the pizza. "I said no bell peppers, not 'extra bell peppers, the vegetable expressly designed to make Willow barf.'" She looked accusingly at Xander. "You know I hate bell peppers." Xander made an embarrassed gesture halfway between a shrug and an arm-wave. "Oops. Sorry, Will. I got you mixed up with Anya. She likes 'em. But there's three other kinds." Tara laid claim to a slice of the veggie pizza and inspected it to confirm the presence of bell peppers. "We can pick them off, honey. You know, I think they're a fruit, not a vegetable. Tomatoes are a fruit." "Harris's Law: Anything green is a vegetable, including Jell-O." Xander watched Spike hopefully for a moment. "You're not running, gagging, or breaking out in hives. How disappointing." Tara smiled, a teasing light in her eyes. "You know it doesn't have any effect when it's cooked." "Hope springs eternal." "Don't bother," Willow said under her breath, as the topic drifted farther from her torment. "The taste permeates the whole cheese-crust-tomato... complex," she waved a hand at the box, "and ruins it. It's all got bell pepper cooties." Since no one, least of all Xander, whose fault it all was and who should have been far sorrier, seemed inclined to spring up and offer to get her a replacement pizza, Willow folded her arms and prepared to give Dawn a run for her money in the sulking department. Why the frilly heck was everyone in such a good mood when it was obvious they were all doomed? The whole scene had the Currier & Ives clarity of a moment upon which she would someday look back upon with nostalgia, the last hurrah of a vanished era. She watched Tara carefully removing bits of bell pepper from a slice of pizza, and felt both touched and irritated. Strands of her lover's hair were slipping from behind her ears, falling across her face in silky wheat-blonde sheaves, and every now and again she raised a hand to tuck it back in place. Tara smiled and held out the pepperless slice, a peace offering. The gesture stirred an obscure longing in Willow, as if Tara were already an old and treasured memory rather than a real and living presence. Once again, the big happy Scooby family, all except crotchety old Aunt Willow. She took the pizza and managed a return smile. She had to pull herself out of this funk. Buffy said, "Next item. Spike and I are leaving for L.A. tomorrow night, so we kick off our web of deception with a couple of days of really convincing non-slayage. We should be back Saturday night, unless Dad wants to have some family time." She didn't sound very certain that this would be the case. Spike grunted. "Just as well. More than twenty-four hours with that wanker and I'll go spare." Buffy wrinkled her nose at him. "We can't afford a hotel. Would you rather stay with Angel?" "Let me think... flensing or thumbscrews... ow! Pax, love, I'll behave. Vamp's honor." "Like that reassures me. Console yourself with the knowledge that you annoy Dad just as much as he annoys you." "Still not so hot on the vampire thing?" Willow asked, shooting for sympathetic. I will be mature, reasonable Willow, I will, I will... Buffy waved her pizza in the air and shook her head. "Oh, no, that would mean accepting that there is a vampire thing. Dad's still clinging desperately to the conviction that Spike's a victim of poor circulation and a bad UV allergy." She sighed, blowing her bangs out of her eyes. "Who just happens to be able to grow fangs at will. Dad's temperature approaches absolute zero on the 'no visible means of support and lives in a crypt' thing. I think he still has secret hopes of me marrying a nice orthodontist." Spike finished off his pizza and licked his fingers before appropriating another slice. "He'll come round, love. It's all part of my bohemian charm." Buffy actually giggled. "Oh, any day now." Willow tried to suppress a double-take. How long had it been since she'd heard Buffy giggle? "When I called he told me he wanted the name of your coffin supplier for the next time he redecorates." Spike pulled her closer, nose to nose, and purred, "I'll put him in a coffin the minute you say the word, pet." "Try it and you'll be occupying an urn right next to him, sweetie," Buffy cooed back. "Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Xander yelled, making a time-out sign. "I'm remembering exactly why this relationship is so twisted and sick! There will be no cutesy Eskimo kisses between Slayers and the eating-way-too-much-of-my-pizza undead in my presence! I have a delicate stomach!" Spike smirked at him. "Yeh, I remember. Next time I'll steal an RV with independent suspension." "Might I remind everyone that this is a business meeting?" Giles broke in. Willow decided that Giles was the only bearable person in the room. "Business. Right." Buffy sat up and folded her hands all prim and proper on the table. "I want to get started on the Tanner thing as soon as we get back. Are we go for that?" "Oh, yes," Tara said, nodding vigorously. "I found dozens of spells to cripple a rival's magic." Well, of course, Willow thought. Magic was the same as anything else; it was always easier to break something than to build something. Naturally Tara would find success, and she'd crash and burn like the failure you are. Tara rushed on, "The main problem's been that most of them did a lot more than that--they're spells for wizards' duels, mostly, and we don't want to hurt him." Speak for yourself. The memory of her ignominious defeat at Tanner's hands still stung. "So I've been working on isolating the magic-deadening elements from the more destructive effects, and I think I've got it pared down to what we need." Tara handed Giles and Anya a short list of ingredients. "I'll need a focal object, something we can bring him into physical contact with. We've probably got something in the shop that'll work. Anya and I can look through the inventory this weekend. I'll cast a separate binding spell on it so that once it's on, he won't be able to take it off. It'll work like a lighting rod. He'll be grounded. Any spells he tries will just fizzle harmlessly." Buffy looked pleased. "Coolness. Will? How's your end going?" What the clues were, Willow wasn't sure--voice a little too bright and chipper and Happy-Buffy, her expression a little too eager, perhaps--but she was instantly certain that Buffy knew perfectly well that she had bupkis to show for the last week's labor, and was covering for her out of pity. She plastered a smile across her face. "Working on it," she said. "I've got the spell altered to do exactly what we need, but there's still the whole power source problem." "That's what you've been saying for days. Don't you think it's time to try another approach?" Anya asked. "Honestly, Willow, now that you're powerless you need to be a little more flexible." "I am not powerless!" Willow's head lashed around to face her ex-demon nemesis, her eyes going liquid black as eldritch forces coiled through her body. For a brief moment she felt like herself again, as she'd felt blasting open the hospital doors. Anya jumped back in her chair, ducking behind Xander's shoulder. Tara's hand closed on her arm, Tara's anxious face brought her back a measure of calm. She relaxed, muscle by muscle, dispersing the energies she'd marshaled. She had to conserve. If she used them, she was done for the next day. "I'm... semi-powered." "Will..." Xander looked concerned. All of them looked concerned. "You're... jumpy." "And you need to watch where you jump," Anya grumbled. "You could curse someone's eye out." "We've got till we get back from L.A., anyway," Buffy said. "No pressure." She hesitated, worrying her lower lip. "But maybe we should have some kind of backup plan, just in case?" "I said I'd have it ready, and I will!" Willow snapped, then immediately dropped her head, giving the folders before her another unneeded shuffling. "Sorry. I'm just a little tired." Anya frowned at her and Willow gritted her teeth. Just one little spell. One little spell--no black magic, just darkish grey--would shut her up. Give her permanent laryngitis, or hiccups, or something. One teeny, tiny, itsy bitsy spell... But that, as Buffy was fond of saying, would be wrong. This is the same Buffy getting snuggly with the vampire? A chill raced over her and the fine hairs on the back of her neck lifted. It took a moment to muster the courage to look up, then duck back down behind her notebook. Across the room, reflected in the glass of the display cases where her own reflection should be--Willow, yet Not-Willow. Alabaster skin, cat-green eyes, hair like a fall of glowing embers, a sweet wicked Mona Lisa smile Willow had practiced in the mirror for hours and never managed to get right: the vampire version of herself whom Anya had once summoned accidentally from an alternate dimension. Except it couldn't be, really, because they'd sent Vamp-Willow back where she came from, right? And more, the whole mirror thing. Vampires didn't reflect, so a vampire being a reflection? "Pretty sure that's not normal," she muttered, then realized she'd spoken aloud as Tara looked up from her sketching, a question in her eyes. "This, um, thing." Willow grabbed the Index of Prophecies and pointed at random to one of the illustrations. "Rusnak demons have, um, three horns, and this one has, uh, three horns, so obviously I'm looking at the wrong picture, ha ha, don't mind me!" Tara's forehead wrinkled in perplexity, and multiple transparent copies of Vamp-Willow blew her a kiss from the panes of glass. No one else noticed. Willow scarcely heard Buffy and Giles start discussing the Council situation again. We sent you away! Oh, I never really left. The vision in black leather and red lace got up and sashayed around the reflected table to run a languid finger along the spine of the nearest reflected book. I've always been... right... here. She tapped a long-nailed finger against her chest and Willow felt an icy twinge over her own heart. Wrong, her alter ego said, with a little moue at the reflected Buffy and Spike, who were exchanging lascivious caresses. Reflected-Buffy tossed a look of scornful amusement at her, and Willow's cheeks grew hot. So very, very wrong. He's still a bad, bad boy, you know. But, oh, so much fun . Reflected-Willow grabbed reflected-Anya's hair and yanked her head back, trailing one blood-red nail across the bared throat. We could have all kinds of fun with the little demon girl. That smile again. Or anyone else. She strolled over to the reflected Dawn, who radiated a flaring nexus of emerald-green energy, and ran her hands down over the girl's translucent shoulders. If it's power you need... "...we can use that glamor I worked up to infiltrate Bryce's group," Tara was saying. "Then the two of you could patrol, but you'd be under cover." "That'll be great. And oh--I had that interview with the gym today and they said they'd call back if they wanted to see me again, so be sure--" Willow looked down, but there was no escape; that too-familiar face smiled slyly up at her from the inset glass of the table. Silly, isn't it? All this fuss over money, when any decent witch could enchant an ever-full purse... She scrunched her eyes shut and shook her head, hard, not caring who noticed or how strange it looked. When she opened them again, all she saw in the glass was her own pinched and worried face. ***** The night was luminous around them. Only the brightest stars were visible overhead; Orion and the Great Bear made their circumference of the heavens against the lurid glow of Los Angeles, which suffused half the sky ahead of them. Headlights streamed past in an endless strobing line behind them. The wind was brisk and chill, which bothered Spike not a whit--cold was something like color for him; a thing he could easily distinguish but which made little impact on his physical comfort. Buffy, seated on the edge of the rest stop picnic table in front of him, was another story, still bundled up in her coat. Her hands burrowed under his duster, drawing leisurely revolutions over his shoulderblades, and her head rested in the crook of his shoulder, her breath warm against his neck. Spike rocked against her, hips cradled between her thighs, each stroke slow, deep, strong, wave after languorous wave rolling in to shore. He was drowning in her, gladly, going down for the third time, caught in the rapture of the deep: Buffy Summers his ocean, and Here There Be Monsters. Buffy locked her ankles together behind him, threw her head back and arched into his thrusts. Her body clasped him in counterpoint to his rhythm, drew him deeper, his soft liquid growls and her little kitten-mew gasps lost in the roar of traffic. It was a contest, as so many things were between them. An eternal moment in which they strove together, all their opposites reconciled in that striving, dark and light, male and female, the quick and the dead--vampire and Slayer made one greater whole, lasting as long as they could bear it. He broke first this time, shattering against some invisible high-water mark, crying out, and his capitulation triggered hers; her body clenched and trembled around him as he gave himself up to long shuddering spasms of release. She slumped backwards onto the table, gasping for breath, and he followed, unwilling to give up a fingersbreadth of contact. They lay there together for a moment, feeling the tremors of their conjoined bodies die away. He felt a shiver that wasn't born of passion run through her, and swore softly. "Sorry, love. I'm not much use as a bedwarmer." She smiled in the feeble imitation of darkness. "You're a pretty good windbreak." As he pulled out she made a disappointed little noise, but when he slid down her torso, nibbling at the bare goose-fleshed skin below her navel, she groaned and twined her fingers in his hair, holding him back. "No--don't start! I told Dad we'd be there before midnight. We can't get into another six-hour lust-a-thon." The lack of conviction in her voice was absolute balm to the--well, not to the soul, but to the something--of a man taking the current love of his life to meet the former love of hers. "How about a four-hour one? It's only half an hour to L.A. from here, pet. I'm a thirsty man, and it's not your neck that's my chalice. Besides," he licked a milky streak of their mingled juices from her inner thigh and leered up at her, "I've got you all messy. Only right I should clean you up." Buffy looked torn for a second, but another car rolled into the rest stop parking lot and her expression firmed. "That's what I brought wet-naps for." She tugged her skirt, which was rucked up about her waist, down over her hips and rolled over to grab her purse off the adjacent bench. Spike promptly ducked under the hem and followed his nose. "Here--oh--Spike, damn you, quit th-th--" Half an hour later, virtue had prevailed, mostly, and they were roaring south along the Coast Highway, windows rolled down and the radio blasting KSPC over the howl of the wind. The DeSoto roared its challenge to lesser vehicles, which got out of the way if they knew what was good for them--fiberglass crumple zones and airbags could do only so much when pitted against a quarter-ton of solid steel. "They're playing our song, pet! 'You know you want what's on my mind, you know you need what's on my mind...'" "I hear that these days they record songs with, you know, lyrics and melodies and stuff," Buffy said, mock-reflective. "Maybe we should try to find some." "'Wind Beneath My Wings?'" "Oh, shut up." Her lower lip slipped out in that criminally adorable pout. "That was the spell." "Keep telling yourself that, pet." Spike tightened his arm around Buffy's shoulders, grinning up at the hunter in the sky. He had a cooler full of blood in the trunk, music that wasn't completely revolting on the radio, Buffy's head on his shoulder and her hand resting possessively across his stomach. They were headed off to see the two men in all the world he'd have been happiest to see staked out on an anthill, and he was downright giddy about it because it meant a precious few hours when he had her entirely to himself, free of the demands of friends and family and job interviews. The fact that a legitimate stop to use the loo had segued irresistibly into a nice little session of shagging didn't hurt his mood either. It was possible that if he looked down he'd find the distant look in her eyes again--it came upon her less and less often now, which pleased him immensely, but even his ego wasn't quite up to assuming that a week's worth of slap and tickle with him was enough to get her over a little thing like being dead. He hadn't managed it in a hundred and twenty-some years, after all. He chuckled quietly and reached into his duster pocket for a cigarette, steadying the steering wheel with his knee. "You do that a lot more than you used to," Buffy observed. He paused in the complicated operation of lighting the fag one-handed. "What, smoke? I'll have you know between the Niblet's dirty looks and your refusal to invest in a bleeding ashtray I'm down to half a pack a day." "No--laugh." She hitched herself up a little straighter, but stayed close to his side, maintaining contact. Over the last day or two she'd begun, almost shyly, to return his casual touches, and to initiate her own. He liked that--hell, loved it. Dru had never been one for a cuddle; she wanted petting and cosseting often enough, but like a cat of uncertain temper, she could go from purring on the hearth to clawing your arm off in half a second. Harmony had been keen on it, but he hadn't been keen on her. He wondered briefly if Megan had been serious about Harm coming back to Sunnydale for Christmas, and who he'd have to kill to prevent it from happening. "It's... nice. I don't think I saw you smile once last year--well, no... you did with Mom and Dawn." He covered her small warm hand with his large cool one. "Didn't have a lot to smile about when you were about, sweetling, what with unrequited love on one hand and constantly being smacked in the nose on the other." She sniffed, tossing her head. "I had issues." "And a mean right hook." He laughed again, reveling in the steady beat of her heart and the feel of her slim, strong body against his. Her curves were as delicious to trace with hands as with eyes. Tara's not-so-subtle attempts to feed her up were starting to show results; Buffy was still thinner than he liked to see, but there was some muscle between skin and bone now, and she no longer looked as though the slightest breeze would bear her away from the land of the living. She radiated a warmth he could feel even through her coat--sometimes he thought he could feel it all the way across the room, his personal ray of sunlight. He buried his nose in her wind-tousled hair, taking in a breath imbued with the sonata of fragrances that spelled Buffy: body wash and shampoo and mousse, rose and strawberry and citrus and half a dozen others, and beneath it all the musky female scent that was her and her alone. Her hand was tracing the ridged bands of muscle along his abdomen, wandering lower and lower, and parts south were starting to take notice. Less than an hour of playtime wasn't nearly enough to wear either of them out. "Love, unless you fancy learning the fine art of administering a blow job in a moving vehicle, I wouldn't do that if I were you." Buffy jerked her hand upwards with a guilty look (or was it slightly intrigued?) but didn't remove it entirely. "Sorry. It's--seeing Faith has me wigged. I can handle Angel, but she makes me insane. And I've got to play nice. I've got to." Spike glanced down at her, perplexed. "This isn't like you, love. What did she do to you?" A shudder ran through her. "Nearly killed Angel." "Ooh. My kind of girl." Her voice went flat and hard. "Found a spell that switched our bodies. Got me locked up for crimes she'd committed, went out and played 'Hi, I'm Skanky Ho Buffy!' with everyone I knew, slept with Riley--and he didn't even know the difference!--and--" A sudden memory of a two-years-gone night at the Bronze rose up in his head, a weird little Buffy-encounter he'd written off as the result of one of her rare attempts to drink more than one beer at a sitting. "Bloody hell, that night you told me you'd got muscles I'd never even dreamed of, and you could squeeze me till I popped like warm champagne--that was Faith?" That turned out to be prophetic. He swerved into the carpool lane to pass a semi and suppressed another chuckle; he didn't think Buffy would appreciate this particular irony. "I just thought you were legless. Don't think I care for this bird--you can be a right bitch, love, but you were never a cocktease. Much." Buffy shot upright, fire in her eyes. "She told you what? Fine, forget diplomacy, I'm just going to strangle her." "Do that and in twenty-four hours the Council will have a shiny new Slayer of their very own to play with." "Oh. Right. Fooey." Buffy subsided grumpily, then bounced up in excitement. "Ooh, look! Dairy Queen, next exit!" "You're sublimating, love." "Thank you, Count Sigmund. Sometimes a waffle cone is only a waffle cone." She folded her arms across her chest, a frail attempt at defense. "She was... she was me. All the horrible grotty parts of me, blown up twenty times, in living color and 3-D stereophonic sound. She... enjoyed being a Slayer." He gave her the eyebrow. "And you don't?" "Not like that." "Like what? You don't love it that you're faster and stronger than everyone else? You don't love it that you can walk through the dark and fear not a single sodding beastie that makes the night its home? Christ, love, I hope you enjoy it! If you could see yourself--the way your eyes light up the moment you get that little tingle that says the game's afoot! The way you move--like silk, like lightning!" She was looking at him, fascinated, revolted, entranced. "The look in your eyes when you make a kill--it's like the look in your eyes when I'm buried up to my balls in your sweet little quim and making you scream. You're alive, Buffy! So alive that--" Spike wrenched the wheel around and the DeSoto slid across three lanes of traffic to swoosh down the exit ramp. The centrifical force sent Buffy careening into his side; her knee hit the tuning knob on the radio and Mick Jagger howled You make a dead man co-o-ome! Spike grinned and switched back to the alternative station. She looked up at the exit sign. "I--I didn't think you were really going to get off." "How the hell could I help it, love? Any lady of mine wants a waffle cone, she gets one." He craned his neck out the window, looking for the illuminated sign. "There we go." As they sat in the drive-through, waiting for change, she said, small-voiced, "That's why you love me, isn't it? You've always seen that dark part of me." A surge of anger rose in him, at her parents, at Angel, at everyone who'd convinced her that she was ordinary, and that ordinary was a good thing to be. In a way, she was as crippled as he was, her true nature as prisoned by her own fears as he was by the chip. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "Bloody hell, Buffy, of course I have. I don't go in for safe birds, any more than you go in for safe blokes. Always seen the part of you that rushes in nightly to save crews of brain-dead gits who'd better serve the world as vamp snacks, too, haven't I? All that's best of dark and bright meets in your aspect and your eyes." "Faith's nothing but a killer." There was challenge in her eyes now. "What if I don't want to be that way?" He shrugged. "You are a killer, love. Just like me. Who said you were nothing but?" She sat back against the ancient leather upholstery, frowning, the red-and white glow of the Dairy Queen sign limning her features against the umber shadows, and allowed him to gather her close again. Not happy, but neither panicking nor lashing out at the implications of what he was saying--that was a good sign, wasn't it? "Spike... do you remember... being dead?" He flicked ash out the window. Taking the gold in the non sequitur Olympics... "I've been devoting my Friday afternoons to my remembrance of being dead, pet. Barring tomorrow, when the company'll only make me wish I were deader." She squirmed slightly in the circle of his arm, taking his hand in hers and playing with his rings, turning them round on his fingers. He noticed with an odd little thrill that the necklace she was wearing was the ring he'd given her back when, under the influence of Willow's mis-cast spell, strung on a chain--it would have to be, it was far too large for her. "I mean really dead. After Drusilla drained you, but before you... woke up as you." He took a thoughtful drag on his cigarette and let the smoke trickle out slowly through his nose. "Dunno as I can answer that one, pet. Technically, I'm not even sure it was me who died--" Absolute terror, waking in the cramped dark confines of his coffin, gasping for breath he didn't yet realize he no longer needed. Screaming, begging, weeping for rescue that never came, until finally panic melded with an unfamiliar fury and drove him to tear his way through four inches of silk and mahogany and six feet of good English soil, to collapse bloody-handed and half-mad with fear in Drusilla's waiting arms... "Strike that, I'm sure it was me. But I remember the waking more than the sleeping. Maybe it's the bits of William I've lost that remember that part." "I can't remember either." He could hear the frown in her voice. "And I should, shouldn't I? Five months. I was dead for five months. I didn't just... go out like a light, did I? If you brought me back, there had to be a me to bring back, right? The spell didn't just... make up a copy or something? Or just bring back scraps and pieces?" That was an uncomfortable question. He and Willow had known that there'd be a chance, as with any resurrection spell, that what they brought back would be something other than a whole, complete Buffy Summers. At the time, he'd told Dawn and Willow that he'd dispose of any failures, but he'd have told Willow bloody near anything at that point, and Dawn... well, he'd never had to cross that bridge, thank whatever passed for God in Heaven these days. "You're Buffy Anne Summers in all her irritating glory, love. I'd know if you weren't. Trust me on that." The girl at the drive-through window handed him the cones, frozen yogurt swirl for her, chocolate for him. He handed Buffy's over to her and she took it, licking up the drips with sensual delight. There was still trouble in her voice. "But I'm not. I'm five months away from Buffy Anne Summers. I came back before, but that was just minutes. I keep thinking...it has to mean something, that I'm back again. Not in a prophecy way--I have to make it mean something. I always tried to do the right things, before, and I ended up--I was alone with everyone around me, and--I have to make it different this time. I know it. I feel it." She placed her palm on his chest, and for a second it felt almost as if his heart had jolted to life again. "I don't understand this, but you're part of it. You said it, last year--it's wrong, us being together. I tried all the right things, and... they weren't right. You're the wrongest thing I know, and... you fit." She looked up at him, light pooling like quicksilver in her eyes. My mistress's eyes are nothing like the sun... "She's taken... everything, at one time or another, and I can't lose you too. I won't. I guess the prospect of Faithness is putting me into Cave-Buffy, mark-my-territory mode. I'm sorry. Especially since I'm probably going to be a big scaredy cat about telling Angel about us--I'm going to try, but--" Spike tossed his cigarette out the window as they pulled back onto the highway; it bounced out of sight in the rear-view mirror in a shower of orange sparks. Heedless of traffic, he bent to kiss her, breathing in rose and violet and strawberry and oranges and sweet girl-musk, made richer yet by their recent play--and fainter, but there, the mingled odors of leather and tobacco and whiskey. A satisfied growl rose in his throat. They were all over each other; they'd crawled into each other's skins, drunk each other down as surely as if blood had been exchanged. As Angel would realize the minute he inhaled. "Nothing to apologize for, love. You can mark my territory any time."

Buffy burrowed deeper into the covers, hugging her pillow, the sensations of waking muddled up with the fading dream... memory? Arms tightening convulsively around her, strong enough for her to feel it, strong enough that the pressure of her own embrace elicited a growl of pleasure instead of a wince of pain. A stir of realization: I don't have to hold back. Cool moist velvet of his tongue against hers, deft nervous hands roving along her sides, her back, pulling her closer, never close enough. Scenting her desire, his growl going from contented purr to something savage, primal, dangerous. Deep in her belly a molten internal pulse ignited in response... She woke with a gasp. Morning sun slanted through her windows, drawing trails of light across the bedspread. She heard voices downstairs, smelled coffee brewing--or reconstituting, or whatever you called it when hot water hit Folger's Instant. Maybe someday she'd get up the nerve to experiment with the coffee maker again. Surely it couldn't be too hard to make it do the drippy thing instead of the running dry and catching fire thing. Coffee, coffee, coffee, think about--Spike. Buffy rolled over with a groan. She shouldn't be feeling all warm and tingly. Triple plus ungood. She flung the covers aside with a shiver that had nothing to do with the nippy fall air, pulled her robe off the bedpost and struggled into it. Shower. Cold shower. Very cold shower. That worked for guys, right? Into the bathroom. Brush teeth, stare blearily at un-made-up morning Buffy-face in mirror. Remember to take off robe before entering shower. She almost leaped right through the closed shower door when the icy spray hit her. Abandoning her pursuit of asceticism, she frantically twisted the hot water on. There, that was bearable. Cool, not cold, just like--okay, hot shower. Very hot shower. In the unforgiving light of morning the events of the previous night were surreal. One minute she was giving a really impressive speech on valuing honesty over kissy-face, and the next she was scarring Dawn permanently with Slayer Porno Theatre. Not that Dawn hadn't spied on her and Angel, or her and Riley for that matter, half a million times, the little perv. But they'd been boyfriends, and Spike was--Spike. And oh, God, Tara'd seen the whole thing. Both times. Tara probably doesn't even have baser urges. She's like a Platonic solid. Or something Greek, anyway. Please let them all have been eaten by Zagros demons before I come down... One advantage of waking up late was that Dawn had already left for school. Maybe if she was lucky everyone else would be gone, too. An hour later, having determined that showers of any temperature were not much good for anything besides the removal of dirt, and after pulling out everything in her closet at least twice in a futile hunt for something that didn't scream 'I'm having wet dreams about Spike,' Buffy trotted downstairs in jeans and a camel-colored cowl-necked sweater, hair wrapped up in a towel and stomach inhabited by a large flock of butterflies. Much to her chagrin, though it was almost ten, Willow and Tara were still in the kitchen. Didn't they have classes anymore? Her feet slowed, then stopped, and she stood wavering on tip-toe on the third stair from the bottom, hand on the railing and ears straining to catch Tara's low, concerned voice. "...another vampire? No matter how much help he's been lately, it's only been a year since he was trying to kill us. Hard to believe it's not some kind of--of vampire fetish." Willow didn't sound quite as dire. "Maybe--love the thing you kill, and all? That would be deeply psychological. But, benefit of the doubt--she told me she just likes him. And he's saved her life almost as many times as he's tried to kill her now, which, big plus. Besides, he is wicked cute." "If you say so." Tara sounded dubious. "I'm more worried about him being plain wicked. I know he's pretty much non-practicing evil at the moment--" A thoughtful pause. "Cute, really? He's always seemed a little funny-looking to me. His head's too big for the rest of him. And he's kind of scrawny." On the staircase, Buffy's eyes went green with outrage. Jeez, Tara, I thought you were gay, not blind. Just because Spike wasn't the poster boy for steroid abuse... And I do not have a thing for vampires. I'm dogged by vampires with a thing for me. Willow snickered. "Hey, 'compact yet muscular,' remember? Just ask Xander." She went on, almost regretfully, "I don't think we need to worry. Not like it isn't doomed anyway, with the ghost of Angel past still looming over her love life. It messed things up with Riley, it'll mess things up with Spike. I really feel sorry for the poor guy." Buffy's fingers tightened on the bannister; Willow couldn't have come up with a better one-two punch if she'd practiced for a week. Not going to break it. Can't afford the carpenter bills. She stomped on the last two steps as loudly as she could and walked into the kitchen. Willow and Tara were both sitting at the kitchen table, solemn as a pair of owls, all trace of speculation vanished. They looked up in unison as she came in. There was a platter of croissants on the table into which severe incursions had been made, which hinted that they'd been waiting for her for some time. She flashed them a jittery little smile. "Hey, guys." No reply. They'd been chatty enough when she wasn't there. With an uneasy glance at her housemates, Buffy went to the refrigerator. She dithered over cherry or blueberry yogurt for a minute before going for the cherry. She rescued her favorite coffee mug from the sink and rinsed it off before dumping a generous teaspoonful of instant coffee into it. She filled it with water and stuck it in the microwave. "Hola? Wilkommen? Bienvenue? Willow, how are you feeling?" Willow's face was shadowed for a moment and she seemed to shrink in on herself. "I kinda know how you felt during that Cruciamentum test." "Well, I'm sure you'll..." Buffy trailed off. "It's not permanent, right? You just wore yourself out blowing doors open?" Willow forced a smile. "Yeah. All better in no time. But enough about me." Buffy tried her best to look blank. She's been doing that so much lately, why couldn't she pull it up now when she needed it? She felt as if Spike had peeled off a couple of layers of skin with that kiss, leaving her painfully tender to the touch. The witches exchanged uncomfy looks. "Buffy," Tara said, "Last night--" Buffy dropped into a free chair and buried her face in her hands, peeking out at the two of them between her fingers. "Isn't it a little too early for last night?" She essayed another feeble smile. "Guess not. Silly me. First thing we need to do is like you said, Will, see if we can track down this Tanner guy--who he was, and how he's doing this, and where he is now. Second thing--" "We didn't mean that part of last night," Willow broke in. "More the last part. With the, you know..." Buffy sat back and folded her arms. "Spit-swapping? Block it from your minds. I have. Stress. It was stress over Willow. Also possibly a side effect of the inhalation of bourbon fumes." Tara went as red as Willow's hair. "Why you did it isn't any of our business," she said. Willow nodded vigorously in agreement. "We won't even think about thinking about asking." The microwave beeped. Buffy ignored it. "Glad you feel that way. Really not ready to dish at this precise moment." Lost use of personal pronouns. Very bad sign. Tara clasped her hands on the table in front of her and kept her eyes firmly fixed upon her left thumbnail. "We just needed-- we thought--Buffy, I know you've been, um, I-I said last year I'd be there if you ever needed to talk about anything, so if you do, I still am. And Willow too, of course! We--we just want you to be sure you know what you're getting into." The silence stretched from seconds into minutes, until broken by the scrape of Buffy's chair as she got up to get her now-lukewarm coffee. She sat back down and dunked a croissant in the mug. "Let's see." She bit the coffee-sodden end off the croissant and began ticking off points with the remaining pastry. "Spike is a soulless vampire restrained from killing people only by a piece of government hardware with an uncertain expiration date, and because he has the hots for me. If the chip fails, I may have to kill him. If the chip doesn't fail but he decides he doesn't love me after all, I may have to kill him." She turned a wide-eyed look on the other two. "That about cover it?" Willow and Tara did another synchronized squirm. "Um..." "It's just..." Willow gave Tara an agonized look. "Buffy. You know I like Spike as much as anyone--well, except you of course, since me? so not with the kissing--but someone's got to say it. How long did it take you to work up to killing Angelus? How many people died in the meantime?" Buffy flinched. Oh, dirty pool, Rosenberg... "It's different," she said. Her throat had gone dry. "I loved Angel." Tara looked skeptical. "And you don't love Spike." Buffy became deeply absorbed in unwinding the layers of her croissant. She shrugged. "No." Not yet. Maybe never. Maybe five minutes from now. We're running a pool; who wants three PM Friday? There were things Tara obviously wanted to say; Buffy could see them bubbling inside her, but Tara didn't say them. Didn't have to; a small self-critical voice in the back of her own head had them on repeating loop already. Spike only wants you because A) he wants to get back at Angel for stealing Dru, B) He's obsessed with Slayers, C) There's nothing better on telly, D) All of the above. You only want Spike because A) You've got some sick vampire fetish, B) You're an enormous slut, C) The famous Slayer death wish, D) All of the above. If by some outside chance he really does love you, you'll mess it up anyway, just like you messed up with every single other man you've ever loved. Lather, rinse, repeat. "Look guys, if I go off the rails and you shove me back on, I'll thank you later. But right now I'm not even on the train yet." She pulled the tab off the top of her yogurt and plopped a spoonful onto the last bite of croissant. "It's just one kiss." Willow made an apologetic grimace. "When in one day you go from all 'This can never be!' to wild passionate vampire kissage on the driveway... I worry, you know? And not just about you, about Spike too." She leaned forward, conspiratorial. "So, was he any good? I mean, from the moaning and slurpy noises I'm guessing yes, but--" Tara cleared her throat and Willow clapped a hand over her mouth, looking guilty. "Just asking." She mouthed 'Talk later!' behind Tara's back. Tara still didn't look happy. "If you don't have any feelings for Spike, should you be... encouraging him?" "I didn't say no feelings!" Buffy smacked her mug down on the table, sloshing coffee onto the newspaper. "There are feelings! Lots of feelings! With Spike there is nothing but feelings! Ow!" She grabbed a napkin and mopped hot coffee off her front. Now she'd have to change shirts. "I just don't know which feelings they are." She sighed. "Look--what I had with Angel... I can never do that again. I've tried, right? It doesn't work. I don't have that kind of love in me any more. Trust me, outside of the fact that they're both the same sex and species, Spike and Angel are as different as night and day, and I could never feel the same way about Spike." She stabbed her spoon into the heart of the yogurt. It was true. As far as it went. ***** Late Friday afternoon at the Magic Box. The DeSoto skidded to a stop in front of the shop, and Spike leaped out of the car, flung a blanket over his head, and dashed across the sunlit expanse of sidewalk. He yanked the door open so fast he almost twisted the handle off, and dove inside to the accompaniment of the shop bell. There was a perfectly good tunnel leading into the Magic Box's basement, but it meandered, and he'd been in a hurry. He had people--well, person--well, Buffy--to see, and damned if he was going to let a little sunshine take him out of his way, at least for the approximately thirty seconds a vampire his age could take it before starting to smoulder. Anya was behind the counter breaking out a few more rolls of quarters for the change drawer of the cash register, taking the opportunity to fondle the shiny coins while no one was paying attention. She looked up, took in the arrival of the sun-scorched vampire, murmured, "If you catch the greeting cards on fire, Spike, you're paying for them," and went back to her receipts. "Love you too, pet," Spike growled, pulling the slightly charred army blanket off his head. He slouched over to the back of the store, where Rupert Giles sat at the circular table in the book section, going through the pile of neat, color-coordinated folders filled with neat, indexed notes in front of him. He tossed the blanket under the table, and sat down opposite the Watcher. Neither spoke for a moment. At last Spike said, "You heard?" Giles took off his glasses. "It was on the radio this morning. I hardly consider myself a sentimentalist, but I confess I spent the whole morning listening to Rubber Soul." "Bloody waste." Spike produced a flask from the interior pocket of his duster, and unscrewed the top. "To George." He tossed back a swallow and handed it to Giles, who followed suit. "To George." "Who?" Anya asked. "Is this some English ritual I'm not aware of?" Vampire and Watcher turned twin gazes of laser death on her, and then Giles shook his head. "Never mind, Anya. I believe he was before your time. Well." He glanced at the two cassette tapes beside the pile of folders, and sighed. "I'd been hoping to go over the last few sessions and clarify a few points, but it appears that the last few sessions have yet to be transcribed." Spike made a mock-sorrowful noise. "Pity, that. Guess we'll be forced to do something interesting instead." "Which would naturally preclude your participation," Giles said with champagne dryness. Spike smirked at him and tucked his flask away again. Move it along, nothing to see here. Giles adjusted his glasses and gave the cassettes a severe look. "I must speak to Willow about this. If she's unable to make time for this project due to her schoolwork, I'll ask the Council to assign us a secretary." He slid a fresh cassette into the recorder, hit the play button, and said into the microphone, "Interview with the--I'm sorry, I can't say it--William the Bloody, a.k.a Spike, conducted by Rupert Giles on November 30, 2001. Session six." He clicked the pause button. "I don't suppose I can convince you to give your real surname this time?" Spike lazed back in the chair and folded his arms across his chest, obstinacy in every line of his body. "You suppose correctly. I told you when we started this, none of your Council's bloody business who my family was. I'll spill my guts about whatever you care to hear after 1880, but anything prior to my turning's off limits. Take it or leave it. And speaking of taking it, I'm not doing this out of the goodness of my heart." He held out a hand. "Where's my honorarium?" Giles sighed and pulled out his wallet, and counted out five twenties into the vampire's palm. "Mm. One can but try. Since one of the purposes of this study is to document the survival of aspects of the host personality in the post-turning vampire, it would be immensely helpful if we had some idea of what the human William the Bloody was like." Spike rolled his eyes. It had been a little galling to discover just how patchy, incomplete, and downright inaccurate the Council's dossier on him was--not that he hadn't started a lot of the contradictory stories himself in the early years of the twentieth century, when he'd been trying to establish a reputation for himself apart from Angelus and Darla, but weren't these Council chaps supposed to be vampire boffins? "All present and accounted for, minus the annoying consciency bits. If you're all that keen to find out, exercise your massive brain and--" "Actually, presuming you gave the correct date for your death, I can have the Council access Scotland Yard's records for persons discovered dead by violence on and immediately after that day," Giles said with a wintry smile at Spike's discomfited look. He began the recording again. "If I recall correctly, we left off in...?" Spike gave up. He never should have agreed to cooperate, but cash was cash, and it wasn't that often that he had a chance to acquire some in a completely legitimate fashion. The downside was that eventually Giles was going to pick up enough clues to discover his real name, and... well, what if he did? Not as if he'd been important enough in life to merit more than a two-line obituary tucked away in some obscure corner of the Times. William the not so Bloody, born 1852, died 1880, accomplished bugger all in between. Finally, some good came of being a complete non-entity. "New York. Dru and I were hunting the Battery that year, though we could have gone anywhere, done anything--you wouldn't sodding well believe the number of drifters there were about. We hadn't eaten so well since the influenza epidemic during the Great War--God's truth, we could kill two or three people a day for weeks and no one'd notice. It was like that everywhere. Whole bloody country on the move, hoping things'd be better in the next town over, and the locals more relieved than not when some hobo turned up stiff and minus a few pints, 'cause there's one less stranger to be knocking at their door looking for handouts and work that wasn't to be had. We had this cold-water flat in--" His mind started drifting almost immediately. There were few things that pleased Spike so much as the sound of his own voice, but today his attention was elsewhere, on the memory of warm hands and warm lips and grey-green eyes gone hazy with passion, and recollections of seventy-year-old kills couldn't compete. He hadn't expected her to...any of it. He had no romantic illusions about what it all meant--it was all heat and desire on her part, the painful prickling of a numb body and soul coming back to life. It would burn wild and bright and hot and then be gone, leaving him--one way or another--in ashes. So much more than he'd hoped for, so very, very much less than he wanted... but he'd take it. Oh, yes, he'd take it, because who knew when that flame would be snuffed out again? Better burned than left in the dark. He glanced at the clock on the shop wall again. Three-thirty-seven. Twenty-three minutes and fifteen seconds until Buffy walked in the door. He licked his lips and realized that Giles was staring at him strangely. He had absolutely no idea what he'd just said. Oh, well. He always had more fun with these interviews when Dawn was around to play suitably horrified audience, anyway; Giles lacked an appreciation for Grand Guignol. "So I killed 'em and I ate 'em, the end. Rupert, what are you doing about the Slayer's salary?" Giles turned off the cassette player. "Not that it's any of your business, but I am working on it." He took off his glasses and began to polish them. Spike jogged one foot against the nearest chair leg. "What's the holdup? Just put her on the bloody payroll." Giles shrugged, though the set of his shoulders gave more than a little hint that he was as annoyed about the situation as Spike was. "The Council's still considering the matter. There's no precedent for an adult Slayer living independently of her Watcher. Little enough precedent for an adult Slayer. Few last as long as Buffy has." "Yeh, takes a licking and..." Buffy. Licking. Rrrrowr . Giles was staring at him again. Twenty-one minutes and forty-two seconds. "Never mind. They're making her sweat because she had them by the short and curlies last year, aren't they?" "The thought has crossed my mind," Giles admitted. "I doubt we'd be seeing quite this much red tape and paperwork had Buffy been slightly, er, more tactful in her dealings with them. Once I return to England and can deal with the matter in person I expect things will clear up." He left unsaid the Or Ripper will have a talk with someone part, but Spike didn't need to hear it. Giles would have made one hell of a vampire. The Watcher gave the untranscribed cassettes an irritated glance. "Assuming this project ever ends and allows me to leave for England, of course." Spike shrugged. The thought of seeing London again was appealing--he hadn't been home for decades--but if Giles couldn't manage to live an interesting life in California, Spike doubted he'd have much better luck in Bath. And if he hadn't figured out that Willow was dawdling in order to keep him in the States as long as possible, Spike didn't feel obliged to enlighten him. "Cheer up, Rupes, I've only got so much life to narrate. Though if you'll keep paying me I'll be happy to start making things up." The bell on the front door jangled, and Xander bounced in, sporting an impressive collection of bandages on both hands. "Hey, guys," he said, leaning over the counter and kissing Anya on the top of her head. He came over and flopped down at the table. "Hey, G-Man. Where's the Buffster?" Spike smirked and waved a completely healed hand at him. Giles transferred the irritated glance from the cassettes to Xander. "She and Willow and Tara should be here shortly. And don't call me that." Seventeen minutes, thirty-one seconds. Spike fidgeted in his chair. Giles, having learned the hard way that quizzing Spike on anything when he was in the throes of one of his hyperactive fits was worse than useless, shoved the tape recorder to one side and began going through the folders again. Spike got up and started pacing, back and forth from the table to the ladder leading to the loft where the restricted grimoires were kept. He needed a cigarette. The alley out back was in shadow at this time of day, but if he left he might miss her arrival, and he didn't want to miss one more minute of Buffy if he could help it. Of course he wasn't certain how she was going to react. Since Dawn and Tara had been witness to their interrupted snogging session, she couldn't get cold feet and pretend the whole thing had never happened. Or could she? The Niblet didn't exactly count, and Tara was the Black Hole of Calcutta of discretion. She probably wouldn't breathe a word of the incident without Buffy's permission. Bloody hell. The doorbell jangled again and Buffy walked in (twelve minutes and fifty-two seconds early, thank God he hadn't gone for that cigarette!) followed by Willow and Tara, the former looking tired and the latter uncomfortable. Buffy was wearing that red halter top that made him want to bite through the straps. She'd done something to her hair, too, lightened it up a little, and it curled softly around her shoulders and the smooth creamy column of her neck. He grinned at her. Couldn't help it. She brushed right by him. Cut him cold, wouldn't meet his eyes. Buffy skirted the table and sat down between Giles and Xander, eyes still downcast, white teeth nibbling on her lower lip. Sod it all. She was going to back out on him; he could feel it in his bones--going to insist that the whole thing was an aberration and leave him to the cold comfort of Pearly Palm and her five sisters again. God knows what he'd been expecting; not hearts and flowers, surely, but some kind of acknowledgment. She was having second thoughts, and she expected him to wag his tail and slink back to his doghouse until called for. Well, bugger that. He'd tasted blood and he wasn't going to give up this easily. Willow and Tara took their seats, relegating him, as usual, to the background of the bookshelves. Willow flipped her laptop open and began to finger-dance across the keyboard. Spike hitched himself up on the railing of the stairs and glowered. Honesty, is it? Do as I say, not as I do, eh, Slayer? We'll see about that. ***** Safely ensconced behind a wall of Scoobies, Buffy kept her eyes attentively on Xander as he finished narrating his and Spike's adventures of the previous night. In her peripheral vision, Spike favored her with an insolent raising of one brow. He was mad. What right did he have to be mad? Not like she'd signed a pre-nup with him or anything. It was just one stupid (glorious, mind-melting) kiss. Xander finished his story and Tara and Willow launched into theirs. Don't look at Spike. Look at table, not at gorgeous pouting vampire. She folded her hands. "So--in short, we've got a crew of Glory's left-over crazies running around sucking brains right and left." "It's not just that," Xander said. "If this Tanner guy creates a new crazy every time he does this mind-suck thing for the whole crew, then when do the crazies reach critical mass? One person won't be enough, and he'll have to start grabbing two or three at a time. This could get out of control." Tara was doodling on a legal pad, making a little sketch of the ritual as Xander had described it, her fair brows dipping together. "It sounds like they were using a really weirded-out version of the spell Willow used to cure me--they're taking mental energy from one person and transferring it to another." She tapped the pen on one of the curlicues. "I wish you remembered more of the details." "Well, sor-ree," Xander grumbled. "Next time I'm being sacrificed I'll ask them to untie my hands so I can take notes." Willow produced another folder, this one full of printed web documents and photos, laid it in the center of the table and flipped it open. Buffy leaned forward and picked one of them up. It was definitely a younger version of the man she'd confronted in the cemetery, a graduation photo, maybe. He looked bright and hopeful. "Daniel Evelyn Tanner," Willow said. "Born May 22, 1956, right here in Sunnydale. Attended Sunnydale High, graduated near the top of his class, left for Yale in 1974. Nothing more about him until 1992, when he came back to Sunnydale to live a completely uneventful life. He's in the phone book and the voting records, but he seems to be retired. Until Glory captured him and turned him into one of her brain-dead minions. He was admitted to Sunnydale General Hospital on April 16, 2001 for observation for schizoid behavior, and disappeared with the rest of the crazies in May. And that's the last official word on Mr. Tanner--missing and presumed dead." Xander snorted. "But actually alive and confirmed nuts." Tara bit meditatively at her thumbnail. "I don't understand where the loa fits in. Most of the traditional practitioners in Southern California are into Santeria, not Voudoun." "Is it of the bad? This loa thing?" Xander asked. "Some kind of demon?" Giles looked up. "Not precisely. Loa or Lwa are Haitian ancestral spirits or gods, New World versions of the Orisha of Western Africa, which are primarily Yoruban or Dahomeyan in origin, and while there are some unsavory aspects--" "They're a mixed bag, good and bad wise," Tara finished. "Quite. Ritual possession plays a large role in their worship, so this was not necessarily an inimical move." "We'd have known if this Tanner was a practicing houngan," Anya said. "Every witch, wizard, and sorcerer in Sunnydale orders supplies through the Magic Box." "Right," Tara agreed. "I looked some stuff up today too. What he did last night wasn't a real Voudoun ritual--no drums, no offerings, no invocation, no nothing. Ghede normally wouldn't come if he was called like that--no self-respecting loa would. So either Daniel Tanner is an incredibly powerful wizard, strong enough to summon what amounts to a minor god without the proper ritual--or Ghede came because he wanted to. Because he had something important to tell us." She looked at Buffy. "What exactly did he say to you?" Buffy shrugged. "He gave me three questions--I asked what was wrong with Willow and how to fix her, mainly--and he gave me the kind of totally useless answers I usually get from random mythical creatures and then told me that I was asking the wrong questions anyway." Buffy began picking the eraser of the nearest pencil to shreds. "Since Willow's fine now, it was a pretty pointless encounter all around. If there were any shining beacons of answers in there, I'd be shouting them from the rooftops, promise." "You should try to remember exactly what he said," Tara persisted. "Ghede's advice sounds pointless or strange sometimes, but it's always accurate." Buffy stuck out her lower lip. "Right. For an advice-giving god, he was a complete pig." Tara shrugged. "It's a Trickster figure thing. He's dead. The dead are beyond punishment." "Don't I wish," Spike muttered. Tara continued, "They can do and say what the living don't dare. But the advice is good, and whatever he said could be vital, so if you can remember the exact wording--" "I'll try. But right now we have to figure out what to do about the brain-eating non-zombies. We can't just kill them. This isn't really their fault." "It's ours," Tara said. "It never even occurred to me to wonder what happened to all the others...and it should have." She was really upset, Buffy noted. Had she ever felt like that? Spike's soup kitchen jibe still bothered her. She took her duties as Slayer seriously, but had she ever really felt that kind of personal concern for the people she was protecting? She saved lives because it was the right thing to do, but she couldn't say she got much personal satisfaction out of it anymore, if she ever had. Was this how Spike felt, going through the motions of goodness because he couldn't do anything else? He was still there, still looking, pale eyes calling to hers. Do not look back-- Xander stirred uneasily, his hand grasping Anya's. "We were all pretty thrashed that night." "I know--but all the rest of the summer?" Tara shook her head. "They've been living like that for months, trying to take care of themselves--I know what it's like, being like that! I should have--we should have--" Guilty silence reigned for a moment, to be broken by Spike's impatient, "Should've. Didn't. Cry me a river. What do we do about it now?" Buffy shot him a daggery look. Did he have to rub her nose in the fact that he didn't give a flying flip? "We try to fix them. Will--what about the spell? Is the one they're using defective? You don't have to go out and turn someone into a drooling idiot every two weeks to keep Tara going." "I'm pretty sure this Tanner guy's using an inefficient version of the spell. Maybe he overheard me doing it and didn't catch all the words or something. My version's a permanent fix, but the energy's still gotta come from somewhere. Someone. I'm working on it." Willow's tone was a trifle defensive still; she hunched over the laptop, all her attention on the screen. "But like I said before, the original mental energy's gone, with Glory. Unless... maybe I could draw on some other kind of energy..." Her eyes went distant, then sparked with renewed enthusiasm. "Ooooh. That's a thought." She snatched Tara's pen and started scribbling, oblivious to Tara's sudden air of worry. Buffy sat back, relieved. "Coolness. The big gun fires again." Spike raised an eyebrow, slid off the bannister and sauntered over to the table, hands in pockets. "Forgetting something, aren't we? While Will plays Albert Schweitzer this Tanner bloke's out rounding up more brain food." "Not forgetting, Spike." She began tapping the mangled pencil on the table. "I just haven't decided what the best course of action is yet. We can't just take him out. He's human." "I dunno, Slayer, quite a few other things seem to have slipped your mind lately." The acid in his voice snapped her head up to meet his eyes at last. Buffy shoved her chair back, jumped to her feet and advanced on him. Spike stood his ground in that hipshot slouch that she thought of as his hunting pose. She glared up into his half-lidded eyes, three-inch heels ensuring that she met him only a few inches shy of nose to nose. She could beat him black and blue if she wanted to and he couldn't lift a finger to stop her; where the hell did he get off looking so intimidating? "I haven't forgotten anything." "Really... love?" That insolent drawl went straight to the beast in the back of her brain that was responsible for fighting and... other stuff, caught it by the scruff of the neck and made it hiss in rage. She hadn't given in to the urge to hit him for a long time, but she was itching to do so now; there were times when the only thing that could sum up the tangled mess of emotions he roused in her was a good swift punch in the nose. Everyone else was watching them with uneasy confusion. She bared her teeth in something an uninformed observer might have taken for a smile. "Excuse me," she said, piling on the sugar, "I need to talk with Spike in private." She grabbed his arm, feeling his muscles tense under her fingers, and dragged him behind the counter, out the back door of the shop, into the alley. Too familiar, the scraps of paper, the dirty concrete, the crunch of grit and broken glass beneath the soles of her feet, the faint nauseating smell of spoiled food from the dumpster behind the Espresso Pump down the block. Why did she end up having so many conversations with Spike in alleys? "What is with you?" Spike had straightened, weight shifted forward on his toes, watching her like a cat with a mouse. The faint bitter smirk on his lips was insufficient mask for the hurt in his eyes. "Gonna hit me, love?" he purred. "Just like old times? Been awhile, hasn't it? You go right ahead. Give it to me good. You know you want to." She didn't stop to think why the words were familiar, just lashed out in blind fury. Spike dodged, but she was just a hair faster than he was, and her fist clipped his jaw; she felt his teeth graze her knuckles. Spike fell back with that mad grin, licking his own blood from his lips, feral yellow flickering in his eyes. A useless, toothless threat; he couldn't bite--or yes, he could, just not with his fangs, bite deeper than she wanted to think about. Buffy stood there in the lee of the dumpster, fists clenched, chest heaving, on the verge of tears for no reason she could name. "What's wrong with you, Spike?" He shook himself, rolling his shoulders. "With me? Take a sodding guess." "This is what it's been all along, isn't it? You really do get off on me beating you up!" She was going to be sick, she was sure of it. And she was not, not, not going to hit him again, not going to give him what he wanted. Spike began circling her. "I get off on fighting you, you stupid bint. You and this lovely piece of silicon in my brain won't let me get off any other way. And you get off fighting me--don't deny it, I can smell you getting all hot and bothered. You like whaling on a bloke who can't hit back? You like it better than what we did last night?" His voice was a dead-serious snarl. "If I could hit back I dunno as I could choose one dance over the other either. But you're going to have to. I know you'll never love me. I'm going to love you till I'm dust, but I'm damned if I'm going to sit for this. I'll take the touch any way I can get it, but I get this much say--kiss me or kick me, but it's one or the other. You can't have both, not till I can have both too." With a sob she lunged at him. Spike ducked the blow, feinted left and dodged behind her. Buffy spun to follow him. "Make your mind up, Slayer." He blocked her incoming fist, dodged her kick and caught her by the heel, using her momentum to flip her over - all defensive moves, skating on the narrow edge of what the chip classified an attack. She twisted in mid-air, landing in a crouch, kicking out from it and knocking Spike's feet out from under him. He was rolling even as he hit the ground, and bounced to his feet breathing hard and fast, but far too shallowly for someone who really needed the oxygen. "What's it going to be, Slayer? This? Or the other?" Buffy squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath. She'd died--twice now, for crying out loud! Was her life going to be like this forever, slipping back into the same old patterns like falling into quicksand, jumping back on the same endless merry-go-round? God knew she she hadn't asked to come back, but she was here--did it have to be the same thing all over again? Couldn't she make it different this time, somehow? I don't love him. He can't love me, or-- No, she couldn't even think about that, couldn't pull up those three-year-old memories that still throbbed and ached at certain words, certain glances, like shrapnel healed into an old wound. I can't, because it would be wrong... The dead are beyond punishment. No, they weren't. Not hardly. But she was on her third life now. Her life, no one else's. Not Tara's, not Willow's, certainly not Angel's. Hers, to make of what she would--what she dared. Spike was still there when she opened her eyes; giving her a long, anything but expressionless stare. He was always going to be there, watching her back, irritating the hell out of her, making her life... a life. If she let him. Wrong was a world, a life, without Spike in it. "This, Spike. It's going to be this." She lunged for him again, and he didn't make a move to stop her. ***** Truth to tell, he'd expected another punch, and didn't have the heart to block it. But her hands were open, and her fingers warm on the back of his neck as she grasped him, pulled him down, and his hands were tangled in the tawny silk of her hair and her sweet vicious mouth was savaging his, lips tongue teeth devouring one another, she blood to him, he air and food and water to her. Their bodies spoke to one another, pressed up against the brickwork, old tensions giving way to new ones--now that they had this it was impossible not to want more. Soon. Now. How did this cris-cross thing go? In about ten seconds he would bite through the damn straps. Her hands left his shoulders and he growled in protest until he realized that they were tearing at his belt buckle and why in hell had he been such a git as to wear button-fly jeans today-- Grrrrrrrrrrrraaaaarrr. Buffy gasped into his chest, "Ah! Yeah! Do that!" Spike froze, fingers tightening on her shoulders. "Love..." He was having trouble getting enough breath to form the words. "That wasn't me." She turned in his arms, just in time to see the wall of cinnamon-gold fur rolling by. Bear. Big bear. Fucking enormous bear. The bear looked at the two of them and shook its massive head, rubbery black lips peeling away from a set of fangs that put Spike's to shame. The loading dock of the store across the alley was faintly visible through its sides. It rumbled at them again, then lurched into motion with a contemptuous grunt. A minute later it was gone. Spike collapsed back against the wall, shivering. Buffy stared at him. "Spike. Spike! You're hyperventilating! Stop breathing!" She looked up at him, perplexed. "I've seen you take on fire-breathing, spine-covered, acid-dripping Things five times your size with a song in your heart. What's the deal with Winnie the Pooh?" "I don't like bears, all right?" He straightened up and peered cautiously around the dumpster. There was no sign of the bear. "It's a bloody childhood trauma." Buffy bit her lip, trying to hide a smile. "You didn't have a childhood." Spike opened his mouth, decided that the argument about whether he was or wasn't William wasn't worth getting into at this point, and prowled round to the other side of the dumpster, checking for bear tracks. "Well, if it's not mine, I wish to hell that ponce William had taken it with him when he left. Just be glad it's not sodding bunnies." He took a deep breath. "I think that's killed the mood." Buffy wrinkled her nose, taking in their surroundings. "Just as well. I guess we should go back in." She stuck out her hand, as much a challenge as a peace offering. "Come on. If I'm going to do this, I'm going to do it all the way." Did that mean what he thought it meant? He must have let the astonished hope leaping up within him show in his face, for Buffy's eyes grew suspiciously bright. She took a deep breath of her own, and he could tell she was shakier than she was letting on. "I--I told you I'd never been ashamed to know you. So... I shouldn't be ashamed about... wanting to know you better." He took her hand, feeling it tremble in his until he gave it a squeeze. She pressed close to him for a moment, holding him with fierce strength while he buried his nose in the crook of her neck and breathed her in. He wasn't fool enough to think this meant smooth sailing ever after, but he was fool enough that, for this moment, he didn't care. She broke away reluctantly, General Buffy again, and hand in hand they went back into the shop to face the enemy. Buffy dropped his hand as the entered, walked to the center of the floor, put both hands on her hips and cocked her head at the others. "Small announcement," she said. "You know how we aren't sure how the loa fits in? Well, make more fitting room--there's now a Chumash bear spirit in the alley." She paused, forefinger pressed to her lips as if remembering something. "Also, I was gonna do the whole secret doomed star-crossed affair thing, but you know what? I've given this a lot of thought, and I just don't have the energy for one of those right now." Everyone except Willow and Tara looked at her in puzzlement. With an expression of grim determination, Buffy turned, marched back over to Spike, wrapped both arms around his neck, pulled his head down and picked up where they'd left off. Now this he hadn't expected. Spike broke into an amazed grin as her small warm body pressed against him and his arms went round her--reflex, almost; could you develop a reflex in less than twenty-four hours? Apparently so. Their mouths met with less urgency this time, both of them knowing now for certain that it wasn't the first-last-only, that they had all the time in the world to nip and taste and nibble and explore the really interesting effects you could get with a thirty-four degree difference in body temperature. "Willow!" Xander and Giles yelled in outraged unison. Tara looked distressed. Anya looked up, shrugged, and went back to counting receipts. "It's not my fault, it's not my fault!" Willow squeaked, hiding behind the screen of the laptop. "I didn't do anything this time! I promise!" Buffy pulled back for air, cheeks pink, eyes bright, her heart going at trip-hammer speed; the sound was music. She glared defiantly around the room. "In order: No spell. In my right mind. If he misbehaves, I dust him." Her eyes came home to his, And that would kill me writ so plain in her gaze that his heart wrenched within him in startled pain; did she know what her eyes were saying? "Anything else is nobody's business but ours. Deal. Now that that's out of the way, bear-analyzing time." Spike looked down at her, a smile lurking about the corners of his mouth. "My, Slayer, you certainly do know how to romance a fellow." "Wait, wait, wait, you can't just say 'Deal' and leave it at that!" Xander objected. "Is there straddling involved here? Because I absolutely draw the line at straddling." He'd expected this from Harris. He really had. They'd gotten to tolerate each other over the summer, but Harris could never quite get over the vampire thing, and after Buffy's return Spike had been the recipient of all the frustrated anger he couldn't take out on Willow. One night of chasing through a park wasn't going to bridge that gap. So why was he surprised at how much it stung? "Ah, here it comes." Spike slipped a proprietary arm around Buffy's waist and went for the counter-attack. "Is that a bit of the green-eyed monster I hear? The vampire's good enough to cheat at pool with, but I don't want him shagging my Slayer?" Under other circumstances the shade of purple Xander was turning would have been exceptionally entertaining. "Damn straight! How are we supposed to handle this? Do we say 'Hi, Buffy, congratulations on your new demon lover, and by the way, have you seen a psychiatrist lately?' Or do we do the awkward pretending not to notice what's going on, and try to lure her to the psychiatrist with a trail of jelly doughnuts?" Xander rounded on Giles, who was polishing his glasses so violently it was a wonder he hadn't worn through the lenses. "Giles! Tell her she can't do this!" The Watcher's face might have been carved from granite. "At what point in this conversation has Buffy been replaced by someone who takes my orders?" He put the glasses back on, studying the two of them. "Buffy--I made it my policy to keep out of your personal life when you were a girl, as long as it didn't interfere with your calling. I see no reason to change that policy now. I won't deny that I find this... most inadvisable. I fear it will end in tragedy--again. But if this is your choice--" "It is." The two words held every ounce of Summers determination in her, and they were the sweetest things Spike could remember hearing in over a century. "Then I accept it. As for you--" He looked Spike up and down. "For better or worse, you are not the vampire Angel was. See to it that you remain so. You know to exactly what lengths I'm willing to go to protect her." Spike nodded slowly. He wasn't positive, but he thought the odds were better than even that he'd just been given a compliment as well as a warning. "Wouldn't expect any less." Buffy strode over to the table, tugging him along in her wake. "Now. Are we going to discuss demony stuff or argue about my love life?" Willow waved one hand apologetically. "Um, Buff, your love life is demony stuff." Buffy considered for a moment, then slipped her arm around Spike in turn and smiled up at him impishly. "So it is. End of argument."

"It can't be that bad," Xander said. He leaned back against the wall and folded his hands behind his head. "By definition. So the Balance tips too far towards the good. Oh, the horror, not." Spike exhaled a plume of smoke with a look that said 'If I were Kzinti, my name would be Speaker-to-Idiots.' "How far are we from the Hellmouth? Two miles?" Xander called the grid of Sunnydale's major streets to mind and did a quick triangulation. They'd gone underground at the manhole at the intersection west of the apartment complex, and the burnt-out wreck of Sunnydale High was... "Closer to a mile and a half." An unpleasant thought struck him. "Or we were before we got stuck in this...whatever it is. I have no idea where we are now." "Right." Spike rubbed the side of his nose, as if it itched. "As it happens, yours truly cracked a few books on Hellmouths back when I was making plans to bring Drusilla here to take the waters." Despite Willow's insistence that Spike was a closet geek, the idea of him cracking books any more demanding than 'Lust Kittens of Venus' was something Xander had trouble taking seriously. "I feel expository dialogue coming on. 'And as you know, Xander--'" Spike glared. "Mystical portal leading to a hell dimension, blah blah, take as given. Point is, the Hellmouth's aura affects the whole town, and especially these tunnels. Things happen here, usually bad. The Hellmouth sends out emanations of chaos and nastiness, attracts the attention of discerning evildoers everywhere--" he bowed with an ironic flourish. "--and hawks up the occasional Ascended demon to bugger up the lives of the common throng." He wheeled about, craning his neck down one of the passages. "D'you hear that?" Xander resisted the urge to peer after him. If there wasn't anything there, it was pointless; if there was something there and Spike was just now catching it, it was just as pointless, since Spike's hearing was ten times better than his. "All I hear is the sound of one vamp yapping. This is Hellmouth 101. So?" "So. Doesn't happen too often that the Balance swings too far in the opposite direction in the vicinity of a Hellmouth, but I ran across one or two mentions--think it was in Ruprecht's Alternus Mundi--or was it..." Spike contemplated the arabesques of cigarette smoke coiling upwards in front of his nose and frowned. "Ah, bugger it, I can't remember. Had a blue cover, whatever it was. What it comes down to is this: under the right conditions, a Hellmouth can do a flip." The vampire picked up his axe and gestured round at the tiled walls--one, two, three, four. The rust and mold stains were almost gone now, and the shattered remnants of Spike's earlier temper tantrum had vanished. The formerly broken section of tile was as pristine as the rest of the wall. "This look like chaos and nastiness to you? Perfect symmetry. Everything getting cleaner and newer and better." Xander's attempt at keeping a straight face lasted about five seconds. He broke into a snicker. "Oh, come on," he chortled. "You mean we're now living on a... a Heavenmouth?" He clasped his hands and rolled his eyes skywards. "Which will spread sweetness and light and, what, hawk up the occasional televangelist? Even if you're right, what are we supposed to be scared of? Random acts of kindness and non-violence? Do they bring on the comfy chairs?" "Harris, will you remove your tiny withered brain from its protective wrapping and use it for a change?" Spike didn't sound as if he were joking. He was scratching at one ear, twitchy and uncomfortable, as if the air around them were becoming something inimical. "Forget the harps and halos, this is real life. Who's the closest representative of the forces of goodness and virtue you know?" "Buffy, I guess, but--oh." The forces of goodness and virtue around these parts were not exactly reluctant to kick ass. "Point taken. But we're good guys. Why would they hurt us? Well, I'm a good guy. I guess you're toast. Wish I could say it was nice knowing you, but--" Spike began a restless quartering of the intersection, hands locked behind his back. "The Slayer's small change, cosmically speaking--yeh, Buffy took on a hellgod and won, but that's Buffy. There's things out there that could eat Glory for lunch, things that could send me up in flames with a look." He met Xander's budding objection with a snort. "And don't get too comfortable yourself, bricklayer. Remember the Judge?" "Otherwise known as Xander Harris's finest hour?" Or maybe second finest; the wrecking ball had been pretty good, too. "Surely you jest." Spike's eyes went misty with nostalgia and a wicked grin split his lean face. "If there's one regret in my life it's that I couldn't be there to see Angelus's face when that bazooka went off." "Oh, God, it was priceless. I wish I'd had a camera..." Xander realized that he was matching Spike grin for grin and forced a frown. Spike's grew a trifle more wicked. "Keep in mind that at the height of my career as a master vampire, in the midst of a plot to destroy the world no less, I wasn't evil enough to pass the big blue bastard's muster." Spike blew a smoke ring and cocked an eyebrow at him. "Granted I lost points for taking the destroy-the-world part as a lark that'd never come off, but still. D'you think you're pure enough in heart to shake hands with his opposite number?" "I..." Xander swallowed. Every rotten thing he'd said and done in the last few years leaped up and started clamoring for attention in the forefront of his mind. Hyena-Xander, shoving Buffy against the wall. Self-centered teenage asshole Xander, blowing off Willow's crush on him. Not telling Buffy about the re-souling spell. Cheating on Cordelia. A hundred exasperated public putdowns of Anya... "...think panic is in order now." "Wise decision. Take it from someone who's fought 'em, the forces of good are vicious sons of bitches." Spike shouldered his axe and started off down the corridor--no reason, Xander knew; just to be moving, just to be doing something. Xander watched the vampire's black-clad back diminishing in the distance for a minute, then grabbed the tranquilizer gun and broke into a jog to catch up. Better to follow Spike and pretend they were going somewhere than to sit around in the intersection and pretend it wasn't freaky when Spike reappeared out of the opposite tunnel in five or ten minutes. If they ran fast enough, would they see the backs of their own heads? The tunnel transformed subtly around them as they walked. Xander could never pin down a change in the process of occurring; he'd look away and look back, and something would be different. The cables were taking on an almost cartoonish regularity in their loops and coils, as each tile became a perfect glossy square of pearly white, the light panels in the ceiling distinguishable only by their greater luminance. The light grew softer, clearer, paler, and they walked in enveloping radiance. Xander found his grip on the stock of the trank gun relaxing, even as he listened for something beyond the distant tap-tap-tap of falling water and the sound of their own footsteps. For all the eeriness of the tunnels, there was a certain comfort in always knowing exactly what the next bend in the road would bring. Spike didn't share it; he had stopped breathing and was gliding along in full hunting mode, his scuffed Docs making no sound at all on the floor. Xander studied the sweep of black leather in front of him. Whoever Spike had originally stolen that duster from had been several sizes larger than Spike was; the vampire swam in the thing, but as the coat slapped against him, you could still make out the lines of his torso, tapering sharply from breadth of shoulders to narrow hips. Made a good target. Xander reached into his other coat pocket, the one that held the stake he was seldom without, and turned the length of sharpened oak over and over in his hand. The point would go right there, in the angle between the spine and the left shoulder blade, right between the ribs and into the heart. Buffy could drive a stake effortlessly through bone and muscle from any angle. Xander, merely human, had to worry about stakes getting stuck between the ribs or glancing off a shoulder blade. He imagined the length of hardwood punching through matte-black leather and the thin layer of black cotton beneath, through ivory skin and into innards just as wet and red and fragile as any living human's, until the stake-point penetrated the heart and all dissolved into dust. He used to do this all the time--with Angel, and later with Spike--imagine what he'd do if either of them ever gave him the excuse. He wondered why he'd stopped. He'd gotten out of the habit, over the summer, led astray by shared patrols and games of pool and arguments over exactly which Plastic Ono Band album sucked the most. He'd lulled himself into--not forgetting, but worse, ignoring, the all-important fact that at the end of the day, Spike was still pretty much a vampire. The whole resurrection thing had jarred him back to reality, and now... Now he was just slipping back into casual acceptance of this... this thing in front of him? Phone ringing as Anya welcomed the first batch of guests. Spike's North London drawl on the other end of the line "Harris. Got a line on a Krallock demon. Feel like killing something? I'll let you use the big gun." As much an overture, in its way, as him showing up at the crypt with spicy chicken wings. And he'd accepted it. Fuck. And here he was, following along behind pretty-much-a-vampire with no real intention to plunge that stake in where reason and logic said it should have gone years ago. Double fuck. What was the matter with him? Hanging out with Spike was wrong. "If you keep playing with it, you'll go blind." Spike turned on his heel, swift, silent death with ears that could the heart thudding away in his chest, or the scrape of callused fingers against wood. "The suspense is killing me faster than you are." Xander stopped in the middle of the tunnel, feet braced, holding the gun with the vestige of the professional ease his stint as Soldier Guy had left him. Step back, dart into the chamber, aim, cock, pull trigger...it would be easy. You know one of these babies will take a vampire down. And then the stake . Spike stood there looking at him, dark brows angled in exasperation, not even slightly worried. Trusting him. How twisted was that? "You know something, Spike? Your little fling with Buffy has nothing to do with the reason I hate your guts." Spike sighed, eyes imploring the heavens for patience. "Do tell." It didn't. Not the way Spike thought. His crush on Buffy was a thing of the past. All right, he had occasional lusty thoughts. What guy wouldn't? Maybe if the two of them weren't so damned obvious about it. Maybe if they didn't touch so often. Maybe if he didn't have the image of Buffy standing in his foyer with her tongue halfway down Spike's throat burned onto the back of his eyelids... Maybe if Buffy can love an out-and-out demon and I can't handle an ex-demon there's something wrong with me, not her. Slam that thought back in lockup where it belonged. "It's real simple. Half a dozen kids I grew up with, ate lunch with, and got beat up by ended up as snack food for you or Dru or one of your minions. And a few of 'em came back for a return engagement on the business end of Buffy's stake. Never hesitated a minute." Four-year-old memories came flooding back--how had he forgotten all this? How had all of them come to tolerate Spike's company? How could two years' worth of grudging, chip-goaded help possibly make up for a century plus of cheerful murder? "What the hell makes you so special?" Spike's face remained impassive, and Xander took a belligerent step forward. "How come you're walking around and not Jesse or Andy Runyon or Terry Lane?" Spike studied him for a long minute. "Because life's got steel-toed boots and delights in applying them to the family jewels, Harris. You haven't figured that one out by now?" "You gonna claim you're sorry they're dead?" "No." Spike cocked his head to one side, what looked like real regret time-sharing with wary curiosity in his eyes. "But sometimes I wish I could be." He scratched absently at his jaw. "Then I come to my senses. Is there a point to this conversation besides the one you're fondling?" There was a point, all right--if he admitted for a second the possibility of not-enemyhood with Spike, he was betraying real friends. And if that was bad when he did it, how much worse was it when Buffy, the Slayer herself, slept with the enemy? Everything seemed so clear down here, in the pearly glow of the tunnel. Spike was evil. Evil through and through. There were no shadows here, no greys, just pure, white, comforting light which showed him that Spike was... Red in the face? Now that was wrong. "Uh... Spike... Are you supposed to sunburn indoors?" Spike touched a startled hand to his cheek and drew it away with a hiss; the pale marks of his fingertips lingered on his skin for a few seconds before fading back to unnatural ruddiness. "Balls! Sunlight!" He glanced up and around; there was no shelter to speak of in the slowly brightening tunnels. "Enough dicking around. We've got to get out of here." Xander shook his head again, hard, trying to shake the fuzz out. His thoughts were all his own, but down here some thoughts were more equal than others--ways to dispose of Spike sprang easily to mind. Cooperating with an evil soulless vampire to get out, on the other hand--he couldn't wrap his brain around the idea; he was blundering through a spiritual algebra class, all his thoughts blunted and sluggish. But he was used to that, wasn't he? Used to being the last one to get it, and getting it anyway, in his own good time. And no fuzzy-wuzzy feel-good tunnel of love was going to mess with his head and get away with it, any more than some cut-rate Prince of Darkness was going to make him play Renfield again. I'll hate Spike on my own dime, damn it, I don't need any help from you. "Yeah. We do." He forced the words out with a sense of triumph. We. Take that, fuzzy goodness! "How?" Spike flicked his cigarette butt down the corridor, hefted his axe and grinned, squinting against the too-clear light. "If you can't find a way out, you bloody well make one." The skin across his cheeks and the backs of his hands was starting to prickle and burn, just as it had walking under cloudy daylight skies. Should have been impossible; a vampire's little sunlight allergy was metaphysical, not physical--no man-made light, no matter how closely it duplicated full-spectrum sunlight, should have been able to do the trick. Obviously the lights in this tunnel were no longer exactly as men had made them. Close enough, though. Was he starting to smoke slightly, or was that just the remains of his cigarette? Time for some preventive maintenance. Spike flipped the axe end over end, caught it and jabbed upwards, ducking aside as the haft smashed through the nearest light panel and shattered the bulb inside into a thousand razor-edged snowflakes. He repeated the process with the light panels on either side. "Much better," he breathed as the final shower of glass heralded the return of relative darkness along a twenty-foot segment of the tunnel. Spontaneous combustion forestalled for the time being, Spike shook glittering fragments of glass off his shoulders and reversed the axe again, swinging it through a limbering arc. There was something out there in this infinitely reflected latticework of tunnels, pacing them, spying on them; he could sense it, just on the edge of his perceptions, a magnetic repulsion. His opposite number, more or less, probably gritting its teeth, if it had any, over his presence at this moment. And who better to open the door than the blokes who built the castle? "We're probably going to have company soon," he said. "Don't imagine the proprietors will look kindly on me making a mess." Xander looked up and down the tunnel. "I thought we were avoiding the forces of goodness and virtue?" "Changed my mind. Who better to let us out than the blokes who built the place?" Spike ran his index finger down the axe-blade's notched edge, licked it, savoring the pain and the taste of his own blood with connoisseur's appreciation. The prospect of action was cheering. "Not likely we'll attract anything much nicer than I am nasty, this early in the game. But if we do, you'll just have to put in a good word." His grin went sharp-fanged and feral, eyes shining lambent yellow under ridged brows; William the Bloody, not even trying to be good, not the least little bit. The axe-blade whistled through the air and sank into the nearest bundle of wall-cable with a THOK!, half-severing the whole mass. Another fountain of sparks exploded outwards, and the tunnel filled with the stink of ozone as individual strands of cable sprang apart, red and blue and green, hissing and crackling like an angry hydra. He jumped back, feeling something in his shirt-pocket thump against his chest. The lights flickered and dimmed for fifty feet in either direction. "YEAH!" Spike howled, and hauled back for another strike, lion-gold eyes burning in the manufactured darkness. The axe-blade flashed again and electrical mayhem ensued. More light panels died. "Burn me up sight unseen, will you? CREATURE OF SODDING DARKNESS HERE! YOU WANT ME? COME GET ME!" "These are the torch-you-with-a-look guys? Is this really a good idea?" Xander backed nervously down the tunnel. "One of my plans, and you have to ask?" The third blow bypassed the cables and smashed into the tile, which exploded into mother-of-pearl powder under the force of it. The fourth sent chunks of plaster and concrete flying like shrapnel. Somewhere Xander was yelling at him to watch it, but Spike was lost in the moment, face a snarling demonic mask of fury, caught up in the orgasmic rush of destruction. Nothing in the world existed but to break and tear and ravage, to ruin the dull perfection of this place--and the only thing missing was best part of all, the sour tang of fear and the screams of the dying. Harris's racing heart was a siren song, calling up lush, sensual images of the blade tearing through bone and muscle like a knife through Camembert, of fangs in flesh and sweet hot blood flowing and the bastard had never liked him, fine to use old Spike for muscle but God forbid you let him touch the women and all he'd have to do was lose that last sliver of self-control and-- --and the chip, thank God and That Fucking Bitch Walsh, would knock him flat on his arse. There was a perverse freedom in knowing he could let his worst self rage and foam and not have to worry about the consequences. Spike put his back into it and swung again, and the whole wall shuddered and cracked, plaster and cement falling away in huge flaking slabs and choking the tunnel with dust. The axe-blade was starting to blunt and deform under the force of his blows, but Spike was past noticing; the hole in the wall was deep enough to stick an arm in up to the elbow. CEASE. It came from everywhere and nowhere, a voice like the tolling of bells, like a chord struck on an organ whose pipes were the winds themselves. Spike froze mid-swing at the sound, hated it from the first note and longed for it never to fall silent, yearning so mixed with loathing it made him physically ill, tied knots in his gut and pulled them tighter with every note. Radiance flooded the tunnel again and he threw a hand up to guard his eyes, snarling, fighting to regain ascendancy over himself. It was a whirlwind of eyes, a rush of wings, a clash of blades, a shining in the air. It slid away from any attempt to pin it down with words; it was beautiful beyond thought, and Spike balled up his desolation and fear and longing and stuffed it down into the sub-basements of his mind. He turned to face the approaching creature with all his customary bravado, leaning on the handle of his beat-up axe and smirking into the face of heaven. It spread vast pinions, every covert a glittering razor, every primary a saber of light. CREATURE OF DARKNESS, YOU HAVE NO PLACE HERE. "That's ducky by me," said Spike. "Why don't you let us out, then?" "Spiiiike," Xander said, jabbing him in the ribs with an elbow. He gave the thing a sickly grin. "Don't pay any attention to my idiot friend here, he's got Tourette's. It compels him to stupidly insult supernatural creatures way bigger than he is. If you'll show us the way out I promise to take him home and put him to bed with a nice bottle of whiskey and--" Aside, to Spike, he hissed, "What is that thing?" "Harrier demon," Spike whispered back, taking the opportunity to feel around under cover of the duster. What the hell did he have in his pocketses? String, or... his fingers met glass and metal. Bloody sodding hell, not nothing, his glasses. After Buffy'd left the crypt this afternoon he'd put them on to read the footy scores and gnash his teeth over the match report of Man U's humiliating loss to West Ham. He must have tucked them into his pocket after, while constructing an elaborate and impractical scheme to stow away on a cargo plane to England and eat Jerome Defoe. The second time he'd done that lately, and he couldn't afford to be that careless with them; it wasn't as if he could pop over to the nearest Lenscrafters and get a new prescription. Xander was staring at him curiously; Spike stuffed the spectacles back down in his pocket and affected indifference. "Heard of 'em. Never seen one before." "If it's a demon, what's with the 'creature of darkness' line?" "It's a good demon, nitwit." And unfortunately well into the incinerate-vampires-with-a-look range. He hadn't expected anything this powerful. "Working directly for the Powers--they don't often mingle with the riff-raff." "There's good demons?" Spike gave the Harrier a long-suffering, 'see what I have to put up with?' look. "Now about letting us off this roundabout--" Unimpressed, it shimmered in the air before them like a heat-mirage in summer, a roiling mist of light and air and terrible swift swords. Its attention fixed upon Xander for a moment, examining, evaluating, and discarding in seconds. YOU ARE FOUND WANTING. YOUR SINS ARE MANY. It paused. BUT INSIGNIFICANT. Its Argus-eyed regard turned upon Spike. I AM CHARGED WITH THE ELIMINATION OF SUCH AS YOU. And blades lashed out like lightning in all directions, searing brilliant tongues of flame. ***** "...the property was entailed, of course, and went to the cousin in Leicester, but the will settled five hundred pounds apiece on each of Letitia's children..." "Uh huh." Buffy squinched her eyes at the ceiling a few times, hoping to avert their incipient glazing-over a few seconds longer. She took another swallow of kiwi-strawberry, which, as an alternative to listening to Halfrek, was becoming downright palatable. In order to explain how she'd come to be William's (snarl) intimate friend, Halfrek felt it necessary to explain in detail the history of their respective families for three generations back. No matter how juicy, gossip lost its piquancy when it was a hundred and fifty years out of date, and this gossip had been on the desiccated side to begin with--so far Spike's--William's--family came off as the sort of people who showed up as background characters in a duller-than-average A&E miniseries. "...so when the family removed to Hampshire, William's father married the youngest Cavendish girl, and..." Another generation down. Maybe they'd get William conceived before the party was over. Buffy began assembling a cast list in her head for Middlemarch II: The Revenge of Dorothea. Spike in a cravat. Mmm. Not bad. She added black leather boots, a riding crop, and those skin-tight riding breeches to her mental image and mussed up its hair a little. Mmmmmm... very bad. On the other side of the coffee table, Anya shucked the wrapping from another combination waffle iron/grill and added it to the varicolored paper mountain at her feet. There were two identical gifts in the pile of opened presents already, and Buffy felt a faint sense of satisfaction that at least her present hadn't been a re-run. "This is lovely, though redundant," Anya said, examining Waffle Iron #3. For Anya, that was the height of tact. "It does Belgian," Lorri pointed out. Anya's eyes grew damp and her lower lip trembled. "Xander loves Belgian waffles." Trembly Anya + pissed off Xander = another argument. Buffy tossed her hair out of her eyes. Maybe she should try to talk to him... Advice to the lovelorn from Buffy Summers, number one on the doomed relationship hit parade for five years running! Run, Xander, run! "...hate My Little Pony," Sandra said to Tara, who was hanging over the back of the couch next to Willow. "Horse craziness is all about girls coming to terms with sex and masculine power, for that you need a horse. Take the Black Stallion novels--" "See, this is why I was destined for the lesbian thing," Willow said. "Horses are just four hooves waiting to step on your foot." Tara pouted. "I loved those books! And 'King of the Wind!'" Sandra nodded and gestured violently with a carrot stick. "The whole point is that the Black's a half-wild killer, but he loves Alex and will do anything for him. Our daughter eats that up. The toy companies of America take this primal symbol of power and virility and neuter it, make it into these harmless little pastel eunuchs with fluffy tails..." "...so when the season opened I came up to London and was most displeased to discover William had let a room in..." Drat. Missed William's conception altogether. "Buffy, when can we fit you for your bridesmaid's dress?" Lorri cut across the several lines of conversation. It was astonishing how much a wine cooler or two did to reconcile one to asparagus green. Though the thought of those ruffles still elicited a shudder of horror. Buffy selected a Triscuit and topped it with a slice of cheddar. "Um... I'm probably free Tuesday or Wednesday. Monday we have that, um, thing." "Ah, yes. The thing. Wednesday is good," Anya said. She surveyed Buffy with an appraising eye. "It's a good thing I didn't ask right after you came back. You're gaining weight and the dress wouldn't have fit by January." Buffy choked on her cracker. "Thank you, because I so needed to hear that." Anya patted her shoulder with a kindly smile. "Oh, don't worry, you're still way too skinny." Sandra paused in railing against the evils of small pink plastic horses to the prepubescent feminine psyche to eye Buffy's reed-slim body and raise a skeptical eyebrow. "Please, God, can I gain weight like that?" Leaning back against the sofa cushions and listening to the voices swirl around her, Buffy could see with Slayer-vision clarity--perhaps it was the kiwi-strawberry going to her head--a future where this was her life, where there was no mysterious thing on Monday to interfere with dress fittings, where her conversations would revolve around diets and children and office gossip and subverting the paradigm of corporate America. And it wouldn't be perfect and it wouldn't be safe, because husbands had industrial accidents and mothers died of brain hemorrhages and sisters got caught shoplifting. Side by side with the two-point-five-kids-and-white-picket-fence future was another: darker, stranger, wilder. Herself at thirty, or forty, or fifty, a thin tough woman with stormy eyes and hard hands, going places and doing things which defied description, with a lean pale man at her side who looked far too young for her. No kids, unless Dawn provided some nieces and nephews for her and Spike to spoil rotten. No marriage, unless heart given for heart counted for as much or more than legal formality. No easy answers as she grew older and he didn't. And the only thing that picket fence would be used for was making stakes. Door Number One, Door Number Two. Or you can go for the box behind the curtain... The building shuddered. Little shrieks and yips of surprise broke out around the room; pictures rattled on the wall and dishes clinked and jittered on the tables. In the contents of every half-full glass and bottle concentric waves shivered in and out of existence and a few of the women dashed for doorways in the native Californian's instinctive search for load-bearing masonry. Outside a grinding rumble culminated in a cannon-loud crack of noise--had one of the other buildings collapsed? Buffy was halfway to the front door before her brain caught up with her reflexes and pointed out that the noise was far out of proportion to anything such a mild tremor should have caused. As she threw open the door, the parking lot exploded in a blaze of white light, bright as midday, shining from a raw crater thirty feet across in the middle of the landscaping between Xander's building and the next. The turf was thrown back as if exploded from below and a whole segment of the adjoining sidewalk and parking lot was a crumpled bank of asphalt and concrete; the carport over the residents' parking spaces was peeled back upon itself like the lid of a sardine tin, its supporting posts poking crazily into the floodlit sky. Several cars had tipped over, wheels spinning helplessly like the feet of glittering upended beetles. And rising out of the crater... "What is--?" Willow was right behind her. "Oh my--Buffy, is that a demon?" Buffy licked her suddenly-dry lips, staring down at the incandescent creature below. "I don't know." Small dark figures swam across the bright background. "But whatever it is, there's people--" Anya shouldered her way through the door, shoving Willow and Buffy aside. She stood on the landing with fingers pressed to lips. "Xander!" "Anya! Wait!" Buffy cried, grabbing for her arm, but Anya was gone, racing down the steps and out into the parking lot. Buffy sprang after her, shouting "Come on, Will!" over her shoulder and taking the clattering stairs three at a time. ***** A wing of light arced across Spike's midriff, shearing through cloth and leather and flesh, the sword-blades of its primaries stained with dark blood when they swept away. The vampire dropped to a crouch, flinging the tails of his duster up and over his head as his flesh began to scorch in the intensity of the blaze. Xander charged forwards with a yell, whirling the trank gun overhead, straight into the face--well, the front, at least--of their opponent. It hadn't expected that, and instead of parrying reared up and back, trying to avoid hurting him. Whirlwind supernatural energies met earth and stone, colliding with the low ceiling, and the tunnel rocked with the basso rumble of earth tearing apart. Tiles fell in a blinding ceramic rain and half the roof vaporized. Screams and the blaring of half a dozen car alarms floated down through the hole in the sky. If the falling ceiling didn't bury him, he was going to choke to death. Xander stumbled blindly for a minute, totally lost. A sunburnt face loomed out of the dust and Spike's cold hard fingers circled his wrist, yanking him forward through the falling rubble. "Listen whelp, if I give you a toss up, can you catch hold up there?" Xander shoved lank dark locks of hair out of his eyes and looked up; tattered indigo sky framed in fractal black had replaced gently glowing tile. "I have no idea." The air crackled as the Harrier surged towards them. "Find out, now!" Spike immediately shifted his grip to Xander's belt and coat-collar. Xander had the stomach-churning sensation of being lifted off the ground like a kitten. With a grunt of effort Spike heaved him overhead and tossed him into the air, and Xander was sailing over the Harrier demon's head, or top, or whatever, seeing his spread-eagled, flailing self reflected in dozens of astonished crystalline eyes. He slammed face-first into the sloping rim of the crater, sliding downwards in a small landslide of earth and gravel and catching himself with a few desperate frog-kicks at the rubble. He clawed his way over the rim and turned around in time to see Spike take a running leap straight at the Harrier. It might look like someone had blown the CGI budget, but the blades it was slicing and dicing and trying to make Julienne vampire with were real enough. His burnt lips skinned back over his fangs in a savage snarl, Spike brought the axe down and the dulled blade sank home, cleaving translucent eyes that bled rays of light into the dust-laden air. Spike hauled himself up along the haft of the axe, the toes of his boots jabbing for purchase among the joints of wings which flickered in and out of existence like the ghosts of bad cable reception. He stood for one precarious moment balanced on shifting air; then his lean body uncoiled, all the power in the muscles of calf and thigh released at once. Fifteen feet straight up he shot, his outstretched arms straining for the sky. At the apex of his leap one hand grasped a projecting shelf of broken asphalt, fingers raking gouges in the crumbling tar. Out of the roiling mass of dust and grit the Harrier rose, a sunrise in the depths of midnight. It shook the axe free, its wound closing even as they watched, and soared upwards in glory. A fury of blades whirled upwards, and Spike, bathed in its painful light, jerked both knees up to his chest barely in time to escape losing a foot. Xander belly-flopped over the edge as far as he could reach and clamped his hand around Spike's wrist. The normally-cool flesh was radiating heat from the burns he'd sustained, and it must have hurt like hell, but Spike didn't flinch. The asphalt outcropping disintegrated under the pressure of Spike's fingers and his full weight came down on Xander's arm and shoulder with a bone-wrenching jerk. For a small eternity Xander held a hundred and sixty pounds of dead weight vampire one-handed, dangling over the lip of the new-made pit. Then he heaved upwards, panting with effort; Spike's free hand found another ledge, and he was up and over the rim. Spike lurched to his feet and the two of them stood swaying on the precipice, clutching one another's shoulders as if that'd make a difference if the whole edge dropped out from under them. Spike favored Xander with his smarmiest grin. "Awwww. Harris is my bestest pal." "So do you actually want to end up a big pile of dust?" The Harrier spun up out of the crater, a tornado of sunlit razor plumage. "I think you got it mad," Xander observed. "You think?" Spike swiped his sleeve across his nose--on second glance, maybe he wasn't as badly burned as Xander'd thought, not too much worse than the sunburn he'd gotten showing off last week. All to the good; watching charred vampire bits flake off wasn't high on his big fun agenda. Xander looked around; half a dozen car alarms were still blatting a maddening symphony in the background, set off by the noise and tremor, and people were pouring out of the complexes to see what was going on. There were several overturned cars in the parking lot, one of which, a small dark blue Tercel, was teetering precariously on the very edge of the crater. He felt a most unheroic relief at the thought that his car was parked at the other end of the lot. With a thunder of wings the creature was out of the hole and after them. Spike toppled backwards, dragging Xander with him. Both of them scrambled away from the pit on hands and knees before lurching to their feet. Xander spun round in place, looking for a weapon. Rocks. There had to be something a step up from rocks. "Xander!" Anya's voice, a terrified screech over the car alarms. "Are you all right?" The Harrier halted, mantling its multitude of wings, a raptor sighting new prey. It didn't attack at once, as if Anya confused its senses. It hovered in place, undecided between two targets, the wind of its passage kicking up a flurry of dust and debris. CHILD OF ARASHMAHAR? it asked, its voice the crackle of windblown flame. Anya froze, mesmerized by the creature as it hovered over the parking lot, but new determination filled her dark eyes and she started towards Xander again. "Oh, bollocks!" Spike was off like a flash, tearing off round the rim of the crater in the opposite direction, to what purpose Xander couldn't tell--saving his own skin, maybe; with his departure the terror of wings and eyes swooped down upon Anya, whirling blades leaving trails of fire on the air. "NO!" Xander screamed, the harsh panicked sound of a man losing something vital. He forgot Spike, forgot the fact that this thing could turn him into shish kebab, forgot everything except the fact that it was bearing down on Anya. He broke into a stumbling run around the edge of the pit, jumping chunks of sidewalk. Anya screamed as well, fear and anger striking sparks in her voice, and flung a ragged fist-sized hunk of asphalt at the oncoming Harrier. It hit a sword blade and bounced off. "Keep away from her!" he yelled, painfully aware of his complete inability to back up his threat. He skidded to a halt, interposing himself between Anya and the Harrier. A quarter of the way around the pit, he caught a glimpse of Willow, her hair an unmistakable blaze of red in the parking lot floodlights. She floated up to perch on the bed of an overturned Ford Rambler and stood there like a general surveying a battlefield, then flung her arms skyward and began a chant. The words squirmed away from his head when he tried to remember them. Violet lightning began to gather about her outstretched hands, snap crackle pop. If it wasn't willing to hurt him, and he could just play human shield for long enough... Willow'd come through. I HAVE NO WISH TO HARM YOU, the Harrier hissed in the dry wail of Santa Ana winds, feinting right and left with razor-tipped wings. "Well, then, don't!" Xander wondered if he could get behind a car or something, but all the vehicles were on the other side of the crater. A bush, then, or a lamp post--anything besides thin air. IT IS MY DUTY TO SLAY CREATURES OF EVIL. "Harming her is harming me, you Electrical Parade reject!" Xander pulled Anya into a protective hug and she burrowed into his shoulder, sobbing. "And she's not a demon!" NO. YET HER ESSENCE CONTAINS VAST DARKNESS. Essence? "Ahn, what's it's talking about?" Was that her soul? They never talked about that trickiest of subjects if they could help it; easier just to assume that human form came with a human soul included. The Harrier shimmied back and forth, restless and, to Xander's possibly biased perceptions, pissed off. THERE IS IMBALANCE HERE. CONFUSION. "Sodom and Gomorrah, rains of frogs, Slayers and vampires living together, yeah, yeah! What's that got to do with Anya?" HAVE YOU NOT TOLD HIM, CHILD OF ARASHMAHAR? Anya moaned, and Xander looked wildly from her to the Harrier. "Told me what? Anya, what--" Her head drooped, and then Anya straightened, pulling away from him and straightening her jacket. She looked the Harrier in the eyes, fear replaced with resignation. "It can tell," she said, her voice shaking only a little. "Tell what?" "What I am." Anya began putting her hair in order, unnaturally composed. "What I've always been. Well, not always, but for the last thousand years, give or take a decade." Xander stared at her. Anya: straightforward to the point of rudeness. Able to rattle off the histories of a dozen major demon clans in excruciating detail and completely in the dark about the social relevance of Star Wars. Rapaciously intelligent about subjects that interested her, a financial whiz and cutthroat business woman, beautiful, sexy, desperately in love with him... and human, absolutely, positively human. Except that she'd started out with no more concern for the welfare of non-Xander humans than Spike had for non-Buffy humans, and still wasn't exactly a font of charity. And she looked back as fondly on her days of meting out destruction as Spike did. And... "You don't have a soul," he whispered. "I do too!" Anya shot back, unnatural calm giving way to familiar and reassuring brusqueness. She stamped one well-shod foot. "I was born human, you know! I have a perfectly good soul, it's just--complicated. When D'Hoffryn recruits us to be vengeance demons we're... converted. Given the demonic aspect, and the powers, and the pendant to control them. And cleansed of..." She gave a fidgety twist of one hand. "Distractions." "Distractions?" "You know." Anya folded her arms defensively across her chest. "Empathy. All that tiresome feeling sorry for people. We wouldn't be any good as vengeance demons if we got half-way through a wish and started feeling sorry for the victim, would we? I became a demon when I was seventeen, and..." A spot of hectic red appeared on each cheek, but she kept her head high and defiant. "I never un-became one. I gave myself human form to grant Cordelia's wish, and when my pendant was destroyed I got stuck this way, but it didn't change who I was inside. I've always been Anyanka--if D'Hoffryn would ever give me a new pendant, the big meanie." The Harrier demon flickered from side to side; Xander suspected that had it not been beneath its dignity, (and had it possessed a visible mouth) the thing would have been smirking and saying I told you so! Xander drew a deep gulping breath. "Anya's not evil. No matter what else she may be, she's not evil. She helps people now." "I never was evil," Anya said, irritated. "More amoral. Most demons are. Honestly, with the exception of species like vampires who give the rest of us a bad name, the whole 'demon equals evil' thing is overdone." She gave the Harrier a nervous smile. "As you should know, uh, sir, being a good demon yourself. Not to mention that I'm all contaminated again with feelings about people I really have no reason to feel about..." YOU HAVE CAUSED GREAT SUFFERING. YOUR DEATH IS JUSTICE. Its myriad eyes turned to Xander. I HAVE NO WISH TO HARM YOU, BUT IF I MUST DO SO TO DESTROY THIS CREATURE, I SHALL. Xander wondered if this was one of those dreams you woke up from to discover you were still dreaming. Here he was, standing in a parking lot, having just saved a vampire's ass and trying to keep his ex-demon fiancée from being touched by an angel, or as near to one as he was probably ever going to see. All his worst fears confirmed. All that was left was to look down and discover he wasn't wearing any pants. And there was Anya gazing at him with brown-velvet eyes no different than they had been this morning, when they woke up together. Eyes brimming with tears and anger. "Why didn't you tell me?" he choked out. She shook her head. "You would have left me." It was just a flat statement of fact, and it got him right in the gut. Xander turned back to the Harrier. YOU KNOW WHAT SHE IS. WILL YOU STAND ASIDE? Xander stared at the ground, stared at the toes of his boots, stared at his hands. At last he looked up. "Sometimes," he said, sounding far too reasonable in his own ears, "You just get to a place in life where you have to make a radical re-evaluation of the whole good-bad demon-human thing and let me see if I can explain this... I understand Ahn's a demon. And..." He folded his arms and stood foursquare in front of Anya, who looked at him with dawning hope. "I DON'T CARE!" ***** A handful of Anya's party guests had followed her out to the parking lot and were milling about in confusion. Spike didn't see Halfrek among them; no surprise there, as the gang from Arashmahar generally buggered off at the first sign of trouble. As Spike reached the Tiercel, someone else finally noticed the movements behind the tinted windows that his far-sighted predator's eyes had picked up on at once. An unfamiliar woman's voice shouted, "Lorri, call 911, there's someone stuck in this car! It's going to fall in!" Ignoring the onlookers, Spike leaped atop the car and crouched beside the driver's door like some exceptionally athletic gargoyle, studying the interior through the window. The door-handle had jammed; pulling at it, he knew from experience, would just rip it off. He needed leverage. Spike balled up a fist in his duster and sent it smashing through the glass, which dissolved in pea-size fragments, then grabbed the window-frame in both hands and pulled. The door shot open with a crash, torn half off its hinges, and Spike ducked head and shoulders inside. Inside was a small dark woman; she'd somehow slipped free of the shoulder harness when the car tipped over, and was hanging half-suspended from the seatbelt, her knees jammed into the steering wheel. He could smell blood, but it was scarcely noticeable over the scent of his own; not enough to indicate serious injury. In the distance he heard the wail of approaching sirens. Best hurry before Sunnydale's finest showed up to complicate matters. At the sight of Spike coming through the window she began struggling to get away, flopping like a gaffed fish. Spike tried grabbing an ankle, to no avail. "Quit wriggling, you stupid bint, you're being rescued!" The woman's only response was a terrified scream and an attempt to claw through the back of the seat. Spike realized belatedly that he was still in game face and switched back to human features. It didn't seem to help; the woman kicked him in the chest, drawing an answering stab of pain from the cut across his belly. "OW! Bloody--if you don't be still so I can get you out of here, I'm going to knock you senseless, sod the headache!" A familiar and welcome scent tickled his nose through the tang of hot metal and dust, and a second later Buffy dropped down past him through the open window and began undoing the tangle of seatbelts. "Ma'am, calm down! You're going to be all right! Your knight in shining armor act leaves something to be desired," she observed as Spike bent the steering wheel out of their way a tad. "Maybe more of a Will Smith vibe, less of a Jack Nicholson?" The car creaked and wobbled under their added weight. Spike shifted as much of his weight as he could forward, and the unnerving teetering stilled for the moment. "New to the hero business, love--I'm still working on my theme song. Here, pass her up." They handed the dazed woman (she kept staring at Spike and shaking her head, and he had to exert a great deal of willpower to keep from flashing her a little fang just to see her jump) off to one of the newly-arrived paramedics and hopped down off the Tiercel. Spike watched them lead her away, eyes hooded, an indefinable yet strangely familiar emotion teasing round the corners of his heart. He wasn't sure he wanted to pin it down; it reeked of something he didn't want to face head-on yet. Buffy glanced up at him, a little smile curling the corners of her mouth. "The George Hamilton look? Not working." "Ta ever so. I'll pawn the tanning bed." "What're we looking at?" From teasing to General Buffy, all terse and commandery, demanding a report from her second-in-command. Spike glanced across the pit; Xander was still playing dodge 'em with the winged wonder. "Harrier demon. They're warriors of light--don't usually muck around with us vamps; it'd be like shooting flies with a cannon. They get sent after things like your late unlamented Mayor." "Then why's it after Anya?" Spike shook his head. "Buggered if I know. 'Less it can tell she used to be a demon; they can sniff out the wicked like bloodhounds, and vengeance demons are a bloody sight more powerful than a mere vampire. D'Hoffryn's girls can only grant wishes according to the rules, and Harriers are keen on rules--but the collateral damage from a few badly-phrased wishes alone would set that shiny bastard off. Our Anya was a vengeance demon for a long, long time." "Well, she's not now." Buffy looked grim. "How do we stop it?" A bark of laughter escaped him. "Got a bazooka handy?" Buffy chewed on her lower lip. "If it's one of the good guys, we can talk to it. It's got to listen. We just need to get its attention." "Mmm. Suppose beaning it with an axe wasn't conducive to negotiations, then." Buffy's jaw dropped. "Why did you--?" Spike opened his mouth, realized he was about to say Because it bloody near broke my only pair of glasses, that's why! and was overcome with the dire conviction that this, in conjunction with whatever Halfrek had already told her about the general pathetic wankerdom of his breathing days, would undoubtedly mean the end of his and Buffy's short but eventful relationship in a fit of hysterical laughter. "It hit me first." "Oh. Then I wouldn't hang around the mailbox waiting for a letter from the Nobel committee, no." Buffy looked around, then pointed to the collapsed carport, a crumpled length of fiberglass and steel draped across the hoods of half-a-dozen assorted cars. "Attention-getting device." Spike grinned at her. "On it, love." Buffy crouched down, wrapped her arms around the base of the support beam and pulled, her face contorted with effort. Spike took hold of the scalloped edge if the roof where the two pieces were bolted together and ripped. Rivets popped and sun-weakened fiberglass snapped, and the whole thing tore free with a crash. Spike shoved the roof section away, and it landed with a crash, doing serious damage to the roof of the Geo Metro in the nearest parking space. No loss there; the owner should thank him for forcing them to get a real car. In a trice they wrestled the support pole free of its moorings. They had a weapon, twelve feet of twisted metal, one end terminating in a club of cement where they'd torn it free of the pavement. Unwieldy as hell, but big enough to make the Harrier sit up and notice without putting them within slashing reach. He hefted the pole to shoulder height and Buffy looked at him, her nose adorably smudged, her teeth bared in a fighting grin. "Charge!" Xander pulled Anya out of the way of another slashing appendage as Spike and Buffy barreled towards them at full and terrifying speed. The pole was a bitch and a half to run with, over-balanced at the club-end and inconveniently shaped to grip, but the two of them never missed a step, flying over the uneven ground as if they'd practiced it for weeks. "DUCK!" Spike bellowed, and Xander dropped flat with Anya beneath him. Vampire and Slayer leaped over their heads in unison and rammed the club-end of the rebar into the center of the whirlwind. Half a dozen blades struck sparks rebounding off the metal, and their combined strength and momentum slammed the Harrier back a good twenty feet, spinning above the center of the crater like a psychotic buzzsaw. SLAYER? The massive composure in its voice wavered for an instant. Had they wounded it? Considering how easily it had shrugged off the axe, that didn't seem likely; they'd done the equivalent of knocking the breath out of it, no more. YOU OPPOSE ME? Buffy crouched on a concrete slab, teetering on the edge of the pit, her face washed of detail by the Harrier's actinic light. "I won't let you hurt Spike and Anya!" I AM WHAT YOU ARE. A WARRIOR OF LIGHT. THEY ARE... WHAT WE ARE BOUND TO DESTROY--YOUNGER SISTER, YOU BETRAY YOUR HERITAGE AND YOUR PURPOSE. "Better that than betray my friends!" Buffy's voice shook with outrage. Two of the women who'd followed Anya down--Lorri and Sandra--joined Xander in shielding her. Spike gave the two of them an irritated look. Sod it all, they would have to be helpful; he was going to have to revise his list of people he wouldn't kill if the chip came out again. Lorri waved her cell phone at the Harrier angrily. "Leave her alone! What's she done to you?" IF IT IS YOUR CHOICE TO ALLY YOURSELF WITH CREATURES OF DARKNESS... The dispassionate, beautiful voice rang with genuine regret. THEN I HAVE NO CHOICE BUT TO... "Now just a bleeding minute, you've got it backwards!" Spike took an indignant step forward. It was one thing for the Harrier to go after him, or even Anya, quite another for it to slang Buffy. "The creatures of darkness are allied with her!" "Exactly!" Buffy's chin jutted. "They're helping me. You don't need to hurt them." The Harrier hovered there, fizzling to itself like a Guy Fawkes bonfire that hadn't quite come off. YOU ALLY YOURSELF WITH HER FOR SELFISH REASONS? it asked, sounding almost hopeful, as if this would give it a comfortable out. "Right," Spike said, plumbing new depths of sarcasm. "Completely, utterly selfish. Makes a big difference to my hapless victims." He tapped his skull with a forefinger. "The batteries go south tomorrow, and I happen on a tasty morsel in some alley during my midnight stroll--" He bared his fangs and adopted a menacing crouch. "Grr, argh!" He whipped round and cowered away from himself, wringing his hands. "Eek! Please don't eat me, you ruggedly handsome creature of the night, you!" Spike drew himself upright and struck a noble pose. "It's your lucky day, little lady! Happens I'm off eating people; it upsets the missus. On your way!" Another volte face. "You mean you're not letting me go out of devotion to good for its own sake? You nasty vampire, get right back here and open a vein this minute!" FACETIOUSNESS DOES NOT ADVANCE YOUR ARGUMENT. "Yeh, well, it keeps me amused." YOU LEFT YOUR COMPANION TO SAVE ANOTHER. WHY? "Bloody hell, I don't know! Because..." Because why? He hadn't thought about it, he'd just done it. Man U's tragic defeat by West Ham (honestly now, West Ham?) sending him barmy? Some kind of conditioned reflex? "Because it's the... the thing the Slayer'd want me to do." The searchlight intensity of the Harrier's regard sliced scalpel-sharp through heart and mind, weighing all it found on scales infinitely precise. Weirdly insignificant moments drifted up from the vaults of memory: Dragging Dru away from the Crawford Street mansion, feeling a twinge of concern -He's going to kill her. (Then he shrugged it off, and beat it out of town.) Pouring out his sorrows to Joyce, and leaping to her defense when Angel startled her. (Then Buffy showed up and things went downhill.) Xander, standing in front of the ghost-infested Lowell House, asking Who's with me? I am. (Then he talked himself out of it.) Lisa, in the park, flinging her arms around him and sobbing in relief... There was a note of surprise in the Harrier's voice when it spoke again. CREATURE OF DARKNESS, YOU ARE... TAINTED. IMPURE. Whatever primal awe had struck him at the Harrier's appearance was wearing off fast. "I can't bloody well please any of you lot, can I?" Spike snapped. What did it matter what this jumped-up Christmas tree topper thought of him? "Not bad enough here, not good enough there--blow me a tune I don't know, Gabriel." Not as if he'd expected a pat on the head from a representative of the Powers, any more than he'd expected Harris to jump for joy at the news Buffy was giving him a tumble, and it didn't sting either, not a bit. What had he expected, wide-eyed astonishment and 'Well, Spike old man, aren't you extraordinary? Evil as the day is long, but doesn't the white hat look dashing?' It paused, almost... uncertain? INTERESTING. The Harrier stood quiescent for a moment, considering, then swelled like a startled cat, shedding sunbeams. It gave vent to a long-drawn hiss. IF THE SLAYER CLAIMS YOU AS AN ALLY, THEN THE SOURCE OF THE IMBALANCE THAT DREW ME HERE-- Behind them, from her vantage point on the Rambler, Willow's chant reached its climax. Raw black-violet flame arced across the alarm-filled air. A multi-hued, inhuman scream rose from the Harrier demon, and all its light and flame turned in upon itself, imploding in darkness. With a wail of agony it turned tail and dove back into the tunnels, trailing streamers of glowing fluid that writhed in the air for minutes before fading away. Willow sat down on the fender of the Rambler with a thump and a small grin. "Don't know my own strength." Spike eyed Willow. Witch'd never said a truer word. "Guess we didn't need the bazooka after all." Buffy dropped her end of their improvised lance and bent over the edge of the pit. "Wills--that was amazing, but it was about to--we almost found out--we were talking to it!" Willow looked puzzled. "Yeah, I saw. Good job keeping it occupied, guys!" Buffy's lips thinned in frustration, and she leaned into Spike's side. Spike wrapped an arm and the somewhat tattered remnants of his duster around Buffy's shoulders as a couple of police officers came trotting up bearing rolls of yellow tape, and together they allowed Sunnydale's finest to shoo them away. One by one, behind them, the car alarms fell silent. As they made their way across the parking lot, Buffy shook her head and looked back at the pit. There was no sign of the Harrier. Softly enough that only Spike's ears could pick the words up against the ragged chorus of police radios, she whispered, "Oh, this isn't gonna look good on the permanent record."

"I don't want you to go," Anya said. She was standing behind him in the bedroom, fussing with his collar, and Xander pulled her hand away for the third time. Normally he liked her to fuss a little--engage in the mutual grooming ritual, she called it, more to tease him than out of cultural cluelessness these days. Tonight her attentiveness bothered him and he shivered her hands away like a horse twitching flies from its skin. Patience, always with Anya the patience. "Ahn," he replied, tugging his coat from its hook in the closet, "It's your shower. I'm not gonna hang around and mess that up for you." The living room was filling up with biddies of all ages and several species, and a Sunday night which could have been profitably spent curled up together on the couch watching bad movies and throwing popcorn at the TV screen was already irretrievably lost. Anya didn't pout; she never pouted. She just looked at him in that confused-but-eager way she had, trying to understand his Earth logic. "But it's a party where all my friends give me presents and wish me well. You're my best friend, Xander. Of course you're invited. And you don't even have to give me a present." "Girlfriends. Friends who are girls." He indicated himself with a flourish. "Me, not a girl. I thought we'd gone over this." She sat down on the edge of the bed, radiant in red (though God, he hoped she'd tire of the platinum hair soon; it reminded him far too much of someone he'd far rather kick than kiss). Her face wore that pinched unattractive frown which had been more and more in evidence lately. Wedding stress, wedding stress--but if the arrival of Halfrek and the rest of her demon pals had cheered Anya, it hadn't helped relieve him. He'd listened to them chattering in the kitchen while Anya made dinner, stirring up memories of the good old days of slaughter and destruction along with the tuna casserole. Sometimes he had the uncomfortable feeling that Anya's beauty really was just skin-deep, that at any moment sharp teeth would slice through it from below and the Anya-skin would fall away, leaving... something unpleasant, that was for sure. Xander Harris, demon magnet. Because of course no normal human female could sustain a long-term relationship with the likes of him. He shook the thought away. Anya tried to be normal. She put a great deal of effort into being normal, but never seemed to realize the source of his nerves was the fact that she did have to put effort into it. Now she was watching him again, trying to gauge his mood from the set of his shoulders. "Sexual segregation at entertainment functions is an antiquated custom. I don't see why we can't have an up-to-date relationship." Xander ground his teeth and rattled the hangers on the clothes rack so as to have an excuse not to turn around. "Is that what Halfrek says about it?" "No. It's a valuable networking opportunity, and besides that, we have Vienna sausages, which I know you like. Why do you keep bringing up Halfrek? You're not--do you find her more attractive than me?" Anya gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth. "She been flirting with you, hasn't she? I knew it! She's always been the beauty! It's like when she stole that Grud demon all over again! 'Oh, you're pretty, Anyanka, but Halfrek, she's stunning!' And I happen to know she's had work done on her facial veins--you can bank on it, they're not that perfectly defined naturally!" Why was it that women invariably picked romantic rivals as maids of honor? Some feminine pack ranking thing, maybe, the alpha female depriving the rest of the right to breed? Xander abandoned the pointless re-arrangement of his shirts and walked over to the bed, where he sat down and put an arm around her shoulders. "No, of course not." Anya sniffled and laid her head on his shoulder, letting him play with her hair. "You just don't realize the animal attraction you exude. It's pheromones, I'm sure of it; it drives women mad. I've seen them looking at you. Especially Willow. Honestly, Xander, you drove the poor girl to lesbianism to try to escape her hopeless passion for you." She searched his face for traces of residual Willow-lust, anxious. "It is hopeless, isn't it?" "Anya, honey, sweetheart, darling, you're making me insane." Xander caught up her wringing hands in his and stilled them. "I lust after neither Willow nor Halfrek. I love you. You're gorgeous. And I'm going out on patrol. Spike says there's a Krallock demon on the loose, and we're gonna take it down." She caught at his sleeve, limpid brown eyes full of nameless fears. "A Krallock demon? Do you have to? Do you realize they can bite through pig iron? If you absolutely can't stay here, why not go to a movie or participate in something that won't result in bodily injury and reduced work hours? It's a Sunday night!" More patience. Heaping bucketfuls of patience. Anya, after all, came from a long line of demons who sensibly abandoned ship when an apocalypse rolled into town, and he came from a long line of people who were only passingly acquainted with the concept of 'sensible.' "I know. But Buffy and Willow and Tara are all coming to your shower, they being of the girl persuasion, and someone's got to patrol--" "For one night, don't you think--" Patience go bye-bye. "That we can just let people be eaten for a change?" he snapped. Anya flinched away, face crumbling around her wounded eyes, and he immediately felt like a heel. "I didn't mean--" He hated feeling like a heel. "Yeah, that's the problem!" What exactly did that mean? Oh, well, it sounded good. Forget reason and logic and all the nights they'd blown off patrol to go to the Bronze or study or whatever; tonight Buffy was counting on him. More or less. Xander stormed out into the living room, coat flapping behind him. The effectiveness of his exit was somewhat marred by having to maneuver around a string of middle-aged businesswomen engaged in trying to pass an orange from one end of the line to the other without using their hands, but as exits went, it was one of his better ones. ***** Willow was wearing the dead Muppet top--sleeveless, bright red, and very, very fuzzy. Buffy was secretly positive that that top was a sign of the coming apocalypse--if not this one, then another one down the line somewhere, involving large toothless furry things gumming them all to death while reciting the alphabet. Its appearance always signified Willow in one of her insanely positive moods, which generally coincided with one of Buffy's 'life sucks dead rats through a garden hose' moods. Buffy gazed forlornly at the small gold-wrapped package in her hands. It was beautiful--red velvet ribbon and professionally crisp store wrapping paper in an abstract pattern of silver and gold bells that didn't look too obviously Christmas-y... and no acts of hideous evil required. All she'd had to do was change the tags. Out goes the 'To Buffy From Dad,' in comes the 'To Anya from Buffy,' and ta-da, shower present. Wah. Tara patted her shoulder. "Be strong. You're doing the right thing." "I don't want to do the right thing. I want my new Discman." Weirdly enough, after bawling on Spike's shoulder, she'd gone home, showered, changed, had another argument with Dawn about her grounding, and, as he'd predicted, felt better. In theory she knew that a good cry and a wash-up afterwards were restoratives, but she'd been sure that kind of emotional resiliency had abandoned her back in the age of dinosaurs. A large part of her relative peace of mind, she suspected, hinged on the fact that she already knew the solution to this problem, however little she wanted to accept it right now. Or maybe she was finally learning to harness the awesome power of Summers' denial for good rather than evil. If, of course, her best friend would ever drop the subject. "Me, I think Giles is all over-reacty," Willow said, dispensing seasonal good cheer and blind optimism. "For all we know? This 'leave the playing field' biz could be a good thing. It could mean 'Buffy gets to retire from the slaying and have the normal life she's always wanted, yay!' And it said you're one of these extra players which means that there's others and if we find them then we can--" "Rub them out for the good of humanity?" Buffy asked, extra-perky. "We could at least find out why the extras are extra." Willow was not to be deterred by inappropriate humor. "And you could try the retirement option and see what happens. I mean, you're supposed to be on strike anyway, right? Instead of making a secret identity for your secret identity, you just quit for real for awhile." "Maybe you've got a point, Wills--several simultaneous points--but we've never had much luck relying on kinder, gentler interpretations of prophesy." She'd been haunted by the specter of an ordinary life for so long--she'd matched wills with Giles for it, fought the Watcher's Council for it, held on to Riley like a life raft for the prospect of it. She'd thought that the trip to L.A. had finally exorcized it. Now it rose from its grave once more, ranting about how it would have succeeded if it weren't for those meddling kids. What exactly did she mean by a normal life, anyway? Starring in the Ice Capades and/or marrying Christian Slater wasn't really an option at this stage. They checked the building number as they approached the nearest block of apartments--they'd been here a hundred times, but the complex was one of those cookie-cutter places where every unit looked much the same as every other unit, and it wouldn't be the first of those hundred times that they'd ended up making embarrassed apologies to some retired couple from Minnesota. The three of them crowded onto the landing and Tara knocked; there was no response. "Can they hear us?" she asked, leaning over to peer in the window. The drapes were drawn, and a bass thumpa-thumpa-thumpa made the porch railings vibrate slightly. Buffy bounced up and down on her toes, trying to see through the window over Tara's shoulder. "Thing is, I've tried quitting before, remember? I can't just turn the Slayer powers off. Weirdness follows me around and waves its tentacles in my face yelling 'lookie, lookie!'" A familiar tingle chased up her spine and down again. "Speaking of which..." She turned, and there he was, the epitome of her non-normal life: Spike, strolling up the walk behind them, a moving shadow in the gathering dusk, slicked-back, bone-colored waves of hair licked with the faintest tinge of gold in the last of the evening light. He had a bulky unfamiliar object slung over one shoulder, and as he got closer she recognized it as the tranquilizer gun he'd taken from Bryce's men at Halloween. Trust Spike to keep track of the cool toys. "Hey." She waved Anya's present at him. "You're right. Having a conscience is highly overrated. Turn me now so I won't have to give this up." I can joke about this. Healthy sign of emotional distance or flashing neon 'Go directly to Hell, do not pass Go?' Spike stopped on the step below her. In the amber glow of the porch light the corners of his eyes were crinkled in amusement and a pious smirk quirked his lips. "Sorry, love, but your stunning example's completely reformed me. Wouldn't interfere with your sacrifice for the world." "Curses." Buffy slipped her arms around his waist and leaned into him as if they hadn't spent half the afternoon shagging like mad things. They flowed together like quicksliver, her head butting against his chest, her hands gliding up the small of his back. Muscle rolled beneath her hands as he shifted the weight of the trank gun. Very touchable, Spike, very tasteable. Blood and smoke on her tongue, complex leather-whiskey-earth scent in her nose and rumbly happy-vampire noises vibrating in her ear; a workout for all five senses. She could spend a year learning the exact proportions of his mouth by heart, charting the curve of his lower lip, the precise angle of the divot in his upper lip as the cool supple flesh grew warm beneath her own. She pulled away and nodded at the gun. "Don't tell me, let me guess. You were invited to the shower, and decided Anya really needed something to keep Xander from straying out of the game preserve." Spike snorted. "Some of us have patrol tonight, Slayer Chavez." He looked at Willow. "Got 'em?" Willow gave him a tolerant smile; Laymen! it said. "Quality spellcasting," she said, "Takes time. They have to soak for another couple of hours. I'll zing 'em them over to you after the shower." "Fat lot of good that'll do us if the blighter decides to show ahead of schedule," Spike grumbled. "Krallock demon," he added by way of explanation to Buffy. "We're off to track it down its lair as soon as I extract Harris from the hen party. They're tough bastards. Red said she could add a little extra mojo to the darts." Willow made a 'pfft' noise and waved his complaint away, unfazed. "A little! Ho ho. This is no weenie little sleep spell. Au contraire! One poke from these puppies will knock your beastie into next week." She made an illustrative jab at the air. Tara looked askance at Willow. "When did you agree to...?" "Last night? When you guys were trimming the tree with Dawn? And this morning, did you not notice the nasty green bubbly thing on the left rear burner?" Willow sounded the tiniest bit exasperated. "I told you, the magic's back. I didn't realize I needed to clear every spell I do with you." "Of course not--it's just... I mean..." Tara was looking flustered in the extreme, and Buffy intervened. "Isn't it a little soon to be making with the big magic? Tomorrow, big spell-casting night, with us needing a well-rested, chipper Willow. It's not that we don't trust you, Wills, but two days ago you were wearing yourself out lighting your candle, and now you're burning it at both ends." Willow folded pale arms across her fuzzy red torso, eyes scrunched and lower lip protruding. Her good cheer was beginning to acquire a sullen edge. "I told you, not a problem. If you don't want to believe me, fine." Spike kissed the top of Buffy's head and murmured in a perfectly neutral voice, "Red knows her own limits best, eh?" To Buffy he added, "Be a love and don't kill our little pal if you happen to run across it before midnight, hey? Or at least, don't let anyone see you kill it? I've got money riding on this." Buffy covered her ears in a hear-no-evil pose. "I am shocked, shocked I tell you! As long as it's not kittens, I'll try to restrain my killer instincts. It would help if I had some idea what a Krallock demon looked like." "Christ, Slayer, what do they teach you in these schools? Nine foot tall, claws as long as your arm, all over seaweed and barnacles, smells like the Thames at low tide..." Tara was knocking on the door again, to no apparent effect. Spike made an impatient noise, brushed by Tara and hammered a fist on the apartment door till it shook on its hinges. The porch-shaking backbeat cut off, the door flew open, and from within the apartment a gale of shrill feminine laughter added several degrees of wind chill to the nippy evening. A tall, statuesque woman in a cream linen suit dress stood in the entryway. She could have just stepped out of a cameo; she had a smooth oval face with regular features and large, fine dark eyes. A mass of dark russet hair was piled atop her head, spilling down her neck in a waterfall of ringlets, and a large, rather gaudy gold-and-ruby pendant which didn't match the rest of her tasteful attire in the least was displayed prominently upon her bosom. This must be Anya's maid of honor, in human guise for the moment--Anya'd mentioned she was another vengeance demon. The stone had a fire that drew the eye, and Buffy found herself making calculations as to how quickly she could grab and crush it if the need arose. "You must be Xander's friends. Come on in, all of you," the woman said. Her tone and expression conveyed politely unexpressed curiosity as to why Xander's friends would be intruding upon Anya's wedding shower. Buffy's finely honed bitch-detection alarms gave a warning buzz. "I'm Halfrek. Please call me Hallie." Tara mustered a polite smile, and Willow looked at Halfrek curiously - Willow'd come within a hair of being a colleague, after all. Halfrek stepped back and held the door open. The spotless apartment beyond was festooned with streamers in blue and white and full of people. Considering the usual state of Xander's apartment when he'd been living alone, it gave one a real respect for Anya's talent for organization. Willow and Tara filed inside. Buffy hooked her fingers through Spike's and breezed after them, to be brought up short when Spike remained rooted to the spot, staring at Halfrek. Had he never been invited in? She'd gotten the idea that over the summer Spike had gotten in fairly tight with the rest of the gang, but if anyone was likely to leave him uninvited, it was Xander... She looked over her shoulder, questioning. "Spike? Do you need an entry visa?" "Eh?" Spike had the pole-axed look of a man running into a girl he'd loved or hated in high school at the ten-year reunion. He returned to earth with a shake and stepped across the threshold, still staring at Hallie's back as she made for the living room, shooing Tara and Willow before her. His head was cocked to one side in puzzlement. "Sorry, love, thought I saw a ghost." "William?" Halfrek asked, turning about, fine large eyes even larger with shock at the sound of his voice. Her hand went to her bosom, (which did, to Buffy's intense interest, actually heave) covering her pendant in a curiously old-fashioned gesture. "Oh, my stars. It is William! Why aren't you dead?" "Cecily?" For a second Spike's face was naked--not just open, but stripped, peeled bare to expose some quivering inner pith of emotion never intended to bear the sting of open air. Then he straightened, visibly pulling the Big Bad cloak around his shoulders--head cocked insolently back, eyes hooded, one thumb hooked into his belt--a veritable Cherynobl of danger and sex appeal. "I go by Spike these days, and as it happens, I am dead." Was there a vibe here? Buffy looked from one face to the other. Oh, we have an entire Moog synthesizer's worth of vibes. I do not like her, Sam I Am. Spike looked Halfrek up and down, nostrils flaring. "You took up a new profession after the news about Harding got round?" "Heavens no. I'd been in the vengeance business for ages before we met. D'Hoffryn took me on right after--" A look crossed Halfrek's face, as at a memory which should have been haunting, but which time and distance had rendered meaningless. "Oh. My. Roger... So that was you." Her voice sharpened. "You didn't go after me. Not that a mere vampire could--" A slow and unpleasant smile stretched across his face, and Spike's canines extended for a second. "Professional courtesy, Miss Addams." Buffy was beginning to feel as if she were witnessing some kind of emotional tennis match. Halfrek lobs a funny look into the net, and Spike responds with a backhanded compliment! Fifteen all! "Excuse me," she said, waving a hand. "Did someone forget to pass out the scorecards?" Spike was immediately contrite. "Sorry, love. Bit of a shock. This is--was--Cecily Addams. We were acquainted, back in London..." He hesitated. "Before I was turned. Halfrek, this is my girl." He gave 'my girl' a defiant emphasis, as if he feared Halfrek might miss the point. "Buffy Summers, the Slayer." Buffy smiled very sweetly and tucked a hand around Spike's arm, suppressing an urge to take a leaf from his book and growl at her rival. My vampire. You cannot have him on a boat, you cannot have him in the coat. Xander appeared out of the mob of women in the living room, shrugging into his regrettable brown coat. Buffy had always had high hopes of it being shredded by something with big teeth and a taste for Naugahyde, but so far nothing had obliged her. Xander looked none too pleased with life, but he didn't give any of them a chance to ask questions. "What's up, Spike? Old girlfriend?" Spike and Halfrek said "Not by half," and "Hardly," in frosty unison. Xander's eyebrows went up. "Well, excuse me for engaging in banter without a license. You ready to rock, Spike?" "Yeh." He tossed Xander the tranquilizer gun with a little more force than necessary. "Will's not gonna deliver the goods till later, so if we meet up with anything before then you'll have to beat it to death with the stock." Spike considered this. "The night's looking up." Xander shouldered the trank gun and headed for the door. Spike turned to follow; on impulse, Buffy caught hold of his duster and tugged him back. "Hey, you. I need my recommended daily allowance of Spikey goodness before you go." Something chilly thawed in his eyes, and the small cold doubt which had started to crystallize in her own gut melted as she felt one of those deep growly laughs go through him. "Well, we'll have to do something about that, Slayer. Can't have you going all weak-kneed, can we?" With an inscrutable look in Halfrek's direction, Spike bent to kiss her, and mmmmmm, good. In the midst of being ten dollars and fifty-two cents shy of dead broke and Giles leaving and cryptic loas and crazy wizards there was Spike kissage, and it was very, very good, deep, slow, caressing tongue stroking tongue while Xander made gagging noises unheeded in the background and Spike's strong hand slid down from the small of her back to grab her ass and heave her upright and damned if her knees hadn't gone out on her there for a second. "You'll pay for this," she whispered into his ear, and Spike gave her a wicked leer. "Can't wait." And he and Xander were out the door and gone. Buffy straightened her blouse, wiped the silly grin off her face, and turned to face Halfrek. "So," she said brightly. "There's cake?" ***** The whole thing was Spike's fault, of course. Xander wasn't sure exactly why or how, but if you traced the connections back properly, everything was Spike's fault. If he hadn't mentioned the stupid Krallock demon, maybe Xander would have taken Anya's advice to go see a movie, and the bed waiting for him when he returned wouldn't be the living room couch, and they wouldn't be lost in the Sunnydale sewer system. Not that Spike was admitting to having led them astray. The author of their predicament stood in the middle of the crossroads--or more accurately, the cross-tunnel--half-smoked cigarette askew in one corner of his mouth, his lean face sporting the tight-lipped scowl which usually presaged someone or something getting smashed into very small pieces. The tunnels remained blank and uninformative: each one perfectly straight, faced with ancient tile which had once been white but was now a dingy cream where it wasn't mottled with stains from rust or mold. Mysterious pipes and cables snaked along the walls, their color-coded insulation slowly flaking away into powder. Every twenty feet or so a ceiling panel provided feeble greenish light. The ceiling was just low enough to make Xander feel like ducking constantly. Xander set the tranquilizer gun down, one hand straying to the pocket of his coat where the ordinary, un-magical darts nestled. "Look, I know it's against Guy Rule #147, but I think it's time to accept that we're lost." Spike removed his cigarette and snarled, "We are not bloody lost!" He whirled around, duster flaring, and stalked ten or twelve paces back the way they'd come. His fingers clenched on the haft of the axe with which he'd supplemented their trank gun, and his pale angry eyes flicked from side to side, examining the featureless tile of walls and ceiling. "I bloody well live down here, in case you've forgotten. I know these tunnels like the back of my hand--most of these tunnels--the ones near the crypt, anyway--and this intersection shouldn't be here. This tunnel's supposed to take a jog left here and run into the main sewer line for Wilkins Boulevard fifty feet further along." Xander folded his arms and leaned against the nearest bundle of mystery cables. "Well, it doesn't. So we can either wander like Charlie on the MTA until we get completely lost, fall down a pit, and starve to death--" "I wouldn't count on you living that long," Spike muttered. "--or we can admit we're slightly lost, backtrack, take the right tunnel, and those of us with steady jobs might possibly get home in time to snatch six hours of sleep before having to be at the site tomorrow morning. I know which option I'm going for." Spike glowered for a minute, the muscles in his jaw working. Somewhere in the distance, water started dripping, marking time. Very deliberately, Spike took the cigarette butt from his lips and ground it out against the white-tiled wall, leaving a grey-black smudge. He tossed the butt aside, shouldered the axe and set off without a word. Xander followed with a sense of relief; it was never certain when Spike's penchant for reckless stupidity would kick in, and he couldn't help feeling they'd just backed away from the ledge over the bottomless pit. He trudged down the corridor in Spike's wake, hands shoved into his coat pockets. His thumbs still ached from last week's adventures, though the bandage level had subsided and he had most of his range of motion back. Anya was right, as she was with annoying frequency. He never should have volunteered for slaying duty on a work night. He'd already received one warning about clocking in late--just a friendly heads-up from Tony, the job superintendent, who liked his work. The next warning wasn't going to be so friendly, and might go on his record. He couldn't blame Tony; there was no room on a construction site for a worker who continually showed up late or sleepy or with mysterious injuries that interfered with his work. It was dangerous, not just for him but for everyone he worked with: power tools, heavy machinery, and heights were just as potentially deadly as vampires when handled carelessly. And around every job site, clustered in every Home Depot parking lot, were the dark-eyed, watchful men--the guys without jobs, men who'd take over his spot in a hot second the minute the job superintendent gave the word. Construction jobs were at a premium, and construction workers were expendable. Hell, at any minute he could get laid off just because some banker backed out and the next project failed to materialize. Buffy had to fit whatever job she took around her slaying; it was beginning to look as if he was going to have to give serious thought to fitting slaying around his job. And that stank. There were thousands of construction workers, and only a handful of vampire hunters. It was what he did after hours that made his life worth something to the world, wasn't it? Any schmoe could slap together a condominium; how many could say they'd helped blow away the Judge with a bazooka? But God, Anya wanted kids. How could he possibly-- "Bugger." He almost ran nose-first into the back of Spike's head. The vampire had come to an abrupt halt; they were at another four-way intersection, exactly the same as the one they'd just left. Xander looked around uneasily. "I don't remember this." "That's because it wasn't there." "That's impossible. We must have gotten turned around at that first intersection--all those tunnels did look alike. We just went down the wrong one, and this is--" Spike gave him the 'Exactly how stupid are you, anyway?' look and pointed to the wall without a word. There at shoulder height on the grimy tile was a black smudge, as if someone had ground out a cigarette butt against the wall. ***** There was cake. There was also the ubiquitous veggie-and-dip platter which Buffy suspected of traveling from party to party under its own power, accompanied by its partner in crime, the cheese and cracker assortment. Drinks included a surfeit of wine coolers in flavor combinations never seen in nature, and fruit punch which proved to have been liberally dosed with cayenne pepper--Anya had, apparently, been stricken with this culinary inspiration after the summoning ritual. Buffy batted aside a cluster of crepe paper wedding bells and began the challenging task of assembling a crack team of hors d'oeuvres on a dangerously bendy paper plate. Between the ritual, two hours of workout, and two or three hours of... other workout, she was starving. As she contemplated the optimal placement of broccoli florets, Willow popped up beside her, earlier grouchiness evaporated. "We timed it just right! The humiliating party games just finished." Willow gazed around. "I didn't know Anya knew all these people. Wow." "Yeah, how dare she have a social life when we have none?" There were a dozen or so women present, two or three of whom seemed to be friends of Anya's from her vengeance demon days, and the rest of whom, Buffy guessed, were people Anya knew professionally. She recognized one or two faces as regular customers at the Magic Box. Tara surfaced briefly, conversing with someone from her old Wicca group, before she was sucked up into the crowd once more. Exhibit A, the Normal Life. Buffy tried to imagine herself among them, and wondered if this was what had driven Angel to lurking. "We're cool," Willow assured her. "I know lots of people at school, honest. I even have lunch with them sometimes. I verge upon verging upon popular." "True. And I spoke to the counter guy at Albertsons when I picked up milk. Plus, I have an excuse. I've been dead. It cuts down on your opportunities to meet and greet." Buffy stood on tiptoe and tried to get an idea of the lay of the land. Strategy. "Food promotes happy mingling. You get drinks, I'll get you a plate." Willow saluted and made a break for the kitchen, where the ice chest was located. Buffy shifted her own plate to a position of precarious balance on her forearm and started loading up a second plate for Willow. As she tried to remember whether Willow liked cauliflower or not, and if guessing wrong was likely to trigger another sulk, Halfrek's voice emerged from the background babble for a second, low and mildly scandalized. She was talking to one of the other vengeance demons. "...dating a vampire, can you believe it?" The second vengeance demon put shocked fingers to her lips. "No!" "Declassé, isn't it?" Halfrek looked down her lovely nose. "But then, it's not as though Slayers are anything but mongrels themselves..." Buffy was saved from the faux pas of punching the maid of honor's teeth in by the bride-to-be, who appeared out of nowhere bearing more canapes. "Buffy, you made it!" Anya bubbled, blocking her escape route. "I really thought you'd pretend you needed to kill things tonight and not come." "Never crossed my mind," Buffy lied. Anya looked so grateful, and she'd come this close to forgetting about the party altogether, and closer to arriving sans gift. Bad, inconsiderate Buffy. She really ought to make more of an effort to make friends with Anya, if only Anya weren't so... Anya. "I wouldn't have missed this for the world." Anya's eyes lit up. "I wanted to ask if you'd like to be one of my bridesmaids. I would have asked before, but you were dead, and it seemed pointless." "I--um. It must be a pain to change the plans so close to the wedding." "Oh, it is." Anya gave her a brilliant smile. "But you're a friend, and one's supposed to inconvenience oneself for friends. Hallie!" she cried, propelling Buffy over to the little coterie of women seated around the coffee table, poring over catalogs of flower arrangements and gowns. "She said yes! You've met Hallie--Buffy, this is Netta. I used to work with her." Anya winked violently at the word 'work.' "And Sandra Murchison and Lorri Collins, Lorri works for one of our biggest suppliers..." Buffy scrabbled up a cheery smile for the four pairs of inquisitive eyes, human and otherwise, which fastened on her and the two heaping plates of food she was carrying. Hello, everyone, this is my friend with the binge eating disorder. She hurriedly divested herself of Willow's plate and sat down, attempting to take up the smallest possible space on the couch. "So pleased to meet you--Buffy, is it?" Sandra extended a hand and clasped Buffy's in a vigorous shake. "Hi. I'm Max's wife--I don't know if you've met him; he used to be on Xander's construction crew? Though I'm confused--Anya, I could have sworn you told us that Buffy was the friend who passed on last May!" Buffy's brain threw a rod and froze. "It was more a..." Anya bounced up and down, alight with enthusiasm and in no mood to let a little thing like death and resurrection interfere with the celebration of her nuptials. "She was. Show her the dresses!" Was there a glint of malicious enjoyment in Halfrek's eyes as she passed the appropriate catalog over? Buffy went rigid with horror as she took in the full glory of the dress in the photograph. She swallowed. Maybe Willow could pull it off, considering some of the things Willow'd worn with a willing heart. Besides, Willow was a redhead. Redheads looked good in green. Bottle blondes looked like something fished up out of the estuary at low tide in green, but she was strong, she could take it. Except for the ruffles, no sane human being could take those ruffles, and-- She looked up, stared right into Anya's bright, hopeful eyes, and said, "It's gorgeous." A cold bottle, still dripping ice water, appeared in her hand. Literally. Buffy almost dropped it in her lap. "Kiwi-strawberry." Willow draped herself over the back of the couch beside her and gestured; her plate of hors d'oeuvres left the coffee table and floated serenely across the intervening distance; Buffy opened her mouth to say something about not freaking the mundanes, but by that time Willow had the plate on the back of the couch and was nibbling on a Ritz. "It's all they had left," Willow said, waving her own bottle. "I see you've been introduced to the Attack of the Asparagus People." Buffy took a swallow of kiwi-strawberry and felt her mouth implode as the cloyingly sweet liquid hit the back of her throat. The wearer of the Elmo skin really had no call to cast stones, and besides, Willow was Xander's best man and would probably get to wear a nice butchy tux or something while she was trapped in this--this-- "Drink up," Sandra whispered. "We're going to need all the courage we can get to wear those dresses in public." With a wary glance at Anya, who was chattering at Netta about the correct placement of the hideous cabbage rose corsages, Buffy whispered, "Didn't anyone try to talk her out of--?" Sandra snorted and took a swallow of her own drink. "You don't want to know what we talked her out of, believe me. There were insects involved." "I renounce curiosity." Conversation. She was having a conversation with a normal person--no need to panic; once upon a time she'd spoken to normal people on a regular basis. Sandra looked to be thirty-five, maybe, plumpish, with short poofy blonde hair every bit as natural as Buffy's and a wicked glint hiding in her mild brown eyes. Give up the slaying and this could be me in ten or fifteen years--husband, two point five kids, white picket fence. A rewarding career by day, PTA meetings by night! Look, in the SUV, it's Supermom! "So... your husband works with Xander?" A shadow crossed Sandra's face. "Used to. There was an accident last year. He's in a wheelchair. He works in the contractor's office now." "Oh." And of all possible subjects, Buffy Summers picks... "I'm so sorry to hear that." Sandra shrugged. "We deal. It's not easy, but sometimes I think that if I didn't have a fight on my hands I think I'd get bored." Buffy swirled the watermelon-colored liquid around in its bottle, took another sip and unpuckered her lips. "I can relate, I guess. At least my boyfriend's the walking dead." Sandra gave her an odd look and Buffy amended, "Uh, when he first gets up. Spike's not a morning person." Halfrek stood and announced that they were going to start opening presents now. The there was a general whoop of approval and the guests gathered round the couch as Netta began ferrying presents over to the coffee table for Anya to rip open and exclaim over. As they turned to watch the celebration of capitalism at its finest, Willow took a swig of her own drink and nudged Buffy's shoulder with an elbow. "Spike rates the B-word now?" she asked with a teasing grin. "I should hope so, considering his performance in the foyer," Halfrek said with an arch lift of one perfectly manicured brow which managed to convey that either way, said performance had been incredibly gauche. Boyfriend was so completely the wrong word for Spike, all wholesome and malt-shoppy, but until she could think of something fitter for public consumption than 'demon lover'... Buffy gave Halfrek a smile as poisonously sweet as the wine cooler. "Spike's... mine." She did her own swoopy-eyebrow thing, matching Halfrek arch for arch. "So--you knew him when he was--" Mindful of Sandra's curious presence, she switched tracks from 'The notorious William the Bloody' to "--younger? Did you go to the prom together?" Halfrek burst into peals of laughter. Lovely, chiming laughter. Buffy decided that she really, truly hated her. "We were acquainted socially. William, I suppose, would describe us as intimate friends. He does have a tendency to embroider, doesn't he?" "I wouldn't know," Buffy said, all innocence. In fact, Spike had told her quite a lot about his past; the problem was, she had no idea how much of it was embroidery and how much cloth. In that grilling she'd given him last year, he'd dropped all kinds of vainglorious hints, making out that he'd been a rebel from the cradle on, with a trail of broken hearts and broken heads a mile wide and a continent long by the time Drusilla had been smitten by his rugged good looks and devilish charm. If William the Bloody had been a nineteeth-century gangster, would that make the former Cecily Addams some kind of Victorian moll? But that story didn't match up with other bits and pieces he'd let fall in less guarded moments, and she'd been warming to the idea of coaxing him out of himself little by little. Now, confronted with a possible wellspring of information, she felt a perverse sense that this was cheating. Spike had pneumonia when he was twelve, and his mother gave him poetry books, and it's a good bet his birthday is May 21. Or William's birthday was. Whatever. I found that out with my very own investigative brilliance, Miss Tattletale Addams. Halfrek settled comfortably, folding her hands demurely on her lap. "It wasn't simply the fact that I was in vengeance that made it impossible--he didn't know anything about my career, poor naive dear. I grant his family was respectable enough..." ***** "Home sweet home," Xander muttered as they trudged into the intersection for the seventh or eighth time. It didn't seem to matter which of the four branches they chose to follow. They'd tried each tunnel in turn. They'd tried splitting up and going down two tunnels at once. They'd tried walking backwards. They'd tried looking for trap doors and secret buttons. They'd tried everything but leaving a trail of breadcrumbs, and every single attempt led right back to their starting point. Xander collapsed, back against the wall, and slid to the ground, laying the tranquilizer gun across his knees. Spike stared around at the four identical tunnels leading off in for identically useless directions, perfectly expressionless; then a snarl of rage contorted his face and he whipped the axe off his shoulder and swung at the nearest wall. "Bloody, fucking... rrrrarrggh!" Tile shattered under the force of the blow and a rain of dust and knife-edged ceramic shards clattered to the floor. Spike stood in the wreckage, golden-eyed with frustration and breathing in short angry snorts. Then he heaved a sigh, propped his axe up in the nearest corner, and slumped down against the wall opposite Xander. Xander glanced at his watch. The liquid crystal display was a featureless silver-grey. He frowned and shook his wrist to no effect. He'd just put in a new battery last month. "How long have we been down here?" Spike grunted. "Does it matter?" Anger still simmered in his eyes, little golden flecks boiling up out of the blue. "Stupid bint," he muttered. "Probably telling the Slayer tales out of school right this minute. Doesn't know when she's got it good. Could've killed her then if I'd taken the fancy to. Could kill her now if I could get her bloody pendant; she seems to forget she's a sodding demon--" "Spike, what the hell are you talking about?" "Bloody Cecily bloody Addams is what I'm talking about!" Spike leaped to his feet and began tiger-pacing back and forth. "Your Halfrek. Woman's a bleeding menace. Not as if I wasn't going to tell Buffy eventually, but the time's got to be right for a thing like that. You don't just go blurting out your entire history to a bird on the first date." He twitched a sneer in Xander's direction. "Or maybe you do, not having any history to speak of, but--" "Whoa, not my Halfrek. You want her, you can keep her. Anya's got some insane idea that I'm hot for her." Where the hell had that come from, anyway? He'd seen what Halfrek looked like in her true shape, and had been trying to avoid thinking about Anya's having once looked the same ever since. Even if the thought of falling for the veiny and terrifying Halfrek wasn't absurd, where did Anya get the notion he'd prefer anyone to her? "Not that daft an idea for her to get, is it?" Spike retorted. "You're not exactly throwing yourself into the nuptial frenzy." "Look, I just wanted to go to a JP and get it over with!" Xander snapped back. One of the voices in his head--the sarcastic one--pointed out that 'get it over with' was not exactly the most romantic terminology with which to refer to his ultimate union with his beloved. "The big wedding with the big guest list and the bigger price tag was Anya's idea." He tilted his head back, staring up at the water-marked ceiling. "I just can't believe..." Spike was watching him with snide amusement. "Forget it. You've got no idea what kind of commitment this--" Spike stopped pacing and roared with laughter. "Commitment? You lost track of who you're talking to? Hundred and twenty years, mate. And if you think your demon bird's high-maintenance, you give Dru a try." Xander surged to his feet, fists clenched. "Anya's not a God-damned demon! Stop calling her that, or I'll--" Spike's brows climbed up his forehead, accompaniment to a smarmy grin. "What's the matter, Harris, afraid your firstborn will pop out all veiny and vengeful?" Xander didn't think; he just swung. He didn't even see Spike move; one second the vampire was there, and the next second he wasn't, and Xander's fist smashed into the wall behind him. "AAAHHHHH!!! Fuck!" Xander fell to his knees and contracted into a ball of agony around his throbbing knuckles. "And not even a hole in the wall to show for it," Spike observed from his new vantage point three feet to the left. He slapped his palm against the tile. "Quality workmanship, this." He put his head to one side and regarded Xander with pursed lips and hollowed cheeks. "You really are the biggest prat in creation, Harris." Xander slumped against the wall, his forehead pressed into the cold tile. After some minutes of strained, breathless gasping of 'ow, ow, ow,' he rolled over painfully and cradled his injured fist in his lap. "And you're thinking that there's some chance I haven't noticed this?" "Not really, but I never tire of calling it to your attention." Spike dropped to his haunches and draped a hand over each knee, rocking back and forth with a look of honest curiosity. "What the hell are you narked about? Is this still about me and Buffy?" Yes. No. I take the Fifth. "Let's see." Xander started to tick things off on his fingers, thought better of it, and continued sans visual aids. "Buffy's lost her mind and is dating another vampire." "If it's any comfort, I wouldn't say there've been any actual dates involved." "Shut up, I'm on a roll. Anya has half a dozen old co-workers in town, all of whom think I'm human trash, and has been gabbing happily on about the good old vengeancy days of yore--and yeah, it does bother me just a tiny bit that the woman I love spent a thousand years maiming and torturing guys who may have been creeps of one sort of another but probably didn't all deserve to have their parts rot off and their bodies devoured by army ants. I know that's not PC of me, but tough. And in less than three weeks I'm getting married and I'm going to be personally responsible for the welfare of another human being for the rest of our lives, so I am just a little bit nervous, all right? Everyone else around here gets to explode in random violence whenever they've had a bad day; I'm just joining the club." "Ah. Translation: It's hard to get shirty about the Slayer's choice of snogging partner when Anyanka's record of bloodshed and destruction puts yours truly to shame." Exactly. "No, it's totally different. Anya's human now." "Ah. Right. That old song again." "Eat flaming death, English pig-dog." They sat there for awhile. "She's a tidy bird, Anya." Spike pulled his cigarettes out and shook one free. After ceremoniously drawing it to life and taking a long drag, he flicked off his lighter and propped the hand with the smouldering cigarette up on one knee. "You muff this up and you're a bigger wanker than I thought." "Thought you didn't like her." "I don't. Don't think she's too fond of me, either, but that doesn't mean we can't get on." At Xander's expression he assumed a smirk of superiority. "It's a demon thing. You wouldn't understand." "Well, it won't matter if we end up wandering around the bowels of the Great Underground Empire for the next sixty years." Xander shoved his hair out of his eyes with his good hand and tried to estimate the time. It felt like hours, but the corridors were only a couple hundred feet long at most, and it couldn't possibly take more than five minutes to walk from intersection to intersection. Figure in more time for arguments, secret panel hunting, and staring hopelessly into space, and they couldn't have been here more than an hour, hour and a half tops. Not long enough to feel hopeless about getting out, but plenty long enough to engender growing panic about job security. We are in a maze of twisty little passages, all alike. Except not twisty. And not likely to be eaten by grues. Vampires, on the other hand... "Academically speaking, exactly how hungry do you have to get before the pain just doesn't matter any more?" Spike closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall. "Doesn't matter; you'll be dead of thirst inside a week and I can eat you in comfort." His lip curled. "I'd rather gnaw on loose insulation." At least there was a plentiful supply of it, Xander thought morosely. He looked up at the nearest bundle of cables. Strands of clean, unflaking plastic twined about one another, their colors bright and eye-catching. What the... "Spike?" Spike looked up from his cigarette, which had gone out, glower set on 'kill.' Xander pointed to the cable. "Does this look different to you?" "Of course it--" Spike flicked his lighter off and stuffed it back in his pocket, and crawled over to peer at the cables. He frowned at them from below for a moment, looked over his shoulder at the other cables visible, and got to his feet. Round the circuit of tunnels he prowled, poking, prodding, and sniffing. At last he halted in front of one of the bundles, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand and looking perplexed. All of them were like new. "There's not even any nubbly bits left on the floor," he said. "But this is the same intersection." Xander clambered to his feet rather less gracefully. Why the hell had Spike had to mention dying of thirst? Now he was parched, and the constant distant drip, drip, drip of water that they never reached wasn't helping. He tapped the tile with the black smudge in the center. "There's the cigarette burn, right..." He blinked. There was, in fact, no black smudge to be seen. "No, it's this one, you--bloody hell." Spike made another round of inspection. "It's gone." Xander worried the inside of his cheek. "OK, I thought I knew what was going on here. Some kind of teleport trap. Oldest trick in the Dungeonmaster's Handbook. But this is downright disturbing. It can't be of the good." "Oh, can't it?" Spike looked grim. "Did it ever occur to you to wonder what exactly happens when the Balance gets too far out of kilter on the side of goodness and light?" "Not really. 700 Club marathons?" Spike's shoulders twitched in an involuntary shudder. "Hang on a bit and you'll find out."

Revello Drive on a Sunday afternoon was rife with humanity--kids on skateboards, fathers out trimming hedges and seeding lawns with winter rye, old women with armloads of groceries gossiping on the corner. Spike strode down the sidewalk, a wolf in sheep's clothing--or at least, a wolf with a woolen blanket tucked underneath one arm. A few heads turned to watch him go by, but it was curiosity, not fear, that made them look. Odds were that half of them had seen him before, coming down the street of an evening or lurking about the Summers' front yard. In fact, he was certain of it, since someone had called the police on him once. He glanced up at the sky overhead. Nothing compared to a good London pea-souper. He'd lived too long in sunny California when a few clouds were as good as a slaughter. The sky was still grey enough that he cast no shadow, but the clouds were thinning, and here and there the grey was backlit with luminous silver. Just as well that he was close to his destination. Diffuse as the sunlight was, he could feel the burn across his cheeks, a raw tingle that was just short of being actively painful, but for the moment, the only smoke he was trailing came from the butt of his cigarette. He was going to pay for this tonight, but how many vampires could say they'd gotten a sunburn? Spike ignored the speculative looks of the neighbors and forged straight for the Summers' door, crossing the lawn with soundless feral grace and taking the porch steps two at a time. He turned before knocking, looking back over his shoulder. A boy on a beat-up dirt bike had paused in the street and was staring at him. Thirteen maybe, curly red hair and freckles. Spike smiled at him, and then growled--short, sharp and hungry. The kid's eyes bugged out of his head and his sneakered feet pawed the bike's pedals into a wild spin in his haste to be away. Still got it. And dealing with Dawn was going to take every ounce of it--though he couldn't quite see himself scaring her straight, anyway. He tossed his cigarette into the bushes and, after a moment's thought, tossed the blanket in after it. He rapped sharply on the door. Dawn opened it a moment later, looking rebelliously grungy and unbrushed. She was wearing a Power Puff Girls t-shirt and headphones from which the faint, tinny sound of a studio-enhanced quartet of Leonardo DiCaprio look-alikes wailing about luuuuuuve could be heard. At the sight of him she managed to look at once pleased, disgusted, and indifferent. "Oh. It's Spike." 'The Buffy-siding-with traitor' remained unspoken but strongly implied. She started to shut the door again, but Spike grabbed the edge and held on. "Ah, ah, ah, not unless you want to be sweeping yours truly into the rose bushes." He pointed towards the rapidly brightening sky. "Sun's coming out." Dawn made a show of thinking about it, but finally stepped back with a perfunctory lift of her thin shoulders, as if the work of sweeping the porch outweighed the delightful prospect of Spike's becoming rose food. "Come on in." Spike made a rude gesture at the sky and dodged inside--he was all for pushing the limits till they snapped, but the actual catching on fire bits still weren't particularly enjoyable. Dawn flopped down on the couch, picked up the mixing bowl full of chocolate-coated sugar bombs she was munching her way through, and eyed him briefly before returning her attention to the Cartoon Network. "You look like a lobster with mange." Spike prodded his cheek gingerly, wishing he had an Instamatic handy. He sat down beside Dawn on the couch, imitating her spine-contorting pose. "Yeh, well, it's that delicate English complexion. Tara about?" "In her room." Dawn scowled at the TV screen. "You don't think anyone would actually trust me to take care of myself for five minutes straight, do you?" She oozed further down on her tailbone and looked, for a moment, poised to throw a handful of cereal at the television, or possibly at him. "Not after last night, no." Dawn's scowl petrified into the Wall Of Teen-Age Hostility, and she turned the volume on her Walkman up to earsplitting levels. Spike ignored it. "Just as well the wicca girl's upstairs. Rather we had a bit of privacy for this." Dawn rolled her eyes, proof positive she was made from Buffy. "Whatever," she muttered. Spike appraised her for a moment, then snatched her earphones from her head. She shrieked and grabbed for his wrists. "Hey! Give those back!" He held them just out of reach overhead--he wasn't going to be able to do that in another year or so, best take advantage of superior height while he still had it--and made a threatening crunching motion with one hand. "Chip doesn't give a toss about electronics, Pigeon. I told your sis I'd talk to you, so give us a listen, and then we'll both have done our duty, right?" "Fine." Dawn went rigid against the sofa cushions, arms folded across her chest and teeth clenched, refusing to look at him. "Come on, give me the lecture." Her lips pressed hard together to still their trembling. "Tell me how stupid I've been, tell me I'm ruining my life, tell me how lucky I am Social Services isn't beating our door down right now, tell me how it's different when you do it, tell me--" He'd promised Buffy, that night last spring, to protect Dawn until the end of the world, and he'd done his best, feeble as that best sometimes was. Now and again, over the summer, it had been a tossup as to who was taking care of whom. Some things were easier to guard against than others. Spike held an arm out. "Come here." Dawn looked at him, blinking a little too hard. He crooked a finger at her. "Come here, you little nit, or I'll rip your ears off and use 'em for coasters." "L-Like you could!" The dam broke, and Dawn fell against him sobbing, burying her head in his shoulder and tipping the bowl of Cocoa Puffs all over the couch and his lap. Spike held her, stroking her hair and murmuring meaningless broken things as she wept into his chest, and silently thanked whoever was in charge of such things that Dawn hadn't poured any milk over her cereal. He wanted, as much as he'd he'd ever desired anything an a long and passionate existence, to make this right for her.... It wasn't right, this. Even less right than loving the Slayer. He could justify that to himself if he tried hard enough--he'd always been love's bitch and Buffy's was simply the latest hand on his choke-chain. Whatever good he'd done for her sake didn't count in the eternal balance; his motives were all proper selfish vampiric ones, and it never would have happened without the chip anyway, so he was still all right, wasn't he? This thing with Dawn, though... It had started out innocently enough, just an attempt to get in good with her sister, but now--now an ache in Dawn's voice stirred anxious pain within his own chest, and her laughter buoyed him up as though his dead heart were anchored in her living one, to rise and fall and beat in time with her joy and her anguish. Sitting here with her warm slim body curled against his side, her jerky sobs slowing and her breathing gradually evening out, he tried to pinpoint the moment when normal healthy bloodlust had drained away, to be replaced by this unnatural empathy. Sitting in the Magic Box, sharing the battered box of chocolates he'd been idiot enough to think he could give her sister? No longer ago than that, surely? He could have eaten her then, if the chip hadn't prevented it, if she hadn't been Buffy's sister, if he hadn't had a fond sneaking memory of big blue eyes staring defiantly at him through the bannisters three years past, as he and Buffy plotted Angelus's downfall. Why Slayer, I didn't know you were serving hors d'oeuvres! She'd never been afraid of him, his Dawn. Took after her mum, and ah, what he wouldn't give to have a long talk with Joyce Summers right about now. He ran the pad of his thumb across Dawn's cheek, wiping away the tears. "It's all right, Dawn-love." Passing strange that she could find comfort in a dead man's cold embrace, in the whiskey-roughened cadences of a killer's voice. But she did; he could feel it in the set of her shoulders beneath his arm, the little hitching sigh as she scrubbed the heel of her own hand across her eyes. He smoothed a strand of long brown hair away from her eyes. "You bollocksed it up, I won't tell you you didn't, but Christ, I came this close to killing a bloke last night. I've still got you beat for villainy." A shudder ran through her, half-sob, half laughter. "No way. Actual robbery beats attempted murder. I'm still badder than you." He laughed outright. God, he loved this girl. "You're sorry, aren't you, love?" Dawn snuffled, groping blindly over the arm of the couch for the box of Kleenex on the side table. "Of course I'm sorry!" "See, there's what a soul will do for you, pet--I'm not." Spike brushed a layer of half-crushed cereal off his jeans and gave her a squeeze. "At least not for that." He pulled a crumpled linen handkerchief out of one of the duster's inside pockets and handed it to her. "Here, you may as well get some good of it. I haven't used the bloody thing since 1948." Dawn took the handkerchief and examined it as if it were some bizarre antique device--which to her, Spike conceded, it probably was. "There's not, like, fifty-year-old vampire snot on it, is there?" "Blow your damned nose." She complied, folding the handkerchief carefully and tucking it into her jeans pocket when she was done. "I wish I had a chip sometimes. It's easy for you--if you try to do something bad, it zaps you before you do it. All a soul does is make you feel like crap afterwards." Dawn picked up the mixing bowl and made a half-hearted attempt to scrape the scattered flecks of chocolate into it, but gave up as it became obvious that her efforts were doing more to spread the cereal around than to consolidate it. She set the bowl on the coffee table, slumped back into the crook of his arm and sighed. "Have you ever been going along doing something that seems to be a fantastic idea, and then all of a sudden you realize it's the dumbest thing you've ever done in your life?" Spike rested his head against the back of the couch, lips pursed, and contemplated the ceiling. "Let me think. Let Dru play Lego blocks with the Judge, because all that destroy-the-world stuff's never serious? Hire some arsewipe to torture Angel for the Gem of Amarra and then let him run off with it? Chain your sis to a wall to show her we were meant to be, because manacles are a girl's best friend? Order a robot look-alike of Buffy? Nah, I've led a life of sober restraint." Dawn giggled weakly. "You sure have. You know what bites? I never took any of this stuff because I wanted it. I mean, sometimes I did. I know we're not starving and we've got a roof over our heads and all that crap, but there's no extra money for anything fun, ever! And every time I hint about hitting up Dad, Buffy gets this pinchy look around her eyes and it's like I'm stabbing her in the back or something." He knew the look; it was the same one Buffy got every time he hinted that there was blunt to be had in demon-killing. Ethics were a sodding pain in the arse. Spike picked a cocoa flake off his knee and ate it. "I think it galls her she can't keep you happy on her own, pet." "That's not it at all!" Tears started welling up in Dawn's eyes again. "She's not Mom, she can't be Mom, I don't want her to be Mom! I just want her to be my sister! She hates me, doesn't she, Spike? For helping bring her back. She just can't show it because I'm her stupid sister. She died when it should have been me, and then I--I--" Spike grabbed her shoulders hard enough to get a warning twinge from the chip and gave her a little shake. "Stop that! Buffy loves you, Bit. She's the only person who might love you more'n I--anyone else does. If anyone's to blame for bringing her back, it's Will and me, and mostly me--Will was about to drop the idea when I cozened her into going ahead. And if I hadn't fucked up royally on the tower neither one of you'd have needed to take a header off it. So no more of this." He held her eyes until she nodded, then let his hands drop. "Look, pet, tell you what, if you really want something, I'll nick it for you. Except for any girly bits you fancy--I'm not going to perv about in the Junior Miss section pocketing unmentionables. Or boy band CDs. Or--never mind, there's nothing you'd want I'd be caught dead stealing." She punched him in the ribs. "Oh, yeah, Buffy will go for that. I meant it when I said it wasn't the stuff. It was just... doing it. It was... cool. And a little dangerous. It made me feel like... like I was in charge of my life. Like I could do anything. Until I got caught." Spike cocked his head and regarded her gravely. "Yeh, that's the feeling, all right. You know, Niblet, when you do something for the thrill of it, you've got to take the rough with the smooth. If I fancy getting my rocks off killing other vampires, I've got to take the chance of getting the shit beat out of me every other Tuesday, and waking up starkers in the middle of the UCS quad with five minutes till sunrise. Laugh all you like, it's happened. It's worth it; I'd bloody well shrivel up and die if I couldn't kill something." Almost did. He shivered a little, recalling the black pit of despair he'd slogged through before discovering that the chip only worked on humans. "Guess you've got to decide if the feeling you get from nicking stuff's worth the dodgy patches that come with." "No." Dawn's reply was instant, and Spike marveled slightly. He could remember, through a glass darkly, something of what it felt like to have a conscience, but the thing itself was gone, vanished along with his pulse. Dawn looked a little wistful. "But it did feel good." Spike laced his fingers behind his head and crossed one boot over the other, heels making little crunching noises in the spilled cereal on the table. "Well, give us a bit, pet. Maybe we can do summat about that." He glanced around. "Here--do we clean this crud up or sneak off to the kitchen and pretend Tara's walking hairball did it?" "Blame Miss Kitty," Dawn said decisively, getting to her feet. Spike grinned up at her. "See, not being good's got its points." ***** Buffy concentrated on the rhythm of her feet on the pavement, step, step, step, each foot planted safely in the middle of the concrete squares. Step on a crack, break a vampire's back. And she had, once--dropped an organ on him, smash, and left him and Dru for really truly dead in the burning wreckage. More than once over the years she'd wavered between blessing or cursing the Sunnydale Fire Department for being far more competent than their colleagues in the police force. Funny. She'd probably caused him more lingering pain than he'd caused any of his victims. And then I killed them, right quick. The story of Spike's unlife, Reader's Digest Condensed version. Drusilla, mad broken thing, played with her food. Angelus and Darla had raised torture to a fine art. And Spike just... killed people. Necks snapped in a trice, throats ripped out with one quick savage flash of fangs. Preferably after a good fight, but he wasn't a fussy eater. Not exactly new information, Buffy. We've been over this before. Spike was a monster. Her monster. Her responsibility. People had attack dogs that they were... fond of. Safe as long as they were kept under proper restraint, and put down if they attacked out of turn, and that--that was what her relationship with Spike had to be. No more accidental slippage of the B word except it's already out and he's probably got it framed on his mantlepiece no admission of that other word she wouldn't even let herself think. She was in deep enough already without breaking out the shovels and heading for China. She stopped at the foot of the walk leading up to her house, looking across the lawn through the windows. She could see figures moving behind the drawn curtains, silhouettes painted on the cloth by the living room lights. An electric thrill ran along her nerves--Spike, right here. Her feet brought her closer of their own accord, up the porch steps to peer through the gap in the curtains. Inside, the muted roar of the vacuum cleaner drowned out any conversation; she could see Tara shaking the wand irately at the couch, where Spike was sitting meekly while Dawn dabbed aloe vera over his sunburnt nose. Compared to her first vampire love, Spike had always been third-rate evil, and nowadays he was practically channeling Mahatma Gandhi. Sort of. If Gandhi had been really into kicking demon ass and possessed of a not-so-secret hankering for a nice glass of O-neg after a hard night's killing. But Angel and Angelus still occupied separate corners of her mind, man and demon insuperably divided by Angel's possession of a soul. Dawn pooh-poohed the gap between soul and chip, but there was one vital difference: however much his ill-won conscience pained him, Angel wanted to keep it, and if someone offered Spike a chance to be rid of the chip... that didn't bear thinking of. The soul made it easy to love Angel, forgive Angel, place all his sins on Angelus's head. Spike, damn him, defied such compartmentalization. Man and demon were one; the Spike who traded jibes about musical taste or lack thereof with Xander, guarded Dawn like a pit bull, and set her own body on fire with a touch was the same Spike who tore through Sunnydale High turning Parent-Teacher Night into a bloodbath, the same Spike who but for the chip would have killed Ramon with equal abandon, and regret only that he'd upset her thereby. The same Spike who knew she was watching him. He looked up and smiled, his eyes locked onto hers, ice blue meeting grey-green through the veil of glass and gauze between them. The shock ran through her anew like wintergreen and lightning. Buffy tore herself away from the window and leaned for a moment against the door, forehead pressed to the frame, fingers locked around the cold brass of the handle. Nothing supernatural about it--or no more supernatural than any other vampire ability, anyway. He could catch her scent, sense her heartbeat, something. It was a predator thing. Nothing special about the fact that the two of them arrowed in on one another like Lassie coming home. It didn't mean anything. She wouldn't let it. She opened the door. "I'm home!" As usual when she was mired in angst, there was a spectacular lack of noticing on the part of the populace at large. Dawn ignored her entirely, intent on her patient. Tara gave her a little smile and a wave of the vacuum cleaner wand. "Has Angel called yet?" Buffy asked as she left the foyer, shouting over the roar of the Hoover. Tara toed the off switch on the vacuum cleaner and the noise died away. "Not yet. Unless the phone rang while I was vacuuming up the cereal that Miss Kitty somehow managed to pour into a bowl, carry into the living room, and spill all over the couch." She kept a perfectly straight face, and Dawn and Spike had the grace to look sheepish. Buffy tossed her purse onto the nearest chair. My psych project, Dr. Walsh, is a study in guilt transference in vampires from cereal to people. I'm borrowing Hostile 17. She looked askance at Spike--he really did look awful, as though he'd gotten a faceful of red spray-paint. With his accelerated healing, skin was already sloughing off the worst of the burnt places, which didn't improve matters any. "So--did we finally discover whether or not you freckle?" Spike gave her a sour look and jerked away from Dawn's hand. "Steady on, you're getting it in my eyes!" Exasperated, Dawn squeezed another dollop of lotion onto her fingers. "If you'd quit twitching it wouldn't go in your eyes, and it's your own fault for being mirror-challenged anyway, so suck it up." Buffy sauntered over to the couch for a ringside seat. "Will's probably going to be staying over at Giles's place for dinner. They're still playing with those tapes." She sat down and hugged a sofa pillow. "I think she's really hurt that we didn't wake her up last night. I don't know what good it would have done, but..." Spike grunted and made another futile effort to escape Dawn's ministrations. "She thinks you don't need her now that she can't sling the mojo." "But that's--what good would magic have done?" Buffy kicked off her shoes and absently slung a foot across Spike's lap. Just as absently he began massaging her toes. Too boyfriendy. Must move foot. Move, foot, move! Her foot informed her that it was just fine where it was, thanks, and invited the other foot to join it. After a bit she began kneading Spike's thigh with her free set of toes. Well, he did it to me. Turnabout is fair play. No, this is major badness. Ooh, behold the wonder of Buffy-logic. Letting him screw you bowlegged is fine, but a foot rub? Cobblestone on the road to hell! "Let's just say," Spike began doing absolutely sinful things to her instep with both thumbs, "That if yours truly were a charter member of the Geek Squad who'd become a big gun in this our demonic world through supernatural means, I'd be feeling bloody inadequate around now if those means were kicked out from under me. Doesn't matter why we didn't wake her, fact is we didn't." "I should have thought of that." Tara wheeled the vacuum back over to the utility closet and maneuvered it in among the clutter of brooms and dustpans and half-empty tins of shoe polish. "She's told me she was shy back in high school, but it's just so hard for me to imagine Willow being insecure about anything..." "When I first met her, Wills was the insecurity poster child. But it's been a long time," Buffy agreed. "She's changed a lot." "It's never long enough," Spike muttered darkly. "Or, er, so I've heard. Wouldn't know myself." "Because you've always been bad." Buffy reached over and tweaked his ear. "You know, if you're really into this I could try you out with a cucumber facial once Dawn's through with you." Spike collapsed backwards with a groan. "Bugger off, woman, and let me suffer the fruits of my hubris in peace." Buffy scooched closer, lips teasingly close to his ear, voice a husky whisper. "Ooh, words of more than one syllable. You know how hot that gets me?" She squealed as Spike's arm snaked round her waist and pulled her onto his lap. She wrapped her own arm around his shoulders and made herself comfortable, eliciting one of those yummy subterranean growls. Oh, yeah, squirming around in Spike's lap still gets a reaction, all right. "Reeeeally, pet?" How the hell did he manage to look and sound that sexy with aloe vera all over his nose? "Antidisestablishmentarianism." She flung her head back, exposing her throat. "Take me now!" "Just in case you're wondering, all Buffy's previous boyfriends used to offer me cold hard cash to go away at this point," Dawn pointed out from her end of the couch, where she was watching the proceedings with mildly revolted interest. "Boy, if Mrs. Kroger walked in right now..." The phone rang. Buffy jumped and Spike went tense as an overwound guitar string. Dawn snickered. "Saved by the bell." "Not funny, Bit." The phone rang a second time. Spike cocked an eyebrow at Buffy, who tried without success to break the nervous freeze which had gripped all her voluntary motor functions. "You really want me to get that and astonish the poof, love, you'll have to move." He glanced at Dawn and reconsidered. "On second thought, don't. You're covering a multitude of sins." "Uh," Buffy croaked. An entire scenario where Spike answered the phone flashed through her mind, complete with dramatic rising music at the part where Angel drove down from L.A. in a rage and crashed through the front door. Goody. Forget temp work, I have a future in scriptwriting. Tara shut the closet door and picked up the phone on the third ring. "Summers residence. Yes, she's here. Uh... yes, he is too. Um...no...I really d-don't know... do you want to t-talk to Buffy?" Buffy felt that little irritated line forming between her brows--what had he said to get Tara nervous enough to stutter? Tara picked the phone up and brought it closer, handing Buffy the receiver over the back the couch. She took it, panic fighting arousal in her gut. "Hello? Angel?" "Buffy." The voice was warm, deep, familiar. Once it had been the one she compared all other voices to. Spike's eyes had gone gold and he was running the fingers of one hand lightly up and down her arm, inscribing possessive hieroglyphs on her skin. "Cordelia said you wanted to get hold of Faith?" "Um. Want, no, need, yes." She tried swatting Spike's hand away; he captured hers instead and began kissing her palm. Slow. Soft. Tongue-tip tracing lazy circles. She swallowed a gasp. "It's a Council thing. So... you've got the number?" "Yeah. It's right here. Let me get the Rolodex." She listened to the muffled noises on the other end of the line and bit her tongue against the muffled noises she wanted to make herself. Was this all there was left between them? Awkward silences? It had been like that at their meeting, a week after her return. Sitting in the coffee shop, toying with their cups, staring at one another across an expanse of wood-grain Formica. Exchanging meaningless pleasantries: Why yes, I am alive again. So kind of you to notice. Dawn's fine (she still can't stand you) Willow's fine (she dragged me back to fight a war I'll never win for a world that doesn't care) no, I can't remember much about being dead (stole that from me too) and how are you? Two people who'd changed each other's lives, and now all they were to one another was an uncomfortable lunch date. She'd found herself willing the hands on the clock to move. He hadn't ordered anything. Why hadn't he ordered anything? Was he trying to make their rendezvous go faster too? But no, she'd forgotten--Angel didn't eat; the coffee was a major concession. What else could they say? I love you? What point? There was no expressing that love--passion was too dangerous, friendship too painful. Can I help? But it had been clear last year, after her mother's funeral, that there were limits and bounds to that help--"As long as you need me" could not be forever. So they said nothing worth saying, and the minutes dragged by. She had grown unused to fraught silences; Spike filled them up with words. Angel dug the silences deeper. Angel didn't eat. And she couldn't remember if he breathed in his sleep. And she had wanted very badly to go home. "Here it is. Got a pencil?" She started at the sound of his voice--expecting it to be lighter, harsher, tinged with the accents of other shores. "And paper, even." Tara handed her a pad of yellow Post-Its and she wrote down the number on the top sheet, underlining it twice and putting *Faith!* above it. "I'm going to call and make an appointment to see her as soon as I can--can you come along if I give you a few days' warning? I don't think there's a trusting, friendly vibe there since she stole my body." Angel sighed. "Buffy--" She was shot through with a bolt of pure hatred for that tone of voice--oh, so reasonable, oh, so adult. He'd defend Faith. Of course. "Love, give, forgive, I know the drill." Had it been too much to ask, after Faith had stolen her body, stolen Riley, stolen her life, that Angel take her side for once, without getting all noble and redeemy? She wasn't stupid. She knew that saving Faith was all about saving himself. I wanted you to be about saving me. She could feel herself getting tense and quivery, and the rhythm of Spike's hand stroking her arm shifted suddenly from erotic to sexless comfort. She took a deep breath. Maybe she should hang out with Anya more--someone who knew the value of a spectacular act of vengeance. Doubt and worry threaded Angel's distant voice. "Buffy, is Spike causing problems? Because if he is, we can come up and take care of him for you--" "No!" Was that squeaky silly-sounding thing her own voice? Shoot me now. "I can take care of Spike myself! And take care of? What is that? What is he, Old Yeller? You don't just 'take care' of someone--" Damn. Damn, damn, damn, damn... Stupid blinding insight. "Sorry. Sorry. This thing with the Council's got me all nervy. Look, I'll let you know when I can get into the city to see Faith. I'll probably be driving up with Spike, just so you know." She didn't give him a chance to reply. "Talk to you later. Bye." She slammed the phone down in its cradle and let her head fall back against Spike's shoulder, feeling as if she'd just run a marathon. After a moment the tension in his body got to her, and she slitted her eyes open. Spike was watching her with eyes like the heart of a flame, radiating a simmering heat suggesting that had a minor not been present, he would have been staking his claim to her right then and there. "What's with the phone sex?" she snapped. "Were you trying to make me--" "You didn't tell him," he said, half growling. Without a word, Tara grabbed Dawn's wrist, pulled her to her feet and started for the stairs. "You still have homework, don't you?" Dawn curled her lip. "Don't I always when anything interesting happens?" As her sister's reluctant footsteps faded, Buffy aimed a tight-lipped glare at Spike. "And why should I tell him? It's none of his business. I didn't send him a memo when I started dating Riley, did I?" "It's different. You know it's different." Citrine sparks flared in his eyes as his fingers closed round her wrists. Astonishing how very different the angry growl sounded from the happy growl or the horny growl or... Buffy felt a buried thrum of excitement at the thought that she'd actually have to exert some effort to break his grip. Spike shoved her roughly to one side, flinching slightly as the chip reacted, and flung himself off the couch and into a round of tigerish pacing. "I told the people who matter," she shot back, and because she knew he was right and hated it, some small mean part of her was prompted to add, "and you were lucky to get that." That struck deep, maybe deeper than she'd intended, and the raw pain in his eyes made her weak-kneed. "Think I don't know that?" His voice was bitter. "I'm properly grateful. You told the people you couldn't hide it from. The people who can pretend I'm human when it suits them. He knows exactly what I'm missing. He'll never forget what I am, and never forgive--cos it's what he is, too." He whirled round and pinned her against the couch with the sheer force of leashed rage--and it was leashed this time, no doubt there. "And you can't bloody well take the heat when it comes to Soul Boy's disapproval, can you?" She stiffened. "You don't know anything about it." "Oh, I know everything about it." Spike made a savage slashing gesture with one hand. "I know the Irish git walked out on you, out of the goodness of his bloody soul. I know you threw yourself at that Parker bastard--to forget him, to follow his bloody orders. Be normal." He spoke the word like a curse, his voice gone mocking. "Didn't work very well, did it?" Buffy rose slowly to her feet, eyes glittering. "My God. You're jealous. Of Angel? Of Parker? That's pathetic, Spike." "Shell of a loser, wasn't it? Of course I'm fucking jealous!" he roared. "I was so jealous then I couldn't see straight! Didn't know I loved you yet, but I knew you were mine! My Slayer, mine to kill--or not." He was in her face now, eyes blazing as the two of them circled one another, wolflike. "How d'you think it felt, watching you chase after a tosser not fit to clean your boots on, trying to drown the hurt he gave you, and knowing you'd take sodding Angel back in a sodding second if he lifted a soulful finger in your direction? I'd rather've put you in the bloody ground than see you crawling like that!" The muscles in his jaw clenched. "And nothing's changed, has it? You'll cross up your Watcher and your friends, give 'em the news that you're shagging the undead again--but you won't tell him. You'll still jump through hoops to be his bleeding normal girl. Well, you started this, Slayer--it was your idea to jump the vampire's bones. You bloody well know what I am, and if you can't handle it then what the hell are we doing here?" Buffy hooked her fingers into the lapels of the duster, bringing him to a halt. Things have changed. Lots of things have changed. "Good question," she hissed. "So what are you, Spike? Who are you? Just a vampire? You ought to know if that were true we wouldn't be having this conversation!" "Just a vampire? I'm William the fucking Bloody, baby. I pound railroad spikes through the heads of gits who annoy me, remember?" "Do you, Spike? You know what I am. And you know who I am. It's not like I can put you down like a rabid dog if the chip goes bad--you know that!" Didn't he? Maybe not. Those beautiful heavy-lidded eyes bored into hers, and she could see the flare of his nostrils, feel the quick, shallow rise and fall of his muscled chest beneath her hands-- He breathes for me. His lips curved in an ironic smile. "Can't you? Bloody hell, Slayer, what else did you tell the rest of 'em not three days ago? I told you last year I could give up the whole evil thing for you, and I meant it. I can change what I do. I have, and I'll keep it up--chip or no chip. But I don't have a sodding soul. Yea, though I walk through the Valley of Death I shall fear no evil, because yours truly is the meanest son of a bitch in the Valley. I am a vampire, I will always be a vampire, I will always get off on death and pain and destruction. That's what I am, forever and sodding ever, amen. I'll do the right thing for you, for the Bit, hell, even for Harris--I'll do it because I'm fond of this world of ours and I don't want to see the dozy old bint go smash. But I will never do the right thing because it's the right thing to do. I haven't got the wiring for it." She was trembling violently, anger and fear and desire braided together. Three days? Hadn't a lifetime passed since then? "You said--that night--you said you were mine." Blue eyes, drilling through her soul--not fair, when he had none. "And I am, Slayer. Yours to kill--or not." She could not, could not bear any more space between them. "Mine." She pulled him down, first crushing him close, then flinging him to the couch and following fast after. Her mouth, starved for him, wrested frantic greedy kisses from his lips. Her hands cupped his face, feverishly tracing the planes of his cheeks, heedless of his burnt skin. A sound half agonized, half ecstatic, ripped from his throat and he returned her caresses with equal passion. She sank her teeth into the muscle of his shoulder and he howled, bucking beneath her as she ripped open his jeans and skinned out of her own--and didn't he have a pretty cock, rising all rose and ivory from the brown curls so startlingly dark against his pale skin. The whole lovely thick length of him sprang up against his flat hard belly as soon as she freed him, foreskin slipping back from the dark glistening head. He was hard for her, so hard, and oh, that glorious right-to-the-center fullness when he entered her was like nothing on earth or beyond it. He was talking, still, as she began to move--of course he was talking, you couldn't pay Spike to shut up, ever--a steady stream of joyful profanity as her nails raked his sides and his hands dug into her ass with bruising strength, forcing her closer, forcing himself deeper: Oh God, oh fuck, right there, that's heaven, right in that tight little cunt, that's my Slayer, that's my sweet hot bitch, ride me baby, ride me hard, oh fuck, so good, make it hurt, make it hurt just like that, come on, say it, say my name, say my name when you come, come for me come for me oh Christ oh fuck fuck fuck fuck me Buffy fuck me Buffy FUCK ME OH GOD BUFFY! and together they lit up the night like a Beirut Fourth of July. Mine. Mine. My monster. No one else's, mine, mine, mine, thou shalt have no other Slayers before me. And they were falling, falling, raptured, transfixed, Lucifer flung from heaven and she burning in his arms. Before they struck earth she bit him again and he was instantly rock-hard within her non-existent vampire refractory period, hurray! and they were rocketing out of control again, comet-bright in the darkness, and she could swear that the delirious explosions of pleasure that rocked her never ever really stopped... ***** "You realize," Dawn said to Tara, sprawled out on the bed in he mother's old room and doodling in the margin of her geometry textbook, "That I'm scarred for life. This means guilt presents. Lots of guilt presents." ***** "Mine," she whispered, too exhausted to stop the tears. "Yours," he breathed. "Forever. Don't cry, love. I'm here." She curled against him, shaking. "It's not that. It's not... oh, God, Spike, I'm--you were right. You were right." Cool hands cradled her face, cool lips--not so cool now, warmed with her warmth--brushed her shoulder, tender, infinitely gentle. "Ah, sweet, be still, be still... Dunno what you're getting at, love." "When you said--at Willy's, when you said I didn't care. About -about - I'm so fucking sick of saving the world! I was going to let the whole world die to save Dawn. I was. Because it was wrong to kill her, but - but mostly - because I couldn't bear to lose her. I killed myself fighting the Master. I killed Angel. I lost Riley, I lost Mom, I--Dawn was more important than the whole world, Spike!" A long pause. "Sounds about right to me." "But it's not." A broken sob. "How can I be the Slayer when I don't care about saving the world anymore? I got lucky. What if my blood won't work next time? When--" When the fact that you love me, love Dawn, to the exclusion of all else is more important to me than all you've done, all you may do? "But you're out there every night doing it still, love." "Right. Just like you. And you don't care, do you?" He jerked his head up and away, trembling, but he wasn't quite strong enough to break her grip without a struggle. We can't escape one another that easily. Something in him broke; she could almost hear the snap. "I don't know. I don't know anything anymore." He looked down at her. "There are--bloody hell, dozens!--of people I wouldn't feel good about killing. There's half a dozen I'd feel bad about killing!" His voice was barely audible. "It's not like I'm going all brooding and poof-like--I could kill 'em, you know, sans bloody chip, and I don't think I'd weep for it afterwards. But... it wouldn't be fun. I'm starting not to care how fucking wrong it is. What if it doesn't stop there? What if some day I do start--" His voice cut off, half choked. There were some things he couldn't bring himself to say yet, either. She reached up and smoothed the riot of sweat-soaked platinum curls away from his forehead. "Caring? Sounds about right to me." She sighed. "We're messed up." He echoed the sigh. "We are that." He stretched, drawing her closer. "Could be worse, though. On the bright side, the shagging is bloody brilliant." Buffy gave in to a little hiccuping laugh. Somehow he could always do that much for her. "Yeah." She tucked her head into his shoulder. Springs creaked dangerously beneath them, and something went spung. Buffy grimaced. Damn. We really can't afford a new couch. Note to self: have wild passionate vampire sex only on concrete surfaces until the bloom is off the rose. Say, twenty or thirty years from now. "I guess if you have to be messed up, you may as well be messed up with someone you love." It took a minute, and then he drew a gasping breath as if she'd staked him. "Buffy..." What the hell. She'd always liked going for Chinese. She raised her head and looked him in the eyes. "You heard me." Wow, she thought as he dove on her and the last intact spring in the sofa noisily bit the dust, I finally managed to shut Spike up.

Dawn detoured around a tombstone and shifted the bag of groceries from one hip to the other. "You could have left me off at Lisa's." Lisa and Megan had agreed eagerly that it wasn't necessary to burden Lisa's mom with excess information about their night out, and had agreed somewhat more reluctantly to tell Lisa's mother that Dawn had gotten sick and gone home early--Megan obviously suspected the two of them of being off to have further adventures of which she was being left out. Spike took a final drag off his cigarette and sent the butt spinning into the night. "Could've. Didn't." Dawn shot him a sideways look under her lashes. Something had unnerved him there at the end, as they'd escaped the park; he was stalking along, head down, duster flapping behind him, doing the 'I'm a predatory creature of the night and don't you forget it!' thing big time--a difficult effect to achieve while carrying a styrofoam cooler under one arm, even if it was full of pig's blood, but Spike had had a lot of practice. "I thought we weren't going to add to my sister's worries." "That," Spike said, "was before you left the car." He looked down at her and his voice softened. "Not that we didn't appreciate the hand, Bit, but if anything'd gone wrong you could have ended up roughly as bright as Harris. Your chums--they had no idea what they were getting into, did they? Not the best choice for backup, pet. For bloody stupid planning I'm bound to make you suffer, and I can't think of anything calculated to cause more suffering than forcing you to endure your sister's company when she's good and brassed off." Dawn punched him in the arm. "You really are evil." She stuck her lower lip out and added in lower but still perfectly audible to vampires tones, "And if you think enduring Buffy's presence is a good punishment for stupid plans, no wonder you come up with so many of them." He chuckled, his mercurial spirits on the upswing again. "Pet, I still don't buy that you could spot a kukri knife in a dark boot and completely miss the full can of petrol right beside it." "I told you, it was behind the cooler!" She wasn't going to live that one down for quite awhile. "Anyway, it's not my fault you drive a car that gets, like, three miles to the gallon." Spike looked wounded. "Twelve, I'll have you know!" As they approached the crypt he stopped in the middle of the path, frowning, and put a restraining hand on Dawn's shoulder. "Half a mo'. We've got company." Dawn looked ahead. Tawny golden light poured out through the windows of the crypt--someone had lit the candles, which meant that the visitor was either human or some other kind of demon--vampires wouldn't have needed the light. A darker shape moved behind the iron crossbars of the window. Spike pulled Dawn off the path and into the shadow of a nearby elm. "See if you can stay put this time." He glided off towards the crypt, a shadow among shadows, all business now and infinitely more dangerous-looking for it. Dawn set her bag down and folded her arms across her chest, tucking her hands into the sleeves of her sweater against the chill. With all that had gone on already tonight, she was far more on edge than she liked to admit, and letting Spike out of her sight was the last thing she wanted to do. She stood on tip-toe, trying to see what was going on inside, but the angle was wrong and the candlelight too diffuse to make anything out. It was with great relief that she saw the vampire's pale head re-appear in the crypt doorway. "All clear, pet. It's just your sis." "Oh, great. I was hoping it was only a flesh-eating demon." When Dawn entered the crypt Buffy was hovering beside the stairwell to the crypt's lower level, arms folded, head down, carefully not looking at Spike. Spike was setting the cooler down by the refrigerator, carefully not looking at Buffy. Dawn expected her sister to go into lecture mode immediately, but to her surprise Buffy just acknowledged her presence with a nod. "I put her in your bed," Buffy said. "I hope that's OK. Tara's down there with her now." "Yeh, no problem." Spike ran a hand through his hair and bent to fiddle with the lid of the cooler. "Still housebroken, isn't she?" The two of them were not looking at each other so hard Dawn wouldn't have been surprised to see scorch marks in the air between them. Ooh, this was new. Dawn tried not to stare too obviously as she set the grocery bag down on top of the mini-fridge and began pulling things out. Buffy'd said they'd had a fight. What kind of fight left you acting like that? Buffy'd always claimed that Spike considered a punch in the nose third base. "Her? Her who? What's wrong?" "Willow," Buffy said, her voice flat. "She's--last night, we found Willy the Snitch wandering around in the middle of the highway, acting like one of Glory's crazies. Tonight Willow ran into the guy that did it. At least I hope so--I'd hate to think there were two of them running around. Willow has left the building, sanity-wise." Spike abandoned the no-eye-contact game and looked right at her, startled. "Would the bloke she ran into be a skinny dark-haired git about so tall?" He held a hand a few inches above his own head. "Dresses like Babbitt on a bad day?" "Failing the cultural literacy quiz here, but yeah, that sounds like him." Buffy rubbed her forehead and pulled her hair back from her face, still avoiding the vampire's gaze. "Is Willow going to be OK?" Dawn asked. "Tara can fix her, right?" "I don't know. I hope so. Willy recovered, so..." Buffy frowned at Spike. "How do you know what Mr. Brainsuck looks like?" With a common problem to focus on, the uncomfortable tension between the two of them dissipated like morning fog. "Harris and I crashed his picnic in Weatherly Park." Spike knelt down, opened the cooler and began transferring his blood to the fridge. "Showed up running like Old Nick was after him. His name is Tanner, he was one of Glory's lot, and he's still got a whole crew of nutters with him--they pulled a bait and switch on Harris, got him to go poncing off after a damsel in distress--" It was Buffy's turn to raise an eyebrow. "Followed by his faithful vampire companion?" Spike gave her a dirty look. "Couldn't let the bleeder wander off on his own, could I? Wouldn't last ten minutes, and you'd skin me for it. Though in his case, damned if I know what difference losing his mind would make. From what this Tanner bloke said when he tried his Tibetan memory trick on yours truly, if he ran into Will by himself, she'll get over it. Put those biscuits in the crate there, Pigeon," he directed Dawn. He examined the contents of said crate and held up the remaining bottle of whiskey with a frown. "Oi, I had two of these in here!" He sniffed suspiciously. "Slayer?" Buffy groaned. "I don't have time to explain right now, but it was vitally necessary." A ferocious light entered her eyes. "This guy went after you and Xander? Xander's all right?" "Eh--a bit knocked about. We dropped him off at the emergency room to have his hands seen to. Anya's with him. And I'm just fine, thank you for asking." Buffy ignored him. "Dawn, why exactly are you here?" "It was vitally necessary?" Dawn said with a weak grin. She held out a box of Ritz crackers. "Hungry? We can make peanut butter cracker sandwiches." They ended up making up a plate full of crackers, cheese and apples to take down to Tara, Spike grumbling the whole time about not having signed on to feed the multitudes. Dawn held it carefully in one hand while climbing down the glorified ladder which served as a staircase to the lower levels. Spike's downstairs was bigger than his upstairs, including the original lower level of the crypt, several rooms dug out beneath the cemetery, and access to the tunnels running all over Sunnydale. Though he had indeed gotten rid of the pile of moldering skulls (Dawn rather regretted the loss; the skulls had been pretty cool) the atmosphere was still leaned more towards the Addams Family than Better Homes and Gardens. There was real furniture down there now, but whenever he'd run into a coffin in the course of his excavations, Spike had hauled it out and incorporated it into the decor. Dawn occasionally speculated on whether or not the end tables still harbored their original occupants, but had never gotten up the nerve to ask. The bedroom was off the main room through a low, irregular archway. It was a weird combination of comfortable and creepy. The floors were blanketed with a haphazard collection of oriental rugs. There was a bookshelf, a nightstand with an old-fashioned pitcher and basin, a coffin-cum-blanket chest, and a wardrobe which, at a guess, housed Spike's extensive collection of black jeans and t-shirts. Another coffin or two hung drunkenly out of the packed earth of the walls by way of decoration. The room was dominated by a huge old four-poster bed in dark wood, complete with canopy in hunter green and cream swirls. In the middle of the vast expanse of counterpane Willow was curled, small and waifish with her auburn hair in flyaway wisps about her face. Tara looked up as they entered; she was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching Willow with a heartbreaking expression. Willow broke into an agitated wail when she saw Dawn. "Oh, the shining, the shining, come over the sea with the brightness inside..." She reached out, fingers crooked, raking the air with both hands. Dawn cringed back. She'd thought this was all over. She wasn't the Key anymore, she was just Dawn Summers, dammit! Wasn't it ever going to stop? "I don't think it's a good idea, everyone being in here at once," Tara said, taking the plate with an apologetic look. Buffy circled the bed; Willow had half-crawled, half-slumped over to the side opposite Tara, and was pawing aimlessly through Spike's pile of bedtime literature, shoving things under the bedstead at random. "Come on, Will, sit up." Willow ignored her, and Tara leaned over, took her lover firmly by the shoulders and pulled her upright. Buffy shot a helpless, guilty look back at the others. What on earth did she have to feel guilty about? Dawn thought bitterly. She couldn't stop staring at Willow's slack, horrible, yearning face. She felt sick to her stomach. "Come on, Bit," Spike said, taking her arm. "We'll give them some air." Guilt or no guilt, she was exhausted, and it was a relief to collapse on the couch in the main room, though it was one of those stiff, fancy drawing-room type divans and not exactly built for comfort. Spike sat down on the end opposite and watched her, head on hand. Dawn tucked her arm under her head and stared across the room at the niche in the wall where Spike had once kept that pathetic shrine to her sister--the shrine was long gone, but the niche still had a couple of defiant snapshots tacked up: one copy of the picture of her and Buffy and Joyce which stood in the Summers' living room, but mostly a series of goofy pictures of her and Spike making faces at the camera that they'd taken at one of the four-for-a-dollar photo booths at Sunnydale Mall. Someday she'd find someone to explain why vampires wouldn't reflect in anything, but photographed just fine. "So--counting Willow, how many people have ended up dead or insane because of me?" Spike snorted. "Zero. Don't recall you holding a gun to anyone's head and forcing them to suck anyone else's brains out." She rolled over and stared up at the vaulted ceiling, lost in darkness and cobwebs. I'm fifteen years old, I didn't really exist until those stupid monks shoehorned me into everyone's memories a year ago, I know that ho-bag Kirsty is badmouthing me to Kevin in first period history, Mom's dead and dad never calls, my sister is a vampire slayer and my best friend is a defanged vampire. "Spike--when do I get to stop feeling like shit about existing?" Spike leaned back, laced his hands behind his head, and pursed his lips. "It's been a long time, but I seem to recall that stage lasting from approximately age thirteen to age twenty-eight. 'Course between you and me, Bit, I was a bit of a wanker in my breathing days." "What happened at age twenty-eight?" "Dru killed me." "Oh." "All things considered, I don't recommend it as a cure for weltschmertz." "Guess I'll pass." Spike leaned over and pulled an afghan down from the back of the couch, tugging it over her shoulders. "Get some sleep, pet. Will'll be fine." ***** Spike was slouched in the middle of the long gold couch when Buffy came out of the bedroom, one booted foot propped up on the coffin in front of it, the other folded under him. He was balancing a book on his bent knee, head cocked back a bit. Spike reading. She was still trying to get used to that. It wasn't anywhere near as bad as Giles' place, but once you knew to look for them, Spike had books stashed all over the crypt--tattered Remo Williams paperbacks and lurid romance novels rubbing spines with Shakespeare; Dorothy Parker living in literary sin with Hunter Thompson. They'd always been there, but somehow she'd never noticed before--before having died. Her sister was curled up on the far end of the couch underneath a black-and-red crocheted afghan--more or less; Dawn's long-legged, coltish body didn't curl very compactly any longer. Her feet, still in their straggle-laced sneakers, hung off the couch, and her glossy chestnut hair fanned out over the arm. She was making a very soft noise as she slept, somewhere between a snore and a sigh. Buffy, unwilling to disturb her, walked over as quietly as she could and sat down beside Spike. His eyes flicked up as her shadow fell over him, then down to his arm's-length perusal of the book again. He seemed to have gotten over the impulse to hide it and pretend he'd only been watching Bob Barker. Not that that would work very well when the television was upstairs. "How's Will?" Her shoulders slumped. "Same old. I wish we knew how long before we found him Willy'd been hit. It would give us some idea how long Will's going to be..." She felt tears welling up again. "Oh, god, the things I said to her! If that's the last thing she remembers of me..." "Ah, love..." Subdued, Spike closed the book and tossed it over onto the coffin; it hit the curved lid with a thump and slid off. His hand hovered just short of her shoulder in that way he had of not quite touching her. "Haven't exactly been thinking the happiest thoughts about Will myself lately." His arm finally settled on the back of the couch, behind her. Still not touching, but the tension in his body was palpable. A mewling noise came from the bedroom, followed by the wordless murmur of Tara's voice. Buffy shuddered, straightened, and looked over at the door. "Spike--" "Buff--" "Me first," she said, rushing the words out. "I'm tired of missing my chances to say things. If I'd talked to Willow weeks ago and tried to work this out--" He made a small impatient noise. "Guilt runs in the family, does it? Love, this isn't your fault--" "Shut up, Spike, this has nothing to do with Willow and I want to get this said. I was out of line last night. Not for wanting you to pay for your own blood, but for--for--" She stopped, stiff with frustration. "This is so hard to explain! For trying to--to force you to..." Spike sat up a bit straighter, head cocked in perplexity. Buffy gnawed on her lower lip. "I didn't want the reminder," she said at last. "I was forgetting there, for a minute, who you are. What you are. I don't want to do that." His flinch was barely perceptible. Buffy cringed. "No! I don't mean it like--why do I suck at this so much?! I don't want to forget it because--because I don't want to forget anything about you. Spike, you've changed. A lot." Enough? God, I don't know.. . "Sometimes I can't believe how much." She swallowed, hands clasping convulsively in her lap. "But you did it by yourself. I can't jump in now and make you--" The intensity in his voice was terrifying. "You know I'd do anything for you, love..." "That's the problem! It wouldn't be real, don't you see? And if there's ever going to be anything between us--" (and oh, did his ears prick up at that) "It's got to be--there can't be any lies. For either of us. I--the loving me, I know that's big, bigger than I can really--but I can get love from a lot of places, Spike. You give me honesty, and that's... Never change that. Never. No matter what else--" Spike didn't say anything, just sat there, attentive, gaze riveted to her face, waiting for her to finish. She couldn't deny, deep down, that it was a bit of a rush, this power she held over him, the more so because she knew it left her balanced on a knife's edge. Spike might be love's bitch, but even he had limits, as Drusilla could attest, and there was no guarantee she wouldn't push him to those limits, someday. The loa's inhuman voice rang in her ears. What do you want him to do? "You don't have a soul. I can't ever pretend that you do. But you do have a mind. So promise me something, Spike. About the blood. In fact, about everything." She drew a deep shuddery breath. "Do what you think is right. Even if I don't like it--even if I hate it, even if I hate you. It--it's got to be real, what I see when I look at you." Spike sat there for a long time, studying her with those incendiary blue eyes. At last he sighed. "You don't make it easy on a bloke, do you, Slayer?" She managed a shaky smile. "It's part of my charm." "Maybe Harris will trade me for the flower problem." "Huh?" "Long story." The corners of his mouth twitched. "I was going to tell you I'd decided to give up the nummy people snacks for good, but in light of new information p'raps I should reconsider." Buffy stared, floored. "Um." The twitch turned into a grin. "Close your mouth, Slayer, you'll catch flies. I don't bloody well want to, you know. Imagine living on oatmeal with all essential vitamins and minerals added for the rest of your life and you'll get some idea of what the pig's blood diet is like." He laced his fingers together and rested his chin on his hands, dark brows knit, obviously thinking hard. "Tell you what," he said at last, "I won't drink anything that I don't know for certain came from a willing healthy donor." He quirked an eyebrow. "Blood from Willy's stable of drunks tastes like sodding turpentine anyway." She studied him in turn. This is Spike, technically evil vampire. Someone I shouldn't like, shouldn't trust, shouldn't want--and do. "Okay. That's a decision I don't have to stake you for." He snorted. "Ah, I should have guessed that was the downside to your little do-as-you-like speech." "Hey, I have to be all with the honesty too." Buffy stared at the cover of the fallen book, but it was upside-down and the lettering was too faded to make out anyway. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the crushed-velvet upholstery. There was only a breath between them--literally; Spike inhaled sharply as her hair tickled his arm, and she felt his ribs brush lightly against her shoulder. Spike used breath the way a writer used punctuation, for emphasis, for clarity. Every rise and fall of that black-clad chest meant something: there were no unneeded breaths. Lucky her, she had to inhale all the time and there was no way he could tell which breath was spurred by mere need of oxygen and which from the imperative to draw as much of his scent into her lungs as possible. Admitting to the attraction, even if only to herself, had probably been a mistake. Do you think maybe you could go back to trying to kill me on a regular basis, Spike? It's way more effective than cold showers . Eyes tight shut, she could still map out the lineaments of his body relative to hers--nothing mystical or romantic about it, just that around Spike her Slayer's sense for a vampire's presence grew incredibly intense and specific: not just 'vamp nearby!' but 'Spike, right here!' It had been that way with Angel, once. Maybe it would be that way with any vampire she was around for a long enough time. He wouldn't make the first move; he knew she didn't love him, and that she'd never act on the desire he'd always known was there. She wouldn't make the first move; she knew she couldn't possibly get involved with another vampire, especially a soulless one, most especially Spike. So they could go on like this forever, dance at arms' length in the exquisite torture of one another's presence, taunt one another in the desperate hope that one of them would snap, and somehow the results wouldn't be the other's fault. Or she could back off, return to a life where Spike was just another thing out there in the dark, put them both out of their misery. Except that the thought of life without Spike in it had all the appeal of day-old Tab. And wasn't she supposed to be being honest, here? She didn't love him. But she was no longer at all certain that she couldn't love him. "There's no way this isn't going to hurt, is there?" she said softly. Spike didn't ask what she was talking about--he always knew. "Eventually? Yeh. But Christ, love, what doesn't, eventually?" "Well. Someone once told me to risk the pain." Buffy leaned over--only an inch or two, all that was necessary--and closed the distance between them, sliding her arm behind him, her hand burrowing between the small of his back and the couch. Every muscle in his torso twitched in response to her touch, and he let out a long hissing sigh. She'd done this before. A year ago, with Riley. A lifetime ago, with Angel. Even once with Spike, under the influence of Willow's mis-cast spell. She had loved the dead before, and her body remembered what she had tried to forget in the arms of the living. Familiar, the cool weight of his arm slipping down to rest on her shoulders, the room-temperature body next to hers slowly warming with her heat. Familiar, her own heartbeat sounding the all louder in her ears for lack of any answering beat in the chest beneath them. Familiar, the sensation of irregular breaths drawn and held far too long for human comfort, and the faint earthy scent of male vampire. And different, the whipcord leanness of his body, the ease with which they fit together, the way his shoulder was the perfect height for her head. Different, the contours of his face beneath the blind explorations of her free hand, the angle of his jaw, the elegant jut of his cheekbones and the hollows beneath, the scar running across his left brow, legacy of another Slayer, long ago. Different, the long cool fingers, nicotine-stained, slightly callused, drifting across her own cheek and brow. Different, the crisp stiffness of his gelled hair and the way it sprang into traitorous curls when mussed. Different, the smell of leather and tobacco, whiskey and shaving soap that was uniquely Spike. God, it felt good to touch him with no ulterior motive, felt as if years worth of tension were draining out of her through every square inch of their close-pressed bodies. Buffy opened her eyes, looking up into Spike's face, watching as astonishment and adoration and lust and (ah, for him too) sublime relief chased across it, and whatever he saw in her face (and she herself had no idea what the huge giddy bubble of emotion expanding outwards from her center was composed of) it couldn't have been too bad. Citrine fireworks burst and faded in the blue of his eyes, but his features were still entirely human. "Change," she said. Spike blinked, customary eloquence fled. "Huh?" "Change. I want to see all of you." He looked at her a moment longer, and then the bones of his face shifted beneath her fingers, his canines lengthened into fangs and the demon ridges emerged from his brow, lowering over eyes gone lion-gold. She traced the new lines curiously. She was unused to seeing him like this; unlike most vampires, Spike spent most of his time in human guise, but there was a strange, harsh beauty even in this aspect of him. "There's something I've been wanting to ask you for a long time," she said, trailing one finger down his cheek. His voice was husky. "Yes, love?" Buffy stared deep into those leonine eyes and whispered in a voice as sultry as she could make it, "Why don't you have any eyebrows in game face?" Spike exploded in snort of laughter, face melting back into humanity. "Fuck you, Slayer." She smiled--the teasing one. "We'll see." "Bitch." Looking at her as if he wanted to eat her whole. "Pig." Looking at him as if she'd like nothing better. "You've still got stupid hair." Buffy twined her fingers in his own thoroughly disordered locks. "You dare dis the hair, bleach boy? This means WAR!" Spike leaned forward, eyes glittering beneath half-closed lids. "Bring it on, baby." His hands slid down her back, fingers kneading the muscles along her spine. He was growling deep down in his chest, a low purring rumble she'd only heard once or twice before (because really, how often was Spike relaxed and happy at the same time?) The sound vibrated through her whole body, curling her toes as her arms locked around his narrow waist and pulled him closer. Mmmm. Toasty. If this was what a relatively chaste hug felt like, God help her when they actually got around to the lip action-- waitaminute, lip action? Who says there's going to be-- "Guys, Willow's--" Tara stopped, hand flying to her mouth, and the two of them broke apart guiltily. "Um. Awake. Now." Spike groaned. Buffy whacked him on the shoulder and squirmed out from underneath him, her cheeks aflame. Tara's eyes were darting everywhere and anywhere but the couch. "I w-wasn't, uh, interrupting..." "No," Spike grumbled, "But if you'll sod off for about fifteen minutes I can fix that." "Don't start picking out curtains just yet." Buffy tugged her blouse into place. Ego much? Once out of physical contact with the mind-altering substance that was Spike, the Ohmigod I did what with who on the same couch my semi-innocent baby sister is sleeping on? reaction was starting to set in. What, does he think one, uh, comradely, yeah, that was a good word for it, comradely, hug means I'm just going to swoon and tumble into his manly arms and--they are awfully nice arms, all muscley and... Stop that! Spike was just sitting there and grinning at her, doing that maddening thing with his tongue when Tara wasn't looking. "I'm going to go talk to Wills, and then I'm going to take Dawn home, and--" Big in-no-way-innocent blue eyes blinked up at her. "Does she fancy a fireman's carry, or d'you want me to give you a ride?" Damn. "I'll think about it." "You do that, love. I know I'll be thinking about it." Buffy glared at him to no effect whatsoever, and beat a hasty retreat to the bedroom. Willow was Willow again, sitting up in the middle of Spike's bed and nibbling on crackers and cheese. Tara had stayed out in the other room with Spike, abandoning Buffy to the mercy of her own good intentions. "So..." Buffy laced her fingers together on her lap and studied her nails intently. "You're feeling better?" Willow nodded, rolling the edge of the coverlet into little curls with one hand and unrolling it again. "Better in the sense of not completely insane, yes. Otherwise... pretty brain-fried." She wrinkled her nose and lifted up a handful of coverlet. "And I think Spike smokes in bed. I'm going to smell like the Marlboro Man for a week." "Hey, thanks to Mr. Possess-and-Run I practically bathed in bourbon. Join me in a mutual 'ew.'" Though in certain select instances the combination isn't completely revolting--stop that! "Spike says he ran into the guy who did this to you. His name's Tanner, or at least that's what he's calling himself. Spike thinks he's one of the people Glory brainsucked. There seems to be a whole gang of them on the loose." "Oh. That's good, I guess. Or not good. But useful. I-I can't remember much after I started to talk to him. It's all confused until I woke up here." Her haunted eyes reflected the candle flames, a muddle of light and dark. "But I can check the name against the hospital's admissions records last spring and see if it matches any of the known victims. Maybe we can find something that'll help us track him down. Plus this thing that took over Tara--got to be a big clue, right?" "Are you sure you're up to all that?" Willow summoned up a wan smile and tucked her hair behind her ears. "The Net Witch is all good to go." "Well, that's good." Buffy licked her lips. "Will... I just wanted to tell you..." This was her night for awkward confessions, it seemed. "About what I said earlier. I'm sorry. Or not for what I said, for the way I said it--I mean, I was angry about what you did, but I shouldn't have--I should have tried to talk to you about it before, not--" "Is it really that awful?" Willow broke in. Her hands had clenched on the blankets. In the dim light her eyes were the color of moss in deep water, and her voice sounded husky and smudged, like a bad recording. "Being back here. Alive. Is it really so bad that you have to hate me for it?" "I don't hate you!" Buffy cried, taking the other woman's hands in her own. "I could never hate you, Wills, and that's what makes this so--no, it's not awful. It's not--it's not anything, really. I just feel so... so flat most of the time. Like I'm living behind glass. And every now and then the glass disappears and I'm really in the world again, but the glass always comes back, and the good moments make the rest that much worse--I can't remember where I was when I was dead. I can't even remember if I was. There's this huge hole in me, and I can't..." She trailed off in frustration. "That's part of the spell." Willow's voice was small and sad. "I changed the part of the spell where it says 'the gates of Hell shall open,' 'cause, you know, pretty sure you weren't in Hell. But mostly the Scroll of Aberjian was used to bring back people who'd been sent to, well, pretty awful places. The Raising spell's designed to make the subject forget the pains of hell, so they're not completely wild and crazy. Like Angel, when he came back?" "So thoughtful of it. So I get to forget the pleasures of Heaven, or the world without shrimp, or wherever I was?" Buffy sighed. "I guess it could have been worse." "Yeah." Willow blew hair out of her eyes. "I could have done something really stupid, like bringing you back to life inside your coffin. But..." A pleading note entered her voice. "Like you said this morning, it's getting better, right? I mean, most of today was good, right? So pretty soon you'll be fine again." Buffy opened her mouth, but the expression on Willow's face, so full of raw, aching hope--Please don't tell me I've ruined my best friend's life --killed the words aborning. "Yeah, Will," she said, very softly. "I'll be fine." After all, she wasn't really lying. Maybe she would be, someday. ***** Dawn sat in the back seat of the DeSoto between Willow and Tara, lulled into a half-doze by the hum of the engine. Occasionally Spike or her sister, up in the front seat, would make some meaningless comment about the route home, or getting together with the rest of the Scoobies tomorrow. None of it was as interesting as the fact that Spike had his arm draped over the back of the front seat, his hand on her sister's shoulder, and was stroking the point of her collarbone with his thumb. And her sister not only hadn't broken his nose but seemed to be scooching across the front seat, getting closer and closer to him. "I've got my keys," Tara said as the car pulled into the Summers' driveway and the engine rumbled to a halt. She got out and started up the walk to the front porch, stopping half-way. "Willow, do you need help?" "I'm--well, maybe. Dawn?" Dawn pried her eyes all the way open and got out with Willow on the street side. Willow made her way rather shakily around the car, leaning on Dawn's arm for the walk up to the porch. There was no weight to her, as if her ordeal had hollowed her out and all that was left was a Willow-shaped shell. Dawn felt as if she could have picked her up and carried her as easily as Buffy could have. Tara undid the lock and the deadbolt and ushered Willow inside. "Where's Buffy?" Dawn looked over her shoulder. "Still in the car, I think." She squinted over at the car; a vague shape moved behind the blacked-out windows of the DeSoto. "Buffy?" She hopped down off the porch, walked back over to the driveway, and rapped sharply on the windshield. "Buffy! You in there?" The car lurched in place, the shocks protesting, and for a second a hand was plastered to the windshield. BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP! The blat of the horn was followed by a muffled yelp. Dawn jumped back as the door flew open. Spike tumbled out backwards with Buffy on top of him, her hands clutching the lapels of his duster, engaged in major kissage. Red-hot, desperate, someone's-coming-back-any-minute face-sucking. Spike hit the ground with a thump that would have knocked the air out of anyone who'd needed air, but neither of them seemed to notice the change in scenery. "Aaaaahhhhh!!!" Dawn clapped her hands over her eyes. "If you guys don't break it up I'm going to need a parental advisory warning for my own driveway!" Buffy drew back with a gasp, her eyes wide and stunned, and looked around, obviously trying to figure out how they'd gotten from the front seat to the driveway. Spike folded his arms behind his head and lay there on the concrete with what was quite possibly the most self-satisfied smirk in the history of the world, in no hurry to get her off of him. "Um," Buffy said. "I, uh, we slipped." Dawn rolled her eyes. "Duh. Are you going to come in or make out in the driveway all night? Do I need to get the hose?" Her sister met Spike's speculative grin with the Look Of Death, scrambled to her feet and dusted off the knees of her jeans. Spike heaved a melodramatic sigh and followed suit, getting back into the car. "See you tomorrow, love?" "Uh. Yeah. For the date. I mean meeting. I mean at the Magic Box." Buffy looked more than a little dazed as the DeSoto roared out of the driveway, to the probable annoyance of the neighbors. "So, uh, Dawn--you saw the, uh..." "Mutual tonsil swabbing? Hard to miss." The situation cried out for a little more sisterly hassling. But Spike probably needed all the help he could get in light of the way Buffy's last vampire affair had ended up. Or heck, any of her affairs. Soul or no soul, Angel had been kind of a tool--blowing in with some useless, cryptic warning, getting Buffy all worked up, and disappearing again. Until Buffy'd boned him and he'd lost his soul and gone on a murderous rampage, anyway. Riley had been really cool for awhile, but then he'd gone all weird and left. "It's not what it looks like," Buffy said. "It's--something else." Dawn opened her mouth, looked at Tara, who was still standing saucer-eyed in the doorway, and shrugged. Buffy was freaked about the whole lack of soul thing, and maybe she had a right to be--she'd seen pre-chip Spike kill people, rip their throats out and drink their blood and toss them aside like used juice boxes. Dawn had only heard a lot of stories. Of course she'd seen him kill demons and revel in every blood-soaked minute of it, and if that guy who'd shot Buffy hadn't died it certainly hadn't been for lack of Spike trying, so it wasn't like she was completely naive about him or anything, and even post-chip Spike could be seriously scary when he put his mind to it... but she still liked him better than Angel. At the best of times Angel'd been stiff as a board with Dawn, as if eleven-year-old girls were some sort of weird alien life form he wasn't sure he wanted to communicate with. It had been fun stalking him and Buffy and popping up from behind the bushes with the perennial cry of little sisters everywhere-- "Whatcha doooooin'?" "Buffy..." Tara seemed to have gotten her voice back. "Are you sure th-that..." Buffy shook her head. "No. Not sure of anything." Dawn put a hand on her sister's shoulder. "Whatever it is, I'm good with it." Buffy looked up at her, startled (and how cool was it that Buffy had to look up at her? Ha!) "I love you, dope. And I really like Spike. So I want you both to be happy." Despite noble intentions, she couldn't quite repress a snicker. "And you sure looked like you were happy." For some reason that made Buffy look even more surprised. "I was?" She closed the door behind them, started up the stairs, and it was only chance that Dawn was close enough behind her to hear her repeat softly to herself, "I was."

"It was very romantic." Anya's feather duster skirmished over the shelves of the display case, front-line troops in the endless war against grime. "Also quite annoying. One would think he'd given a little bit of thought--just a little bit, I don't ask for miracles--to the demon aspect before this. I certainly spent numerous sleepless nights obsessing about the fact that as mortals we're both doomed to become extremely wrinkled and unattractive and then dead." "Well, it is Xander," Giles pointed out. "One might think, but Xander is not one." He closed the diary of Albert Venn (Watcher of Luanne Scoggins, Lafayette, Louisiana, Called 1931, died 1937 of mysterious causes after an illicit affair with a local boccor), sat back, and gazed at the lettering on the slender volume's spine, his thumb denting his lower lip. After a moment thus engaged, he set the journal down. He'd taken to carrying them with him, perhaps in superstitious hope of absorbing some critical scrap of information by osmosis. "Anya... have you any past experience with Slayers? Before meeting Buffy?" The feather duster stilled, and Anya tucked a silver-blond tress behind one ear, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow. For once Giles agreed with Xander; the platinum hair didn't suit her. She'd looked much better as a brunette, her face framed in golden-brown waves which matched the rich grain of the wood shelving. Giles kept this observation to himself--knowing Anya, her hair would be russet or jet black by the wedding. She made a regretful noise and shook her head. "Not a lot. I granted a wish for one once, back in the fifteenth century, but that wasn't in her professional capacity." She brandished the feather duster at a particularly obstinate corner. "We tend to avoid them. Most Slayers have this 'See demon, kill demon' thing going on, and it's extremely annoying." At Giles's questioning expression, she elaborated, "Most demons won't have anything to do with vampires socially. It's not just dangerous when Slayers and you Watcher types lump us all up together, it's embarrassing." Her expression said What kind of ignoramus wouldn't know that? Very likely she was right. Every now and then, Anya's fierce devotion to human conformity slipped, and thousand-year-old eyes looked out of that twenty-year-old face and made him feel young and foolish. It was strangely invigorating. No wonder Xander was secretly terrified of this wedding--even stripped of her powers, how long could he really expect Anya to play compliant Samantha to his Darren? "I beg your pardon. Didn't you once date--" Anya gave vent to an unladylike snort. "Oh, Dracula was a social climber. Besides, we vengeance demons aren't much higher than vampires on the social scale--we start out human, just like they do. But we're more powerful, and, of course, we have a union." She came around behind the counter, secured the feather duster in the cabinet under the register, planted both elbows on the counter and leaned forward to see what he was reading. "Why do you ask?" The shop bell rang, and for some moments they were both distracted assembling the ingredients for a potency spell ("For a friend!") for the nervous little man who crept into the shop as if he were buying heroin on a street corner. "Many fewer side effects than Viagra," Anya assured him with a brilliant smile. "Most people don't even notice the discoloration. And I'm sure your friend's significant other will appreciate the numerous and prolonged orgasms." She shook her head as the man scurried out. "I'm sure one of those ingredients is an allergen. People get so red the moment they get near it." "Fancy." Giles slipped his glasses back on, pulled out another journal and began leafing through the entries. "In these Watchers' diaries I've been studying, there are two distinct patterns: Slayers becoming rigidly controlled killing machines, and Slayers becoming wildly erratic." Another thoughtful adjustment of the glasses. "Every now and again, a case arises which appears in the official reports to fall into the latter category, but if one reads between the lines and squints a great deal..." Giles sighed and shook his head. "I had some faint hope that you might have a personal recollection of some of them. It would be extremely useful to have an outside perspective on some of these events." He no longer entirely trusted his own. He'd grown too lax to be a Watcher, too wrapped up in Buffy's private joys and sorrows, and couldn't help reading them into the accounts of past Slayers. "Let me take a look," Anya said, reaching for the book. "Maybe something will jog my memory." Giles handed her the journal of the moment and his notes on the other volumes. She scanned them quickly, a small murmur of recognition escaping her. "This one," she said, tapping one of the names on his list. "Maria Lupe. I wasn't involved, but I heard about it. She was having an affair with one of the were-jaguars. Quite a scandal." "Are you certain? Her Watcher's account indicates that she died fighting jaguar spirits." Anya closed the book; the pages came together with a crisp snap. "Of course I'm certain. I have an excellent memory for gossip; it's a professional asset. And it's not impossible. After all, Buffy's having sex with a vampire and she'll probably die fighting vampires." "Must you remind me? Of either eventuality?" Giles ran his pen down the list--of the two dozen names he'd culled, over half fell into the erratic group, and of those, over two-thirds involved... inappropriate attachments of one sort or another. Not always romantic entanglements, either; there were alliances of one sort or another, which (reading between the lines and squinting a great deal) approached friendship. That surprised him far more than the romantic entanglements. Of course in any group of teen-aged girls, no matter how strictly trained and guarded, some would fall prey to their own hormones sooner or later. Of the cases where such entanglements were alluded to, only two of them involved a Slayer and a human male: the one with the boccor, and another with her own Watcher. The rest were a potpourri of the supernatural--jaguar spirits, vampires, selkies, werewolves... I can't resist your sinister attraction . "Out of the mouths of babes and robots," Giles muttered. Certain Slayers were drawn to their mortal enemies in spite of rigid indoctrination to the contrary, as well as all common sense. He was beginning to make his own deductions as to why; surely other Watchers must have come to similar conclusions long ago, and struggled just as he was doing now to separate human caprice from possible demonic influence. The feeling nagged at him that he was re-inventing the wheel, but odds were good that Travers was waiting with bated breath for him to file a research request with the main Council library in London. The very fact that Giles had done so would tell Travers more than Giles wanted him to know. But unlike most field Watchers, Rupert Giles had alternate sources of information available. "Anya... you have several of your former colleagues in town for the wedding, do you not?" She nodded. "Would any of them perhaps be willing to tell me as much as they can recall about past liaisons between Slayers and demons? Especially about any of these particular cases? And--is there any chance that D'Hoffryn has any information on the nature and origins of Slayers in the annals of Arashmahar?" Anya's expression was both shrewd and admiring. "Possibly. He'll be here next week. He'll want compensation for any information he gives you, of course--I'll negotiate for you, if you like. I'm better at that than you are." Satisfaction sparked in her dark eyes, and she laid her hand lightly across the back of his. "I don't like the Council. They were extremely rude to you last year, and we lost a good two days' worth of business while they were puttering around with their silly tests and things for Buffy. They won't expect you to go to D'Hoffryn, will they?" "I doubt it. In fact--" Both of them jumped as the door to the basement slammed open. Spike stalked through the doorway, tranquilizer gun slung over one shoulder and his duster billowing behind him like an anime hero with his own private wind machine. A stormcloud bruise bloomed across one razor-edged cheekbone, and his clothes were splattered with a sticky tracery of violet ichor. He marched straight up to the counter and dumped a squirming mass of mauve tentacles tipped with marble-sized, gooseberry-green orbs onto the blotter by the cash register. "Got any more of these?" "Scirivin eyes?" Anya eyed the... er... eyes hungrily. "No, none in stock at the moment. You should put those on ice. They're more potent if they're still twitching." Spike propped himself on one elbow against the counter and crossed a booted foot over the opposing ankle. "Yeh, I know. You want some in stock?" The avid delight in Anya's face was quickly masked by professional detachment. She picked up one of the quivering eyestalks and examined it. It writhed in her hand like a giant nightcrawler. "Hmmm... torn at the root, not severed cleanly... not the highest quality." "Bollocks. You find someone who can make a Scirivin stand all prim and proper while they trim its eyestalks and you can buy from him." Anya looked surprised. "You didn't kill it?" "Fuck, no. Won't grow a new crop of wrigglies for next month's rent if I'm so gormless as to kill it, now will it?" "You have a point." She pursed her lips, poking at the remaining eyestalks with a felt-tip pen to assure herself that all of them were still twitching. "Flat fee or on commission?" "Flat, for now. I need the blunt." "Twenty dollars apiece?" "Fine, whatever." "Spike, you're supposed to haggle." Anya sounded almost offended as she opened the cash drawer and started counting out twenties--all neatly sorted so that they faced the right way. "It's no fun if you don't haggle." Spike's grin was lupine. "Lurin' you in, pet. Flat fee now. Commission later. And a retainer." Anya paused mid-count. "Retainer?" "Yeh." He slapped the counter, making the eyestalks jump. "You want to sell demon bits; I can provide 'em fresh off the demon. And as I've such low overhead and we're such close friends engaging in cash transactions and all, cheaper than your out of town suppliers. 'N fact, you got a customer what wants something special in the way of scales and spines and dangly bits, I'll undertake to hunt it down." His eyes went hard. "Subject to a few restrictions. And if the Slayer asks, you'll certify--in writing, sodding well notarized if necessary--that anything I sell you's got at least one use that doesn't involve exploding eyeballs or extended painful death throes." "I think that can be arranged." Anya handed Spike his money and a receipt, produced a plastic bag from beneath the counter, and gingerly swept the spaghetti-tangle of eyestalks into it. She knotted it neatly at the top and handed it back to Spike. "You can put that in the refrigeration unit in the basement on your way out. Your retainer's going to be purely nominal, of course--would fifty dollars a week do? And I'm thinking a five percent commission." Spike reared back in outrage. "Nominal my lily white arse. Don't think you're going to impose on my good nature, Anyanka, just because you're easy on the eyes and I've a soft spot for birds with a talent for evisceration. The going rate for suppliers runs closer to five hundred a week. I done me some checking up before waltzing in here with your eyeball bouquet. And as for commissions--fifty percent. I'm the one out getting my valuables nipped off to supply you with Nagrak toenails." Anya leaned forward, blood in her eye. "Ah, but you're inexperienced. I'm not going to pay you what I'd give a seasoned professional. Seventy-five dollars a week and a ten percent commission, and that's final." Giles pretended absorption in the journal before him, but his curiosity was piqued. The ways and means by which Spike supported himself was a subject usually avoided by unspoken agreement. It went without saying that most of were them were dubious and some of them were downright criminal. Over the last two years the outright criminal had comprised a smaller and smaller percentage of the total--Buffy might make disapproving noises, but all in all, sharking pool and looting the lairs of the demons he killed were preferable to lurking in alleys in game face and trying to scare human passers-by out of their wallets. This, however, was something else again. Giles slipped out from behind the counter and made his way to the bookshelves in the back of the shop. A glance back at the counter showed him Spike and Anya, platinum heads bent together in low-voiced colloquy--Spike explaining something in great detail, with emphatic gestures, while Anya typed furiously into the computer. "...have a business plan?" "...won't like you cutting in on their territory, but..." and "Clem can get us an in with..." floated over to the bookshelves. Apparently Spike had very specific ideas about the sort of business arrangement he was entering into. Giles scanned the shelves for a moment, plucked a copy of Santiago's Boca Del Infierno: A Bestiary from its place and flipped it open. The woodcut illustration of the Scirivin demon resembled an ambulatory muffin top covered with mold; it was roughly five feet across and a foot tall, not counting the carpet of waving eyestalks. Non-sentient, subsisted on sewer slime, secretes acid, aggressive if provoked, eyestalks useful in scrying spells... it certainly didn't look like anything illegal, immoral, or even fattening. But it couldn't hurt to make certain. Giles adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. "I hate to interrupt a doubtless lucrative transaction, but Anya--are we certain this is entirely legal?" Anya and Spike exchanged a look, and Spike's lip curled. "Knew that was coming up sooner or later." "Legal, yes," Anya said, drumming on the edge of the keyboard with her pen. "And even moral, if that's your real question. Scirivin demons are neither sentient nor endangered." She hit a key and the printer hummed to life behind her. A moment later it spat out several pages covered with columns of figures. She picked up the pages and sorted through them, then handed the one from the top of the stack to Giles. "This is from our inventory. Spell component on the left, quantity in stock, price per unit, etcetera. As you can see, mainly herbs, minerals, and animal products. This--" she handed him two more pages-- "Is a list of legal demon products we don't usually carry due to problems with availability--in other words, because the supply's been sewn up by the same black market operators who deal in vivisecting harmless Hombja'moleev demons for their musk glands." Spike buffed his nails on the lapel of his duster and smirked. "Until now." ***** Even on a Monday, Christmas crowds made finding a parking spot an exercise in skill and coordination approaching one of the higher levels of Tomb Raider, unfortunately sans access to Angelina Jolie's stunt crew. Buffy sharked her way back and forth across the eight or nine square blocks of downtown Sunnydale for fifteen minutes before finding a spot blocks away from where she wanted to be. Another five minutes of backing and filling and at least one nerve-wracking crunch later, she gave up and left the SUV at a drunken angle, front wheels scraping the curb and rear wheels a good foot and a half away. Parallel parking was obviously a demon-inspired Slayer trap. Heads turned as she walked by, and why not? She felt good. She looked good. The brisk wind and bright sun put pink in her cheeks and the memory of last night's diversions put bounce in her step. Her lavender knit cap and matching scarf added a kicky accent to her cream blouse and heather skirt (grey indeed; who knew vampires were color-blind?). She hadn't been this confident in ages--not since facing down the Council last year--and it felt wonderful. She'd knocked them dead at the interview--poised, cheerful, enthusiastic, but not in a scary call- security way. Swinging along down Main Street, her gym bag slung over one shoulder, she was morally certain she'd gotten the job. Not that she really looked forward to four weeks of dealing with hordes of frenzied Christmas and post-Christmas shoppers, but the clothing department of Oshman's was infinitely to be preferred to some of the other jobs she'd gone in for--if she got this one, at least she'd be in daily contact with cute ski outfits and hundred-and-fifty-dollar pairs of running shoes. Of course, it was only a temporary position, which she was infinitely grateful for, even as she tried to be responsible and grown-up about it. Focus on the basics. Job good. Money better. Especially considering the bills pilling up on her mother's old desk, and the letter in this morning's mail she refused to think about just now. It would be good for her, Buffy remonstrated with herself, getting out and connecting with people. Even people who really shouldn't be trying to cram themselves into neon yellow spandex bike shorts at this stage of their exercise regimen. The walk to the Magic Box provided another chance to scope out the ground for tonight's operation, at least. Buffy automatically noted the current positions of dumpsters and made calculations about the best places to corner Tanner in the event that he was alone, and ran through scenarios for getting him alone if he had his posse with him. She paused in front of the salon on the corner, irresistibly drawn by the smell of wet hair and perm solution. She peered through the front window. If the job came through maybe she'd splurge and get her hair done. The Buffy in the window glass looked right through her, out at the street drenched in bright winter sunshine and the passers-by on the sidewalk behind her. Buffy put her hand to the cold expanse of glass, fingertip to fingertip with her reflection. Like touching a ghost. Two months ago, I was dead. She'd pass her reflection at the door, change places, and she'd become the ghost again, a wan, flat, colorless creature floating untouched through her own existence... The suffocating numbness spread through her so swiftly that for a moment she was incapable of drawing breath. Her heart struggled to beat. She called images up like talismans: Dawn, snitching her blue cashmere sweater, irritating and infinitely precious. New shoes. Willow's silly Elmo-skin top. Blueberry pancakes. Spike's eyes, wicked and tender; Spike's hands, large and clever and fitting so well to every curve of her body; Spike's mouth, oh, Spike's mouth... The emptiness within her thinned and faded away like morning fog. Buffy took a deep breath and turned away from the salon window, walking back out into the sunshine. She was meshed with the world again, feeling the slight pinch of her heels, the chill December wind lashing drifts of sycamore leaves through the gutters. That these moments still occurred was terrifying. That they were only moments now, brief interludes in a day full of worry about the meeting with Mrs. Kroger, excitement about the (fingers crossed!) new job, anticipation of tonight's battles--that was the miracle. A seagull was carving blinding white chevrons across the bright pale blue overhead, and it struck her that Spike's eyes were no longer the color of the sky. The sky was the color of Spike's eyes. Oh, God, I need this job. Spike wanted to help so badly. Dawn, and even Willow and Tara, didn't get why she couldn't let him. Surely Spike wasn't doing anything that awful for money these days, and didn't all of them overlook his minor transgressions already? Would it really hurt to take the odd twenty for groceries, if only two of those twenty had accidentally leaked out of the hip pocket of some unsuspecting Bronze-goer? That was the whole problem; way too easy for her to go from overlooking little things--because it was Spike, and he made her feel like slow-motion fireworks--to overlooking medium-sized things. Hopefully she'd never be so far gone that large things and Extra-Super-Big-Gulp-sized things were overlookable, but... wasn't that exactly the eventuality she'd made arrangements with Faith for? There was a constant chick fight going on between the part of her that just wanted to dance and shag and kick vampire ass and look fabulous while doing it, and the part concerned with following rules and doing the right thing for the right reasons and gaining the approval of parents and teachers and Watchers and ex-boyfriends and social workers and... and... that guy over there, the one with the hat. None of her friends seemed to realize how very precarious was Good Buffy's chokehold on Bad Buffy. Especially when Good Buffy secretly longed to get in on the tastefully slutty outfits and ass-kicking herself. Give Spike an inch and he'd spoil her and Dawn both rotten, cater to their every whim with all the devotion he'd lavished on Drusilla back in the day. Very, very wrong, all that whim-catering, of course. Foot rubs, breakfast in bed, mysteriously-appearing designer clothing in her size... Talk about sinister attraction. It was totally unfair that she had to smack her own conscience around on top of contending with Spike's lack of same. Bet Spike never suffers from internal monologues. Buffy stuck her lower lip out, indulging in a small pity party, complete with cake and ice cream. She couldn't make it last long. No one had held a gun to her head and forced her to jump Spike's delectable undead bones. The tingle up the back of her spine informed her that said bones were within jumping distance as she rounded the corner. The Magic Box's blue--was everything that shade of blue these days?--storefront loomed up before her. She was simply going to have to be strong. Fair wasn't in the picture; she'd known all along that with Spike, she was always going to have to be the one to make with the restraint. Fortunately for all concerned, Spike enjoyed restraints. Darn it, that was a perfectly innocent sentence when it started out. Monday, 12:14 PM -- Sunnydale residents startled by loud crash when Buffy Summers officially fell into debauchery. "I couldn't help it," Ms. Summers told reporters. "The dominatrix outfit came with the cutest thigh boots." The shop bell jingled merrily as she pushed the door open. Giles was seated at the library table, awash in journals and chewing on the end of his pen, his hair sticking up in rumpled tufts. Spike was lounging against the front counter, cleaning the disassembled trank gun while Anya toted up a column of figures on the adding machine. All three of them looked up and gave her distracted smiles as she bounced in, but all in all there was a distinct lack of hail-the-conquering-Buffy in the air. Anya leaned over and pointed out a figure. "That would be your estimated quarterly income. Any commissions on items sold would be in addition to that." Spike nodded with the mystified air of one to whom finances were an unexplored continent, but who does not wish to appear a complete dunce in front of the natives. "It'll do." Buffy seriously considered breaking out the old pom-poms. "Hi, guys! The interview went really well. I thought I'd get some training time in before Dawn gets home from school--The Kroger's due at our place at four. I really think I nailed this one," she said, adding, when effusive congratulations were not forthcoming, "Oshman's. Over at the mall. It'd only be temporary, sales and inventory until after the Christmas rush, but it starts this week and I'd get two paychecks out of it and one would come before Christmas so we could have a real dinner and presents and..." Jeez, what did it take to sell these people? "Electricity, which I hear is popular this year? Plus it's selling the cute kind of sports clothes you're not actually supposed to sweat in, so employee discounts? Major bonus." "That's... er... capital news," Giles said. "Yay, Buffy!" Anya chimed in obligingly. Buffy aimed a sorrowful only-you-can-save-my-mood-now-Obi-Wan pout at Spike, who immediately abandoned the lure of the trank gun and gave her a great big delighted grin, dimples and all. "Good on you, Slayer. Should last you till the Council sees reason and ponies up, any road." Mollified, Buffy allowed him to take her gym bag and followed him back over to the counter. She slipped an arm around Spike's waist--lack of winciness, check; healed up completely. He bent and purred into her ear, "Famished for sight of you, love." "Mmm. How can I resist a man who's all over purple gooey stuff?" Buffy tipped her head back, and received far more satisfactory congratulations in the form of one of those eternal breathless kisses. Maybe teeny, tiny amounts of demon lover spoilage were tolerable, if she resolutely kept the badness thereof in mind? That's it, I'll let him spoil me, but I won't enjoy it. She craned her neck curiously at the papers covering the countertop. "What's up?" Spike took a deep breath and Buffy felt her stomach sinking. Uh oh. That's the Deep Breath of 'I can explain everything, Slayer.' Occasionally big with the entertainment value, but never of the good. Spike had that rehearsing look on his face, as if she'd caught him before he had his spiel completely worked out. "Right. It's like this, Buffy--" Anya patted Spike's shoulder with a proprietary smile, as if he were a particularly clever puppy who'd just learned a new trick. "Spike is no longer an economic parasite!" she said proudly. "He's a productive member of the free market, selling his skills in healthy competition with his peers!" Buffy pulled away slightly and cast wary eyes up at Spike, who was glaring the glare of the extremely cross vampire at the oblivious Anya. "And these skills you speak of would be...?" Buffy asked. Sarcasm-o-grams to order? William the Bloody, vampire gigolo? "He's a free-lance demon hunter," Anya said, beaming. "Note the free-lance. Not an employee of the Magic Box, should anyone from Immigration and Naturalization or the IRS happen to ask." Buffy wriggled a finger in one ear. "I'm sorry, I must have misheard, because I thought you just said Spike had become some kind of demon hunter. As in killing demons for money." "Love, it's not exactly--" Anya overrode him. "Spike already kills demons for money. Or at least, he kills demons for fun and sometimes he takes their belongings or body parts to exchange for money. Hadn't you noticed? It's made him quite unpopular. Really, Buffy, you're having sex with him; you ought to exhibit a little curiosity about what he does, even if you're not really interested. It's only polite." Buffy unclenched her jaw sufficiently to form words. "I'll keep that in mind. So the big difference between Spike the economic parasite of yesterday and Spike the brilliant entrepreneur of today would be...?" Anya opened her mouth to explain further, but Spike reached across the counter and (surprisingly gently) closed it. "Difference is I'm not killing 'em for fun and games," he said. "I'm doing it businesslike, going after particular demons I know we can make a good profit on." I can't let my guard down for a second, can I? She could feel herself freezing, veins and arteries becoming brittle latticeworks of ice from the heart all the way out to the tips of her fingers. Surely anyone touching her in that moment would have found her colder than Spike. The anger was directed as much at herself as at him. Stupid, naive little girl. Buffy pulled away from him, stepping back far enough to look him in the eye. "I thought," she said, "that we'd talked about this, and you weren't going to do it." The muscle in his jaw was doing the twitchy thing. "We talked, Slayer, and as I recall agreed we weren't going to profit from anything exclusively used by the forces of wickedness. Oh, I forgot--does 'we talked about this' mean 'Spike agrees to ask Buffy's gracious permission before wiping his arse?' Sorry. Lost my Buffy-to-English dictionary." Buffy blinked furiously. She was not going to start crying. She was too mad to start crying. "Damn it, Spike! Don't you dare make this about me!" "Why not? Isn't everything about you?" Nose to nose again, really furious this time. "No, it's about them!" Buffy waved an arm in the general direction of the street. "It's got to be about them, or I really am nothing but--did you really expect that announcing you were selling contraband demon guts to some sleazy black market scumbag would make me happy?" "Excuse me, but as the sleazy black market scumbag in question..." Buffy whipped around; Anya stood her ground and met her eyes with pinch- mouthed irritation. "I would never endanger this store or my standing in the Sunnydale business community by selling illegal goods. What's your objection to the business arrangement I have with Spike?" Buffy cocked her head to one side and assumed a vacuous stare. "Aside from it being wrong to chop people up and sell their livers? Gee, I don't know. Let me think about it." "I'm not killing anything with the brains to complain about it. I'll save that for my own after-hours amusement. Since when are demons people to you, Slayer?" Spike's lip curled in equal parts amusement and disgust--equally infuriating, anyway. "You spent an ounce of worry in the last two years over whether I've confined my fun to killing the nasty varieties? Fuck all, Buffy, would you blink once at taking Clem's head off if you'd not been introduced?" No, she hadn't, and she probably wouldn't, and Clem was no danger to anything but small furry mammals. The idea that there was an entire new arena where she'd feel obligated to police Spike's behavior (and, God help her, her own) made her feel faint. She was barely wrapping her brain around the concept that there were any non-nasty varieties. The whole thing was getting way too complicated, with good demons and bad demons and demons who used to be people and people who used to be demons and if a train leaves Seattle at 5:00 AM traveling towards Denver at sixty miles an hour can you trust a soulless vampire any further than you can throw him? Buffy slapped her palm down on the counter, sending papers flying. When in doubt, resort to violence. "That's beside the point. I'm not the one demanding cash for taking back the night." "Only 'cause you haven't talked the Council of Wankers into it yet. Jealous?" Seethingly; how come you get paid for having fun? Buffy turned on Anya. "Wasn't there some reason why haven't you ever carried any of this stuff before, Anya? Oh, right. Because the people who sell it are slime!" She snatched her hand back and clenched her fists at her sides. "I've had run-ins with them before. One of them thought Oz would make a great throw rug." She threw a beseeching look at Giles for support, but he was watching the exchange with aloof interest and said nothing. Spike snorted. "So because Spells R Us down the road sells Hands of Glory at half price and has more customers go missing than Mrs. Lovett's Pie Shop, that means all magic stores are owned by ravening ghouls, eh?" He thrust the list of spell ingredients at her. "Not claiming I haven't disposed of a few gizzards with the shadier blokes in my time. Way I see it, if I'm going to kill something anyway, it's a pity and a shame to see the useful bits go to waste, and a vamp's got to eat. But for this deal it's going to be straight up. If you'd ever bothered to learn a thing about the beasties you've been killing for the last six years, you'd know there's not an item on the menu to raise a bishop's eyebrow." Buffy shoved it back at him. Ghora, Scirivin, Luxos... she didn't know enough about the arcane science of demonology to tell if he was being truthful or not, though she had no reason to believe Anya was lying about it. "So from now on you're only going to help out if it'll bring in a profit?" "I didn't say that," Spike snarled. He began re-assembling the trank gun, snapping pieces back into place with brutal efficiency. "Look, Anya's the one with the soul and the tax number. That's why I set this up the way I did, making her the middleman, because this time it is all about you, Buffy. Honest cash. And we--" he jabbed a forefinger into her chest, "--have a deal. You're going to take it, and it's going to help pay your sodding bills and buy your sodding groceries and buy the Bit something nice for Christmas. You're not meant for waiting on people, love--you're better than that." The conviction in his voice rasped right down into her bones, a seductive pain. Her breath caught in her throat. "No. I'm not. What I do, what I am--the Slayer has to be for something. I won't--I can't," Buffy gritted out, "take a single penny from you." Spike's voice went low and hard. "I'll know what your word's worth, then, won't I? You told me to do what I thought was right, Slayer--even if you hated me for it. And what I think's right is taking care of my girls." He jammed the last piece of the trank gun back into place and nodded to Anya. "Be on my way. Thanks." "You're welcome." Anya directed a smile at Buffy, a tight, sharp-toothed expression that made one suspect her demon aspect wasn't as long-lost as one might like to believe. "Xander says if I can't say anything polite, I shouldn't say anything. So I won't say anything to you right now." She began clearing the scattered papers off the counter, then, with icy hauteur, added, "Peter Parker sells photographs of himself. I checked." Buffy stood frozen, the tense lines of Spike's back as he stalked off down the basement stairs burnt into her retinas. She'd said and done all the wrong things, and was still flailing for the right ones. She smashed her fist into the counter and ran for the training room, slamming the door behind her. ***** Buffy had changed into sweats and a tank top, pulled her hair back in tails and ditched the heels for sneakers by the time Giles entered the training room, and was whaling furiously away at the punching bag. Every blow featured a paired imprecation: "Stupid..." (kick) "Pig-headed..." (punch) "Brain-fried..." (chop) "Vampire!" Giles watched her critically for a moment. She was not so much sparring as attempting to pummel it into submission. "You're leading with your left." She gave the bag another vicious blow. A seam popped. "I hate him!" "Under normal circumstances I'd call that a healthy turn of events. Buffy..." Giles refrained from pulling off his glasses; he'd polish right through the lenses at this rate. There must be some special category of Oscar reserved especially for Watchers consoling their Slayers over a quarrel with her vampire lover, a lifetime achievement award in irony. By all rights he should be taking this opportunity to nudge her towards breaking it off, but... but. "Much though it pains me to defend Spike in any capacity, out of consideration for our insurance premiums, I feel bound to point out that he hasn't done anything wrong. Yet." "Yet! Exactly!" Buffy executed a spin-kick which would have taken the head off of a Zagros demon, dropped flat to the training mat to avoid the bag on the backswing, leaped to her feet and unleashed a flurry of punches. "He doesn't--unh!--get it. He'll never get it. He's incapable of--mmf!--getting it." She drove both fists into the bag, sending it careening wildly in circles. "And I'm the dorky tourist in No Soul Land, convinced that if I just talk loudly and slowly and use words of one syllable--I'm deluding myself that this could ever work." "Very likely so." Giles shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. Buffy collapsed cross-legged to the mat and yanked off the purple happy-face scrunchy holding her ponytail. Strands of honey-blonde fell to her shoulders and she stared at the scrunchy with horror. "This is Dawn's . My life is in shambles and I'm wearing Dawn's scrunchy." She wrapped the scrunchy around her hand, toying with the elastic. "It's all gotten so complicated." Her voice trailed away, soft and devoid of emotion. "I loved Angel. That was all I had to know. And then it wasn't--it wasn't enough. I loved Riley. And that wasn't enough either. So what makes me think it'll be enough this time?" Giles sighed and sat down on the bench against the wall, the dark green vinyl hissing under his weight. What had Maria Lupe's Watcher felt, seeing a slim brown hand laid across dappled tawny fur, dark liquid eyes caught up in pools of molten gold? He wished he could call across the centuries-- Was she happy? Did her heart shine in her eyes when he walked in? Did he batter himself bloody against his own limitations for her sake? Were your reports to the Council as full of careful omissions as my own? "It won't be." Buffy's breath took a short wounded hitch. "Love by itself never is. But without it, you would most certainly be doomed. My dear girl... Spike is like the dog who walks on his hind legs. The wonder is not that he does it poorly, but that he does it at all. If that's not enough for you..." He left the real question--should it be enough for you? --hanging in mid-air. "Best end it now before either of you is hurt more." He hesitated. "It's hardly an encomium, but remember that Spike kills because he loves to kill. The money's as secondary to him as it is to you." "Secondary." Her laugh was hollow. "Our bank account's almost empty. I added it all up two or three times, and I know math wasn't exactly my best subject, but it won't be long before checks start bouncing. The child support covers Dawn's school books and clothes and lunches and stuff, but there's nothing left over. Mom's ADC check will be cut off next month when I turn twenty-one--Dawn'll still be getting hers, but it should go towards college. Willow and Tara can only chip in so much, and I got a letter from the insurance company this morning saying that our shingles were shot and we had to get a new roof or they'd cancel our coverage." She looked up, her eyes damp and bright, lichen on wet stone. "That's, like, ten thousand dollars. Or more. Even if I do get this job with Oshman's, Spike's moneymaking scheme is looking really, really good." It was far easier to disdain money when one had it in quantity, Giles mused. "The job isn't perhaps the most savory in the world, but it may prove useful--if Spike's known to be out hunting demons, it gives us a good cover to do likewise without alerting the Council that you're still slaying." "Right. My moneymaking scheme, which is ever so morally superior." Buffy buried her face in her hands, all small and muffled. "You know what's scary? When he tells me I'm too good to sell clothes or wait tables, something in me wants to believe him. How can I possibly trust him to do the right thing when I can't trust myself?" "You were perfectly willing to endanger our ruse by leaping into the fray last night. I doubt your mercenary instincts have completely overwhelmed you." That elicited a small, hiccupy laugh. Giles slid off the bench and knelt beside her, laying a hand on her shoulder. "Buffy...I never thought this day would come, but I agree with Spike. Not that you're too good to wait tables--there's no work that's beneath anyone if it's done with good will--but that you're good enough to do better. Perhaps you'll wait tables for now, but for now isn't your entire life." He felt the rise and fall of her back under his hand, so deceptively frail beneath the cotton tank top, scapulae as light and fragile as a bird's creasing the curve of her spine. When she'd first come back he could count each rib; now there was muscle there, thin and solid. After a moment she straightened and sat up, weary but resolute. "So. You said there was other stuff you wanted to talk to me about?" "Yes." Giles got to his feet, removing his glasses and rubbing the back of his neck against an incipient tension headache. "When I spoke to Quentin Travers last, he dropped some obscure hints as to why he was reluctant to allow a Slayer independence, financial or otherwise, from her Watcher." "Ooh, yeah, the willful bit." Buffy got to her feet, glanced at the somewhat worse-for-wear punching bag and walked over to the pommel horse. "Any minute now I'll be wearing my knickers buckled below the knee and smoking cornsilk behind the barn." She pulled herself up onto the horse with a single graceful motion. "I've done considerable research in the last few days on Slayers who've lasted as long as you have--there aren't many--and I believe I'm getting an idea what Travers has been hinting at." He stopped. How to introduce this? "I believe Travers expected me to draw exactly this conclusion, and I believe he was counting on my being shocked at it. Needless to say, he seriously underestimates my threshold for alarm." Buffy's breath hissed between her teeth as she flipped over. Giles took automatic note of her form, though it had been some time since he'd found any serious flaws to criticize. "Alarminess factor high but non-critical. Check." "Actually I find it rather intriguing," Giles said. "Bear in mind that this is largely speculation on my part. Has it ever struck you as odd that an organization such as the Watcher's Council, which keeps exhaustive records of its activities and has lasted in one form or another for at least two millennia, hasn't so much as a fireside tale concerning the event which justifies its existence? We have several accounts of the origins of vampires--and setting aside the question of how accurate any of them are, why have we no equivalent legends of the origin of the Slayer?" "Eh. It registers a 2.5 on the weirdness scale." Buffy went into a mid-air split, toes impeccably pointed. "Personally, a little too busy being the Slayer to bemoan my lack of a thrilling origin story. At least before the whole Dracula thing." She made a rueful face. "And not much afterwards. Avoidance and repression work so well for me." She flowed into a handstand. "Besides, the inconvenient part where you have to die before a new Slayer's called? Not a lot of opportunity to pass down secret origins and Aunt Martha's gingerbread recipes." "Mmm." Giles sat down on the bench again and leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "The odds of the truth surviving from the Neolithic to the present is virtually nil, quite correct--but mankind is a storytelling beast. If the truth was lost, why haven't we made up a few comforting lies to take its place? How did the First Slayer come to exist? How is a new Slayer chosen when the old one dies?" "Huh." Buffy went through a few more spine-twisting contortions, barely breaking a sweat. "I guess I always assumed that Slayers were the flunkies of the Powers That Be." "Hardly. Recall that Whistler told you that the Powers never saw you coming. Primarily, I would assume, because according to prophecy you were supposed to have died the previous year; ever since you've been a wild card. But were Slayers the especial province of the Powers, I would expect the Powers to check in on them occasionally. Consider what few facts we have. The first Slayers arose not long after the first vampires, created or summoned specifically to deal with them. They are always female, always Chosen at the age of fifteen. There are dozens, perhaps hundreds, of potential Slayers alive at any given moment. The Council has some rather unreliable methods of identifying them, and attempts to do so and train them as they did with Kendra--but as you and Faith can attest, many Slayers aren't identified by the Council until after their powers manifest." Buffy gave him an upside-down frown. "And this relates to my lack of paycheck how?" "Dracula claimed that your powers were rooted in darkness. In a sense he may have been correct. I believe your powers may be of demonic origin. As the saying goes, set a thief to catch a thief. Whatever or whoever created the Slayers, it was not the Watchers' Council; we are latecomers, trying to harness a force we don't fully understand...and perhaps rightly, fear." Buffy froze mid-figure, the whites of her eyes showing all the way around the pupils. She dropped to the floor with a thump, still gripping the handles of the pommel horse with white-knuckled intensity. "Dracula was all 'Join me, Buffy, and we can rule the galaxy yadda yadda.' He was running a con. Wasn't he?" Giles replaced his glasses. "I'd hardly classify him as a trusted source, but our encounter with the First Slayer supports it. It--she--was a primal force, scarcely human, contemptuous of human ties--Buffy, do stop hyperventilating." "I can't be a demon!" Buffy grabbed his arm in wild-eyed panic. "I kill demons! This is not ew. This is beyond ew. This is Return of the Son of Ew Meets Abbott and Costello Vs. the Wolf Man!" Giles winced and pried her fingers out of his biceps. "I didn't say that you were. I said that it's possible--possible, mind--that your powers are of demonic origin. Something similar, perhaps, to the origins of the vengeance demons--human women infused with a greater or lesser degree of demonic essence. In the case of Slayers, strength, speed, agility, accelerated healing, prophetic dreams, and an affinity for weapons. Possibly other talents, if our experience in channeling the First Slayer is any indication, that few Slayers live long enough to realize. If I'm correct, this goes a long way towards explaining the Council's desire to keep it a secret, and their reluctance to grant you independence of your Watcher. A Slayer aware of her origins..." Buffy swallowed hard, looking sick. "That's not all it would explain." ***** Dawn shot a worried glance at the kitchen clock as Willow packed the necessary ingredients into her trusty blue nylon duffle with her usual care: incense and burner to the left, herbs in the portable spice rack, athame in its sheath to the right. Willow gave her a reassuring smile. "It's only two. We'll have it all out of the way before The Kroger gets here." "I know." Dawn went back to her microscopic examination of the counters for crumbs, cat hair, or any evidence that human beings had used the kitchen for food preparation in the last fifty years. "I'm not nervous. I just want everything to be perfect." She checked behind the toaster and started re-arranging the flour and sugar canisters. "The living room got vacuumed, right? And ohmigod--" She dashed for the refrigerator, flung open the door and pulled out the jug of pig's blood, yanked off the cap and headed for the sink. "I should dump it, right? Or no. There should be a clever explanation, like it's for paint thinner or something. I'm freaking, aren't I? I shouldn't be freaking. That's Buffy's job." She stuck the blood back into the fridge. "I'm going to clean my room. Again." And she was off, hair a chestnut banner behind her, footsteps thumping up the stairs double-time. "She may look like Dawn..." Willow intoned. "She may sound like Dawn..." Tara responded. "But she's a Pod Person from the planet Mars!" they chorused together, dissolving into giggles. "OK, serious now." Tara wiped her eyes. "We've got all the components for the glamor spell?" Willow peered into the duffle. "Pocket mirrors, Scotch tape, photos of average-type people, check." "Components for the crazy-curing spell?" She's upstairs, cleaning her room. Willow squirmed for a moment, then realized that her lack of response was leaving absent-minded territory and rapidly approaching distinctly odd country. "Um, it doesn't need any. Just like the one I used on you, y'know? Totally words and finger-wavy stuff." She held up both hands and wriggled her fingers illustratively. Tara sat back, playing with an amethyst crystal, her brow wrinkled. "Wow--for all those people, I thought you'd need the focus a ritual would provide. That's..." She trailed off, obviously wanting to ask questions and just as obviously afraid the questions would be ill-received. "Impressive," she finished, offering up the word for inspection with hopeful eyes. "It's not that big a deal." Willow's airy shrug as she took the amethyst and stuffed it into the duffle felt false and nervous in her own muscles. "I already had the basic spell worked out, remember? All I had to do was modify it." Tara kept looking at her for a long moment, then said, "Components for the draining spell?" "Amulet, uncharged, check. Funnel, amethyst, incense--oh, fudge, darts!" Willow dropped the duffle to the floor and dashed over to the stove and the two-quart saucepan which had been huddled forlornly on the back burner for the last two days. A proper witch, she sometimes thought, would have had a cauldron like Amy Madison's mother had owned, but here she was stuck with a piece of battered Revereware. Willow lifted the lid and peeked inside; the darts were still steeping in Infusion of Icky Stuff--hellebore, nightshade, the usual suspects. Willow took a wooden spoon (the special Potion Spoon, under no circumstances to be used for whipping up cookie dough) from its hook on the wall and fished out a dart. In the overhead light of the stove they were starting to reveal a greenish, phosphorescent luster. "I think these are ready--I'll just quick run them over to Spike's crypt." She pulled a Ziplock bag from the cupboard beneath the sink and began spooning darts into it, careful not to dribble any of the liquid on bare skin. They glowed malevolently, and Willow turned the bag this way and that, admiring her work. Was this or was this not cool? "Don't take too long," Tara said. For a second Willow was caught in those deep clear eyes like a fly in amber; time slowed to a snail's pace and Tara's words seemed to resonate through the room, carrying meaning far beyond the obvious. Then the moment was gone and Willow gave her beloved a quick confident grin. "'Course not, I'll be back before four." She gave Tara a hurried peck on the cheek and waved as she went out the kitchen door. She looked back, once, as she walked down the driveway; Tara's form was silhouetted in the nearer of the kitchen windows, watching over her--a guardian angel, or a guard dog? Willow felt an unreasonable stab of anger; did Tara still not trust her, after all they'd been through? It was a beautiful day, bright and breezy and a little bit chilly, with the bare white branches of ash and mulberry trees, the last of their golden leaves still clinging in defiance of the wind, intersecting against the invariant green of palms and pines. The sort of day other towns in colder climes had in October. Sometimes she forgot how picturesque Sunnydale was in daylight. Willow strolled down the streets, taking her time, feeling the comforting warmth of the magic curling within her. The bag of darts, safely tucked away in her book bag, bumped against her side, and she ran over what she was going to say in her head, changing a word here and a sentence there. She was only going to get to say it once, and it had to be perfect. She crunched down the gravel path which wound between the tombstones until Spike's crypt came into sight. The strains of "Sheena Is a Punk Rocker" drifted through the quiet cemetery, telling her Spike was home and up and about--she'd been a little worried that he might be asleep, considering how little he'd probably gotten last night. Willow shifted the bag from one hand to the other and knocked on the crypt door. No answer. She sidled round to the nearest window and pressed her nose to the grimy sill. In addition to the music welling up from downstairs--how many speakers did Spike have attached to that dinky little turntable, anyway?--the TV was on full blast, but there was no one in sight--had he stepped out, or was he downstairs? She hated just barging in the way Buffy did; it always seemed so... familiar. She grabbed the dusty iron bars of the window grill and half-hopped, half-pulled herself up for a better view. There was Spike's favorite beat-up old armchair, the new(er) settee and the scatter of books and magazines across the low table, the looming stone angels and the sarcophagus--no Spike. Willow dropped down and gnawed on a fingernail. She could leave the darts, but then she'd have to think of another excuse to drop by and catch him alone--no easy task these days when he and Buffy were joined at the hip. Ew. Next on the Not-Going-There Channel... Working herself up for this had been hard enough. Reluctantly, Willow returned to the crypt door and gave it a little shove. Unlocked as usual, it swung in and Willow took a few tippy-toe steps inside, keeping to the lee of the nearest hunk of decorative funerary marble. Underneath the pounding beat of the music, a low rhythmic chanting became audible. "...hundredn'fifty-seven, hundredn'fifty-eight, Timmy, you git, she's lying through her teeth! hundredn'fifty-nine..." Willow peered around the body-sized urn at the same time Spike jackknifed up from behind the settee, hands laced behind his head. "AAAHHHH!!" Twin yells of surprise drowned out both the Ramones and Samantha's latest machinations: Willow dropped her book bag, Spike lurched backwards across the crypt floor, and both froze, identical expressions of embarrassment on their faces. Willow recovered first. "I didn't see that if you didn't." Spike slumped back on his elbows, blew out his cheeks, rolled over and got to his feet. "Could scare a bloke out of ten years' death, you could," he grumbled. "Made me lose count." Vampires doing sit-ups barely even registered on the Sunnydale Odd-O-Meter, but Willow sometimes wondered, considering supernatural vampire strength and speed and all, just what purpose Spike's compulsive working out served--male vanity? Or another method of distancing himself from his own past, the shadowy Ur-William glimpsed now and then behind the leather and bleach and sinewy grace? Spike hitched dangerously low-riding black sweat pants up on narrow hips and bent over to turn the volume on the TV down. "What's the occasion? Slayer decide I'm on the bench for tonight? Happens a law-abiding vamp can take a stroll downtown any time he feels the urge, so--" "No, no--I haven't seen Buffy since this morning. Special delivery." She unslung the bookbag from her shoulder and dug around inside for the darts, pulling them free and holding the glowing packet up for inspection. "Here you go. One of these puppies should knock anything with feet off them." Spike took the bag and grinned, an extremely nasty expression indeed. "Thanks, pet. I'll see they all get good homes." "Why would Buffy--did you guys have a fight?" He shrugged, affecting nonchalance though his eyes were hard and his mouth had an angry twist to it. "Difference of opinion." When Willow didn't make a move to leave, he paused, obviously uncertain. "Did you want to sit for a bit? Nothing worth watching on telly, but I've got cocoa." One shoulder twitched in a half-shrug. "If you're cold. Being pathetic and human and all. You lot ate me out of house and tomb last time you were here, might as well finish it off." Dang it, did he have to be thoughtful, offer of hospitality, be as close to nice as Spike got? Willow felt sweat breaking out on her forehead. Darn. Vampires could smell fear; did she smell scared? Did nervous and semi-guilt-stricken count? "Actually I have something else to give you." Though why should she feel guilty? It wasn't like she was going to hurt him--why, he wanted this. He'd said so hundreds of times. She was doing him a favor. "It's kind of... well, I was pretty pissy to you after Buffy came back. I'm sorry, and I want to make it up to you." He was startled, she could tell; startled and, she thought, touched. Spike cocked his head to one side with that look of startlingly gentle inquiry which--well, if she'd still been of a mind to admit to urges of the het variety, she could see why this was a look which made Buffy melt. "Ah, Will...no need for that. I'm a bad, rude man and proud of it, and if I can't take as good as I give I deserve the thumping." He grinned again, a much more appealing version this time. "Though if you're taking orders, I wouldn't say no to a plate of chocolate walnut chip. Make up for the biscuit crumbs you left in my bed." "It wasn't exactly that kind of chip I was thinking about," Willow said. "Eh?" More head-tilt, winter-sky eyes full of confusion--what was the matter with him? Spike was a smart guy; surely he had to realize what she was hinting at--ask, heck, beg, make it easy on her! "Will, what are you getting at?" "I can take the chip out." The expression on his face was something to see. Hope. Exaltation. Horror. Doubt. Fear. Joy. (And do not, do not think about the hunger.) Before nerves could overwhelm her she rushed the words out. "OK, so you know how the Initiative doctors said that the chip was embedded in your cerebral cortex? And how removing it could leave you a vegetable?" Spike propped himself against the urn, arms folded across his chest. "It rings a bell." He looked rueful. "I didn't believe the wanker at the time--shouldn't matter if he took an eggbeater to the noggin, should it? Vampire; if I'm not dust, it'll heal. But I did some reading up later and the bleeder was right in his way--the physical damage would heal right enough, but no guarantee the post stitch-up personality would match up to old Spike in wit, charm, and general refinement." "Well, there's more than one way to skin a cat." Willow hid one hand behind her back and began making a series of movements with her fingers. "I wouldn't know where to begin with the surgical route, but sense a piece of silicon and plastic in the middle of a nice squishy brain? Cake, piece of. And teleporting a goddess five miles up, kind of a strain on the faculties, but teleporting a quarter-sized doohickey one foot to the left? Not so much." Magic required focus, required words and gestures and components. You couldn't cast a spell by will alone; you had to take the magic and funnel it through the proper channels, word balanced against word, sigil against sigil, catch the power in a delicate, adamantine net of conditions and requirements... "Tonight we're going up against human-type people, right? And the last time you almost got your head peeled open, 'cause you couldn't fight them. Not helpful. But if you could fight them--" "Hold hard, Will!" Spike straightened and began pacing, hampered slightly by the sunlight pouring through the open doorway. A frown creased his brow. "You can really do this?" She smiled--innocent, helpful Willow. "No reason why not." He was hovering on the edge, right there, one foot over the precipice, every instinct in him screaming Do it, do it! She'd seen that look. She'd worn that look. She and Spike were alike on so many levels, and she knew, knew, knew that in a second he'd fall to the temptation, because there were offers no one could resist, and if he asked, it wasn't really her fault, was it...? "Let me talk to Buffy first," he said, and Willow's nerves transmuted to rage in an instant. How dare he? How dare he, when she'd-- Her fingers closed convulsively on the last word: Remove, in Ameslan. There was no law at all that said the language of a spell had to be a spoken one. Spike swayed, caught himself, and stared at her in wild conjecture. His voice was a harsh, barely comprehensible growl. "Will--" She held out her hand; in the center of her palm was the tiny glittering circle, still damp from cerebral fluids. Spike's hand went to the back of his head, raking through the thick blond hair, finding nothing but unbroken, undamaged skull, and for a second there was nothing but Oh, God, no! in his eyes, but in another second it was vanished, replaced by a terrible elation. She felt a nasty, weaselly kind of satisfaction--No better than I am after all, are you, Spike? "Souvenir," she heard herself say. "Because, you know, you're a Scooby now, and we trust you." His mouth worked; no sound came out. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention my part in this," she said, gently, but with a force behind the words that made the air sizzle. "To anyone." And she left him there, dumbstruck in the doorway to the crypt, and started the long walk home. She walked swiftly now, pulling her sweater close about her, and as she stumbled through the bright sunshiny streets she found herself gasping, sobbing, tears running down her cheeks--fear, relief, betrayal--but whom had she betrayed? There was a sick awful feeling in the pit of her stomach. She was going to throw up, barge right into the living room and barf in Mrs. Kroger's lap, she was sure of it. "I did it," she said, choking on the words. "I did it. Are you happy? Is this enough?" For now, said the voice of liquid ebony. For now.

The outer doors of L'Orangerie were flanked by dwarf orange trees, their small sour fruit just beginning to blush gold with the colder nights. From his vantage point in the front seat of the convertible, Angel could see all the way through the archway and into the courtyard beyond, where a fountain burbled in the center of the flagstone pavement. Evening deepened and merged with the night as he waited, and the lights in the courtyard came on, glimmering white and gold in the indigo shadows. The scent of citrus and damp stone contested with the fumes from the unending stampede of cars rushing by on La Cienega Avenue, but the clash of odors didn't bother him; he hadn't inhaled for fifteen minutes. It had once been his favorite part of the hunt, this--stalking his victim, learning their ways, their fears, their weaknesses, building from the timber of their own hearts the scaffold upon which he would hang them. Not for Angelus the quick kill; each death was unique and to be savored. He was, in his own way, an artist. He still found pleasure in pursuit, little though he liked to acknowledge the fact. Men in exquisitely tailored suits and women in silk and pearls drove up, entrusted sleek late-model cars to valets and straggled up the walk, to disappear into the restaurant. Other parties straggled out by ones and twos and fours to reclaim their shining fiberglass chariots. The clothing was different, and the vehicles moved via internal combustion rather than horsepower, but the patterns of fashionable entertainment had changed little over the past two hundred years. Laughter and fragments of conversation fell upon his ears, slices of other people's lives at once enigmatic and banal. Angel listened. He couldn't help listening. He hadn't tried to eavesdrop on Buffy's conversation with Faith, either, but vampire hearing couldn't help but pick up some of it, even from halfway across an echoing room filled with the yammering of two dozen other women trying to connect to the outside world across an inch-thick barrier of smudged glass. Having heard, he couldn't ignore the implications. If he could get her away from Spike for awhile, or get Spike away from her, he could... he didn't know what, maybe just run a stake through Spike's chest and walk quietly away. But if Buffy were as emotionally dependant upon Spike as she seemed to be, he might be running her through as well. A dilemma. The players in said dilemma emerged from the restaurant shortly after ten, party of four: Hank Summers, unassuming middle-aged man with greying brown hair and a slight paunch minimized by the cut of his dinner jacket; Linda Gutierrez, a Hispanic woman young and pretty enough to be a trophy girlfriend, though the forceful look in her eyes cast doubt on that notion; Buffy Summers, vampire slayer and sometime love of his life, ethereal in cream and rose, with her tawny-gold hair caught up and bound about the top of her head with a gold fillet; and Spike, former minion, former nemesis, long-time annoyance, lean, pale and elegant in a dark suit and a necktie only true love could have coerced him into. Linda was grilling Spike, who looked a trifle harried. "...Tuesday," Spike said, "but it was the bagged stuff from Willie's. The blood bank can chuck it when it expires or sell it on the black market; who am I to deny some poor overworked intern a little extra income?" "Uh huh." Linda was obviously still skeptical. "And the last time you bit someone?" "Er... Halloween. But there were extenuating circumstances! Tell her, Buffy!" Buffy was right at his side, her fingers curled possessively around the crook of Spike's arm, laughing at his discomfiture in the face of Linda's rapid-fire questions, her upturned face illumined by a brilliant smile, tinged now with wicked humor. "If there hadn't been, he'd be Mr. Big Pile of Dust about now." It struck Angel that he hadn't seen that smile in a very long time, and for a moment his resolve wavered. Only for a moment; he had not survived this long on sentiment. He reached across the front seat and picked up the stake, tucking it into the sleeve of his coat. His quarry was in sight; he need only cut him from the rest of the herd. He opened the car door and slipped out into the too-bright L.A. night, a shadow among shadows. ***** "...didn't know you spoke French," Hank said, unwillingly impressed. Spike favored Hank with the thirteenth smirk of the evening. There was an American for you; never mind the bloodsucking creature of the night bits, the astonishing thing is he speaks more than one language! "Enough to get by. You spend fifty-plus years knocking about Europe, you pick up what you hear the most: 'Où est la salles des bains?' 'Mon Dieu! Arrêtez, s'il vous plaît. Ne me tuez pas!' the usual. " "Show-off," Buffy said in the tone which meant she was incredibly pleased with him. She gave his arm a quick squeeze, her eyes brighter than the lights inside, and who needed a heartbeat when you had a girl like this looking at you like that? Her lower lip slipped out in a mock-pout. "I could have handled it. I took two semesters of French in high school." He dipped his head to nuzzle her ear. "Love, you ordered a shoe." Buffy looked sidelong up at him through lowered lashes, daring him to tease the pout into another smile. "So maybe I wanted a shoe. You can never have too many shoes." Spike nodded, excessively sober, and turned on his heel, spinning her around with him. "Right then, back we go, and you can correct my pronunciation to the waiter--" Buffy gave a little shriek of laughter as the valet drove up with Hank's Lexus, and wrestled Spike back to the curb. "Don't you dare!" Abandoning him for the moment, she grabbed her father in an impulsive, rib-cracking hug and kissed him on the cheek. "Dad, thank you! I think this is the first real night out I've had in a year, and it's been wonderful." Spike made a mental note that if what amounted to a double date with her father was producing this kind of reaction, a romantic dinner for two would probably induce Buffy-meltdown. Buffy did a little pirouette on the sidewalk, while Hank surreptitiously felt his sides to see if anything had snapped. "I just wish it didn't have to end--I feel like dancing till dawn, or--" "Why not, then?" Spike caught her hand, pulled her back into the circle of his arm, and dipped her tango-fashion. "Got enough for a cab, don't we? We can find some speakeasy with a cover charge in the single digits and let the old folks toddle on home--" Buffy giggled. "Coming from the only person here who's celebrated a centennial, and uses the term speakeasy with a straight face..." She threw her father a hopeful upside-down look. "It won't bother you if we get in late? I know you said you had to go in to work this weekend..." Spike suppressed a laugh at the guilt which creased Hank Summers's brow. If Buffy'd been a less scrupulous person she could have parlayed that look into a weekend at the Hilton at the least. As it was, Hank handed the valet his tip, hesitated, extracted his Visa card from his wallet and handed it to Buffy. "Here, sweetie. Have fun. Just don't make me come bail you out, hmm?" "Ooh, platinum. My favorite color." She reached up and ruffled Spike's hair. It was barely possible, Spike thought, that he and Summers pere had one thing in common--her father seemed to be just as addicted to that glowing smile of hers as he was, looking pleased as hell when Buffy bestowed another hug which threatened the integrity of his internal organs. "Dad, you're tops. The concierge had a phone--I'll go call us a cab." She dashed back towards the restaurant door in a flurry of--well, Buffy would have been able to describe the dress in exacting technical detail, but Spike settled for 'sheer floaty stuff.' Pity they were going to have to return it in the morning; she looked ravishing in the low-cut, cream-colored bodice which left exactly enough to the imagination... "Don't let her get into trouble," Hank said, getting into his car. Spike tore himself away from his diverting speculation on just how athletic Buffy could get in that dress before coming out of it and grinned. "Not a matter of 'let,' mate." He watched the Lexus pull away from the curb and took a deep breath for the hell of it, reveling in the scent of smog and oranges, and gave himself up to the luxury of dithering over whether or not he'd have a smoke. Buffy's happiness was contagious, but this trip hadn't solved anything, not really--it might take weeks, or months, before the Council buckled under to Buffy's demands, if they ever did. Till then, she was still in a precarious position financially, and in her custody of Dawn. The thought of her having to take some scut-work job to make ends meet made him itch to crack a few Watcher heads. She wouldn't take money from him, for fear of where he might have obtained it. Spike rocked back on his heels and shoved his hands in his pockets, heedless of what he was doing to the cut of his suit. Buffy could be unreasonably suspicious at times; just because he'd happened to mention that between the two of them they were probably strong enough to rip an ATM machine out of the wall and break it open didn't mean he was planning on doing it. Not any time soon, anyway. He needed very little for himself; scavenging, gambling, and the occasional petty theft kept him in blood and beers very nicely, with just enough uncertainty to make life interesting. He could have gotten a job, even in Sunnydale, where the underworld was a tiny, parochial thing compared to Los Angeles's thriving demon community. There were several higher-up demons in town who used vampires for muscle, and if there was one thing he was good at, it was kicking ass. Until recently he'd scorned the idea--he was no one's lackey, and though he'd shed as many of the trappings of his living days as he could, there remained a stubborn core of William-beliefs so deeply ingrained as to be instinct: one opened doors for a lady, one paid one's gaming debts even if one had to knock over a convenience store to do so, and a gentleman didn't sully his hands with trade. Still, he wasn't a gentleman any longer by any stretch of the imagination, and Buffy was his girl now. That made him at least partly responsible for her welfare, not to mention Dawn's. Buffy would most certainly not see it that way, but... perhaps some sullying was in order. Spike felt a curious internal warmth that had nothing to do with body temperature--it had been a long time since anyone had depended on him for anything. Pride? Haven't had that in stock since the crash of '98, but root around in the cellar, mate, p'raps there's a crate left in a corner somewhere. His current reputation was such that some prospective employers might even find it an advantage; owning the loyalty of the vampire who'd done in Slayers and his own kind alike would be a coup in some circles. On the other hand, his inability to attack humans was a distinct liability. More to the point, he'd never been good at taking orders from anyone he wasn't in love with, and none of Sunnydale's demon bigwigs were all that appealing. Scratch that idea, save as a desperation ploy. What other possibilities were there? Besides his talents in the ass-kicking line, he spoke a dozen-odd languages, both human and demon, could identify hundreds of demon species on sight, had a working command of black magic combined with an intense distrust of same, possessed an eclectic knowledge of nineteenth and twentieth century human literature, wrote poetry badly, and had a certain knack for interior decorating on a non-existent budget--not exactly a resume calculated to bring in a six-figure salary in a small college town, even for someone who wasn't a legally dead illegal alien. The rasping snarl, pitched too low for human ears, interrupted his musings, and Spike perked up immediately. Whatever it was sounded large and brassed off, exactly what he needed to banish unprofitable thoughts about profits. Buffy would be out soon. Perhaps he should wait... Right. He might be whipped and happy to be so, but he wasn't that whipped. Whatever it is, I can kill the bugger and be back in two ticks. Piece of cake. ***** It looked too simple. Summers and his girlfriend took off, and then Buffy ran back into the restaurant. The patness of it all made Angel suspect a setup, but there was no way any of them could have known he'd be here tonight; his decision to come had been wholly on the spur of the moment. Sometimes the simple explanation was the correct one, and luck was working in his favor. Spike stood on the curb, rocking back and forth very slightly from heel to toe and gazing out at traffic with a contemplative expression. Angel's slow and purposeful stalk had brought him within fifty feet of his one-time protege when he heard the growl. Spike snapped to attention like a warhorse hearing a distant trumpet-charge, and a glittering, vicious smile spread across his face. He looked over his shoulder at the courtyard, then turned and strode away across the close-cropped lawn towards the side of the building, breaking into an eager trot at the sound of another growl. Angel increased his own pace to keep up. Spike pulled his suit jacket off as he ran, hopped a low stucco wall and disappeared behind a stand of topiary trees. A third growl segued into a full-throated roar, competing with the thump and rattle of the restaurant's heat pump. The roar was followed by the crackle of breaking branches and Spike came sailing back through the foliage, leaving a ragged hole in the center of the carefully-manicured privet hedge. He hit the grass rolling, somersaulted to his feet and shook himself violently, shedding leaves and twigs in all directions. He threw back his head with a wolf-howl, whooped "Come and get it, baby!" and dove back through the hedge. Angel called down silent imprecations on whatever demon had wandered up out of the sewers to complicate his plans, and ducked around the hedge. Spike's opponent wasn't a species Angel recognized; it stood at least eight feet tall and must have measured as much across. Its haystack of a body was covered with thick slatey-blue fur and an assortment of shiny, multi-faceted black hemispheres in varying sizes radiating out in an irregular whorl from the tooth-filled maw in the thing's upper surface. Whether they were eyes, tympanic membranes, or something else entirely was impossible to say. It supported its bulk on three elephantine limbs and lashed out at Spike with another three long, whiplike tentacles, each equipped with a set of claws like ebony scimitars. Spike ducked as the nearest tentacle sliced through the air over his head, close enough to shave off the tip of a bone-white curl or two, and came up again inside the thing's reach. Angel's first thought was that Spike had just gone insane; there was no way he could fight this thing effectively without a weapon. It was too large to wrestle, punching and kicking would make little impression on that enormous bulk, and its fur looked too thick for a vampire's fangs to penetrate even had Spike been in game face. A second later the method in Spike's madness became clear as his fist hammered into one of the shiny black organs, smashing it to glistening jelly. The demon's roaring escalated and Spike darted back as it reared up on two legs and tried to trample him with the third. Spike continued his lethal dance, ducking under or leaping over the whirling tentacles, flitting forward to pulp another eyespot whenever an opening presented itself. His arms were covered with translucent red-black goo to the elbow, and blood was running into one eye from a cut on his forehead where he'd been a hair too slow on a dodge. His eyes were aflame with kill-lust, his breath came in short harsh explosions through bared teeth, and there was a fine sheen of sweat on his face--physical reactions born of emotion, not exertion; a vampire's body had no need to regulate its temperature. Angel wavered on the fringes of the fight, debating whether or not to join in. If he remained aloof there was a good chance his problem would be solved for him, but then he'd have to dispose of this thing by himself, and he'd left his thrice-cursed cell phone in the car so calling for backup wasn't an easy matter. The matter was taken out of his hands forthwith; Spike zigged when he should have zagged, and one of the creature's tentacles coiled around Spike's chest, pinning his arms and lifting him bodily off the ground. The concentric rings of serrated teeth in the demon's maw gnashed like an animate paper shredder as the tentacle propelled Spike towards the opening. With a curse Angel leaped forward, aiming a roundhouse kick at the thing's near leg. At the same time Spike vamped out, bent his head and sank his fangs into the wrinkled blue skin of the tentacle holding him, ripping out a sizeable hunk of ichor-dripping flesh. The creature's roar took on train-whistle urgency. The tentacle holding Spike spasmed and flung the vampire into the side of the building. Spike landed hard on one shoulder and plummeted to the ground, gagging on demon blood. Angel dropped into a crouch, wrapped his arms around the leg he'd kicked, and heaved up and out. With a basso wail the thing swayed like a redwood about to topple, then tipped slowly and majestically over onto its side and lay there, waving its tentacles and kicking the air. The tentacle Spike had bitten twitched and shuddered, spattering purple blood across the grass. Spike got to his feet, ran a hand through his disordered hair, and spat out a mouthful of purple goo. "Like sodding peppermint whale oil, that is. If other demons didn't taste so disgusting my unlife would be a lot easier. " He dusted off the knees of his trousers, keeping an appraising eye on Angel. "Fancy meeting you here. Wondered if you were going to join in or stand there with your mouth hanging open in appreciation of my prowess." He rotated his shoulder experimentally, determined that everything was in working order, and walked over to retrieve his coat, all loose-limbed, predatory grace, as if he hadn't just been tossed into a wall like a discarded rag doll. You know what he is. Demon animating the mind and body of a man a hundred and twenty years dead, inhuman arrogance an imperfect mask for all-too-human fears. "So who exactly are you trying to fool, Spike?" "Eh?" Spike's dark brows sketched twin interrogation marks. "What're you on about?" He shrugged back into his coat, concealing the worst of the damage grass stains and demon blood had done to his shirt. He began going through the pockets, and finally located his lighter and a sadly abused pack of Marlboros. He extracted a cigarette with care and straightened it out, then held the pack out to Angel. "Fag? Or is that too personal a question?" Angel waved the pack away with impatience; Spike knew damned well that it was Angelus who smoked. Spike shrugged and lit up, tucked his lighter back into his pocket, and tilted his sleek white-blond head back to exhale a stream of smoke, his face was a razor-cheeked study in quiescent savagery. What we were informs what we become , Darla had told him, long ago. Were there still echoes in Spike of the diffident, bookish young man Drusilla had carted home to him and Darla, like a cat proudly presenting its owners with a bedraggled and half-dead mouse? Not that it mattered; William was dead, and any echoes of him that remained in Spike were only echoes. "This." Angel strode over and gestured at the fallen demon. "Fighting things like this when Buffy's not around to watch and give you the Slayer seal of approval. Running around in the middle of the day, having a nutritious breakfast when the only four food groups you really need are O, A, B and AB--" Faster than thought, he whipped the stake out of his coat sleeve and rammed it against Spike's chest. "You'd almost pass for human. But not quite. You've gotten soft, old pal. The Spike I knew would never have let me get within five feet of him." Spike glanced down at the wooden point making a divot in the lapel of his suit jacket, unflustered. "Yeh, I've gotten into this bad habit of trusting people lately. Give it a rest, Angelus. If you'd meant to stake me or Dru you'd have done it years ago, not pissed around setting her on fire--she told me about that little joke of yours. You're keen on the pre-show, but when it comes to the kickoff you're back in the stands. You'll beat us, burn us, drag us through hell at your heels--but kill us? Never." "Fancy talk from someone whose last conversation with me was conducted with the business end of a hot poker." Angel held Spike's eyes for a beat, long enough to let Spike grow uneasy about the accuracy of his assessment, and at last let the stake drop. "Why should I, when I can will hurt you a lot more by letting you live? Don't expect me to weep for Drusilla. The crazy bitch deserved it." He might as well have reached in and run a file right along a nerve; hatred boiled up in Spike's eyes, their golden depths going molten. This was too easy. "Careful, Spike. If you keep asking for Angelus, you may get him." A visible quiver of rage tensed Spike's shoulders, but somewhat to Angel's surprise he held himself back and twitched his coat back into place. "Right, I forgot. You're the good twin." "I've been trying to figure it out all day," Angel said, ignoring him. It would be satisfying to rip Spike's spine out and tie it in knots, but ultimately pointless. For vampires physical pain was cheap, healed and forgotten in hours or days. No, if he wanted to wound Spike, he knew exactly how to do it. He stepped back a pace or two and studied the younger vampire. "What's in this for you besides the thrill of notching your bedpost?" Still abnormally calm, Spike leaned back against the hedge and sucked on his cigarette. "Don't think I much care for your tone when speaking of my girl." "Your girl." Angel's voice took on a gunmetal chill. "Tell me something, Spike. Do you believe your own line?" "What d'you mean by that?" "Simple interrogative sentence. Do you really believe you can give up being evil?" Spike blew a smoke ring. "Give up the killing? Give up the rush of seeing things go smash? Give up the joy--" He kicked in another of the fallen demon's eyes with a black glee that suggested he would far rather be connecting the toe of his boot with Angel's face--"of hurting something? No." His nostrils flared. "But I can bloody well be selective about who I kill, and when. Traitor's not exactly a noble occupation, but you're in it right along with me, so glass houses, eh?" If there was one thing Spike was not, it was a plausible liar, and his voice was edgy now with anger and sincerity. Maybe he had convinced himself, as well as Buffy, that he had a prayer of resisting his own nature for more than a token few weeks... no, months now, almost a year. An eyeblink to someone who'd seen two and a half centuries roll by, hell, an eyeblink to Spike, who was half his age. "I'm glad you realize that much," Angel said, lacing his hands together behind his back and pacing in a slow circle around Spike and the heap of quivering blue fur. "That you can't change what you are. Does Buffy, though--does she really?" A muscle in Spike's jaw jumped. "You'd have to ask Buffy that." "'Cause I'm not sure she really gets it," Angel continued. Spike turned uneasily in place, trying to keep him in sight. "The urges. You know. Not just for blood. For destruction. For a good slaughter. The sweetness of inflicting pain, the delicious scent of fear--not just any fear, either. Human fear. Human pain. That's our natural prey, Spike. Hard to imagine you've given it up entirely." "'Our'?" Spike asked, his eyes hooded. "You think I don't still feel it?" Even with a soul, even with the twin goads of guilt and remorse constantly pricking him, he'd given in to those urges more than once; he still woke sometimes from dreams of Kate's rich living blood gushing into his mouth, or the artistic satisfaction of closing the doors on the crowd from Wolfram & Hart. Remorse was stronger than the satisfaction, but Spike knew none, and Spike had never possessed his self-control; the chip only provided him with an illusion of it. Spike snorted, folding his arms across his chest. "Didn't think you'd admit it if you did. What's all this in service of? I've got a lady waiting." "Harmony showed up in L.A. last spring." "My condolences." "Decided she was going to be a good guy." "Really?" Spike looked intrigued for a second. "Did the bint make a go of it, or did she work the Kendall magic once again?" "What do you think, Spike? She betrayed us to a vampire cult within twenty-four hours. So I'm just not all that convinced that your little turn-around is for real. I'll grant you've beaten her record. I'll even grant you love Buffy, the same sick way you loved Drusilla, and that makes it bearable being the neutered little lapdog you are today. But I know you, Spike. You're a monster, and furthermore, you love being a monster. You don't regret a single life you've taken, the first thought in your head when you see a human being walk into a room is 'Mmm, tasty!' and if that chip came out tomorrow--" Spike's lips peeled back in a wolfish grin over sharp white fangs, and a harsh bark of laughter escaped him. "I'd what? Enlighten me, Angelus. What'm I going to do?" "Right--you've changed. Got a quote for you: 'Not us! Not demons!' Name that tune, Spike." "A prize fuckwit of my acquaintance." Between one absent breath and the next Spike was nose to nose with Angel, or as close to it as he could get given the difference in their heights. "You tell me something, Angelus! You had her! Had her in your arms, in your bed, all warm and alive--you tasted the closest thing to heaven our kind will ever know! How the bloody hell could you get up the morning after and rip her heart out? She loved you! She would have loved you even without your precious sodding soul if you'd let her, and you threw it all away! And later--you can't shag her lest you experience perfect happiness and lose that inefficiently attached soul again, and what d'you do? Turn the world upside down to find someone who could diddle with the curse? No, not our Angel! He scarpers off to the big city and starts a detective agency. Bloody brilliant!" Angel grabbed him by the lapels and hauled him up level; Spike didn't fight it, just sneered into his thundercloud frown. "Do you think I had a choice ?" Angel snarled. "Do you think I wanted to hurt her?" "In a word, yes!" Spike snarled back. "What's your sodding soul got to do with it? You love her or you don't, Peaches! You want an explanation? Here it is: Buffy's with me because you let her go, you bloody great git!" Angel dropped Spike in one motion and in the next his fist connected with the younger vampire's jaw hard enough to slam him back into the wall of blue fur behind them. "I let her go because it was the right thing to do! Something you're incapable of understanding." Spike pulled himself upright on one of the thing's tentacles, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. It left a gory smear of mingled red and purple across his sleeve. "What I'm incapable of is leaving her--not unless she gives me the boot herself. I'd fucking well rather walk out into the sun and burn. She makes me feel--balls, why am I telling you this? You know! And you left anyway, because you'd bloody well rather wallow in misery than try to solve the problem!" "Better to face the misery than delude myself into thinking we had a future," Angel snapped. "And that's all it would be: delusion. Every single thing that made it impossible for Buffy and me goes double for Buffy and you. You're evil. She's not. You're immortal. She's not. You'll burn in the sun and she'll wither in the dark. It's not meant to be." Spike's lip curled up to expose one razor-sharp canine and he all but spat at Angel's feet. "Why should I give a toss what's meant to be? I'm not the special pet of the Powers, with a bouquet of prophecies pinned to my manly chest. I can do as I sodding well please with my unlife--not that I wouldn't anyway. What's meant to be is what happens, when it happens, and not a minute sooner." "What's happened," Angel said, emphasizing the word very deliberately, "Is that Buffy died. That's a traumatic experience." "Yeh, seems to me I remember it being a tad upsetting. Can't recall you being there." "She told me that when she first came back, you were the only thing that seemed real to her. She figures that's love." Angel's dark eyes raked Spike up and down. "I figure it's instinct. She's a Slayer. Killing your kind is what she was born for. Of course you're going to be the first thing she focuses on." He gave Spike a knife-edged smile. "But you know what? She's waking up now. She's starting to see other things again. I'm betting that when she realizes that there's a whole real, daylight world out there for her--she'll walk out into it. And you won't be able to follow her. What are you going to do then?" "Ring you up and cry on your shoulder. Here, did you just hunt me down to--half a mo'." Spike cocked his head to one side, ice-blue eyes slitted, an incredulous grin curling across his face. "Bloody hell, I get it--you want me to cock up, don't you? You'd throw a sodding ticker-tape parade if I slipped and took a nibble from the nearest warm body. If I can be a good boy, you can't can keep yourself toasty warm at night with your woolly blankie of moral superiority. You couldn't help breaking her heart--no, that was Angelus. Can't hold the bloody special soul-having Angel responsible for what the soulless monster did! Well, bugger that! I've sussed it out, Peaches--it took almost a year for Buffy to admit I could love her, and she's still half convinced there's something wrong with her that you couldn't love her without your bloody soul. If I'd no other reasons I'd play white hat just to spite you, y'pathetic wanker!" "You know, Spike, I came out here tonight with half a mind to kill you, and--" Spike's eyes went wide and Angel felt a twinge of irritation; surely he wasn't going to try the old 'There's someone behind you!' trick. A second later he recalled that Spike was the world's worst liar, and spun around. Not someone; some thing. With a gargantuan shudder the blue-furred monstrosity rolled over, coiled its two uninjured tentacles around the nearest lamp post, and heaved itself upright to the accompaniment of metallic pops and groans. Spike dropped to his knees as a tentacle lashed out and the ropy appendage whipped over his head and wrapped itself around Angel. The creature had learned its lesson; the thing gripped him too low around the waist for him to reach it with his fangs. Spike, crouched on the grass below, looked up at him and laughed, then sprang at the demon, aiming for another eye. Before he reached his target a small lithe shape bearing a long, spear-like object came hurtling down from the roof of the restaurant. It landed squarely on top of the demon's rolling back, astride the gnashing pit of teeth, and thrust downward with the thing in its hands. The demon shrieked in pain. "Past time you got here, pet!" Spike yelled. "You missed Peaches admitting he's got half a mind!" "Shut up and hit things, Spike!" The thing she'd rammed into the demon's maw was a push-broom, one of the industrial fiberglass-and-metal models. The demon choked and shook itself, and Spike laughed, pulping another eyespot. Buffy grinned down at him, her now-unbound hair a wild golden halo about her head, her eyes shining green and alight with feral joy. This time his arm went deeper; he hauled out something fibrous and necessary-looking. The demon jerked and staggered, a Brobdignagian marionette with tangled strings. Its rings of teeth pulsed futilely around the head of the broom, unable to spit it out or snap it into pieces small enough to swallow. Buffy hung on to the shaggy blue carpet of fur as it spun ponderously in place and started its second topple of the night. Angel struggled wildly in the grip of the creature's tentacle, and horror chased excitement from Buffy's face as she realized it was going to land right on top of him. She yanked on a double handful of fur in a hopeless attempt to steer the creature's bulk sideways. Something slammed into him from the side just before he hit the ground, stretching the tentacle out to its fullest extent so that as the black-speckled blue hulk descended, it crashed to earth several inches short of Angel's body. The tentacle uncoiled on impact, and Angel rolled head over heels and fetched up against the foot of the privet hedge. The thing which had slammed into him lay draped across his shoulders for a second, then sat up and shook itself. Spike. Angel's eyes narrowed. "What the hell did you do that for?" Spike began picking privet leaves and clumps of mangled rye grass off his jacket. "Oh, there's gratitude for you." He cocked a sardonic eyebrow at his grandsire. "Because I love her more than I hate you." Buffy let go of the demon's fur, dropped to the ground and ran over to them, skidding to a halt on her knees. "Are you all right?" Her words made no distinctions, but it was Spike's shoulders her arms encircled. Her hands traveled over his face and body, checking for damage. Buffy cradled his head on her shoulder, her face buried in the sticky tangle of his hair, and Spike nuzzled her ear with a resonant growl. "Never better, love." His eyes shimmered from gold to blue at her touch, and his brow ridges receded--no shame there at her touching his demon face; more as if he were slipping into a more comfortable set of clothes. "You?" "Fine. Great. Wonderful. Mmmm..." Angel heard her breath catch and resume and her heart trip faster than her recent exertions could justify. Her lashes swept a fringe of dark silk across her flushed cheeks as grey-in-this-light eyes darted for a moment in his direction; had he not been there, Angel was convinced, the two of them would be tearing each other's clothes off and having at it on the blue-furred hulk at this moment. He had a queasy sense of deja vu on multiple levels: Spike making savage love to Drusilla, couched upon a heap of exsanguinated corpses. Buffy tearing across the dance floor of the Bronze to leap on him, giddy with her own strength and sensuality, heedless of the danger of unleashing it on him...or perhaps welcoming that danger. He'd seen something close to the core of her being that night, and again on the night when he'd given her those scars on her neck, something deep-rooted and frighteningly strong. Something Faith's fall from grace had frightened her into keeping under rigid control ever since. Now, as she nestled in Spike's arms, he could sense that the bonds she'd placed on herself were loosening and fraying. Spike might not have prompted her dangerous intoxication with the darker side of her nature, but it was obvious that his presence encouraged it. He wasn't in love with her any longer, nor she with him, but he loved her still, if only for the sake of what she'd done in dragging him as far out of the darkness as it was possible for him to come. He couldn't allow Buffy to fall into the abyss she'd rescued him from. Unwitting of his realization, Buffy drew back and took in the condition of Spike's clothes with dismay. "I think I speak for both of us when I say thank God for Nordstrom's generous return policy." She jerked a thumb at the demon. "What is that thing?" "Rudnark demon." Spike got to his feet and gave Buffy a hand up. "Not very bright, but they take a lot of killing. Teach me to go anywhere without an axe again." The Rudnark made a violent choking noise, something like the dying wheeze of a fork-clogged garbage disposal, and gave a final shudder. Buffy gave it a kick and yanked the broom free. "On the other hand, maybe we've just been underestimating the lethal possibilities of janitorial supplies for all these years." She turned to Angel and took his hand. "We're lucky you happened to be here..." Suspicion clouded her eyes. "You did just happen to be here, didn't you?" Angel looked at Spike, who shrugged infinitesimally: Your move. Spike had saved him from a painful convalescence at least, though he'd done so only for Buffy's sake, and keeping Buffy's trust at this point was paramount. "Cordelia had a vision." True; Cordelia had had lots of visions. "What you might call a fortuitous coincidence," Spike said, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "Well, it's a good whatever he said." She squeezed Angel's hands and smiled up at him; a century of sunrise encompassed in a single human face--she'd never looked less like someone with a death wish. "Thank you. You know--I was terrified of seeing you. Terrified of telling you about... everything. But you've been--wonderful." She looked down at herself and wrinkled her nose. "The disco fever has definitely broken. Maybe we should just go find a hotel with dry-cleaning and room service and check in for the night. We can take a cab back to Dad's apartment before sunrise, sleep in, and head back to Sunnydale this evening." Spike wrapped his arms around her from behind and nipped at her ear. "Mmm, I love a woman who takes charge. Lead the way, love." "Thanks again!" Buffy called as they started off towards the waiting cab. "Say hello to Cordelia!" Angel stood with hand in pockets and a deeply unhappy expression as the two of them walked off arm in arm, covered in purple ichor and palpably eager to be alone with each other. He had more sense than to ever admit to Cordelia that he'd been within twenty miles of Buffy Summers tonight. He felt a sick twist in the pit of his stomach. He was going to have to call Giles. The Watcher hated him quite as much as Spike did, and for far better reason; if his passion was quieter, it was no less potentially deadly. But there was no help for it, given Buffy's disturbing behavior. Angel drew a pained sigh and headed back towards his car, and that thrice-cursed cell phone. ***** Candles, black. A whole bank of them, a Milky Way's worth of miniature stars. The circle inscribed in red ochre and sulfur, sigils drawn at each cardinal point with blue chalk, because you couldn't get powdered lapis on such short notice and Anya would have noticed something funny if she'd special-ordered it. Real frankincense, a fine powder scattered across the glowing coals in the brazier. It smouldered and melted around the edges as its languorous perfume rose into the still air of the cavern. Crow's feather to the left, an ebony slash against the rock. Cock's feather to the right, glowing tawny red in the candlelight. In the center of the circle, the knife. Silver, hand-long blade, triangular--a knife designed for the penetrating wound, for drawing blood. Of course, there would be blood. Willow smoothed the crumpled, ink-stained pages of the grimoire flat once more, tongue-tip wetting her lips. She'd copied as much as she could of the text and pored over its translation for the last several nights, even tried a small spell to leech the ink-stain out of the ancient paper, but there were still large segments of commentary she couldn't read, and the exact purpose of the spell remained obscure. The blue chalk worried her, but Buffy would be coming back to Sunnydale tonight, and tomorrow--tomorrow she'd have to have her miracle ready. She'd compensated by using the frankincense instead of the combination of stoat's musk and pine resin the spell called for--frankincense was expensive, but she had no idea where she was supposed to find a stoat. She'd taken other precautions, too: she'd drawn another, larger circle in corn meal and turquoise chips around the circumference of the cavern and called on Raven and Corn Mother and all the powers of an entirely different and antithetical tradition to confine any energies which might escape the inner circle. She knelt in the center of the inner circle, sweating palms folded on her lap. Compared to some of the spells she'd done in her life, this one used comparatively little raw power. It was well within her current limits. Probably, if anything went wrong, she could break off the invocation, refuse to harbor the power she was calling and send it packing. Probably. There was no kidding herself that this wasn't dangerous and stupid, but-- Visions of a wretched landfill encampment she'd never seen with her own eyes flashed through her brain, phantom shapes wracked with misery and fear that she could alleviate--if only. Buffy's face, her eyes full of disappointment: I thought I could depend on you, Will. Tara's earnest voice, full of pity: I thought you were someone special. Other faces, other memories: Moloch, advancing on her with mechanical deliberation; Mayor Wilkins, cheerily threatening her with death; Spike, drunk and vicious and about to slice her face open; Verruca, laughing at her weakness; the scarecrow figure of Daniel Tanner, tearing her mind free of its moorings... She closed her eyes and tipped her head back, breathing deeply to calm her racing heart. She raised her arms, palms outspread, and began. Willow picked up the cock's feather, and flung it onto the coals. The stench of burning feathers joined the heavy odor of the incense. Herald of the Dawn, guardian of the gates of ivory, Let that which I summon enter! She could feel the currents of power stirring, rising within her. She picked up the crow's feather and tossed it after its mate. Herald of the Dusk, guardian of the gates of horn, Do not bar the way, but hold it open! Willow fumbled for the hilt of the knife; the silver was chill against her skin, an interstellar cold. Willow scrunched her eyes shut, gritted her teeth, and plunged the knife into her palm, the point slicing through skin, stabbing through muscle and tendon, sliding between the metacarpal bones to emerge from the back of her hand. "Thus do I grasp the door into the Great Abyss!" she screamed, yanking the knife free. Agony lanced through her, pain too great to encompass shooting all the way up into her shoulder and coiling around her spinal cord. "Thus do I open the door!" Tears blinded her; blood flowed from the double wound in scarlet rivulets, dripping onto the coals and hissing like a nest of snakes. "Thus do I consecrate the threshold!" Willow slapped her bleeding left palm down on the brazier. The red and black of the coals seared itself onto the back of her eyelids, and there was noplace she could escape. Fire and ice, meeting, melding, becoming one pain impossible in its scope and perfection. She could smell her own flesh burning, and a part of her mind flung up memories of summer barbeques and hamburgers broiling on the back yard grill. She almost vomited at the image, but with iron determination she swallowed her own bile and pulled her hand away. "The way is open, the path is clear! Enter in where you have been made welcome, Lord of the Great Dark, make of me the vessel for your power and I shall be thy willing servant!" A wind sprang up where no wind should have been, and the candle-flames dipped and lay almost flat for a breath, for two--and then they were gone, every flame snuffed out, and the great dark they'd kept at bay rolled in and drowned all. There should have been thunder, there should have been lightning and the howling of wolves. There should have been the wailing of damned souls as the Hellmouth gaped wide. But the wind was gone as quickly as it had come, and there was only the deep silence of the caves, made deeper by the slow insistent drip, drip, drip of water in the far distance, in some jet-black fastness where the earth yet labored to bring forth a garden of stone, building its cold limestone blossoms petal by petal over the millennia. Willow knelt alone in the dark, cradling her throbbing hand in her lap and rocking back and forth in pain. Her sobs made pitiful little dents in the silence. Out of the darkness a greater dark coalesced, black as night, black as ice in the deeps of midwinter, an absence of light so intense that it froze the eyes no less than too great a concentration of light could burn. Vast it rose above her, stretching itself from floor to roof-beam, from wall to wall, and perceiving her huddled there stooped like a falcon upon a dove. Woman, why are you weeping? There was nothing else she could say. "It hurts. It hurrrts!" Then bid it stop. Too dazed to do anything but obey, Willow mumbled, "Wounds be healed, pains be eased." The pain stopped. And there was no joy in the universe so great as that moment, when the mind still comprehended the full extent of the pain and realized it was no longer there. It was the feeling you got when the Midol kicked in, except a million times better. Willow crouched on the bare stone floor, holding her uninjured hand. "Fiat lux," she whispered. A ball of golden light sprang into being over her head, shining down on the half-melted ranks of candles, the sullenly smoking brazier, the bloodstained knife. She looked down at her palm; beneath the film of drying blood, the skin there was pink and smooth and perfect, save for a thin silver scar running through the center, bisecting the lines of head and heart and life. Turning her hand over revealed a matching scar on the back, from knuckles to wrist. She flexed her fingers, probing inwardly for the scraped-dry feeling. It wasn't there. She scrambled to her feet, looking around. There was her book bag and her trusty blue nylon duffle. She pointed at the brazier. "Cool!" She bent over and touched the rim with tentative fingers; the metal held no trace of heat. She picked it up, knocked the half-burnt coals out, and straightened, cupping it in her hands. "Clean!" Instantly, the metal sparkled in the witchlight. And she felt fine. Just like her old self. Willow broke into a grin, and a giddy laugh escaped her. She hugged the brazier to her chest and spun around, scuffing the now-powerless sigils beneath the soles of her sandals. "Woo! I did it! Ignite!" The candles sprang back to life. "Volo!" She rose into the air and swooped around the cavern, narrowly missing a stalactite--Disneyland had a new E-ticket ride. "Willow Rosenberg, wicca supreme, rides again!" The cold black voice brought her up short in mid-swoop. As it should be. But there will be time for celebrations later. It is time to meet your new companions. One by one, from out the pitch black depths of the tunnels on every side, the eyeless men began emerging.

"There are seven." Tanner flinched and froze in the middle of the sidewalk, nearly dropping the filthy mesh bag he was carrying over one shoulder. He looked up. There was one modest patch of winter rye amidst the water-conscious landscaping in front of the Wells Fargo Bank, a pool of smooth, perfect, luscious emerald green surrounded by gravel and the pale, serrated leaves of succulents. The guy with no eyes was standing in the middle of it, and around his feet the grass had turned brown and dry as the winter-killed Bermuda it was supposed to be hiding. From the moans and whimpers behind him some of the others saw the guy and some didn't. Dana, Jim and Ramon stumbled to a halt and clung to one another, staring about them with wide fearful eyes, while Lizzie, Blue, Matches and Carmel kept walking, straggling halfway down the block before they realized they'd been abandoned. Dana turned uncertainly back and waved. Tanner felt an internal lurch and looked down at his feet. The toe of his right shoe had slipped over the crack between one block of cement and the next. Shit, shit, shit. Reality yawed, ley lines crossed, worlds spun out of kilter... Trying to control his panicky breathing, he slid his foot back ever so carefully, and slowly, slowly the universe around him swung back into balance. He could hear the ponderous groan of the heavens realigning themselves overhead, the metallic screech of the stars sliding back into place. "Don't!" he hissed at the eyeless man. Who ignored him, and repeated, "There are seven surrounding the Slayer. The Key. The Watcher. The Vampire. The Witches. The Demon. The Man. When the Balance is disturbed the pattern is always fragile. Pull upon the correct thread and the pattern unravels." Tanner shifted impatiently. The names dropped into his mind, stones into a dark pool, leaving interference patterns of ripples behind. He would have known any of them in an instant now: the dark-haired girl, the bespectacled man, the peroxide-blond vampire from the poolhouse, the small redhead and the taller blond college girls, the girl with the sharp inquisitive face who ran the Magic Box, the dark-haired youth with the silly grin. "What do you want me to do?" "Take my hand," the eyeless man said, voice as sere as the dead grass. Tanner hesitated for a second, but he'd promised. He stretched out his hand and the eyeless man grasped it. It was cold, cold and dry and withered. Not a dead thing, no, worse, a thing whose life had been stretched beyond endurance until existence became meaningless. He could feel the pulse beating in it, slow and awful, twitching against his palm, and then his own heart was pounding in rhythm, matching that feeble sickening twitch beat for beat. The eyeless man began to chant. Where thou walkest, there we follow Where thou bitest, there we swallow Where thou breathest, take we life Where thou strikest, cause we strife Where thou speakest, weave our lies Servant of the Bringers, rise!" Twinned heartbeats throbbed in his ears, nausea built in his too-empty stomach. With each pulse dark energy flowed from the eyeless man, black, viscous, and chill, sinking into his bones and congealing within his flesh. Tanner yanked his hand away and stood shivering, clutching it to his breast and flexing fingers stiff and stinging with cold. His heart beat of its own accord again, hammering against its cage of bone, but the mad rush of blood through his veins did not warm him. "What...?" "You are our instrument. Your touch shall open the gates of their hearts and they shall walk through the door into shadow." Tanner licked his lips, tasting a residue of salt and bile. "Listen," he said, "We gotta hunt." "Hunt then, but remember your promise. There are lives reserved for oathbreakers far worse than the one you lead." Tanner hunched his shoulders, brows dipping in a sullen frown. "I keep my promises." There was no answer; the eyeless man was gone again, but the circle of dead grass where he'd stood remained, an urban crop circle to mystify the arriving bank tellers the next morning. Tanner pulled his jacket more closely around his shoulders, feeling the draft where the cool night air seeped in through the torn place in the armhole. He massaged the palm of his right hand with the thumb of his left, trying to work some feeling back into the numb flesh. "Dana!" he called. "Get back." He waited while Dana herded the others back to the group. Eight. Eight of fourteen. Blondie out of commission because of her hands, and four more too far out of it to be of any help. Ronnie stuck back at the camp to look after them--and that would cost him dearly in the weeks to come, since Ronnie would miss out on tonight's hunt and would soon be in no condition to play backup. "Dirty," he whispered. "All torn and dirty." Couldn't be helped. "We're going to split up," he said as Dana and the others shuffled back into line. "Like we did that time in July, right? Dana, you take Matches and head out for the park. Set up the circle behind the bandshell." He took the bag off his shoulder and handed it to her. "You remember how to do that, right?" "Bright and rapture we see the coming day," Dana said. She couldn't talk worth crap, but like silent Ronnie, she still understood pretty well, even on bad days. She was fortunate that way. "Yeah. Ramon, you take everyone else and find us a new friend." Stunned silence. At last Ramon ventured, "Tanner... you always..." "Tonight I can't." He tried to keep his voice calm and level. "I'll meet you at the park later." Tanner started off down the sidewalk, paused, and looked back; Ramon's face was sickly with apprehension in the yellow light of the street lamps. "Don't worry. I know you'll pick someone good." **** The bar-cum-mediocre-restaurant was called Benders this year. It wasn't a dive, but it wasn't too classy, either--one of those establishments you found in every college town where any lack in the quality of the food and drink was made up by the variety of farm implements and old road signs tacked up on the walls. The patrons were mainly students from the nearby UC Sunnydale campus, along with a sprinkling of locals and the occasional high school senior trying out a fake ID. Pro to hanging out with Spike, Xander thought as the waitress filled their glasses and set down the pitcher: Spike is old enough to buy beer. It was difficult to tell how old Spike had been when he was turned; late twenties, probably, but he had one of those lean, ageless faces that looked more or less the same from twenty-five to fifty. The salient point was that he didn't immediately inspire waitresses to ask for his driver's licence, which was lucky as he didn't have one. Xander passed the vampire a twenty under the table and Spike handed it to the waitress with that half-smile and sideways, heavy-lidded glance which for some inexplicable reason made waitresses go all gooey. "Keep the change, luv." Con: Spike requires my money to do so. Spike reached for his glass and returned to his seeming perusal of the copy of the L.A. New Times he'd grabbed from the free bin inside the lobby. In actuality he was watching the crowd around the pool tables like... well, like a vampire intent on his next meal. He took a swallow and grimaced. "Lovely. The horse must feel much better now." "Nothing like good ol' Guinness, huh? Cool. I had this weird urge for beer instead of warm, flat sludge." "Remind me again why I stopped pinching your wallet?" "Possibly because I haven't been in arm's reach?" "I was saving you from yourself, you ask me. Yank blasphemer." Spike squinted at the paper and leaned back in his chair. "And would it be too much to ask for these wankers to hire a music critic who doesn't think he's the second bloody coming of Lester Bangs and just reviews the bloody albums?" Xander considered asking who the hell Lester Bangs was and decided against it, since that would only provoke Spike to tell him. "So what exactly is our purpose here, besides inducing me to waste more of my hard-earned paycheck entertaining a cranky vampire?" "Enabling me to collect my hard-earned paycheck." Spike scanned the little clumps of people gathered round the pool tables again, visibly sizing up and discarding prospects. "All you need to do when we get a table is pretend to give me a few pointers, show me the ropes like, and then stand back and let me work. In consideration of your delicate sensibilities, Harris, we're not going to skin anyone who doesn't roll up begging to be skint. Hah, there's one coming open. Come on." Spike got up and headed for the pool tables. Half-way across the crowded floor the vampire stopped, a puzzled light in his pale eyes, and inhaled deeply. Xander, trying to juggle both glasses and the pitcher behind him, made an inquiring noise. Spike stood motionless for a moment longer, then exhaled. "Thought I recognized... nah, it's gone. Losing the plot, I am." He shook his head and set off for the pool tables again. Xander looked around, seeing nothing unusual in the crowd, then shrugged and followed him. They claimed the middle of the three tables before the previous players had finished hanging up their cues. "Here we observe the wily vampire in his natural habitat, the pool hall," Xander intoned as he racked up the balls. "Note the exotic coloring of the pelt, designed by nature--or possibly Miss Clairol--to blend in with the cue ball and..." "I'll pelt you if you don't shut your gob," Spike said, without much rancor. "Now teach me to play pool." He picked up the chalk as if he'd never seen one before and applied it tentatively to the tip of his cue. "Looks like jolly fun," he said in a spot-on imitation of Giles' cultured accent. All traces of North London vanished from his speech, the blue of his eyes went from icy and knowing to soft and luminous, and his body language from predatory to puppyish. "Fill my eager mind with knowledge." "Uh... fine." Xander picked up a cue and looked nervously around. "Does this make me a shill?" "Apparently it makes you unnecessarily talkative." "OK, OK, just asking." This was probably a bad idea, he thought. But it was a couple of steps up from Spike's other methods of getting ready cash, most of which involved out and out larceny, and how many more chances was he going to get to be irresponsible and stupid with a reasonably clear conscience? He was getting married in... oh, God, only a month, and Anya would probably skin him if she found out about this--if only because he hadn't demanded that Spike give him a cut of the profits. Spike was eyeing him impatiently, drumming his fingers on the side of the table. Xander cleared his throat loudly. "The idea is to use the cueball--that's the white one--to knock the other balls into..." Spike nodded, hanging raptly on his every word. In fact, ultra-cool vampire-guy Spike seemed to have completely disappeared, replaced by an earnest and slightly clumsy young man who'd had a bit more to drink than was good for him. He looked a great deal like Spike, and sounded a great deal as Spike might have sounded had he gone to Oxford instead of wherever the hell he'd misspent his youth, and played pool about as well as Spike might have if he hadn't had a century-plus of practice, reflexes Minnesota Fats would have killed his mother for, and a tolerance for alcohol bordering on the phenomenal even for a vampire. Exactly the sort of fellow, in other words, that you wanted to get into a friendly wager with. Spike set the stage carefully, Xander had to admit. He lost several games against Xander, but not too badly, and won once or twice, but not too well. He killed the first pitcher without much help from Xander, played another couple of games against a giggly redhead who only wanted to play for points, lost the first by one ball and the second by three, and made serious inroads on a second pitcher. He sulked vocally about how much better he'd do with a real wager on the line, but kept allowing Xander to talk him out of playing for money. At some point during the evening, the guys at the next table, a large, aggressively wholesome pair in letter jackets who'd been flashing a lot of cash earlier, began paying attention. By now, they were hard pressed to keep from snickering at the show. "Look, Harris," Spike said, leaning forward and poking a finger at Xander's chest. "I've got the hang of it now. What I need is a little com-competitive edge." He was swaying a little and enunciating every word just a little too clearly; Xander, who'd seen Spike really drunk on more than one occasion and knew that it took considerably more than a couple of pitchers of American beer for the vampire to achieve this level of impairment, wasn't fooled, but it was a fairly convincing display for the lay observer. "Yeah, you've got an edge all right." Xander removed the finger from just below his third shirt button, wondering if Spike expected him to start an argument or back down. "Let's go get you some coffee or something before you cut yourself on it." A large hand clapped him on the shoulder. "Hey, there, don't be so hard on your friend there," Frat Guy Number One said, displaying lots of large white teeth in what was probably a winning smile, if one happened to be a shark. "If he wants a real game, we'll play. I'm David and this is Shaun." He jerked a thumb at his slightly smaller and darker compatriot. "William." Spike shook the offered hand enthusiastically and pretended to wince at the pressure. "Ever so pleased to meet you." **** The ivory ball careened across the green felt and struck its target a glancing blow. For a long breathless moment the red ball teetered on the edge of the pocket, and then, bowing to the inevitable, tipped over and dropped in. Spike straightened, beaming at Shaun with a wide-eyed and slightly tipsy smile, stunned and delighted with his own good fortune. "I say!" he cried. "That was a lucky one, wasn't it?" Theoretically they were playing doubles, but so far Xander hadn't had much to do except sit back, try not to screw up when his turn rolled around, and watch as 'William', after a shaky start, wiped the table with their opponents. Considering the usual results of their own much lower-stakes games at the Bronze, Xander wasn't surprised at the wiping the table part, but there was no way Spike was this good an actor; faking being drunk was one thing, but he'd never been particularly good at deception in the past. Xander leaned over and whispered, "Who are you, and what have you done with the real Spike?" The real Spike made an immediate reappearance and jabbed him in the stomach with the butt of his pool cue accidentally-on-purpose, ducking his head to hide the pained expression as the chip set off. He injected a note of wounded petulance into his voice for good measure. "Really, Harris, push off--not fair of you to coach, what?" Shaun glared and ran a hand through his short-cropped chestnut hair, something he'd been doing with increasing frequency and vehemence as the night went on. He might be smaller than David (who really ought, Xander felt, to have been named Goliath) but he still had a good two inches on Xander and a good four on Spike, and he was using them to best advantage. "Yeah, back off. Let Willy-boy shoot." Willy-boy graced him with a smile which came nowhere near his eyes and began lining up his next shot, screwing his face into a comical expression of concentration. Xander looked from him up into the blunt-nosed, linebacker's face of David, who was currently looming beside him with a distinctly unfriendly air, held up both hands and retreated to the nearest table to nurse his beer. Pro: Watch Spike take snotty college kids to the cleaners. The frat guys hadn't gotten to the point of sounding belligerent yet, but it was beginning to penetrate that their earlier lucky streak against the supposedly inexperienced English guy had run out. Hopefully Spike would have the sense to quit while he was ahead. Sense? Wait, this is Spike. David folded his arms and watched as Spike prowled his way down the pool table, his jaw jutting forward. From his vast store of personal encounters with guys who would just as soon pound you in the teeth as look at you, Xander judged that David was still a ways from exploding, but he was getting there. Click . "I've won again, haven't I? Fancy!" Further pro: I won't have to cover Spike's bets to avoid a serious ass-whooping. A lighter, feminine voice cut through the riot of voices in the background. "...told Kevin I liked him, but that I didn't like him like him..." Xander frowned. That sounded like... David's basso rumble overwhelmed it. "...look, one breaking shot, double or nothing..." Spike fiddled with his cue, distressed. "I don't know, chaps, hadn't I better leave off? Luck can't last forever, you know. Still...not really sporting of me, is it...?" "...can't believe he said that right in the middle of Mrs. Doormann's class, of all places--" Xander stiffened and buried his nose in his beer, shading his face with one hand as Dawn, Lisa, and a third girl he vaguely recalled as Morgan (or possibly Megan) sashayed by on their way to the ladies' room, all too-casual hair flips and considerably more makeup than Xander remembered from having dropped Dawn off at Lisa's place earlier. Wait a minute. Why am I hiding from them? He straightened up and assumed the awful mantle of adult authority--hopefully Dawn would notice. "Hey! Dawn! Aren't you out a little late?" Dawn froze at the sound of his voice, and a second later the other two girls, realizing something was amiss, did the same. Her eyes widened in horror. "Xander?" she squeaked. "Dawn?" Spike's white-blond head snapped up and he stopped mid-shot, eyes narrowing. He set his cue down against the side of the pool table, but he didn't get more than a half-step away before David's meaty hand clamped down on his shoulder. "Hey! If you think you can walk out now--" "Sod off." Spike shrugged the hand off and stalked over to Xander's table. Looked like 'William' had taken a powder. "Bloody hell, Bit, it's after midnight. Does Buffy know you're about?" Dawn grabbed Spike's arm, all but bouncing up and down in agony. "Oh, God, Spike, you're not gonna tell her, are you?" she pleaded. "We were just about to head home, honest! She'll get all freaked out over nothing, you know how she gets--" That earned her the raised eyebrow thing. "Yeh, and you know how I get, so the odds of my letting you toddle off home through downtown Hellmouth unescorted would be..?" Megan's (or possibly Morgan's) jaw dropped, taking in the vampire's full bleached-blond and black-denimed glory. Spike, engaged in a heavy-duty glowering match with Dawn, failed to notice. "That's Spike? Oh. My. GOD. I thought you said he was, like, a million years old!" She tossed her head, toying with her streaked hair, and batted her heavily mascara'd lashes at Xander. "And you're kinda cute too. Geez, Dawn, introduce us!" Dawn's look could have melted titanium. "Could you possibly be a little more desperate?" she hissed. "I don't think the entire bar heard you." She waved an unenthused hand from one side of the group to the other. "Spike, Xander, jailbait. Megan, Lisa, engaged guy and... uh... Spike." A Death Star-sized shadow intervened between them and the nearest overhead light; David and Shaun were approaching, pool cues in hand, looming with menace aforethought. "Look, the family reunion's touching," David said, smacking his cue into his palm. "But there's a little matter of two hundred bucks we need to settle. NOW." "Hold your water, you feeble-minded tossers!" Spike snatched the cue away and shook a admonitory finger at Dawn. "You budge one inch before I get back and I swear I'll nail your feet to the floor with tent pegs--gerroff, you!" Megan, who'd been inching coyly closer with an eye towards some arm-grabbing of her own, hopped back in a shower of giggles. David blinked. "When did he start talking like that?" "You know, this is a really good night for me so far," Xander said brightly. Dawn groaned. Under the watchful eyes of Shaun and David, Spike strode back to the pool table, all pretense of amateurishness abandoned. He bent over, took aim, let fly with his cue in one smooth, economical stroke and stood back with a clinical eye to observe the balls scattering every which way over the felt. "Four, five, six..." He turned to David with a lift of his scarred eyebrow and the patented Spike smirk. "I believe you gents said double or nothing?" "Fuck!" Shaun screeched. "There's no fuckin' way you could make that fuckin' shot! This is fucked, man!" "Some of us are," Spike agreed. "Too fucking right!" Con: get the shit beat out of you afterwards because Spike can't defend himself against snotty college boys who want their two hundred dollars back. Lisa shrieked as Spike ducked Shaun's wild swing with the pool cue. Xander leaped to his feet; not only was Spike unable to hurt a human without setting off his chip, the cues were wood and there was an outside chance that Shaun might accidentally impale Spike and do some real damage. Not to mention that if Buffy found out they'd gotten Dawn into a bar fight, there would be no end to the messy painful death she'd arrange for both of them. He gut-punched a totally unsuspecting Shaun, who doubled over with a shocked, painful 'whoof!'--Xander didn't have super-strength, but he'd been fighting vampires for six years and working construction for two, and had considerable muscle to show for it. "RUN!" he yelled, shoving Dawn ahead of him. Spike shot one gleeful yellow-eyed look at David, and Xander could all but read his mind. A second later the vampire had gone all fangs and brow ridges, lunging at David with a "RRAARRGGGH!" David yelled and fell backwards onto the pool table. Spike vaulted gracefully over his head and hit the floor at a dead run, swooping up Megan and Lisa in the process, though it was difficult to tell if this was out of a sense of responsibility for Dawn's friends or simply because they happened to be in his way. He caught up to Xander at the door and all five of them pounded out into the parking lot, the girls squealing and the men laughing maniacally. Bad Xander! This is not in any way amusing! Spike yanked open the driver's door of the DeSoto, hopped in and gunned the engine. "Pile in, children!" he caroled as David and Shaun, accompanied by several equally large and irate friends, appeared silhouetted in the doorway of the bar. Xander grabbed shotgun by virtue of superior size, and the three girls crammed themselves into the back seat. "Can't a vamp get a break around here?" Spike gasped, tears of laughter running down his once-more-human cheeks as they tore out of the parking lot at indecent speed. "I wasn't even cheating that time!" "Someone up there just likes you, I guess," said Xander. "So did they pay you any of the money before the big fraidy runaway?" "Not a quid." "Figures." Something palm-sized and heavy landed on his lap with a thump. Xander grabbed it reflexively--leather? Spike was wearing the insane-vamp grin again. "But I did manage to nick his wallet on the way out." **** It could have been worse. It could have been Buffy. It could have been worse... Dawn kept repeating her new mantra as the DeSoto roared along the dark streets, despite scant hope that it would bring inner peace any time soon. It had all seemed like such a foolproof plan when Lisa had suggested it. Lisa's dad was out of town, and her mother slept with earplugs because of her insomnia, so arranging a sleepover at her place and using it as a cover for a night on the town was easy. Catching the late bus over to the college was equally simple. Buffy sometimes patrolled near the college, but if she wanted a break she always went to the Bronze, or more rarely, to Willy's. No one she knew ever went to Benders. Which was probably why Spike had picked it to hustle pool in. Life just wasn't fair. Despite the embarrassment of being caught, Dawn had to admit to a smidgen of relief, since while getting to Benders had been easy, the buses stopped running at midnight, and their plans for getting back home had been a little shaky. Neither Spike nor Xander seemed too upset with her, outside Spike's usual outrageous threats of bodily harm; in fact, their victory over the forces of the Letter Jacket Brigade had left them both bouncing off the walls. Spike was steering with one hand and extracting David's cash from the purloined wallet with the other, while Xander rummaged through the vampire's CDs making gagging noises. "Devo, crap. Sex Pistols, crap. Butthole Surfers, crap... don't you have anything less than twenty years old in here?--hey! This is mine!" Xander shook Murder in front of Spike's nose. "What can I say? The title speaks to me. There's a Linkin Park in there somewhere." Xander gave up and slapped a random CD into the machine and the dulcet strains of "Why Don't We Do It In The Road?" blasted out into the night. He eyed the wallet-excavating process. "You're only gonna take as much as they owed you, right?" "Uh... yeah. 'Course. Bugger all, I have to--double or nothing would have made four hundred, and there's not three hundred here." Spike tossed Xander two twenties. "Here's your beer money, shill. How d'you fancy pool sharking as an occupation?" "I'm not quitting my day job." Xander tucked the money into his shirt pocket behind his rescued CD as Spike rolled down the window and made to chuck the wallet out. "Hey, hold on to that! There's got to be ID in there, we can mail it back to him tomorrow or something." Spike slouched down in the driver's seat, lit a cigarette and draped his arm out the window, trailing smoke. "Altogether too much work being a white hat if you ask me," he grumbled, but tossed Xander the wallet again. Dawn chewed on a lock of her hair. "Are you guys gonna tell..." she asked apprehensively. Xander looked up from his examination of the wallet; he was apparently scrupulous enough to want to give it back, but not scrupulous enough to refrain from poking through David's stuff. "Well--" "Your sis has enough on her mind right now," Spike interrupted. "No need to add to her worries, eh?" Dawn slumped back in the seat, relief flooding over her; of course Spike would come through. "If I catch you out running around without your leash again, mind, I'll be taking you home in a plastic baggie." He threw Lisa a look over the back of the seat. "Where's your place again?" Once out of immediate danger, Lisa had lapsed into temporary shell shock, and was currently staring fixedly at the place in the rear-view mirror where Spike's reflection wasn't. "Twenty-fourth and Ramada," she got out in a subdued squeak. "You can take Wilkins south." Spike pursed his lips, figuring out trajectories. "Right then. I've got a stop or two to make and you'll be home by two." "He's not gonna kill us?" Lisa whispered. "He can't hurt you," Dawn whispered back. "He's got this chip--" "And very good ears," Spike interrupted. "And I could so kill you if I really wanted. Just so happens I don't want to." Dawn kicked the back of the seat. "Stop it! You're gonna make Lisa pee her pants!" "Not in my bloody car. And put your damned seatbelt on, it's down in there somewhere." The first stop was Kohlermann's Fine Meats, very likely the world's only twenty-four hour butcher's shop. Spike picked up two pounds of raw liver and several gallons of pig's blood in quart containers, and spent a quarter-hour chatting up Benny Kohlermann, who worked the night shift. Back at the car, he stuck a straw through the lid of one of the blood containers and wedged it into the plastic drink holder up front like a Big Gulp, which didn't help Lisa's mental state any. Dawn accrued major unflapability points by nonchalantly helping pack the rest of the blood into the cooler in the DeSoto's trunk. The second stop was the twenty-four hour Safeway on Wilkins, where Lisa thawed slightly, though she kept giving Spike's lack of reflection in the store security mirrors surreptitious glances, and she'd tugged her cross necklace to the outside of her blouse. Oddly enough, Dawn couldn't remember Buffy having worn her cross necklace since coming back from the dead. "Are you sure he's... safe?" Lisa whispered to Dawn as the stood in the checkout line with Spike's several purchases. Dawn shrugged, glancing at the vampire with a proprietary smile. Spike was the most and the least safe person she knew. Supposedly you could tell a lot about a person from their grocery list; what exactly a carton of Marlboro Reds, Nestle's extra-rich cocoa mix, a block of extra-sharp cheddar, one bag of yellow apples, a jar of Jiffy extra-chunky peanut butter, and a random assortment of items from the Dry Crunchy Things To Dip In Blood food group added up to, Dawn wasn't sure, unless it was that Spike was a sucker for anything with 'extra' on the label. "He won't hurt you, if that's what you mean." She felt a little sorry for Lisa; she'd run into Spike around the Summers house on several occasions and knew him as a friend of Buffy's. Like most people who'd grown up in Sunnydale, Lisa was aware that there were things that stalked the darkness just outside the circles of lamplight--but also like most in Sunnydale, Lisa's family never talked about them. Seeing Spike go all bumpy in public was a shock. It was tough, having to learn about vampires on the streets. Megan was having no such difficulties. Megan always meant well, but she was blessedly free of the ravages of intellect, whether by nature or by choice. The fact that the dreamy blond guy had temporarily grown fangs wasn't anywhere near enough to discourage her. She gazed admiringly at the back of Spike's sleek head. "How come you never told us you hung out with all these hunky guys, Dawn?" "It's just Spike and Xander." Dawn tried to inject the proper note of indifferent disdain as they followed the grocery-laden guys out to the parking lot. It was true she'd had a crush on both of them at one time or another, but that had been ages ago--last year, for crying out loud!--and she was over that now. It was excruciatingly embarrassing to be reminded of it. She wouldn't have minded nursing her Spike-crush for longer, but Dawn was perceptive enough to know from the moment her sister had gone storming off to Spike's crypt in the Lacy Red Blouse of Protesting Too Much to tell him that she had absolutely, positively no interest in him whatsoever that Spike's unattached days were numbered. Of course at the time she'd had no idea that Spike would do something as colossally stupid as tying Buffy up and threatening to feed her to his ex, but... there was Spike for you. At least he'd learned his lesson. Maybe a little too well. Back in the car, Megan leaned forward till her pert nose was practically in Spike's ear, folding her arms on the back of the front seat. "Ohmigod, you're totally a vampire, aren't you?" she gushed, jiggling up and down on the seat. "Do you know my sister?" She giggled self-consciously. "That sounds stupid, doesn't it? Like, 'I live in New York', 'Do you know my uncle?' But there's not as many vampires as people in New York, otherwise we'd all be, like, Lunchables by now, right?" It was probably a good thing, Dawn thought, that Spike's expression wasn't visible in the mirror. "Actually my sister's in Acapulco right now--I got a postcard." Megan tossed her hair proudly. "She's doing, like, this self-actualization thing, y'know, but she might be home for Christmas. Except Mom disinvited her since last time she stayed at our place she ate the maid, and Mom is utterly strict about not letting us have food in our rooms, so seeing as you're both vampires and all--Hey, could you make me a vampire? Harm said it was totally intense." The toe of Dawn's Reeboks bumped into an empty Jack Daniels bottle half-sunk in the sea of fast food wrappers and empty blood bags littering the floor of the back seat. Perhaps with enough sincere mental effort, she could shrink herself small enough to fit inside and free herself from the abomination that was Megan in flirt mode. What she could see of Spike's profile was wearing a sort of glazed, desperate look, as of a man revisiting horrors he'd thought long departed. "No." He took a long pull at his pig's blood Slurpee and ran his tongue over his teeth, apparently struck by a cheering thought. "But as a special favor I might be persuaded to drain you dry and leave your shrunken corpse by the wayside." Megan shrieked with laughter and Xander swivelled round in his seat to gaze upon her with a look in his dark eyes which approached awe. "Your last name wouldn't be Kendall, would it?" "It is!" Megan gave him an arch look. "How'd you guess?" "I went to school with Harmony." An evil smile crept across his face; obviously Spike was rubbing off. "And Spike--" Spike shuddered. "Tried to kill her once. Didn't take, unfortunately." Megan dissolved into giggles again. "You're funny." Dawn scrunched down on the seat, trying to sink straight through the leather upholstery. That's it, I'm in hell. Lisa's family lived on the opposite side of Weatherly Park, and they'd just turned off Wilkins onto Twenty-Fourth and were cruising down the long stretch of road bordering the park. A shadow moved on the road ahead, and Spike slammed on the brakes before Dawn's brain had time to register it was there. "What was that?" Xander asked, craning his neck out the window. Spike frowned, stroking the steering wheel with his thumbs and staring out into the tangled mass of trees. The branches overhanging the road were half-bare, and the breeze chased little drifts of ghost-grey leaves across the black asphalt ahead. "Some bird over there on the side of the road," he said. "Thought for a minute she was going to take a header into traffic the way old Willy did the other night. She's just sittin' there, now--no, wait, here she comes." Amidst the fitful stirring of the leaves a darker patch moved. Dawn squinted, trying to make out the figure through the DeSoto's half-blacked-out windshield, but she couldn't make out anything more than an indistinct shape against the trees for several minutes. Then a woman materialized out of the night, heading for forty, with short flyaway hair which might have been sandy blonde in daylight. She was wearing a dark jogging suit, making her even harder to see, and she broke into an awkward, exhausted run when she got near the car. She flung herself at the DeSoto, clinging to the handle on the driver's door with both hands and supporting herself on it. Up close, it was obvious even in the dim light that her face was smudged and leaves clung to her clothes in several places. "Oh, God, you stopped!" she cried. "You've got to help him--it's back there, in the trees--they've got him!" "They?" Xander was already getting out of the car. "They who?" "I don't--back, by the--the--" She began to sob, pointing shakily back into the depths of the park. "You got any weapons back there?" Xander asked, heading for the trunk. Spike sighed and got out of the car. "Bloody hell. Whoever said there was no rest for the wicked apparently never gave virtue a go. When don't I?" He took the keys from the ignition and went round to unlock the trunk; while Xander was pulling out the implements of destruction, Spike came back up to the front of the car and handed the keys to Dawn. "Get up into the front seat now, Pidge, and lock yourselves in," he said in the tone that brooked no argument or wheedling. "If we're not back in fifteen minutes, take this lot home and then go get your sister. She should be back from patrol by now." Dawn looked up at the vampire's angular face, closed her fist on the car keys and nodded. She crawled over the back of the front seat and settled into the driver's seat as Spike closed the door. She felt for the floor pedals with her feet, getting used to their positions again. Not too bad. When he'd first started teaching her to drive (as Spike had neither license, registration, nor insurance, he'd assured her that her lack of a learner's permit was no obstacle) they'd had to adjust the seat for her, but she'd grown over the summer; she wasn't that much shorter than Spike now. She heard Xander slam the trunk closed behind them and looked up at Spike, trying to be mature and capable, and flashed him a smile full of confidence she didn't feel. "OK. I can handle it." His expression remained serious, but there was a flash of... pride, maybe? in his eyes, and his hand, cool and dry and reassuringly large for someone his size, rested on her shoulder for a moment. "I know." Then he was gone in a flurry of black leather, he and Xander disappearing into the interlacing darkness of the trees with the sobbing woman tugging them along, and Dawn was left in the dark with a sinking feeling in her stomach and Megan and Lisa in the back seat. For several minutes no one spoke. "You can DRIVE?" Megan asked.

The shadows were growing long when Tara arrived back at the Summers home. She slid her key in and discovered that the front door was already unlocked. She frowned. Dawn wouldn't be back from Lisa's until the very last strike of ten if past experience were any guide, and she'd left Willow at the Magic Box. In Sunnydale, it was sometimes easy to forget about the mundane dangers of burglary, but the VCR would be just as gone whether smashed by a rampaging demon or stolen by an ordinary human being desperate for drug money. At least it sounded like Buffy was downstairs; she could hear the muted babble of the TV. "Buffy?" "M'in here," came a voice from the living room. Buffy sounded different, the overwhelming determination and confidence of the previous day leached out of her voice. She sounded, in fact, small and sad and lost. Tara set her backpack down and shot the deadbolt behind her as she came in. She walked into the living room, where Buffy sat in the middle of the couch, wrapped up in her bathrobe, damp hair straggling round her shoulders. The room was dark save for the phosphor glow of the TV. All the curtains were drawn. The wintery afternoon sunlight was nowhere near strong enough to penetrate the gloom. Buffy was cradling a decimated carton of chocolate chip ice cream in her lap and staring at the television as if her life depended on it. The distant, detached expression of the last month was nowhere in evidence. Her lower lip trembled slightly and her eyes were liquid with emotion. Ordinarily Tara would have found that encouraging, but that the emotion was prompted by the Weather Channel scrolling a list of high temperatures for the day in each of the fifty states was a little worrisome. "Are you busy?" Obviously not, but... "I wanted to talk to you privately about--" Buffy smiled lopsidedly and jammed her spoon into the middle of the slowly melting remnants of her ice cream. "So you're the first up, huh? I guess I was expecting this." She summoned up the determined look again. "Yes, I know exactly what I--I..." Her voice broke and she burst into silent, quivering tears. Tara half-tripped over the corner of the coffee table getting to the couch. "Buffy--what's the matter?" Would asking if this were Spike-related (and what else could it possibly be?) make things better or worse? She took a seat on the arm of the couch. "Are y-you--" "I'm f-fine--" A fresh bout of sobs overtook Buffy, and Tara held her shaking shoulders for several minutes until they subsided. At last Buffy took a deep gasping breath and straightened up, wiping her reddened eyes on the sleeve of her robe. "I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me." She looked down at her lap as if she hoped for answers in the rivulets of melting ice cream. "I felt great when I got home, and I went up to take a shower, and came down here to see what the forecast was, and..." She gulped a little. "I just happened to look at the picture." She waved at the TV, and for a second Tara was confused; then she realized that Buffy was referring to the little gold-framed photo of Joyce Summers sitting on top rather than to the screen. "I miss Mom." Tara had long ago finished mourning her own mother's death, but there were times and circumstances which could still make her eyes ache and the back of her throat grow taut. "That's normal," she said. "It's only been a couple of months for you. The rest of us have had longer to...adjust." "She hated me being the Slayer, did you know?" That was something Tara never suspected. "Did she? She always seemed to take it so gracefully." Buffy gave a rueful little laugh. "When she first found out she told me I wasn't welcome in her house if I kept it up. Of course I kinda picked the worst possible time to tell her about it--Spike had just offered to help me take down Angelus." Tara blinked; she hadn't known that Spike had been in on that. Buffy twiddled the spoon around in the ice cream. "Mom got better with it. I wish now I'd told her from the start. It would have made a lot of things so much easier... all the trouble I got into at school, explaining Angel..." She sighed. "Maybe not. Mom never liked him, even before she found out he was a vampire." Tara wondered if it was safe to turn off the TV, or at least change channels. "I never would have guessed--about your mom, I mean. She always got along so well with Spike." "I know. Irony much? My mother hates my one true love and invites my mortal enemy in for cocoa." Her eyes softened, the grey-green going misty. "And Spike really liked her. I'd come home from the dorm to visit sometimes and find him over here with her, talking about those dumb soaps or whining about Dru. He'd even listen to her stories about the gallery and pretend to be interested. I wish--I wish she were still here." Her lower lip was trembling again. "I wish I could talk about this with her. She'd probably freak--she liked Spike, but she was so happy when Angel left and I started dating Riley. A nice, human guy. Someone I could have a so-called normal life with." A snort. "That turned out well." "Normal lives are over-rated." "I keep telling myself that. It's just weird to hear someone agree with me." Tara shrugged. "I grew up liking girls in a small town. If you think my family was down on witches, you should have heard Dad's opinions on, quote, uppity dykes." Buffy looked startled. Didn't think I knew that word, did you? I know a lot of things. Tara looked over at the other woman, debating her next words. "Buffy... what I said before about why you were kissing Spike--or doing anything else to Spike--not being my business, I meant it. It doesn't--can I have some of that ice cream?" "Sure." Buffy handed her the spoon. "Thanks." She took a spoonful and licked the drips off. Not butter pecan, but it would do. "Whatever's between you and Spike doesn't change anything about the way I look at you. You're a grown-up, and besides that, you're a--" She paused, trying to make sure she had the right word. "--responsible person. One of the most responsible people I know. I know you fight it a lot, but when it comes down to it I've never seen you back away. So whatever you've decided to do with your life... I can't believe that it's anything that will hurt others. And whether or not you hurt yourself, or-or Spike--that's your risk to take, and his." Buffy buried her face in her hands for a second, then straightened and tucked the strands of water-darkened hair behind her ears. "Thank you. God, I'm so messed up!" She wiped her nose. "I've been sitting here for two hours and one minute I'm high as a kite and Spike's the best thing that ever happened to me, and the next minute I'm completely convinced that I'm insane. Hence, ice cream therapy, only partially successful. I'll be OK. I think." She turned on Tara with eyes full of panicky intensity and grabbed her arm. Tara suppressed a wince. "Don't tell Will about this, please--keep it a private meltdown? She's already so worried about whether or not I'm happy or sad or--I slept with Spike. I know it's crazy. I mean, not completely dense, here! How do I explain to Dawn's caseworker that she can't meet my new boyfriend today because he tends to burst into flames? Oh, my God. I called him my boyfriend. What am I thinking? How can I think when he's being all--all Spike at me!? I--" Tara grabbed the spoon, dug it into the carton of ice cream, and shoved it into Buffy's mouth. Buffy's eyes bugged out at the sudden chill. She held her breath for a good ten seconds, let it out in an ungraceful through-the-nose snort, and with a supreme effort of will, swallowed. Tara watched her. "Are you OK for a minute?" She gave Tara a watery smile. "Uh. Yeah. Thanks. No guarantees for the minute after that, though. It's all been so--so flat since I got back, like nothing touches me." She caught her lower lip in her teeth. "But when I touch him... everything makes sense. I feel like I fit into the world again. Even if it hurts." There was a look of concentrated wonder in those grey-green eyes, and Tara got the feeling that she was never again going to see Buffy this unguarded. "Have you ever felt like that?" Tara thought of Willow, sitting cross-legged on the floor in the middle of a pile of books. "Yes. Yes, I've felt like that." Buffy nodded. "So does that cover what you wanted to talk to me about?" Tara's mouth twitched into a smile. "Not even close. I wanted to talk to you about Willow." "Oh." Buffy's ears went a little red, to match her nose. "I am Buffy the Walking Ego, hear me roar. What about Will?" Tara dropped her eyes to her hands. "I left her at the Magic Box--" "Is that safe, considering what she came up with the last time you left her alone at the Magic Box?" Buffy asked in lighter tones. Unhappiness welled up inside her, and Tara nodded. "Very safe. That's what I needed to talk to you about. You're counting on Willow to come up with a spell to cure these people, and that--th-that may not be possible." A small crease appeared between Buffy's brows. "You mean, there may not be a spell that can do the job? But Wills had an idea just before Spike and I, uh, left yesterday. Didn't it pan out?" "It's not that--Willow may be able to create a working spell, I don't know. The problem is..." This was proving harder than she'd anticipated; there was a dreadful sense of betrayal in telling Buffy this without Willow's knowledge. "I don't think she'll be able to cast it. Bringing you back the way she did--the Raising was an incredibly powerful spell. Normally it's performed by a circle of five or more adepts, and powered by at least ten sacrifices, human and vampire. Willow got around all that, using Dawn's blood and Spike's soul." As much as Tara had disapproved of the spell, she had to admit that Willow had crafted it brilliantly--in concept, at least; as happened too often for comfort, Willow's execution had contained a few flaws. "But that means that a lot more of the power had to come from the caster--Willow. That would have been draining enough, but then the spell went wrong. She poured every bit of magic in her into closing that portal." "Right," Buffy said, with an understanding nod. "And she's been recuperating ever since." "No." Tara's voice sounded wretched in her own ears. "That's the trouble. It's been a month, and she's showing no signs of recovery at all. She can cast simple spells, but she burns out almost immediately. I mean, she blew herself out for the day opening a door. When Tanner grabbed her, she had nothing left." Each word grew heavier on her tongue, but she forced them out anyway. "It could be months before she recovers. Or years. Or... maybe never. I just don't know. But I'm pretty certain she's not going to be up to casting a spell to restore the sanity of a dozen or more people any time soon." Buffy's expression flickered from worried to grim as she spoke, and Tara surmised that Oh, poor Will! was doing mortal battle with Hah, serves her right! in Buffy's head. "Oh. Wow. I never realized... great. We can't just let these guys run wild and free. Oooh, wait!" She gave an excited little bounce. "This Tanner person's only dangerous because he's a wizard of some kind--is there a way to short-circuit his magical talents? So he won't be able to cast the crazy-making spell?" "Maybe... some kind of curse?" Tara rubbed her mouth, frowning. "I hate messing around with curses, though. You pretty much have to leave the target an out when you construct it, and when they find it--and sooner or later they usually do--it always comes back to get you." Buffy made a face. "Mmm... you should really have a talk with some gypsies of my acquaintance." "Maybe a geas. Those are tricky, but they're not malevolent. It'll have to be something that I stand a chance of casting on my own." "Does Willow..." Tara sighed and shook her head. "I know she knows she's not getting better, and I know she's scared. We haven't talked about it much. I just... I don't want to come off all 'I told you so!' She's feeling miserable enough about it already." She scraped up the last of the ice cream. "Now that we've had dessert I guess I'd better get dinner started. Willow will be home soon." She couldn't afford to pay Buffy much rent, so she liked to make up the difference in other ways, and besides, she was the only really good cook of the four of them. Buffy attacked the job as though planning a meal were the culinary equivalent of the Battle of Gettysburg, Willow only baked when she was feeling guilty about something, and Dawn... "Um... what do you want to do with that leftover hot dog-macaroni-ketchup casserole?" Buffy stuck a finger down her throat. "The usual. Pack it up and smuggle it off to Spike." "You hate him that much, huh?" Buffy snickered, got to her feet and started for the stairs. "I don't care what he claims, anyone who can eat Dawn's cooking and enjoy it is not possessed of working taste buds." She ran a hand through her damp hair. "Ooh, look at the time. If I want to be ready for patrol by six I'm going to have surrender to the sinister allure of blow-drying." She headed for the stairs and stopped on the lowest step, hanging off the bannister. "Do you need help with dinner?" "No, that's fine," Tara assured her. "Not like I'm cooking for twenty. It's just going to be hamburgers tonight." "Coolness. Hey--make an extra one for me for after patrol, OK? Or maybe two. I think we're going to be hungry." ***** Xander squinted against the late afternoon sun as he trudged through the graveyard, examining the neat columns of figures on the bill Anya had given him. Shelf, storage, six-foot, one, $79.95. Chest, mahogany, 3 cu. ft. cap., one, $244.95. Jars, storage, 1 qt., twelve, $2.99 ea. Jars, storage, 8 oz., twenty-four, $1.99 ea. Bottle, djinni for the use of, one, $24.95. Djinni, one, priceless... He'd devoted a sizeable portion of the afternoon to helping Anya clean up the basement and forcing himself not to speculate on his eventual fate had any of his long-ago Buffy-fantasies ever come to fruition. He'd survived one night with a Slayer, but he had no illusions that 'survived' was not the operative word in describing his tryst with Faith, and she'd been playing nice... for Faith. No, best just close his eyes and think of baseball, and not about what a pair of inhumanly strong people in the throes of passion could possibly have been doing to leave a head-sized hole in a cement-block wall... He crumpled up the bill and stuffed it in the pocket of his slacks, trying to ball up his resentment with it. He and Anya'd had another fight before he'd given in and consented to run this hopeless errand. In the unlikely event that Spike consented to pay for the damages, ten to one the money to do so would be liberated from Xander's own pockets, and Anya knew damned well that Buffy could barely afford to keep her utility bills paid. Let's face it, their combined assets are about enough to go down to the corner and buy a stick of gum. Their assets? Ugh, had he actually started thinking of Spike and Buffy as a them? He was supposed to shudder at this point, but no one was there to see him do it, and the truth was he didn't know exactly how to feel. That was mildly disturbing. Vampires = Bad was the cornerstone of his philosophy of life, had been for the past six years. See vampire, stake vampire. Very simple, until Angel came along with his anomalous soul and his brooding cow eyes and his Neanderthal brow and his air of mystery and danger, and all of a sudden Buffy was in love with him, and he was an exception. Until exceptional Angel lost the soul, killed Jenny, kidnaped Dawn, and left Buffy a walking shadow of herself. Xander kicked a tombstone in passing, a bit harder than he'd intended, and bit back a yelp as a stab of pain penetrated his work boots. Despite the horror of it all Xander hadn't been able to help but feel that the world was back on kilter: Vampires bad. Spike should have been easier to deal with. He wasn't any kind of exception. He was your standard issue bloodsucker, sans soul, sans conscience, sans remorse. Up until last fall Spike had made no bones about the fact that he hated them all and would return to trying to kill them the moment something happened to the chip in his head. Spike = Bad, If Occasionally Useful. Xander wished that it were easier to remember that these days, that he didn't keep falling prey to unexpected moments of sympathy for the Bleached Wonder, or that Buffy hadn't looked so contented earlier, and not in that sappy, spell-induced way, either. He couldn't say that he liked the vampire, and it was for damn certain that Spike didn't like him, but they'd gotten used to each other over the last year, and familiarity bred... something that made the two of them not completely disinclined towards one another's company. If they spent most of their time snapping at one another, well, everyone needed a hobby. It lacked several hours till sunset, but the crypt was already shrouded in purple shadow, thanks to several strategically planted cypresses. Xander glanced at the windows; a few candles glowed, but there was no movement behind them. Normally Spike was up and about at this hour, watching television or doing some mysterious vampire thing. He banged perfunctorily on the door to the crypt and then gave it a shove, rattling the chain--what was the good of having a padlock, he thought, if Spike never locked the damned thing? Half the demon population of Sunnydale out to skin him, and anyone could just walk in. The vampire had the brains of a kumquat. He entered the crypt and looked around, then yelled, "Hey! Dead Man Walking! Getcher undead ass up here! Got something for you!" After a few minutes the sound of booted feet on the stairs echoed up from below, and Spike's pale head appeared out of the opening leading to the lower level. Xander blinked as Spike's shoulders emerged; he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt in vibrant scarlet over his customary black t-shirt, a style Spike hadn't affected since he'd shrunk the last one he'd owned in Xander's washing machine almost two years ago. He was carrying a couple of moldy-looking books in the crook of one arm and tucking a small, oddly-shaped object into his shirt-pocket. "Holidays coming up," the vampire drawled in response to Xander's unasked question. "I'm feeling festive." He tossed the books down on a table and looked Xander up and down with a belligerent smirk. "My, don't we look all splotchy and possessive! Come to deliver the obligatory touch-her-and-I'll stake-you speech? Snap it up, then, Harris, I've got things--and people--to do tonight." He strutted up to Xander, the smirk growing even more obnoxious. "Or do we fancy fisticuffs? Little punch in the nose to make us feel extra manly? Sorry, that's the Slayer's private preserve, but tell you what--I'll give you a free shot at the rest of the phiz." Xander's fingers twitched fistwards. Screw moments of sympathy; once an evil soulless bastard, always an evil soulless bastard. He rocked back on his heels and stared down at Spike (and how annoying was it that it had taken a year for him to realize that the undead jerk was shorter than he was?) and savored the fact that it didn't matter that his merely human strength would make about as much impact on Spike's jaw as throwing beanbags; unlike those poor crazy saps, Xander knew how to throw a punch and how to dodge one. He could just keep hitting until Spike broke or his knuckles did. Or better yet, grab one of the bits of faux-Gothic statuary scattered around the crypt and pound the asshole's skull in. And Spike wouldn't be able to do a damned thing about it; if he tried he'd be knocked on his ass, brain-fried courtesy of the U.S. Army--God bless the U.S.A. In fact, he could do anything he wanted to Spike... ...And Spike knew it. He could see it in the vampire's eyes, bravado covering the wincing anticipation of the blow to come, the blow he couldn't fight off, and not just because of the chip. The same look, almost, he'd seen in the mirrors of the boys' restroom before a hundred confrontations with whichever bully wanted to knock Xander Harris's block off that week. The look which meant that if you couldn't avoid the pain, you'd damned well take it on your own terms. Xander kept his expression blank. "Nah. I've got something way worse than that." He reached into his pocket and saw Spike tense, real fear flickering into his eyes--was there really a stake in there? Slowly, Xander drew the bill out and handed it to the vampire. "Paid in full by the end of January, buster. Or Anya'll hand it over to a demon bill collector." Hah. He'd floored a vampire. Add that to the Harris resume. Spike stared at the bill, then back at Xander, then back at the bill, the fact that Xander wasn't going to beat the shit out of him slowly seeping through his skull. He pulled a half-empty pack of Marlboros out of his shirt pocket, from behind whatever it was he'd stuck in there on the way upstairs, tapped one out, lit it on the nearest candle-flame, and took a cool-restoring drag. He held up the note and waved it. "Thanks, Harris. I've been thinking of rolling my own, and this is the perfect size." "You think I'm joking about Anya and money?" Spike snorted smoke. "Oi, just beat me up yourself, won't you? Easier all around." Xander coughed, a snide comment about the cigarettes on the tip of his tongue, and then realized that there was far more smoke in the air than could be accounted for by Spike's bad habits or a few cheap candles. Trading looks of confusion, the two of them headed for the crypt door. The diffuse afternoon light dimmed further as they reached it, to the point that Spike risked several steps outside. He looked up, almost losing his cigarette as his jaw dropped. "Bloody hell." Xander shoved past him and tilted his own head back, following the vampire's stunned gaze upwards. It must have been a hundred feet long. It had no wings, but it rode the wind nonetheless, a sinuous river of gold-rimmed scarlet scales undulating across the sky, blotting out the sun. Five-clawed talons slashed the air. Its be-whiskered and horned head lashed from side to side, trailing fantastic streamers and filaments of silver and gold. Smoke rolled from its flaring nostrils and the immense goggle eyes rolled downwards as the creature spotted them and paused in mid-air, absurdly graceful. The filaments at the end of its snout twitched; it opened its fanged maw and a voice like a striking gong, brassy and ringing and deep enough to make the ground beneath their feet shiver in sympathy, rolled over the graveyard. It hovered, head cocked as if awaiting an answer. Xander and Spike stood there dumbstruck. The creature gave a heavy, disgusted snort, the scent of its breath like burning metal on the breeze, and then it was gone. Spike jumped back into the shadow of the crypt door as a few small sunbeams penetrated the cypress-shadows. "What the hell was that?" Xander finally croaked out. Spike took his cigarette out of his mouth and exhaled a shaky stream of smoke. "Buggered if I know. I never did learn Chinese." ***** "So?" Willow asked, taking a plate from the dishrack and polishing it with the Hello Kitty dishtowel. Across the kitchen Tara was wrapping up leftover hamburgers in foil and putting tomato slices and shredded lettuce into Tupperware bowls. Buffy was concentrating on getting the burnt cheese off the skillet, scrubbing hard with the copper mesh pad. "A needle pulling thread?" She was not only in the best mood Willow could remember seeing her in since her return, she was dressed to slay in a dark pleated knee-length skirt and a cream-gold blouse--part of her office drag, Willow knew, but jazzed up with a slim gold belt and matching necklace, displayed to advantage by a few more unbuttoned buttons than most office dress codes would have let her get away with. How was it, Willow wondered, that Buffy could make the cheapest, tackiest accessories look like a million dollars, while she still gave off an aura of plaid jumpers and goofy hats no matter what she wore? It was an alien plot, had to be. "No, doofus. So, you and Spike. Things are moving kind of, um, fast, aren't they?" Understatement of the year; was it only two days ago that Buffy'd declared the whole thing impossible? "I guess. I've known Spike way longer than anyone else I've slept with." Buffy applied more elbow grease to the skillet, and for a second Willow was sure she was going to get a polite brush-off. She slid the plate on top of the stack in the cupboard, watching her friend with worried eyes. Maybe she was being too pushy. Once upon a time she wouldn't have had to push at all; Buffy would have been bursting to discuss new developments in her love life with her. Buffy hadn't shown any interest in girl talk in a month of Sundays, even before her death--she'd completely clammed up about the whole fiasco with Riley, and Willow sometimes suspected that whether she admitted it or not, Buffy was still a tiny bit uncomfortable with the idea of her and Tara and S-E-X. They'd promised each other no secrets, hadn't they? The inner voice she couldn't seem to shut up snipped, Right after the last time Spike nearly tore the whole gang apart. Not a constructive thought. Why was she in such a pissy mood today? She'd gotten that great idea for revamping the transference spell, and she'd gotten the book she needed out of the Magic Box safely. She stopped herself from throwing an uneasy glance over at her duffle, currently languishing in a corner of the Summers' kitchen. The book was still there. There was no reason for anyone to suspect she'd taken it. "I'm sorry, Buff, if you're not comfy talking about it--" "No, it's OK. It's just been so long since I had anything to dish about, I've forgotten all the tribal customs." She stood with one hand resting lightly on the hot water tap, contemplating the drifting archipelagos of soapsuds in the sink with a little smile curving her lips. Putting away another plate, Willow asked, "Sparkage, then?" Buffy toyed with her necklace for a moment, trying hard to suppress the smile and not succeeding very well. "Maybe," she replied, evasive. "Oh, who am I kidding, enough sparkage to send the Sunnydale power grid into epileptic fits. You remember when Riley and I got caught at that party at Lowell House?" "Hard to forget the great Summers-Finn Boinkfest of '00." Buffy rolled her eyes and turned the tap on, rinsing out the skillet. "It's a little like that. Except, you know, not a magical compulsion, and without the freaky sex-poltergeists draining us. And it feels about a hundred times better, and a hundred times scarier. And Spike's a lot more, uh, imaginative than--okay, it's nothing like that at all. Last night was so intense--" Willow's eyebrow went up. "Is this, like, meeting-with-Angel-that-you-won't-talk-about intense?" Buffy flicked soapy water at her. "No. It was like--imagine the only ice cream you ever had in your life was vanilla. And it's good. You like the vanilla. Yay, vanilla! But then one day someone hands you a great big ol' butterscotch ripple sundae. With extra hot fudge and whipped cream and a cherry on top." She held the skillet up to the light for inspection, then set it on one of the stove burners to air-dry. "And then tells you that there are seven zillion more flavors still to try, and he owns a Baskin Robbins." "And you're not worried about... all the stuff you were worried about two days ago anymore?" "I'm terrified." The words were a flat statement of fact. Buffy flipped the damp sponge into the air and caught it. "But night before last--I could have lost you, or Tara, or Xander, or Dawn. Or Spike. Who knows what'll happen tomorrow? Last time I checked, still a Slayer with a short expiration date, and dead bodies tend to happen in my vicinity." For a second her eyes were haunted, though her voice remained flippant. "Besides, sex changes everything. Probably the next time we see each other it'll be all weird and uncomfortable and--" The approaching growl of the motorcycle rattled the panes of the kitchen window slightly, rising to a crescendo and then dying away with a cough as it pulled into the driveway. Buffy stood on tiptoe and twitched the curtains aside to peer out into the blue-grey dusk. "It's Spike!" she said, a little breathless, as if she knew hordes of people who were likely to turn up on motorcycles and its being Spike was a wonderful surprise. "Is he wearing the coat?" Willow asked, straight-faced. Buffy gave her a suspicious look. "Of course he is. OK, I'm out of here. We'll do a standard pass over Rolling Green and Eastside Memorial, and then see if we can rake up any leads on Tanner and his band of Merry Men. I'll phone at ten-thirty to see if Dawn's home. I'll probably be home around two." She pulled the stopper out of the sink and dried her hands, then made a quick detour into the living room to grab a couple of stakes from the weapons chest behind the couch. Willow followed her, lagging a bit, but getting there in plenty of time to see Tara open the front door in the middle of Spike's over-enthusiastic leaning on the doorbell. Buffy straightened up, tucking the stakes into her coat pockets. Spike stood in the doorway, wearing the coat, which had obviously been cleaned up and mended since its encounter with the pyracantha bush. He looked rather more dressed-up than usual--besides the red overshirt he'd made an attempt to un-scuff the toes of his boots, and he was wearing a couple of those big gaudy silver rings, like the death's-head one he'd given Buffy under the influence of Willow's spell of two years past--Spike's taste in jewelry was an aesthetic train wreck between goth-punk and the Victorian conviction that too much was never enough. He looked slightly self-conscious until he took in Buffy's attire, and a slow grin spread across his face. "Dressed for action, I see. Sorry, Slayer, the bike doesn't come with a side-saddle." "How cute," Willow whispered to Tara. "It's a slay date." Tara poked her in the ribs. Buffy sashayed over to the door and stood nose-to-chin with him. She put her hands on her hips and gave him a coolly superior smile in return. "I used to slay like this all the time. Just remember, anything you can do I can better--and while wearing high heels." Spike's arms slid through the crooks of her elbows and round her waist as if drawn by magnets. "Really?" He dropped his head a fraction and whispered something in her ear. Buffy's cheeks flushed, but there was challenge in her voice. "Try me. Come on, Spike, time's wasting." He offered her an arm, and after a second's hesitation she took it. Vampire and Slayer strolled arm in arm down the porch steps, laying claim to the night and looking at one another with unabashed hunger in their eyes. Beautiful, both of them. And deadly. They have power. There were times, when she was deep in the casting of a spell, when the world fell away and Willow saw everything as patterns and auras of magic. The spellsight overtook her now, and she saw, not the small lean man and the smaller slim woman, but figures of flame: Spike's demon-soul dark as midnight, shot through with the gold and scarlet of human desire, Buffy's human one bright as noon, though the brightness could not conceal the dark currents of power which marked her as something other than merely human. A crown of crackling blue sparks arced around the shadow-Spike's head--the chip? The voice whispered in her mind Ironic, is it not, that these two whose power was thrust upon them, she unwilling and he unknowing, should outstrip you, who were born to wield it? Willow blinked and shook her head, hard, and vision returned to normal; it was only Spike and Buffy disappearing round the hedge in the direction of the driveway, Spike starting to tell Buffy about something he and Xander had seen in the cemetery. "Spike!" He turned, questioning. "You be good to her, or--" He cocked his head to the side, amused. "You'll stake me?" "No. I'll tell Xander about your deepest, darkest secret." She ran the tip of one index finger up the bridge of her nose. Spike went a shade paler, if that were possible, and his hand made an abortive movement towards the breast pocket of his shirt. "You wouldn't, you vicious little--bloody hell, you would! What do you lot do, hang about dreaming up ways to torture me?" Willow smirked at him. "Like you haven't done the same to us?" He considered for a moment, then smirked back. "It's a fair cop." "What?" Buffy asked, extending a curious hand towards his pocket. "What's in there?" Spike captured her hand and strode towards the motorcycle. "Nothing, pet, let's us just go kill off a few of my friends and relatives, shall we?" A moment later the motorcycle rumbled to life, and then they were gone, roaring away into the darkness. "What was that?" Tara asked, slipping an arm around her waist. "Just a little vampire blackmail," Willow said with a satisfied smile. "The punishment should fit the potential crime. I've still got a shovel with Riley's name on it in my Dad's toolshed." She leaned into her lover's shoulder and sighed. "Guess that blows the 'next time we meet will be awkward and weird' theory. I just want it to be all better, now. I want to know she's happy. If this whole thing with Spike is just some weird self-flagellation thing because she hates being alive again--" "I don't think it is. But it's still Buffy's decision," Tara said firmly. "You brought her back, but it's Buffy's life, not yours. Personally," she slipped a hand under Willow's blouse and ran her fingers teasingly along her ribs, "I think your life has enough exciting parts to keep you occupied." Willow laughed and kissed her on the nose. "I consider myself chastised." Tara nuzzled her back. "We've got the whole evening to ourselves," she whispered, sliding her hand higher. "I could chastise you a little more." For a moment Willow wavered. "I should really work on my English term paper," she said, pulling away. "I really slacked off my classes after Halloween, and I've got to catch up. I was going to head over to the university library and see if that new biography of Gertrude Stein was in yet. I won't stay out too late. You want to come along?" That was a calculated risk. Dawn wouldn't be home for hours, but Willow knew that responsible, level-headed Tara would want to be sure that someone was home to answer the phone in case of emergencies. And just as she'd expected, Tara looked wistful, but shook her head. "No, I should stay. I've got homework I can work on here." Retrieving her duffle from the kitchen corner, Willow slung it over her shoulder, feeling the chill electric tingle of the book inside even through the layers of fabric. "I'll be back before you know it," she promised, and set off into the deepening night.

The sidewalk was strung with luminescent pearls of lamplight, knotted in place by shadow. Night's stage-curtain had fallen, lending the street a mystery and romance that day denied it. A car cruised past, engine shaking with the automotive death-rattle of a loose piston, and for an instant its headlights tore the backdrop of darkness asunder and bared the to view the rust-streaked, corrugated metal flanks of warehouses, and the battered chain-link fences fringed with gone-to-seed foxtails, crushed soda cups and cigarette butts. And one slim blonde girl, whose self-contained gaze forbade questions as to what she was doing walking alone in such a place, at such a time: Move on, mister. You don't want to know. Buffy watched as the car turned a corner and darkness swallowed it, engine-rattle, tire-hum and all. For the first few blocks she'd half-expected Spike to roar up on his bike and either pick a fight or try to make up, but she'd walked far enough now that that seemed unlikely. Her footsteps were the only sound in the world. Maybe he and Clem had business which didn't (gasp, horrors) concern her, or maybe he'd decided to relieve his feelings by picking a fight with someone else. And we're homesteading in Psycho-Buffy Territory when the idea of someone else fighting Spike makes you jealous. Buffy trailed her hand along the fence surrounding the Sunnydale Tool & Die workyard, her fingertips gradually going numb with bouncing against the links. Had she done the right thing, walking out on Spike like that? There was no handy dandy Vampires Are From Mars, Humans Are From Venus or Slayers Who Love Vampires Who Love Slayers Too Much for her to consult, and she was scraping the bottom of the introspection barrel with a spoon. Should she have chewed him out? Given him a pat on the head and assured him that compared to not ripping Willow's throat out, this was minor league? But it wasn't. Even she, Research Avoidance Girl, knew that Krallock demons were dangerous, because... her fingers hooked in the aluminum mesh, bringing her up short. Because Spike had told her so, on Sunday night. And she, she'd blown the whole thing off. Tra la la, Buffy's got a party to go to, let the boys handle it. Of course Spike hadn't told her about the bet then, and had probably only mentioned the Krallock demon because he was certain she wouldn't be patrolling that night. And then they'd both forgotten about it, what with the world ending again and all. He had been holding out on her. Buffy right, Spike wrong. But the truth was, if she'd found out about the bet before the Willow Incident, she'd have shrugged it off with an eye-roll and a wrist-slap: That's just Spike. She'd put up a good show of confidence for him, but what had happened last night was...paralyzing. Right now she should be considering the possibility that this was really it, the very best that Spike could manage. That the question wasn't if he'd slip up, but when and how. That in the end, trying wasn't enough. That sooner or later it was going to be someone besides Willow backed up against a wall in a dead-end alley, and... ...and she couldn't. Literally couldn't; her mind veered off and refused to go to the World Without Spike. She thought instead about the Slayers whose lives and deaths were recorded in Giles's journals, not the ones who'd thrown caution to the winds and followed their hearts to whatever dark end awaited them, but the others: the good girls, the ones who'd listened to their Watchers and beaten and bound their midnight yearnings into submission. The ones who'd never known the touch of cool fingers on heated flesh, the ones who, if they'd ever looked into inhuman eyes and seen their own souls reflected there, had resolutely looked away again and turned those betraying mirrors to dust. Between the lines of their Watcher's reports, they didn't sound happy, those long-gone sisters of hers, but happy wasn't part of the Slayer fringe benefits package. If the only choices were Faith's fall into darkness or Kendra's sterile devotion to duty, then maybe slipping back into the numb grey fog that still lurked around the edges of her mind would be a welcome relief. As she approached the intersection with Wilkins, she heard voices--meaningless parrot-clamor, heedless of who or what heard it. Buffy froze, hand straying towards her purse to caress the hard deadly length of ash-wood concealed therein. She so wanted to kill something right now, something big and fast and deadly, something that would make her sweat and scream. With swift noiseless grace she faded back into the shadows between streetlights and crouched low, stake at ready. "...don't wanna, too bright, too bright..." "...told you the mind, the brain, it doesn't match, we need to find the painted part--red, you see? Right there..." "...walking, keep walking, you know where the lines are..." "...soon, soon, you can't keep a revolving door open like that!" A small crowd of people in shabby clothes shuffled down the middle of Wilkins Boulevard, weaving in and out of the double yellow stripes of the left-hand turn lane in a Pied Piper gavotte. There must have been a dozen of them, unshaven men and wild-eyed women of all ages and ethnicities, their only commonality the distinctive odor of eau de landfill. It was the crazies, all of them, tumbling along like human lemmings towards some invisible cliff. The sparse Tuesday night traffic whizzed by on either side, the blat of horns and drivers' fervid curses cheering them on. Peachy. She was craving a face-off with Godzilla, and opportunity knocked wanting her to babysit Pikachu. Should she try to herd them out of the street, at least? Tanner and the others who'd been in the alley during Willow's interrupted spell looked cognizant of the fact that they were walking down the middle of a major thoroughfare, and not at all happy about it. "...get it off and do something?" the man in the yellow windbreaker asked. Tanner shook his head and gave the pendant around his neck a vicious yank which ought to have broken the slender silver chain, but didn't. "You saw what happened when I tried. Hell, even if I could get it off, I couldn't match her power. Especially with that thing backing her up. If she lets up for a minute maybe I can call up my met tet and see if there's anything he can do, but..." He raked a hand through his lank hair and glanced down the street. "Fuck. If a truck heads down here, we're roadkill." Tara's geas was still in effect, then, and he wouldn't be able to bring any magic to bear. Buffy crept closer to the intersection, keeping to the base of the fence. There was a better than good chance that 'she' was Willow, and that following the crazies would provide a guided tour of the Secret Underground Lair. Maybe she should call Giles or Tara and tell them... She pressed her lips together, sealing in the anger that still knotted in her stomach at the memory of Spike cradling Dawn's frail body in the alley, the frantic drive home and her sister's pale, drained face framed in lavender pillowcases. No. She wanted--needed--to talk to Willow alone before calling in the cavalry. Needed to make sense of this. As the procession meandered through the intersection like a flock of inept sheep, Buffy left the cover of the fence, melting from shadow to shadow in pursuit of her skittish prey. Three blocks later, Buffy crouched behind a mailbox watching Tanner and Windbreaker Guy kneeling in the gutter and yanking free the grate covering the mouth of a culvert running under Wilkins. Buffy waited until the last pair of plastic flipflops and grubby Nikes had wriggled through the dank entrance, then darted across the street. She dropped to her haunches beside the culvert, avoiding the clots of oily black sludge they'd kicked out of the pipe, and peered inside. The fetid odor triggered an involuntary stomach clench. Something considerably deader than Spike had set up shop down here at some point. Tres ick. The culvert was black as midnight, and she'd gotten out of the habit of carrying a flashlight with her for peering into dark icky holes. Why bother, when she had a faithful vampire companion to whose eyes midnight was clear as noon? Alas, FVC's eyes inconveniently not present. Well, so what? She'd patrolled without benefit of Spike's enhanced senses for years. If the sanity-challenged could do it... With a grimace of disgust, Buffy crouched down and crawled into the culvert, shuddering at the squish and slurp of mud and slime beneath her hands and knees. By feeling carefully ahead on the tunnel floor when she came to a fork, she could track the crazies by the churned-up sludge in the bottom, but it was slow going. The sounds of the scuffling feet and crazy-babble ahead of her grew steadily more distant. Through the culvert, down a shaft, into a larger tunnel echoing with Pillip Glass arpeggios of icy water droplets and glowing faintly with phosphorescent slime--by the time she could stand upright again, Buffy could see her hand in front of her face, an inky shape occluding the twinkling constellations of algae. A T-intersection led her into a better-lit tunnel; it zig-zagged past several small openings which, on investigation, proved to lead to recently-abandoned demon lairs. Other than the faint marks of the crazies' muddy footprints, there was no sign of current habitation. "Willow?" she called. Her voice echoed willow, willow back to her, a thin, lost shadow of itself. "Willow! It's me. If you're in here, I just want to talk!" The tunnel continued to grow drier and lighter, and Buffy passed several heaps of Initiative-themed trash--shreds of old uniforms, crushed circuit boards, crumpled-up rations wrappers. She was pretty sure this was too far away from the UC Sunnydale campus to be part of the main Initiative complex, but they'd had access tunnels leading all over town just like everyone else. Someday an earthquake would hit just right and Sunnydale would undergo a dramatic re-enactment of the closing scenes of Paint Your Wagon. Hopefully sans the musical stylings of Clint Eastwood; there was only so much evil you could take, even on a Hellmouth. Up ahead, a tawny flicker familiar from years of tomb-crawling spilled out into the corridor--candles, lots of them. Must be somebody evil; the black hats had an unreasonable prejudice against Southern California Edison. The tunnel terminated in a massive archway of granite blocks, piled one on the other without enough room to slip a knife-blade between them. The stone was the rich dark red of venous blood, glittering with mica inclusions which gave it a liquid sheen in the candlelight. Each block was incised with symbol which Buffy could describe with exacting technical expertise as hinky-looking. She felt a fleeting regret for the days when Giles had patroled with her on a regular basis; he probably could have told her whether she was looking at 'Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here' or 'Ladies -- Gents.' Beyond the archway the tunnel expanded into a vast, shadowy cavern with several other visible entrances. Buffy's thumbs prickled as she flattened herself to the wall and edged closer, suppressing more ick-noises as the light revealed more details about the post-slime-crawl state of her clothes (the state of her hair didn't bear thinking about). The cavern was filled with people, or things, or things that looked like people. It was impossible to get a clear idea how many there were; everyone was rushing around like an out-take from Koyanisqaatsi, and opposing ranks of candles set squadrons of shadows battling across hall. The air was smoky and redolent of licorice and sewer sludge. Tanner and his band were encamped just inside the archway to her left. One or two of them were wandering aimlessly around the perimeter of their territory, but most had collapsed to the cavern's sandy floor and sat in huddles of two or three, rocking back and forth. Tanner himself was standing watch, his expression that of a man convinced nothing he can do will matter. He was stroking his stubbled jaw with one hand and muttering under his breath. She caught '...ou cheval...' but her half-forgotten high school French wasn't up to deciphering the rest. His eyes never left the far side of the cavern, where a crowd of withered-up bald guys in the requisite tatty robes were-- Withered-up bald guys. Withered-up bald guys with bone-and-feather-draped staves and their wrinkled kid-glove flaps of eyelids sewn shut over the gaping empty sockets staring back into the maggots curling in their own brains--Buffy whipped back around the corner and pressed both palms flat to the wall, breath hissing through her clenched teeth. Harbingers. Servitors of ultimate evil. Well, big fat hairy whoop with a cherry on top. Last time they'd shown their faces in Sunnydale, she'd kicked their scrawny asses, and she'd do it again. And there, surrounded by Harbingers like Scarlett O'Hara by beaux, was Willow, enthroned on a scuzzed-up lab bench. Plain old ordinary Willow in batik and Birkenstocks, tucking a strand of burning auburn behind one ear as she studied some kind of Star Trek tri-d chessboard thingy laid out on the cavern floor. Anticlimax much? How dare she look so normal, so--so Willow? OK, so maybe the long black shadow trailing from her shoulders was a smidge on the over-dramatic side. Willow bent to move several of the figures around on her gameboard and sat back again to study the effect, nibbling on a thumbnail. "By George," she murmured, "I think we've got it. You don't really have a George vibe, but it would be better than Creepy Eyeless Guy." The Harbinger hovering at her shoulder gripped his staff and looked constipated. "Exalted Vessel, this is unnecessarily risky." Willow's eyes flashed--no figure of speech, they really flashed. "Maybe. That's why you chose me, isn't it?" She bared pearly teeth at the Harbinger. "I take unnecessary risks." She moved another playing piece. "We'll need Dawn to get the job done, of course." She glanced over at Tanner. "Take your pals, get the Key, and bring her here." Tanner blinked, expressionless, and his muttering trailed off. "Why?" "Look, Mr. Tanner, I'm sorry, but I really don't have time to argue about this." Willow got up and strode over to face Tanner, chin tipped defiantly and hands on hips. "If you do what I tell you to, all your friends will be cured, I'll break that little geas you've got going there, and incidentally, we save the world." She reached up and patted his shoulder. "And if you don't do what I tell you, I'll turn you into a weasel and your buddies into chickens and we'll see how well you all get along." Tanner regarded her with a mixture of loathing and pity. "When?" "As soon as possible. I want to do some test runs before we do this for real." Willow rolled her lower lip between her teeth. "You'll need to get cleaned up. Don't hurt her, and don't scare her more than you have to. If you can get her to come with you on her own, great. Tell her Buffy wants her, or you've found me--be creative." She began pacing. "I'm not the bad guy here. I know what I'm--" The noise behind her was a tiny thing, no louder than the sound of a grain of sand scraping against stone under the pressure of a bare toe. Buffy whirled and snapped a straight-legged kick into the midriff of the Harbinger behind her. He doubled over with a grunt and Buffy used the momentum of her recovery to slam the heel of her hand into the nose of her second assailant, who howled in agony and staggered backwards, painting the blood-colored stone with Jackson Pollack splatters of the real thing. Buffy slammed the first one head-first into the wall and turned back to face the archway; Willow had frozen mid-turn, mouth an O of startlement, eyes popping in surprise. "I really hope there was a two-for-one special on at Henchmen R Us, Wills, 'cause otherwise--" "Darn it, Buffy!" Willow stamped a foot in frustration and thrust out a hand. "You're not supposed to be here yet! Thicken!" ***** Willy the Snitch was, quite possibly, the world's foremost authority on the effects of alcohol on vampiric physiology. In twenty years of tending bar on the Hellmouth, he'd gathered volumes of practical information on the subject. Vampires, for example, didn't really have a greater tolerance for alcohol than humans. It was just that, given their lack of circulating blood, it took longer for the stuff to percolate through their systems. They could appear unaffected for hours, sometimes, until booze met brain, and then they'd go from stone cold sober to completely plastered in a matter of minutes. Willy had known to a nicety exactly when the combined effects of the half-dozen Cuervo Gold shots she'd downed would hit Darla like a load of twenty-four karat bricks, and the precise level Angelus's bottle of cheap-ass Irish whiskey needed to fall to before it was safe to press him about paying his tab. His talent had saved his life on more than one occasion. He fervently hoped that this was one of them. "...'n you know what the bloody bitch of a bloody Slayer says? 'It's hard!' Hard, she says!" Spike pinned Willy with an irate glare, tossed back another three fingers of bourbon and slammed the shot glass down on the bar. "Like it's been a bouquet of bloody posies for me! Gimmenothershot." Willy complied, sloshing a few drops over the side of the glass. Nerves. Two hours and thirty-three minutes since Spike had strutted in at the Slayer's side, and he was nostalgic for the good old days of the chip already. Spike was harder to get tanked than some vampires--for one thing, despite being a comparatively small man, he had a high tolerance for the sauce, made higher by his unvampiric habits. Most vamps only drank to blend in with human prey, but Spike actually liked the stuff and put away as much as a human on a regular basis. Plus he tended to eat solid food with his liquor. However, if Willy was any judge, despite the severe inroads Spike'd made on the pretzel dish, the transition from random outbreaks of violence to sobbing into his glass and reciting Shelley was only a shot or two away. Chilly fingers clamped down on his wrist with enough force to make the bones grind together, and Spike yanked his left, non-pouring hand up and shook it in front of Willy's face. "Are these broken?" the vampire demanded. "Uh...not yet?" "Bloody right! And not gonna be, either, 'cause yours truly's a white hat now." Spike released his wrist with a self-righteous sniff and Willy massaged it surreptitiously. Ow, ow, ow... Spike leveled an index finger at Willy's sternum and poked him in the chest. "'Nless you really piss me off. 'S fair, innit?" "Very fair. Couldn't ask for better." Except that Spike got really pissed off at stray breezes. "Uh...Spike...about your tab..." This was, after all, the good bourbon, and Spike had long since exceeded the change from his twenty. "Haven't broken any fingers in ever so." Spike's eyes clouded with wistful nostalgia. "Make such nice noise when they come out of the sockets, too. Pop-pop-pop!" "What I mean to say is, it's on the house." At least until Spike passed out, at which point Willy could roll him in peace and quiet. "No fun for poor old Spike, not a lick, not a nibble. 'S what she'd want. But Carrie Nation doesn't think I can do it," Spike continued dolefully. "She's the Slayer, y'know. All responsible-like." Willy nodded, attempting sympathy, an emotion he was as ill-equipped as most vampires to express. "Eh, well, dames... you can't trust none of 'em." Spike grabbed him by the lapels and hauled him across the bar for the second time that night, nose to flattened nose and eye to bloodshot golden eye. "Can't trust the Slayer? Did I just hear you insultin' my lady?" he snarled. "Trust 'er with my life, with my heart..." He let go with his left hand to give his chest an illustrative slap and Willy canted abruptly to one side. Spike let him drop and sat down with a thump, half-sliding off the barstool. He gripped the edge of the bar for a second, looking faintly surprised, and then hauled himself upright, gazing at Willy with earnest, tear-filled eyes (which looked damned weird in vamp face). "But she can't trust me. 'Cause 'm evil. Almos' ate Red, y'know. An' the hypoth--'naginary ol' lady." He frowned. "She never brought me cookies." "Ain't no one perfect," Willy said consolingly. A tear spilled over and ran down one cheek, and Spike flopped bonelessly forward, banging his forehead against the bar. He moaned into the oak grain with impassioned frenzy, "Oh, Buffy, Buffy, I never meant to hurt you, love! Love you so much, m' brave, strong, beautiful bitch..." One hand encountered the bottle, and dragged it into view. Spike peered at the label with a muzzy frown, then slowly appeared to divine that the world wasn't sideways, he was. He sat up again, not without some effort. "But I did hurt her, Willy. Abused her trust. 'M a cad, Willy, 'm a bad, evil man." He took another slug of Jim Beam directly from the bottle and blinked through a fresh flood of tears. "Do anything to make it up to her, any-bloody-thing. Chuck Dru. Give up the killin'. Wear a soddin' Windsor." After a moment of contemplation, "No, wait, already done those. Gotta be somethin' else. You ever been in love, Willy?" Willy considered. "As a man of the world, I can say for certain that chicks dig a paid-in-full bar tab." He made a stealthy grab for the bourbon, but Spike's reflexes were still more than sufficient to retain possession. "I knew this stripper name of Mabel, once," he said, reminiscent. "She did this thing with tassels that..." "Faugh!" Spike waved a grandiloquent hand. "Mere amin--animal attraction! 'M talkin' love! Many-bloody-splendored thing! 'To love, and bear; to hope till Hope creates from its own wreck the thing it contemplates'--bloody hell, I'd have Red mojo my soddin' soul back, if tha's what it took, even if it turned me back into that sniveling li'l four-eyed, weak-livered, Pre-Raphaelite nancy-boy..." Spike sniffled in an excess of self-pity, contemplating the potential horrors of re-Williamization. "Make sure Red fixed the no-shagging clause first." He sighed heavily. "But 's gone, poof!" He drove his free hand into his duster pockets in a search for more cigarettes, shoulders slumped in dejection. Willy eyed the bottle, calculated the white-knuckled intensity of Spike's grip thereon, and decided against trying to retrieve it. "Yeah, that's sad. Now--" Spike's fingers, groping through his pockets, closed on something. His transformation was instantaneous and remarkable--from the Stygian depths of gloom, his eyes lit like sunrise and a huge, joyfully wicked grin spread across his once-more-human face. "But I've still got this," he said, voice hushed with the brilliance of his inspiration. He pulled his hand out of his pocket and opened it; in his palm was a small silvery disk covered with printed circuits. "If she can take it out, she can put it back in," Spike crowed. "That'll show the Slayer I mean business!" He rose with unsteady dignity, bottle still firmly in hand. "Hey, maybe you should let Clem--" Spike shot a withering glance across the room, to the table where Clem was still sitting, nibbling on the remains of Buffy's nachos and watching the show with a distinctly worried cast to his wrinkled countenance. "Bugger Clem! Got me a witch to catch." With that the vampire drew his duster round him with a flourish and stalked towards the door. A few minutes later, the roar of the Triumph split the night. ***** At Willow's word, the air turned to liquid glass and Buffy's rising arm dragged to a molasses-slow mid-air halt. Willow gestured again; the soap-bubble of force lofted into motion, and Buffy bounced slowly and gracefully through the archway into the center of the cavern. She forced herself to relax and hang limp in the grip of the enveloping air. She could breathe, barely, and move her eyes from side to side, but otherwise she might as well have been encased in Lucite, a Slayer-sized paperweight in the Hellmouth gift shop. Willow walked briskly across the cavern to meet her, and Tanner sidled after, eyeing Buffy with a look more calculating than the wise Evil Overlord would encourage in a henchman. "Hey, Buffy." Willow looked harried and guilty and impatient all at once. Definitely overcaffienated. "I wasn't expecting you quite this soon, 'cause you've been so, um, busy with Spike lately and all, but I figured you'd be pretty testy whenever you got here, so--" Oh goody. I know how I feel about Willow now. Mental clarity was a wonderful thing. "Testy? Testy is Giles after someone eats the last jelly donut. Me? Somewhere between 'mighty peeved' and 'crush, kill, destroy!' You almost killed Dawn!" Buffy lunged against her restraints, to no avail--the harder she struggled, the more tightly the spell gripped her. If she relaxed completely, would it loosen? Worth a try. Willow's spells usually burnt out fast. Except that this was New, Improved Super-Willow with Mega-Zapping Action. New, Improved Willow did a cringy shoulder-hunch very reminiscent of Old, Unimproved Willow; then, recalling she held the upper hand, straightened angrily. "OK, we're having a little time-out here. Cooling-off period." She laced her hands together with a sidelong look at Buffy, her ire dissolving in a nervous laugh. "About last night, I totally didn't mean that to happen. I need you to know that. Not my idea. I mean, it was, the spell, but not the whole agonizing Dawn death part. The spell was supposed to help them, supposed to--I didn't think. Dawn doesn't have any magical talent, so channeling that kind of power was...rougher on her than...but I know what went wrong, next time I'll add safeguards, I'll--" "Next time? Will, are you mental? There's not going to be a next time!" Buffy interrupted, appalled. Stop, deep breath, serenity now--not the time to get into recriminations. "Can you understand it's a little tough for me to buy that you're sorry about last night when I walk in on plans for a Key-napping? Plus, the friendly native greeting?" She made an abortive attempt to wave at the ring of hostile, eyeless faces ringing the cavern. "Not so friendly. Lacking the complimentary lei and poi basket. Willow...I know things haven't been the best between us since I got back, but I thought--I tried--I thought it was getting better. Please. Make me understand why you're doing this." Willow's brows knit and her pale face took on a sickly tinge in the smoky light. She wrapped her arms around her middle as if her stomach hurt. Buffy felt a stir of hope. Maybe she was getting through. "Buffy, I know I've done some questionable stuff. Bringing you back. It was wrong. I understand that now. It messed things up really bad, and I don't just mean the--the adjustment problems you're having--the Hellmouth, the gods wandering around, it's all connected, and if things don't change, what comes through the Hellmouth next will make that Harrier demon look like Casper the Friendly Ghost. I've screwed up--there aren't any words for how badly I've screwed up!" The distress in her eyes burnt off, replaced by a supercharged version of Resolve Face. "But I see it now. All of it." She glanced over at the chessboard thingy. "I understand what needs to be done to correct the Balance." Buffy searched her friend's face, hunting for some comforting sign that this wasn't Willow talking. No all-black eyeballs, no Vader-type wheezing, no wiggy little brain-slugs glommed onto her medulla oblongata. Damn. "Willow--we know that already. The loa said someone had to leave the playing field--and..." Buffy squeezed her eyes shut for a second. She couldn't bear thinking of the World Without Spike, but the World Without Buffy...heck, she racked up frequent flyer miles there on a regular basis. "--if that's what it takes, then...that's what it takes, but do you do know what you're dealing with here? These Harbingers channel the power of the First Evil. You remember the First Evil? Skanky-looking dude with an 'Ultimate Evil--Ask Me How!' button, almost convinced Angel to take a sunrise stroll? Beyond time, beyond space, beyond boring when he gets to yammering? You know, evil? You can't trust anything it tells you." Anger sparked in green eyes. "I think the phrase is 'Duh?' We haven't been formally introduced, but I've gathered he's been pretty naughty. I'm not stupid, Buffy. I realize there are evilness issues. But hey, guess what, everything it's told me fits in exactly with what the loa told us. The Balance is out of whack, and you're part of the reason why. You and Spike. And all the rest of us, in our tiny insignificant not-nearly-as-important-as-the-Slayer ways, but mainly the two of you." "Spike?" That made no sense at all. Spike wasn't--and she knew better than anyone--good, no matter how hard he tried. "How can he--Spike's just a vampire." "Apparently that's part of the problem." Willow clasped her hands behind her back and began circling like an exceptionally diffident and apologetic shark. Tanner skittered out of her way, muttering under his breath again. He clutched Tara's pendant in one hand and scrabbled through his coat pocket with the other; it emerged with half a battered granola bar, which he began crumbling onto the cavern floor with quick nervous finger-spasms. "But I'm going to fix it. I'm going to fix everything." "Fix? What is this fix? By using Dawn for your reindeer games again? I can't let you do that." Willow stopped circling and brushed the hair from her eyes with a twitchy little grin. "Kinda figured. Hence the current immobileness of you. I understand where you're coming from, Buffy, but I can't let you interfere with this. This is too important, and, well, let's face it, you're not exactly focused on the world saveage these days, are you? You've kind of gone off the whole sacred duty thing. We saw it last year with Dawn, and now you're off on this kinky little slaying-for-fun-and-profit kick with Spike, and honestly? I don't know if we can count on you to make the hard decisions any longer." She'd been thinking as much herself, but it smarted more coming from someone else. Willow snaked closer, growing more confident as guilt flowered in Buffy's eyes. Her voice dropped, her tone becoming intimate. "Like for instance last night." She ran a finger across the convex surface of the bubble with one hand, drawing patterns on air. "You want to know how close Spike came to killing me? And how much he was... enjoying himself doing it? Or would that make it too hard on you?" The gameboard was replaced by a shimmering vison of Spike licking Willow's blood from his finger with voluptuous pleasure. Buffy's stomach did a flip-flop. "He stopped. He didn't...and you were trying to get him to...!" "He stopped. This time," Willow said. "Maybe that kind of thing doesn't bother you. After all, up against a wall while a vampire goes for your neck? Your idea of a hot date, right? I'd have to dig a little deeper to shock the Buffster. Let's see what we've got in the Locker O' Repressed Spikey Thoughts--" A ripple of power, and she reached through the force-bubble to touch fingertips to Buffy's forehead. Buffy felt a sharp cold twinge in her skull as the scene before them changed. Dull gleam of steel. Limbs white as milk splayed across the dark hunter-green of the bedspread. He watched her from the pillows, knowing eyes following her every movement. A well-treated slave, this, sleek with good feeding, the sharp angles of his bones all sheathed in smooth strokable skin and solid rolling muscle, his body a symphony of moonlight and ivory, rawhide and steel. The chains pulled his arms up over his head, so that the muscles of his chest and shoulders stood out in sharp relief. Long pale fingers curled around the links above the blued steel of the manacles, defenseless, almost tender (fingers that could snap a man's neck in three seconds flat). Tousled bone-colored curls, ice-blue eyes lazy beneath heavy lids and sooty lashes, cheekbones like twin scimitars--the lush mouth twitched and curved into a beckoning smile, and the heavy length of his cock, lying quiescent across one sinewy thigh, twitched to life and beckoned along with it... A dark hot bolt of desire shot straight through her, nipples to groin, and Buffy gasped. Willow laughed. "Oookay, didn't expect that one. Vampires in chains. We're large with the kink today, aren't we?" Buffy tried and failed to jerk her head away, her eyes riveted by the vision's slow, incendiary smile as much as Willow's spell. Spike. Chains. Sick. Wasn't it? All that strength, all that ferocity, all that inhuman devotion, willingly submitted to her command...could you call it a fantasy if you knew the subject thereof would do it in a hot second? "I understand now," Willow crooned. "It's not the sex. It's a power trip for you, isn't it? This whole thing with Spike. Someone loving you that much, much less the thing you're supposed to kill, the thing that's supposed to kill you? Gotta be a kick and a half. And you'd do just about anything to keep it. I get that, I really do." Buffy swallowed. "That's not true. You know that's not true." Willow's smile was almost flirty, and her eyes were filmed with jet. "Really? You were ready to sacrifice all of us for Dawn. Let's say it's part of the truth. Bad guy's privilege." "I thought you weren't the bad guy." That wiped the smirk off her face. She was all the old Willow for a moment, and really angry. "I'm not! God, Buffy, what do you take me for? Best friend for the last six years ring any kind of bell? I'm doing this so you won't have to die again! So no one in Sunnydale will!" Behind her, Tanner stumbled back a few steps and froze in place, shaken by volcanic convulsions. His head jerked back and the cords in his neck quivered with strain. "Willow--" Buffy threw every ounce of impassioned sincerity she possessed into the name; she had to make this work, and never mind that her record for coaxing allies back from the brink of disaster was decidedly spotty. "Willow, if you're my friend, please, listen to me. For once in your life don't try to fix things. Let this go. All for not dying, here, but I need to know what you're planning, 'cause doing it for them? Ends, means, construct your own platitude." "It's easier to get forgiveness than permission." Willow's smile was barely there at all, only a wry twist of her lips. "I learned that from you. But it's really simple, just like the loa said. You're a problem because our team's got too many players. Spike's a problem because he's scoring goals for the wrong side. So all I have to is send you back where I got you from, and then--" "Excuse me? This counts as not killing me exactly how?" "I didn't say killing! I mean send you back as is, like Angel with Acathla! Minus the sword through the chest. And not permanently, just until I can do the other stuff I need to do with Spike--but first I need Dawn." Willow nodded at the lead Harbinger. "Like I said, not stupid. I don't keep the bargain I made, I don't keep my power. And I need that power..." There was something scary-raw in her voice for a moment, and then she was casual again. "...to save the world. To save you." She sighed. "So. I need Dawn. I mean, her help. I'm sorry, Buffy." "Willow, I can't let--" Willow turned away with a dismissive flip of one hand. "You don't get it yet, do you? You don't have any say in it. You'll be staying here awhile; I'll try to make you as comfortable as--" Behind her, Tanner's eyes snapped open and his chin went down. He grinned, running a lascivious tongue-tip across his teeth, winked at Buffy, and pulled the pendant over his head. As Willow strode away he tiptoed towards Buffy in a parody of stealth, swinging with pendant propeller-fashion in one hand. When the spinning chunk of amethyst hit the surface of the force-bubble a shower of purple and gold sparks flew up; the amethyst crazed and shattered, and the spell melted into the air it had formed of. Willow jerked in surprise as the spell-energy snapped and dispersed, and whirled on Tanner, her eyes dark with fury. Tanner turned the grin on her and waggled his fingers. "I tell you we put a thumb on the scales now and then, petite sorciere." Buffy was in motion instantly. She dove for Tanner even as his eyes rolled back in his head, his joints unhinged and he fell rag-doll limp to the cavern floor, scooping him up and flinging him over her shoulder. Could she get the rest of the crazies out by herself? "Ignis magnum!" Willow screamed behind her, and a bolt of black fire shot past Buffy's head, close enough that a few stray strands of hair frizzled in the heat. Bereft of their leader, the crazies screamed and scattered, losing themselves amidst the milling Harbingers. Stone shifted and rumbled, and a shower of dirt and pebbles rained down from the ceiling. Realizing that random blasts of power weren't the smartest thing to be lobbing about in a tunnel-ridden earthquake zone, Willow yelled at the Harbingers and the crazies alike, "Stop them!" Buffy flung Tanner's body through the archway and rolled after him, kicking off a pair of crazies who pawed at her with mindless determination. The Harbingers held back, letting the crazies do their work for them. She didn't want to hurt them; they were doubly pawns in this mess, but there wasn't much choice. She sucker-punched the nearest one, kneed Windbreaker Guy in the groin, and oh, shit, they were gonna get Tanner and he was her last best hope for finding out what Willow was up to-- "Bloody hell," said an aggrieved voice from the darkness further down the tunnel, "might have known you'd go off and start without me." Spike's pale head emerged from the shadows a second later. He strolled up, slightly unsteady on his feet, and took a pull from the bottle he was carrying. Finding his supply exhausted, he tipped the bottle up to one eye and peered up into it with a sorrowful little clucking noise. He cocked his head and watched Buffy bang two crazies' skulls together with great interest. "Ah, that's not a Krallock demon. 'S all right, then." He gestured with the empty bottle. "Red in there?" "What do you think? A little help, Spike?" Buffy snapped. "Sure thing, pet. Jus' got something to take care of first. Show you I can..." Spike stepped around Tanner's prone form with exaggerated care, smashed the bottle smartly over the head of an oncoming Harbinger, and waved at Willow through the archway. "Oi, Will! Sorry about the bit in the alley, but you smelled bloody marvelous. 'M only inhuman, aren't I? About this chip, love, thought it over--it's a pain in the arse... well, in the head, but--YOW!" He belly-flopped to the ground as a jagged bolt of ultraviolet lightning scorched the air where his head had been, blinking up at Willow with utter confusion. "Not taking visitors, then?" The blast hit the side of the archway and arcane energy coruscated across the stone; the deep-carven symbols glowed blue-white for a second and another ominous rumble shook the cavern. Buffy got a split-second glimpse of Willow staring up at the ceiling with 'oops!' written across her face in flashing neon letters, and then a gunshot crack of stone heralded the fall of a whole slab of rock from the cavern roof. The crazies abruptly ceased their attack as Willow withdrew her energies to concentrate on more pressing matters. "Spike! Get out of there!" Buffy tossed the last of the crazies off, manhandled Tanner across her shoulders in a fireman's carry, and staggered off down the tunnel as the air filled with dust and smoke. The candles winked out behind her, and the ground heaved and buckled under her feet, throwing her to her knees. Buffy struggled up again, coughing. She couldn't breathe--stop, drop and roll? Or was that only for fires and not underground cave-ins? At least we're a Clint-free zone. A fist-sized rock bounced off the top of her skull and she dropped to one knee, biting her tongue. The dust was so thick she could taste it, coating her mouth with grit with every labored breath. This was the T-intersection--which branch? Her head throbbed and she couldn't breathe and-- The last thing she remembered as the world went from black to blacker was a pair of cold hands seizing her around the waist. ***** The thing about sleeping all day was it left you restless and bored all night. Dawn rolled over and pummeled her pillow, knowing that in five minutes this position would become as unbearable as the last. She pulled the sheet straight where her tossing and turning had bunched it up under the blankets and glanced at the clock. After three. Wonderful. She'd finally get tired in another hour and get rousted out of bed in another four. Just in time to be packed off to the Cultural Indoctrination Center, as Spike had not-so-affectionately referred to her high school during their summer of nocturnal excursions around Sunnydale. In the last day those memories had gone all sepia-toned, as if Spike were someone she'd known in a distant, dissolute youth. She could pull them out and look them over like a collection of old photographs: This is a picture of me and my monster. But Spike wouldn't stay safely pinned to the pages of an album; tomorrow he'd be full-color and three-dimensional again and she'd have to tell him--what? Leave me alone? We can't be friends anymore? And how awkward would that be when Buffy was practically taking out ads in the Press saying "Relocated: William The Bloody, Esq. recently of Restfield Cemetery, to 1630 Revello Drive?" The glass panes in her window vibrated; Spike's motorcycle was pulling into the driveway. It was rapidly establishing its own private grease spot next to the Jeep. If Spike started leaving the DeSoto over here too, driveway space was going to be at a premium, especially if Dad could be convinced that a car for her sixteenth birthday was an essential. Strangely, with all the angst over dealing with vampires, no one ever considered the parking issues. Dawn heard the sound of the front door opening, followed by a series of mysterious thumps, as of shins on furniture, and an indistinct but heartfelt string of curses. A moment later the footsteps started up the stairs. "--be all right on the couch?" Her sister sounded wiped, far more so than she usually did coming in from patrol. "If he's as knackered as I was after the old bastard took me over, he won't move till morning." Spike sounded unnaturally subdued too. "Well. You're sorted. Guess I should bugger off, then." "You don't need to--I mean, one of us will have to keep an eye on him till Tara wakes up. Which could be me, if--" The foot-shuffling was palpable. "I can hang about." There was a short, awkward pause. "You're kind of a mess. If you want to use the shower first..." "Oh." Startled. "Yeh, sure." "You know where the towels are." Pause. "Spike?" The door of the linen cabinet squeaked when the humidity was high. "Yeh?" "How'd you know I was down there?" An embarrassed clearing of his throat. "Didn't. Went down looking for Will. Wandered about a bit, sensed you, went to take a look." Of course. "Do you have any idea how colossally huge the magnitude of the dopehood you've achieved is? She could have--" Wince. "I'm accumulating clues." Rustle of terrycloth being pulled from the shelf, another awkward pause. "I just thought...if I had her put it back, everything'd all come right again. Worked about as well as the usual run of my plans, I s'pose." "Oh, God, Spike..." Her sister heaved a sigh. "Maybe she could put it back, but I don't think it makes the top five on Willow's Things To Do, Worlds To Conquer list. Besides, it's not about the chip. It's about you. Look, you found out the Krallock was in town when, last Tuesday? And didn't mention it till Sunday night, and OK, I blew it off then, bad Buffy, but not the point! The chip didn't stop you doing that. The chip didn't even stop you from hurting humans if you really, really wanted to, and it sure didn't stop you from hurting Willow. You did that, all by yourself. Put the chip back in your head this minute and you're still... you. A lying, stealing, semi-employed cigarette-smoking poker cheat of a vampire. Who I can't imagine living without." A tremulous note entered her voice. "And you were driving that motorcycle around drunk off your skinny undead ass, weren't you?" Spike sounded injured. "Yeh, so? I've driven a hell of a lot farther a hell of a lot drunker than that...ah." He heaved a matching sigh. "More hypothetical old ladies mowed under my wheels, eh?" "Or you could have wiped out and broken every bone in your stupid unhelmeted body, because contrary to popular belief, when hair gel meets pavement, pavement wins!" There was a sharp thwack, as of Slayer palm meeting muscular vampire shoulder at moderate velocity, and then broken, indeterminate gulping noises from Buffy. "Ah, pet, sweet, don't..." "If you can't--if you can't..." Dawn couldn't divine what her sister was freaking about, but Spike was better at translating Buffy-speak than she was. "I'm yours, love. To kill...or not. Haven't I said it enough? Rather die than hurt you, and if you really believe I can't, stake me now, before it's too late. Or say the word and I'll do it myself, eyes open, so the last thing I see is your face." A muffled sob; Dawn could imagine Buffy, face pressed to Spike's chest, face screwed up in the way it did when she didn't want to cry and was pouring tears anyway. "No! Do you think that's romantic? It's sick! Willow's wrong, she's wrong, you're not my--I don't want you like that! I can't kill you! Just thinking about it tears holes in me!" "And you wonder why I wanted the sodding chip back in my skull?" Spike demanded. "If there's anything I can do to save you pain, I'll do it. Do you understand? Anything!" He gentled in an instant, voice melting from sandpaper snarl to smoke and velvet. "But you could, love, you know you could. And if I--deserved it, I'd want to go by your hand. Fitting. Because you're the Slayer, and you are that strong. Because I love you. Because...because if I do ever hurt you like that, I'll owe you my death. But I'll fight every beastie in Hell, self included, before I let it come to that--believe that, Buffy. If you believe nothing else, believe I'll fight!" Her sister's voice shook, but there was nothing weak in it. "I do, William. I do--you have to believe that! It's the times you don't realize you need to fight that--" She choked on another sob. And there was silence again, the ragged, gasping, salt-edged silence of two people with no answers holding one another tight against the monsters within. Dawn lay absolutely still beneath the sedimentary layers of sheets and blankets, hoping that Spike was too preoccupied to be listening to the telltale waking rhythm of her breath and heartbeat. Buffy laughed, a weak, pained little giggle. "You know, when I said there was no way this wasn't going to hurt, I was hoping for, I don't know, maybe a month's worth of carefree smoochies before my life turned into an Alanis Morrisette song again." Spike's deeper chuckle had real humor in it. "Ah, well, there you have it, pet--'s the reason we've had to cram a month's worth of shagging into the past week." Buffy's laugh was a little stronger this time. "Shut up and go take your shower. I'm still mad at you." Dawn heard the ghost of a smile in his reply. "Mutual, oh she of the lone visits to barmy witches." The sound of the bathroom door closing masked the faint creak of her own door opening. Buffy peeked in, her small figure a dark shape against the dim light in the hall. Dawn rolled over, stretched, and made ostentatious waking-up noises. "Buffy? When did you get in?" "Just now." Her sister slipped inside, leaving the door ajar, as Dawn reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. Both of them blinked at the sudden flood of light. "We found Tanner. All the crazies, actually, but he was the only one we could snag. He's conked out on the couch, so fair warning." Buffy sat down on the side of the bed and brushed the backs of her knuckles across Dawn's forehead. "You're cooler," she observed. "How are you feeling?" Dawn squirmed up from underneath the blankets, wrestled her pillow into submission and propped herself upright against the headboard. "Crummy, but better." She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. Buffy's hair was a mess, and she looked as if she'd been liberally dunked in slime and then sand-blasted. Her face and the backs of her hands and her bare forearms were covered with scratches and scrapes. A swelling purple bruise marred her forehead just at the hairline, and tear-tracks smeared the dust on her cheeks. "You look snazzy. What happened?" "Mayhem, destruction, the usual. You should see Spike; he was on top of me. Uh, not like that. I think he's got a cracked rib, but he's being all macho vamp." Buffy sighed and blew a lock of hair out of her eyes. "I tell Willow and I tell her not to play with magic in the house, but it's all fun and games till someone has a roof fall on them--no, I'm fine, Dawn, honest. That Tanner dude freed me, I saved him, Spike dragged us both out when oxygen became an issue--it's a whole big heartwarming team effort." Buffy slumped over and leaned against the headboard, rubbing the sides of her nose with both hands. "He wanted Willow to put the chip back in. His brain was probably affected by his alcohol stream being contaminated with blood or something, but why he thought she would--" "She took it out." Buffy's hands stilled, then came to rest in her lap. "What?" "Willow's the one who took the chip out." Dawn drew her knees up to her chest and hugged them. "I'm pretty sure, anyway. Monday afternoon, when Spike came over? I went down to the basement and talked to him about it, and I'd just figured out that someone had done something to him without him wanting it, and Willow came down and...froze me, with a spell, and made me forget what I'd figured out." She unfolded, extending her legs stiffly and making blanket tents with her toes, trying to still the trembling of remembered betrayal and words as sweet and poisonous as antifreeze. "She just made me forget. Like it was nothing. Like I was nothing. And then she used me for that spell like I was just a--a battery!" She drew a hot angry breath. "I guess I'm AC and her spell was DC, though--when we did the ritual, the big green energy surge thing? Me, I guess. I must have messed the forgetting spell up. Everything's been coming back in pieces all day." "Willow took...well, that just...figures." Buffy rubbed the back of one hand across her eyes, adding dark mascara-streaks to the dust and tear-tracks. "Good. I guess. In a relative way. Keep all your baddies in one basket, I always say." Dawn's voice sounded thin and scratchy in her own ears, a million-year-old 78 RPM phonograph record to go with all those sepia-toned summer memories. "I thought--I thought she liked me. She was so good to me while you were gone--she talked her parents into letting me stay with them, she helped Giles find Dad, she and Tara... they did the daytime stuff with me. It was like--I wasn't Buffy's dumb little sister for awhile. I was somebody. And now she just takes it away--it's not fair! She's got a soul! Why is she doing this?" Buffy slid an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into a hug, and it felt weird because she was taller than Buffy now by inches. "She does still like you. Somewhere inside. She's messed up, and we have to stop her--maybe we have to fight her. But she's still the Willow who's my friend, the Willow who was good to you. We just have to help her find that part of herself again." "How can you love her?" Dawn asked. "How can you love him? When all that happens is they hurt you?" She felt a shiver go through her sister's slender body. "Because when you don't love them...it hurts a lot worse." Dawn bent her head to press her cheek to her sister's, and the two of them sat there together, lapped in golden light. The white-noise rattle of the shower shut off abruptly in the background (most likely it had occurred to Spike that using up all the hot water before Buffy had her turn was a Bad Thing) and when Dawn looked up a few moments later a slice of Spike--one sweatshirt-clad shoulder, the dark slash of a brow and one worried blue eye--was visible through the crack of the door. She could never forget or ignore what she'd realized in the alley, but maybe it was like Willow helping Xander with algebra in high school; when you didn't know the answers, you talked to someone who did. Spike might have wanted her to say yes, but at least he'd asked the question, and taken her no seriously. She had choices. To treat him like the thing that he was, or the man he was trying to be--and was it terribly wrong of her to hold hard to the memory that Spike had never treated her like the thing that she was? Her eyes met his and didn't fall away, and the look on his face was like someone lighting a bank of candles inside, a glow blossoming from match-sized to something that could fill up the whole room. Spike ghosted into the room and eased down on one knee beside the bed, his strong cool arm joining Buffy's warm one around her shoulders. His damp hair made a wet spot on her sleeve. Didn't matter. Dawn felt the steady beat of her sister's pulse, and the long slow rise and fall of Spike's chest as her head dropped to his shoulder, and almost sobbed in relief as hundreds of tiny clenched fists relaxed in her gut. Things could never be what they had been, but maybe they could be something else. She was drawn from Buffy, flesh of her flesh and blood of her blood in ways no other sisters in the world could claim. Sometimes she hated that knowledge. Sometimes, as now, it gave her an obscure sort of hope.

There were moments in her life Willow wished she could quarantine, like virus-infected files on her computer. Not get rid of them entirely, because who knew when studying them might be useful. Just cordon them off in little partitions of their own, where she could observe them--preferably via a completely different operating system--without actually running the executable. Moments preserved like specimens in formaldehyde, like Jesse's death, or the tropical fish incident, or her parents' realization she hadn't aced the SATs after all--cross-sections of time under glass, tinted to show off their most interesting features. It was fifty-fifty whether or not this was going to be one of those moments. She was sitting in a cave a little too deep into Sunnydale's maze of caverns for comfort (she had taken the right-hand fork when the tunnel split, hadn't she?) It was the wrong side of midnight on a Friday evening, and Tara could be waking up at any minute and wondering where the hell she was. She'd just summoned up something that looked like a Balrog on steroids, and last but not least, Willow Rosenberg, Wicca Supreme, had acquired a crowd of truly wiggins-inducing groupies. The eyeless men shuffled into the cavern, gaunt Blair Witch stick-figures with leathery skin stretched over gangly limbs, filthy rags draping their bodies like Spanish moss. They carried staves hung about with bones and feathers and small sickening dried things the color of old blood. Their withered eyesockets were sewn over with a double X of coarse brown twine, but they padded across the uneven floor of the cavern with never a pause or stumble. Bare feet scuffed and whispered against the stone. Twiggy fingers reached out for her, straining to be first to touch her hair or grasp the hem of her sleeves. "The vessel," they murmured in chorus. Willow's face twisted in revulsion, and she slapped the eagerest hands back with a fizzing shower of blue sparks. "Hey! No touchy!" The eyeless men cringed away, some prostrating themselves, others raising their staves and beginning a reedy chant. The thing she'd summoned laughed, and dwindled down, splashes of red and green and alabaster blossoming out of the darkness. "Bad puppies," her vampire self crooned, flicking a riding crop at the nearest supplicant. "No treats for you. Down." "Is it vitally necessary for you to look like that?" Willow asked. "It's ooky. And if the purpose is to unnerve me, hey, already existing in a nerve-free void." Color leached away and the clear heartless peal of laughter deepened and roughened as the phantom scent of tobacco smoke tickled her nose. The thing inclined its bone-and-ivory head, regarding her with luminous blue eyes. "I can look like anyone, pet." Another shift--her mother's distant, accusing face looked back at her, a little frown pinching her perfectly penciled brows. "It's just a phase, Willow. You need to work through this stage and return to a healthy phase of ego development." "Stop that!" Her own chirpy grin returned. "Givin' you the wiggins?" Willow unzipped her duffle and began pinching out the wicks of the half-melted candles, stuffing them back inside beside the Ziploc bags of frankincense. "You're trying to scare me? OK, I'm scared. Woo frickin' hoo." She grabbed another candle and yanked it free of the spot where its own drippings had welded it to the stone floor of the cavern. The scent of melted wax and licorice made the still air of the cavern seem stuffy, despite the underground chill, and she wondered if licorice was maybe an extra-evil scent, candle-wise. "I've been scared pretty much twenty-four-seven for the last six years straight and fought vampires and demons and hellgods and furthermore given oral reports in front of the entire class without fainting and all this stuff I do while shaking in my high-heeled boots, so you may as well just give it up and head back to Dodge, because scaring me? Waste of time. I did what you wanted me to--you're all manifested and everything. I've got my magic back. I'm happy, you're happy, everything's coming up sunshine and puppies, so we're finished, 'kay? No more little voices in my head, no more oogy visions, no further doorstep-darkening of any variety on either of our parts." Vampire-Willow perched on an outcropping of stone and swung her legs back and forth. "Aw. Don't you like me, Snuggles? We could have lots of fun. But if you don't want to play--" Her hand described a languid circle in the air, a gesture which Willow was morally certain was just for show. As the pale fingers completed their revolution, she felt... void. Her insides drained away into nothingness, and the raw dry ache as the power leached out of her soul was unbearable. She knelt on the cold stone, gravel digging into her knees--the center of her being was a vacuum; how could nothingness torment her so? With physical pain, at least she could point to it and say my hand hurts. "Bye-bye now," Vampire-Willow said, waggling her fingers. "What did you do?" Panic drove Willow's voice to an undignified squeak. The muscles in Willow's hands spasmed and she dropped the candle she'd been about to toss into the duffle; it hit the ground with a waxy thump and rolled away into the darkness. Some bean-counting part of her mind which had become too thoroughly caught up in Buffy's budget woes thought grouchy thoughts about the waste of a perfectly good candle, though it really was kind of gross-smelling and if licorice-scented candles were extra-evil it wasn't like she could recycle them in another ritual. "No-thing," her alter ego sang. "Nothing at all. I stopped doing." She got up and slink-strutted over to Willow with a sly, I've-got-a-secret smile, slapping the riding crop against her palm. "You don't have your magic back, clever witch, you have my magic back." Her lashes fluttered. "And you can keep it as long as you do me little favors. I like people who do me favors." She flicked the riding crop out, just short of tapping Willow on the nose, and power rushed back into the void within. Magic surging through all the empty channels of Willow's soul, monsoon rains following on the heels of a summer drought, sparkling, effervescent, limitless, bubbling up to soothe every ravaged nerve. Willow moaned in near-orgasmic relief as the nameless, bodiless ache dissolved before the flood, but the relief fled before a desire to scream like a frustrated two-year-old. It's not FAIR! I want my magic back NOW! She dug her nails into the surface of the nearest candle, leaving little crescents in the wax. OK, fine, Willow doesn't get what she wanted. Again. Big news, not. Repress, retreat, regroup, the Rosenberg family motto. She snuck a look at her alter ego. It couldn't hurt to ask. "What kind of favors?" Vampire-Willow draped herself across a boulder and sucked on the tip of her index finger. "Ooooh, lots of terrible, naughty things... or not. Who knows? Right now, three things, and if you do those, I'll let you do anything else you like until I need you again. That's not a bad bargain, is it, to have your wings back?" "No, it sounds pretty suckified, in an open-ended, indentured-for-life kinda way." Willow crossed her arms and sat back on her heels. "But from the absence of any overwhelming zombie compulsion to go and work your naughty will, I'm beginning to get the idea that you can't make me do anything I don't want to. Aren't you going to, like, slap a lien on my soul or something?" The image writhed, and now it was the lean, tired countenance of Daniel Tanner looking at her. "Souls are highly overrated as a medium of exchange. Why don't you see what's required of you? Your first task would be to restore the minds of the people living in the landfill." Willow blinked. She'd been expecting a request for roast babies or something. "I was going to do that anyway." "You see? I'm not unreasonable." Another shift of light and shadow, and Giles was standing there before her, wearing his old librarian's armor of tweed and reserve. "My second request is also simple." Flicker. Dawn's gangly form stood in his place. "Use the girl as the power source for the spell." "What?" Darn. Here it comes, the soul-sucking evil part. "Dawnie? I can't do that!" Dawn's image reverted to Giles's again. "Indeed you can--you've thought of it before now. No harm will come to her from it, I give you my word on that." Modifications to the spell she'd been working on leaped into her mind full-formed. "The Key has tremendous power, enough to open every gateway between every world simultaneously. To siphon off a tithe of that power to heal the minds of so many will harm nothing." She could see it unfurling in her mind's eye, the elegant way that Dawn's latent power could be transformed into the mental energy necessary to repair the damage done to Glory's victims. When she'd designed her revamped version of the spell to draw energy from an external source, could she truthfully say she hadn't been thinking about something like this? "If you've got all this vast cosmic power, why do you need me?" Faux-Giles shrugged and began to polish his glasses. "It's all rather torturous, really," the measured English voice said, reflective. "I was, er, evicted from this little corner of reality some years previously. Since then my associates--" he waved at the huddle of eyeless men-- "have recouped their numbers, and recent events have made it possible for them to grant me access to this plane once more. Mr. Tanner became, quite accidentally, the focus of an incident which, while insignificant in and of itself, proved to be the proverbial straw which broke the camel's back. I suppose you know there are two forces at work in the cosmos--Good and Evil, Light and Dark, Order and Chaos, Creation and Destruction--call them what you will. At present the balance between them is threatened, and I am doing my small part to restore it." Willow frowned. "So you're kinda like that guy Buffy met back when Angelus was on the rampage? Whistler?" An expression of distaste crossed the Giles-face. "Not precisely. But you might say we're in the same line of work. In any event, my associates established a rapport with Mr. Tanner, and Mr. Tanner was able to perform a few minor services for me--in the main, putting me in a limited form of contact with you. However, he is neither skilled nor stable enough to perform the ritual which you just performed, which now allows me to channel my not inconsiderable powers through you to affect the material world. I have power; I desire agency. You have agency; you desire power. What is more logical than that we ally and benefit one another?" Willow plucked at the strap of her duffle, fiddling with the frayed spot where the buckle rubbed, little fuzzy nylon fibers frizzing beneath her fingers. It couldn't force her to do anything. Check. It would give her the ability to use magic again. Check. And it hadn't asked her to do anything in the roast baby category yet. Check. "Ok. What's the third thing?" ***** It had been considerably easier checking into a hotel in the middle of the night back in the days when he could just eat the desk clerk and take over the presidential suite. On the other hand, Spike had to admit that Hank Summers's impressive credit limit proved almost as effective as raw terror in securing them a room despite their disheveled state. One impassioned wheedle of the hotel laundry staff and a very long, hot shower involving several brilliant shags later, they'd arrived at that drowsy, almost-sated point where giving it another go and lying there and falling asleep were equally attractive options. Spike made yet another mental note: Install shower in crypt immediately if not sooner. He supposed they could use the one at Buffy's place, but the Niblet's banging on the door and yelling at them to hurry up in there would be something of a mood-killer. A tsunami of applause burst from the television. "Oi, that's a cheat if I ever saw one!" Spike aimed the remote at the screen like a weapon and zapped the Iron Chef into cable oblivion. "The challenger had it locked up! That simpering little bint's probably shagging Morimoto on the side--explosions of happiness in her mouth my arse!" "I refuse to take sides," Buffy said. She was curled up beside him on the rumpled expanse of the hotel bed, wearing an oversized t-shirt in bright pink emblazoned with I SAW THE STARS COME OUT IN HOLLYWOOD in gold glitter--not exactly high fashion, but when one was trying to find replacement clothing at eleven o'clock at night, it didn't do to quibble about what presented itself in the hotel gift shop. "To do so would be to admit that sea urchin is a real food. What else is on?" Spike began power-flipping through the channels. "Got to be something on with explosions in it." Buffy made a half-hearted attempt to snag the remote. "How can you tell if it's any good when you never stop on one channel for more than half a second?" "Superior vampire eyesight and fifty years of telly-watching savvy. It's a knack." He brought the remote to a screeching halt on John Cleese banging a stuffed parrot on a counter. "There's quality multicultural programming for you." Buffy rolled her eyes and settled back at his side, holding up one foot and wiggling her toes in front of the glowing screen. "So, this waking up together thing--if it becomes a habit, will you still love me when I've got leg stubble and a dead cat on my head?" Apparently she'd failed to notice the post-shower exploded poodle on his--though from the way her fingers kept sneaking up to play with the curls he was beginning to get the horrid suspicion that she liked it that way. If so, she was in for a disappointment; not even the Slayer could come between him and his century-long love affair with Brilliantine and its chemical descendants. I draw the line at looking like sodding Little Lord Fauntleroy. "Pet, I'll even let you borrow my razor. Greater love hath no man." Buffy laughed and Spike grew thoughtful. Short of that first night in the Magic Box and last night at her father's place, they'd not had much opportunity to wake up together--one or the other of them always had to drag themselves out of bed and back to their own domicile in the brightening dawn. And it was only going to get more inconvenient come summer when the nights grew shorter... Somewhere in the back of his skull, Manly!Independent!Spike grabbed Soppy!Romantic!Spike by the lapels and gave him a good smack across the chops. Bloody hell, you're not thinking of moving in with the chit? Well, of course--who was he kidding? Soppy!Romantic!Spike would have been picking out rings and composing pathetic speeches about having a man in the house and making an honest Slayer of her by now if it were an option. Just seeing her wear that old ring of his around her neck made him burst with possessive male pride. Manly!Independent!Spike was reluctantly forced to agree that this was a bit of all right, and when Insatiable!Horndog!Spike chimed in with the point that shared quarters would allow for a lot more quality shagging time, Manly!Independent!Spike threw up his hands and retired to the cerebellum for a good sulk. Not that his moving in was really an option either, given the vigilance of Dawn's social worker. But there was a middle ground here, wasn't there? "Or bring your own--I can spare a drawer." Buffy's hand, which had been playing idly across his stomach, tracing the muscles up and down, stopped dead, and she said in a small quivery voice, "You'd give me a drawer?" He sat up and looked into her welling sea-green eyes and ran a thumb over the sweet curve of her lower lip, bewildered. They didn't look like unhappy tears. "Sure, love. A whole dresser, if I can find one good enough to cart home." She gave a little gulping sob and threw her arms around him; Spike had no idea what it was he'd said, but apparently it had been very much the right thing to say. Buffy pressed him down into the nest of hotel pillows as her mouth sought his, her fingers splayed across his chest to cover as much skin as possible: All this belongs to me. Spike shifted beneath her and ran a hand over the curve of her hip, up the rising slope of her body. His palm cradled the soft weight of her breast, her mortal warmth seeping into his flesh like liquid gold. Buffy made a kitteny little "mmmm" noise as his thumb drew lazy circles on the crinkling aureole, and she squirmed most gratifyingly as he tweaked the firm little nub in its center. Why was it that copping a feel under the t-shirt was somehow sexier than doing the same thing when she was stark naked? Though stark naked had its own advantages. One small warm hand crept down under the covers and started to demonstrate a few of them, and when she had him thrumming like a high-tension wire in a hurricane she crawled astride his hips and sank down, engulfing him in a series of lascivious little wriggles. "You're blocking my view of the telly, woman," Spike growled, mock-severe. Buffy gave him a smug little smile and rocked forward, pulling the t-shirt over her head oh so slowly, revealing slim hips, flat belly, twin cherry-tipped ice-cream-scoop breasts... Oh, yeeessss. Golden hair cascaded round her shoulders as the shirt came off altogether, and the muscles in her belly and thighs went taut as she tightened her internal vise-grip on his cock. His voice went hoarse and his hips bucked involuntarily. "And you can keep right on doing it." In the prosaic sixty-watt glow of the bedside lamp her eyes held him mesmerized with their changes: storm-tossed green, misty grey, every shade in between. Her hand brushed his cheek. "Talk to me, Big Bad," she whispered. It was an order. He laced his hands behind his head--he'd obey, oh, yeah, but he'd take his time about it. "Yeh? What about?" That sinful little pink tongue-tip darted out for a second, and her cheeks flushed a matching pink. "You know." "Oh?" He bucked again, deliberate this time, caught her around the waist and held her there for a second in mid-air, half-impaled and gasping, before letting her sink down on him again, the sweet slippery-warm friction making him groan. "You wanna hear what a naughty bitch you are?" She nodded, a fractional bob of her head, still drowning him in those eyes. "How walking down the street watching that sweet little arse of yours twitch makes me want to throw you down on the sidewalk and fuck you raw right there? Someday I'm gonna do it, and you won't be able to stop me--you won't want to stop me." She was writhing slowly against him now, every movement sending little shudders of bliss through both of them. "We'll be screwing on the sidewalk come morning, and the sun won't be able to bloody touch me 'cause you'll have sent me up in flames already. Oh, yeh, love, just like that, wring me dry..." Buffy said very little when they made love--when pressed she retorted that he talked enough for the both of them--but she listened, oh, she listened. She made an epic of their lovemaking, scribing the lines with teeth and nails across the ivory parchment of his flesh, her hands moving incessantly over his body, seeking out every sensitive inch of him, memorizing the planes and curves of muscle and bone. She reared above him, his golden goddess, his lost little girl, his Slayer--moist and warm, lips half-parted, a trickle of sweat drawing a path between those small perfect breasts. She rolled beneath him, her body the violin to his bow, seperately mute but together drawing forth the music of the spheres until they arrived at the coda together, and then--then at last she cried out Spike! Just that, as if his name were the most important thing in the world, the only possible thing to say at the moment when all the universe stopped, breathless, waiting upon the fulfillment of their pleasure. Afterwards she lay panting across him, her ear pressed to his chest as if the silence within were music, and his own breathing slowed and finally segued into a low growl--absolutely, positively, definitely a growl, since chip or no chip he'd rip the lungs out of anyone who suggested he was capable of anything so nancified as a purr. "So does any random offering of used furniture get me this kind of treatment?" Buffy giggled. "No, just drawers. It's a long story. Damn it!" She sat up, misty romantic Buffy instantly replaced with pissed-off Buffy. "Anya's wedding shower is tomorrow afternoon!" "And?" Possibly there were world-threatening and shag-interrupting implications in a gaggle of demon bints and assorted members of Sunnydale's Business and Professional Women Association getting blitzed on wine coolers and regaling Anya with dirty jokes and a variety of embarrassing underthings, but if so, Spike failed to see them. Hmm. Focus on the embarrassing underthings. Buffy made a wry face. "And it'll look pretty shoddy if I don't have a present for her. Especially since her maid of honor is another vengeance demon, who, for all I know, specializes in non-present-givers." She crawled over to the edge of the bed and leaned over, scrabbling for the t-shirt. "I have the wedding present budgeted, but I completely spaced on the shower, and--" Her backside bobbed enticingly in the air, a perfect, luscious peach just waiting for someone to... Insatiable!Horndog!Spike took over and he lunged, wrapping his hands around her waist, just above arch of her hips--she was such a tiny thing; he could almost circle her waist with his fingers--and had her back on the bed and pressed tightly against him in one effortless heave, his rapidly hardening cock resting in the warm cleft of her ass. He drew a fingernail lightly down the side of her neck and rasped into her ear, "Still got your Dad's plastic, don't you?" Buffy gasped and nodded, momentarily incapable of coherent speech. "And you've got to take the dinner togs back anyway, so--just--aahh, you like that, Slayer? I thought so--pick up something then." "It wouldn't--" Her eyes closed and she broke off into a high-pitched whimper as he slid into her again. "Oh. God. Spike. Ohhhh..." And she was arching forward to allow him better access to that impossibly tight velvet warmth, drawing him deeper and deeper... Some considerable time later, the TV burbling on unwatched in the background, Buffy mumbled, "...be right to use Dad's card," into the pillow. She opened one eye and perked up slightly. "You know, I really think we're getting the hang of the not wrecking the furniture thing. Everything's still flat. No saggy spots." Spike spat out a strand of her hair and propped his head up on one hand, cocking an eyebrow at the bed, which, while not a complete loss, looked rather the worse for wear. "That would be because we're on the floor now, pet. But if we straighten out that leg and prop the wastebasket under that corner they won't notice a thing." He rolled over, spooned up against her and began kneading her shoulders. "No sponging off Daddikins, then--I think this conscience business is highly over-rated." He sucked in his cheeks and thought for a moment. There was another possibility. "I know you haven't been keen on it in the past, love, but--assuming no one's gotten to it already--we could stop back by the restaurant and prise out a few of those Rudnark teeth. They're not stunningly valuable, but a dozen or so of 'em would fetch enough on the black magic circuit to pay for a present that wouldn't make Demon Girl give you the fish-eye the moment her magical ability to divine price tags comes into play." Buffy stirred uneasily against him. "Black magic circuit? What are they used for?" He shrugged. Why was that any concern of theirs? "This, that--curses mostly, I think." She was frowning--tempted, he could tell. "So we'd be selling something that someone else could use to turn someone into a frog or afflict them with ever-growing nose-hair?" Spike chuckled. "More like excruciating pain in the gut until they fall over frothing blood at the mouth and--" Buffy's shoulders locked solid beneath his hands. Bloody hell. Idiot. Does it never occur to you to lie to the girl? No, it didn't, and it wouldn't matter if it had; the two of them could see through each other's deceptions as if through clear glass. He wracked his mind for something to make it right again, but rights and wrongs were hopelessly mixed up in his sex-muddled brain at the moment. Surely there was some rule about it, like not going swimming for half an hour after a meal--no man should be required to think for thirty minutes after an orgasm? It was hard enough to mix and match the things his mind labeled good and bad with the often diametrically opposed things which brought a glow of satisfaction to his heart under ordinary circumstances. "Which would, uh, be a bad thing?" "A very bad thing," Buffy said through clenched teeth. She sat up and wrapped the sheet around herself, looking small and cold and forlorn for all the anger in her eyes. "Well... it's not like we'd be cursing people ourselves," Spike offered. That was good, wasn't it? Buffy gave him a withering look, and he began to get irritated. Couldn't she see he was trying here? Did she have any clue how difficult it was to navigate your way through life backwards, fighting your basic inclinations every step of the way? "Oh, come on, love, Demon Girl's got a wagon-load of things for sale in the Magic Box that're the dog's bollocks for cursing! It's all right for her to do it because she's got a soul and a tax number?" The mule-stubborn look crept into Buffy's eyes, and Spike knew with sinking certainty that it didn't matter what got said from here on in, he was battling for a lost cause. "Giles and Anya don't sell anything that can only be used to hurt people!" Well. Might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb. Gonna learn sooner or later, love, demons live for a good fight. "Right. I'll wager 'only' doesn't matter a lot when you've been a sodding rat for the last three years." "Don't bring Amy into this! She did that to herself and Willow's been trying--" "Oh, yes, Willow's been very trying." "Don't change the subject!" "And what is the bloody subject, Your Majesty?" "You trying to talk me into selling dangerous demon parts on the black market! It's wrong!" "'It's wrong!'" Spike mimicked. "Well if they weren't bloody dangerous they wouldn't be worth selling, would they? You seemed happy enough to consider it when you thought they were only good for frog-curses, but--" "Oh, shut up!" Buffy turned away and huddled under her sheet. "Why do you have to be so--so--" Spike cursed under his breath; she looked ready to burst into tears, and if she did he'd melt as usual and end up petting her head and agreeing with anything just to get her to stop. "Evil? Sorry, love, it comes with the fangs." She sniffled. "No! If you were just evil I could kill you! But you have to be s-so damned g-good to me at the same time!" She wiped her nose on a hank of sheet. "I was halfway to talking myself into it when 'excruciating pain' came up. And I shouldn't have been. Frogs aren't any more of the good than frothing blood at the mouth." Her eyes were haunted for a moment. "There really is something dark in me." Spike sighed. "Yeh, but that's not it, pet." He stretched out a hand; after a moment she scooted over and curled into his arms. "Observe. Buffy Summers considers selling nasty demon bits to the unscrupulous: result, wracking guilt. William the Bloody, Esq. considers same: result, mild irritation that B. Summers won't let him go for it." She shot him a heartrending look and, as predicted, the remains of his ire dissolved faster than an ice cube on a Sunnydale sidewalk in July. "Ah, love, I'm sorry I brought it up. I haven't gone daft enough to care about people who aren't us yet, but I could do a better job of pretending." "Don't." Her voice was tight and hard. "Don't ever pretend. You promised." "So I did. It cannot be said I'm a flattering honest man, but I am a plain-dealing villain. I'm trying, love, I just--" How was it he could face down Rudnark demons without blinking an eye and be so helpless in the face of her tears? "When it gets past 'Eating people bad, Buffy pretty' I don't even know where to begin sometimes." Buffy cast her eyes down, as much to hide her smile as anything else, twisting the sheet in her fingers into little horns of fabric. If he could get a grin out of her, he couldn't have cocked up too badly, could he? "That's the important thing, I guess," she said, sounding as if she were trying to convince herself as much as him. "That you're trying." Then her mouth firmed and she looked up, meeting his eyes again. "No. The important thing is we're trying." She reached up and ran a finger down the acute angle of his cheek, tracing the intersecting curve of his lower lip. "It's just... every now and then it hits me. You're not just pretending, or trying to annoy me. You really, truly don't get it, here." She placed a hand over his heart. "Sometimes it's as easy as breathing, loving you. Then a minute later it's the hardest thing I've ever done." "I could say the same, and for some of us breathing takes a little extra effort." Spike pulled her down into the pillows again and held her close. "But I've always done things the hard way." He wondered if he'd ever get it. Angel could afford to believe in miracles; Spike was grateful for a lack of disasters. Did he really want to? Angel's getting it hadn't been a pretty sight. In his clearer-eyed moments he could see that his moral existence from now on would likely consist of a Red Queen's race to stay where he was now. With Buffy a warm, sleepy, comfortable weight in his arms, where he was now did not seem such a bad place to be. They lay there together, wrapped up in each other and their own thoughts, until the hotel's wake-up call startled them back to the world again. ***** Sunlight was filtering through the blinds, gilding the sedimentary layers of books and papers spread out before him. Giles excavated his saucer, took another sip of lukewarm tea and laid his glasses down on the page before him. He'd heard the morning paper thump against the door half an hour ago, but hadn't gone out to retrieve it yet. Xander and Anya had begged off on him hours ago, and he was left the sole defender of a play-fort of paper and calfskin. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling the grit under his eyelids. Fit as he kept himself, his fiftieth birthday was looming nearer and nearer, and he no longer possessed the resilience to bounce back from all-nighters with nothing more than a pot of tea and a cold shower. He'd have to get more sleep before tomorrow if he and Tara planned to attempt to contact any of the powers which seemed to be circling Sunnydale like sharks. The last few days had been too late to bed, too early to rise, too many journals to pore over, and frustratingly little gold sieved from the gravel: a handful of volumes out of the stacks of dozens of bound Watchers' diaries which barricaded the kitchen table. Accounts of those few Slayers who'd survived as long or longer than Buffy Summers, four hundred years worth of observation and expertise--to go back further he'd have had to contact the Council Library in London, and he wasn't sure he wanted to let anyone else know the direction his researches were tending yet. Even in light of the cursory reading he'd been able to give each case history so far, there was a definite pattern emerging. Slayers who lasted four or more years followed one of two paths: For most, increasing emotional isolation and intense focus on their slaying, sometimes to the point that they were barely able to function outside a combat situation. In a smaller number of cases... well, in Buffy he would have called it normal behavior--rebellion against Council strictures, over-reliance upon emotion, increasing independence. Most of this smaller group, he noted, shared Buffy and Faith's history of having been missed by the Council's screening processes, and had grown up without the years of indoctrination concerning their destiny. They often had families, ties to the world of the living. And almost without exception, they had ended as Faith had: going rogue, succumbing to the dark lure of their own power, throwing off their Watcher's guidance and striking out on their own. He scanned the list of names on the legal pad, checking it against the books he'd pulled. A dozen girls, a dozen lives. Could he read between the lines of the dry, scholarly reports, discern which of these rebellions were the perfectly normal result of a young woman realizing that her life was not her own, and which were true descents into darkness? Hannah Griesenger, Salzburg, Called 1623, died 1628, avenging the deaths of her family against the counsel of her Watcher. Maria Lupe Hernandez, Mexico City, Called 1732, disappeared 1737, reappeared and died 1739 in a battle with reawakened Aztec jaguar spirits. Kathrine Allston, Edinborough, Called 1868, died 1877, turned rogue, slain by Council forces in an attempt to restrain her. Linnet Almont, Marseilles, called 1904, died 1911, staked by her Watcher Vincent Marron after being turned by the Master of Marseilles... He got up and stretched, walking a few paces round the table and feeling all his bones creak in protest. Some future Watcher, no doubt, would be reading about him: Buffy Anne Summers, Sunnydale, Called 1996, died 1997, 2001 et al., drove Watcher Rupert Giles to drink with a succession of vampire lovers. There was so much left to do before he left--complete the interview project with Spike, give Buffy all possible information relevant to Travers's hints, complete the paperwork signing over the Magic Box to Anya... not to mention the personal packing and sorting he had yet to take care of. He gazed nearsightedly about the room, allowing himself a short wallow in mild despair. How he was to complete it all by the New Year he had no idea... You could always stay. He walked back to his chair and sat down, sliding his glasses back into place. Spike's advice was nothing he hadn't thought of himself, lying awake in the night in the weeks after Buffy had returned from the dead. He had no doubt that Spike had meant it from the heart, however bluntly it had been phrased, and as far as it went, it was true. But Spike, at heart, was a pack animal: for all he played at being the cat who walked by himself, he craved a place at the hearth with the same intensity he craved blood--though having attained it, he'd grumble loudly about how much better it was to walk by his wild lone. Giles, on the other hand--he'd been thrust by circumstance into the center of a group, but while he loved Buffy as a daughter and looked fondly upon Willow as a protégé, he couldn't exactly call any of them friends. There was a reserve between them, a gap of age and attitude bridged more easily by a hundred-and-fifty-year-old vampire than by a forty-some-year-old introvert. It wasn't only emotional cowardice which drove his flight, he argued, addressing the silent, skeptical presence in the back of his skull. He'd never asked to become a father figure, and felt himself ill-suited to the task. He was homesick for green fields and fogs and buildings that were older than he was and an ocean that was grey and stormy rather than blue and placid. He wanted a life of his own again, and conversations with people who had both personal recollections of the world prior to 1980 and a pulse. The phone rang. He sat there through three rings, debating whether or not to let the answering machine get it, and finally rose and picked it up on the fourth. "Giles," the voice on the other end said. "It's Angel." After four years his fingers still tightened painfully on the receiver at the sound of that voice. 'How nice to hear from you' seemed inappropriate somehow. Giles could think of only one reason for Angel calling at this particular time, but if Buffy hadn't confessed yet, it wasn't his place to give the game away. "You sound perturbed." Keeping his voice neutral around the vampire was second nature by now, because he was an adult, and a compassionate man, and Angel was not Angelus. Not at the moment, anyway. "I hope nothing untoward's happened to Buffy?" There was a nervy edge to Angel's normally laconic delivery. "That depends on your definition of untoward. Are you aware of--has she--" Giles realized that in some odd way the vampire was trying to spare his feelings, and felt a reluctant gratitude. "Buffy and Spike seem to be very... close. Closer than--I'm worried about her." Giles picked up his teacup. There must be a technical term for the defensiveness roused by an outsider questioning one on a decision which, until that moment, one might have been willing to admit was less than optimal. "Yes, I'm aware of the situation. I'm no more pleased about it than I was about her liaison with you, but in the end, I trust Buffy to do the right thing. And oddly enough, I trust Spike to do the right thing for Buffy, if not the right thing in general." Enough to leave the two of them together half a world away? Manifestly so. How very peculiar. Angel's laugh was bitter. "I guess Spike's not the only one who's fallen into bad habits. Giles--Buffy told me the purpose of her trip down here was to convince the Council to give her and Faith a salary. Do you think that her... liaison with Spike is going to impress the Council? You know it's going to get to them sooner or later." Giles swirled the dregs of his now-cold tea around in the bottom of his cup, watching the erratic orbits of the flecks of tea leaf. Jenny had read tea leaves--for fun, she'd said; they were utterly useless as a method of divining the future. "No. I think they'll be appalled, with good reason. I expect threats, ultimatums and possible attempts on Spike's, er, life. And in the end..." He found that he was smiling, ever so slightly. "I expect Buffy to win, because that's what Buffy does." Angel was silent for a long while. "I don't think I expected you to be taking it this calmly." "Neither did I, really, but apparently I have hidden depths. And if she must be enamored of a vampire, I find the current situation vastly preferable to the two of them sneaking about behind my back." Silence again. A hit, a palpable hit... "I suppose you're prepared to stake him the moment there's a sign of anything going wrong?" "You suppose correctly. And Angel--I hope it need not be said that while the Council will find out about this eventually, later is preferable to sooner?" Another bitter chuckle. "Well, remember this, Giles--with Spike, the moment you realize something's gone wrong is already far too late. I speak from personal experience." And with that he hung up, leaving Giles to the contemplation of his tea leaves. A hat, was it? He rotated the cup. Or a boat? Giles set the receiver down and took the cup into the kitchen, rinsed it out, and put it into the dishwasher. With another weary stretch he left the kitchen and started up the stairs towards his bedroom. So much depended upon one's point of view. ***** "I'm sure we rolled these up last year." Dawn hauled another olive-green tangle Christmas lights out of the box and tugged on one of the looser coils, which had the effect of drawing three other loops more tightly about each other. "We always roll them up." "Maybe you forgot," Tara said. "Last year was pretty hairy, with your Mom sick." It was more likely, she thought, that Joyce had rolled them up every year; she remembered all the little things which had inexplicably gone undone after he own mother's death, things she never could remember seeing her mother actually doing. She pulled out another box of ornaments--like most of the others, missing at least one ball. Dawn took it from her and stared at the fragile glass spheres, tracing the curve of one, then another, with her index finger. When Dawn had come into existence, had some of them disappeared, to correspond to the ones a small child would have broken over the years? Or had memories rearranged themselves to give half of the young Buffy's breakage quotient to her new sister? If Dawn still thought about things like that (and Tara imagined she did) she didn't share them with anyone, save perhaps Spike. Now she set the red and gold balls aside, flicked her hair over her shoulders and dove back into the cardboard box, pulling out another rat's-nest of lights and frowning at it. "This is totally skanked up. All the sockets are, like, corroded or something. Maybe we should just buy new ones. They're only three or four dollars a string these days." "Just remember, money spent on lights is money that can't be spent on presents." Tara felt a wave of relief which dissipated as soon as she realized that the speaker wasn't Willow. Buffy was standing at the top of the basement stairs, with Spike right behind her, gazing curiously over her shoulder at the sea of ravaged boxes covering the basement floor. "Buffy!" Dawn dropped the coil of wire and leaped to her feet, her face lighting up. "You're home!" Suddenly self-conscious, she tossed her hair again and affected indifference. "Not that I care or anything. Hey, Spike." "Hullo, Bit." Spike looked askance at the holiday wreckage. "Now I'll grant traditions may have evolved, but in my day we decked the halls, not the floor." Tara held up a plastic holly wreath and peered through it, suddenly nostalgic for real evergreen boughs and pine scent that didn't come from an aerosol can. "We decided on a post-modern, deconstructionist Christmas this year. I'm so glad you're back," she said, getting to her feet. "Did everything go all right?" Buffy paused at the foot of the stairs, posed, and made a 'voila!' gesture with both hands. "I didn't kill Faith, Angel didn't kill Spike, everyone's still in the correct body, it's all good." She walked over to the nearest box and dropped to her knees. "Oh--Aunt Caroline's bells!" She pulled out a set of spun-glass bells which had fallen out of their tissue wrapping and held them up to the light, inspecting them for damage. "And here's Norton the Christmas Moose--" Spike, looking slightly ill, mouthed 'Christmas Moose?' at Tara, who shrugged. Buffy extracted a rather moldy-looking plaster moose with a tatty green pipe-cleaner wreath in its chipped horns. Her face fell. "Dawn made him for Mom in fourth grade--he's lost all his sequins! What happened to this stuff? It wasn't like this when I died, I know it!" Her expression was more tragic than one sequin-less moose seemed to warrant. "Dawn?" Dawn, distraught as if the lack of Christmas ornament continuity were her personal failing, rummaged through her own box for something salvageable. "The pipes down here burst a month or so before you, uh, got back, and the basement flooded, and the people who were gonna buy the house backed out before Dad could get them to close, and Dad had to get the whole house re-piped before he could put it back up for sale--boy was he mad! But anyway, all the stuff we had stored down here got soaked. I tried to dry out as much as I could before we had to put all the furniture into storage, but Dad wanted to--and I--and it's all wrecked--and--" Buffy hastened to assure Dawn that none of it was her fault, and the two of them went into serious Christmas triage mode: "Here's those grotty plastic ones--of course they survived--Oh! It's Grandma's old bubble lights! but they didn't work anyway--Here's the ones Mom bought when we moved here--The glass ones should be all right if we can clean off all this moldy tissue paper--Have you looked at the tree yet?" Tara backed off with a certain sense of relief and sat down on the lowest step of the stairs; it was a little weird poking through the remnants of another family's past. Spike sidled over to her as the sisters exclaimed and commiserated over the various unearthed ornaments. "Where's Will? We didn't see her about when we got in." "She's upstairs. Asleep. She--she was gone all night. Meditating, she said." Tara bit her lip. "Something to help her recover her magic. She's been conked out all day--what time is it?" "About eight." It was occasionally handy having a vampire around with an absolute sense of the sun's position. "We left L.A. around five-thirty, soon as the sun started going down. Red hasn't been up at all?" He sounded a little concerned, and Tara felt slightly less paranoid; if Spike was worried, she had a right to be panicked. "She got up around noon and had a peanut butter sandwich and went back to bed. I'm getting really worried about her, Spike. She's been--" "Sleeping," Willow said, appearing at the top of the stairs in her turn, wrapped up in a robe and what she referred to as her Anya-freaking fuzzy slippers. Tara's breath caught; Willow looked... looked... glowing, her hair aflame in the light of the bare hanging bulb overhead. "Sorry for not hopping onboard the Christmas spirit choo-choo, but still technically Jewish here." Tara scrambled to her feet and grinned, deciding that Buffy and Dawn had the ornament situation covered. "Christmas trees are a pagan tradition. I'm reclaiming them in the name of Wiccan Liberation." She smoothed her skirt around her knees and started up the stairs. "You feeling better, hon? You want me to fix you some soup?" Willow smiled back, the cheerful pixie-grin Tara hadn't seen in far too long. "Oh... all right, twist my arm." She turned and all but skipped off towards the kitchen. Tara followed more sedately. A glance in the direction of the living room showed her Buffy's luggage and a large shopping bag stuffed with wrapped packages--probably Christmas presents from Dawn and Buffy's father--heaped haphazardly over the armchair. Willow went over to the kitchen table and opened up her laptop, running her fingers over the keyboard as if greeting an old friend. Tara pulled a saucepan from the cupboard, ran a little water into it and set it on the stove to boil while she began rustling up ingredients--chicken stock from last night's dinner, a handful of rice, leftover vegetables from Thursday, a dash of salt, a pinch of garlic... might as well make enough for everyone. It was mildly wiggy how Willow and Buffy and Dawn, children of affluence, regarded her ability to cook and sew and clean house as something as mysterious and astonishing as her ability to cast spells. When they went shopping, Buffy followed her around the grocery store in a state of bewildered gratitude, nodding blankly as Tara dispensed domestic wisdom--Buffy could follow a recipe, but somehow she'd never learned how to cook. Leftovers are your friend, the McClay mantra. It was weird when such prosaic skills put her in demand. "So... do you think it helped? The meditating?" Willow rested her chin in her hand and looked extremely pleased with herself. "Yup. It really did." The laptop cheeped at her. "Darn it, I have a hundred and eleven e-mails and I'm a week behind on Sluggy Freelance." "Really? I mean about the helping, not the e-mail. You're on your own there." Tara checked the refrigerator and yelled downstairs, "Spike, we're out of pig's blood--do you--?" A muffled bellow from below--"Got some in the boot of the car. Keys are on the coffee table." "Thanks." She glanced at Willow. She looked so much better; relaxed, happy, that little pinched stress-line gone from between her brows. It was wonderful--almost too good to be true. "It's not too--too draining, is it, honey? The meditation, I mean. You seemed pretty wasted this morning, and you never mentioned what kind of techniques you were trying--" A flash of irritation was there and gone in Willow's eyes. "Oh, nothing special, a little chant here, a little incense there, stretch the ol' magical muscles, om mane padme e-i e-i om... you know--eclectic." She kicked back in her chair and waggled the toes of her slippers so that the bunny ears flipped back and forth. "I don't think the major Willow zone-out will be happening again. I got a little bitty bit carried away with the whole one-with-self-and-universe-ness, is all. All better now. And looky--" She waved a hand and Spike's car keys came zipping through the air from the living room to land in her palm with a jingle. "No stress, no strain!" "That's great!" Tara tried to quash her unease in the face of Willow's proud grin. It wasn't that she suspected Willow of taking dangerous shortcuts, but, well, Willow had been known to take dangerous shortcuts. "Just don't take it too fast--" "Will!" Buffy's face appeared in the doorway to the basement, atop a box full of assorted Christmas junk. She maneuvered the box out into the living room and dumped down in front of the television. "Wow! You're back with the magic-slingin'! Tres cool! Are you going to be up for the big loony hunt?" Tara started to object; no matter how beneficial Willow's new exercises might be, there was no way she'd be prepared to cast spells at that level so quickly. Before she could say anything, Dawn bounced up the stairs with another boxload of decorations, a disgruntled Spike following with an armload of metal struts and faux greenery which must have been the tree. "...goose," he was growling. "Turkey is a Yank abomination. And none of these poncy little lights, either. Candles. At least then you've got half a chance of the house burning down and injecting some fun into the holidays." "Yeah, yeah, vampire, evil, bah humbug," Dawn said. "For a rebel you're sure an old fogey. Now put it over on the couch." "Hey, guys, check it out," Willow said, following the parade into the living room. Tara, a feeling of inexplicable dread curling her toes, turned the heat down on her soup and tagged after. Willow took a stance in the center of the living room. She gestured dramatically, sweeping both arms in a wide circle; in the long-sleeved blue terrycloth robe there was an unfortunate echo of Sorcerer's Apprentice to the motion. "Arise, O Tannenbaum!" "Oi!" The scruffy green plastic boughs jerked to life and Spike dropped them as if they'd been dipped in holy water. He backed hastily away from the couch, wiping his hands on the seat of his jeans. "Give a bloke some warning, Red!" Willow just grinned at him, and gestured again. Like some stop-motion animation, the central support of the tree twitched into motion and planted itself in the base, telescoping up to full height. In a flurry of artificial needles the branches assembled and rooted themselves to the trunk, whish-click-whish. Everyone stood open-mouthed until the topmost branch clicked into place. The tree leaned drunkenly to one side; Willow bent her fingers and it shivered and straightened, then shook like a dog emerging from a pool. Before their eyes the shabby old branches grew green and fresh, and the scent of pine which Tara had been missing so a moment before wafted through the living room. A shimmer of golden light washed over the boxes of ornaments, and twenty years of scuffs and chips and dings disappeared; Norton the Christmas Moose glittered with his full complement of sequins, and every single ball reflected back the light in pristine glory. One of the strings of lights reared into the air, an electrical cobra, and began to interlace itself through the branches. "Wait, wait!" Dawn cried. "Don't!" "Halt!" The string of lights pattered lifeless to the floor and Willow looked a little disappointed. "What's the matter? I'm not tired. Not even a tiny bit. Rarin' to go." Dawn shuffled her feet and cast a beseeching look at Buffy. "It's just... I like decorating it. You know, by hand." "Wow," Buffy repeated, obviously impressed. "Wills, I can't--I mean, wow. Thank you. But I think we can take it from here." "That's half the fun," Tara said with a pointed look at Willow, who was starting to look pouty. "Besides, you should save your strength for the, uh, loony hunt." "Oh, all right." Willow flopped down on the couch and surveyed her work with a beaming smile. "But I'm pretty sure that's not going to be a problem any more." She aimed her finger at the tree and made a trigger-pulling motion. "The big gun is back."

When Hank Summers peered through the peephole in the apartment door, Buffy was standing in the hall, just about to ring the bell a second time and caught in the act of shooting Spike a big-eyed, pleading look of the sort common to people b/begging their significant others not to embarrass them. She spun at the sound of the opening door and fixed the close-relative version of the big-eyed look on Hank. Standing there trying to keep her garment bag from slipping down her arm to drag on the floor, she looked far more like a girl primed to run interference between the Unsuitable Young Man and her father than the ultra-confident Slayer of Large Spiny Things he'd been introduced to at their last meeting. A tentative smile ventured across her face. "Dad?" Buffy's back. An unlooked-for and almost painful happiness leapt up in him, and he reached forward to pull her her into a hug. Awkward; he didn't know quite what to do with his hands and hers were full of luggage, but definite father-daughter contact. "Come on in, honey. You look--you look like you've been sleeping better." He stepped back to let her maneuver through the doorway with her bags--not the little childhood suitcase set she used to bring for the summer; he recognized them as part of an old set he'd given Joyce the Christmas before the divorce, and it gave him a peculiar twinge to see that his daughter had adopted this small token of maturity. He was about to shut the door when Spike cleared his throat sharply. He was still standing on the threshold, carrying a much smaller bag and a styrofoam cooler. "I can doss down in the hall, mate," Spike said, "but I think the tenants' association would disapprove." For a second Hank had no idea what he was talking about. "You have to invite him in, Dad," Buffy said, matter-of-fact. "I can't do it, I don't live here." Ah, yes. The vampire thing. Hank allowed himself to savor the thought of Spike camping out in the hallway for the duration of Buffy's visit. Buffy did him something of an injustice when she claimed that Hank had yet to accept that there was a vampire thing; Hank was aware that strange things went on in Sunnydale and that Buffy was up to her ears in them. When in Sunnydale he was willing to go along. But Los Angeles was the real world, his world, and he resented the intrusion of Sunnydale's dangerous weirdness. Linda came bustling up full of happy-homemaker cheer, welcoming smile in place. "Hello, Buffy. I'm Linda--Linda Gutierrez." Buffy took Linda's hand with tepid politeness. "And you must be Spike. Please come in. I've heard so much about you." Spike's half-lidded eyes raked her up and down appraisingly, and he gave her a slow smile. "Mutual." He tossed his duster in the general direction of the coat rack, ambled into the living room and set the cooler down in the middle of the floor, standing hipshot beside it, thumbs hooked into the belt loops of his jeans. His sardonic blue gaze roved over the decor: tasteful cream-colored living room set, plexiglass-and-aluminum tables, bare pale walls adorned with scattered Miro prints in Art Deco frames, all resplendent in the discrete glow of track lighting--looking for something worth stealing, Hank had no doubt. "Nice place you've got here, Summers. Monotone. Suits you." Buffy stood in the sea of white plush carpet, clutching the strap of her overnight bag like a safety line, her wide sea-colored eyes alight with nervous curiosity. Too close to Spike for Hank's comfort. In the muted pastel room the two of them were a slash of dark, vibrant color, irresistible draws to the eye. "It is nice," she said, her voice faltering a little. She hadn't seen the place since he'd redecorated, Hank realized--had it been two years? No, almost three. Perhaps she'd been expecting the comfortable (but old) furniture and bachelor clutter of her first few summer visits. Hank closed the door. "I thought it was time for a change." Buffy nodded and set her bags down gingerly. "It's just so different." Spike slid an arm around her waist, his hand resting on the curve of her hip, an utterly natural and absent-minded gesture far more disturbing than any deliberate attempt to get Hank's goat could have been, and she leaned into his side. The air of general and second-in-command was still in evidence, but complicated by another, more visceral connection. The air between them crackled with it. Linda laced her fingers together, seeming as nervous as Buffy. "I was so sorry to hear about your mother," she said. "I thought about going to the funeral, since Hank wasn't able to make it, but then I thought... not such a good idea." If she wanted to bring up the subject of Buffy's purported death and mysterious re-appearance, she concealed it well--one of the things Hank admired about Linda. She knew when to avoid asking awkward questions. "I made up the couch as well as the guest bedroom. I wasn't sure if you'd, um, need both of them." Buffy arched a brow at the couch, fitted up with sheets and several folded blankets at one end. "I told Dad that Spike and I are seeing each other." "I decided to take that as 'we make eye contact occasionally.'" Hank sat down in the nearest armchair and picked up his half-finished glass of Scotch. He'd decided that he deserved a drink tonight. "Leave an old man his illusions." "You're not old, Dad." Buffy moved the pile of folded blankets aside and perched uneasily on the edge of the couch, as if afraid of her slight weight leaving an impression on the pristine cushions. "Besides, I--I sleep better when I'm not alone." "The guest bed is a double, so there's no problem if you'd both like to stay there," Linda assured her. Hank clenched his teeth and held his tongue; Linda was desperate to establish friendly relations with his children. The prospect of being a potential stepmother to someone only four or five years her junior was daunting, and arguing with her in front of Buffy wouldn't endear him to either of them. Buffy gave Linda a startled, grateful look and a tiny, microsecond smile, so perhaps it was worth it for long-term peace in the family. "Would either of you like anything?" Linda asked. She eyed the cooler ncertainly. "We ate on the way," Buffy said. "Special diet." Nonchalant, Spike bent over, pried the top off the cooler and pulled a gallon milk jug full of something red and viscous out of the slightly melted mass of ice cubes within. He straightened and smiled at Linda, charisma turned up to eleven. "Though I wouldn't say no to some of that Scotch. Fridge?" "Through here," she said. Spike followed her out to the kitchen, and Linda threw a surreptitious glance at him over her shoulder. Surely she wasn't falling for Spike's line of bull? Linda had more sense than to be swayed by a pretty face and a probably-phoney English accent. Buffy glanced at the archway leading to the kitchen. "So that's Linda. She seems... nothing like Mom. Exactly how old is she again?" Hank took a fortifying sip of Scotch. I never ask a woman what she weighs or how old she is. What does Spike do for a living again?" Buffy grimaced. "Point taken. I'll leave yours alone if you leave mine alone." They sat there for a minute, neither quite sure what to say next. Linda and Spike emerged from the kitchen, Spike having been supplied with a far-too-generous glass of Hank's Glenlivet, neat. "...high in protein, iron and B vitamins," Spike was saying, straight-faced. "Swear by it. I practically live on the stuff." Linda nodded, equally serious. "Oh, I totally understand. It's alfalfa-carrot protein shakes for me. The body is a temple. I can tell you really work on yours, but--" she shook an accusing finger at the half-empty pack of Marlboros poking out of his shirt pocket, "you do need to give up the cigarettes." Spike dropped onto the couch beside Buffy and slid down into a boneless sprawl, one arm draped over her shoulders. "You'll get my ciggies when you pry them from my cold, dead fingers. Every man needs at least one vice to his name." Buffy snorted, but snuggled up to him nonetheless. Hank tried not to feel ill. "Uh huh. Give up smoking and all you've got left is drinking, gambling--" "My point exactly. Hardly enough to keep me busy all day." Linda shared a conspiratorial look with Buffy and glanced fondly Hank. "I guess men are all the same. I'm always trying to get your father to eat healthier and exercise, but he won't listen." Spike slapped his stomach and regarded Hank, eyes a-glitter with cheerful malice. There was no way in hell he didn't deliberately pick his t-shirts a size too small; the damned thing looked as if it had been spray-painted on. "Two hundred sit-ups a day, mate. Or three hundred. Do you a world of good." Hank resisted the urge to suck in his gut. He was in pretty good shape for a guy on the wrong side of forty, and he wasn't going to be baited by someone on the wrong side of a hundred and forty. "It's hard to make time for that sort of thing when you're busy earning a living. I suppose if I had nothing to do besides watch 'Passions' all day..." Two days, he reminded himself. It was only for two days. Fortunately for his temper, Buffy begged off any lengthy conversation, saying they had to get up early for tomorrow's meeting--'early' for either of them apparently encompassing any time before eleven in the morning. Hank finished his Scotch while Linda showed his daughter and Spike down the short hall to the guest bedroom. Spike quietly snagged all of the luggage before Buffy could, which irritated Hank more than anything else he'd done all evening. "Your daughter's a very confident girl," Linda said as they undressed for bed shortly thereafter. She sat at her vanity mirror, brushing her short glossy black hair and gazing thoughtfully at her reflection. Hank smiled wryly. "As the biological parent, I get to use the term 'stubborn.'" Linda set her hairbrush down and began applying face cream, looking pensive. At last she completed her mysterious evening rituals, got up from the vanity and climbed into her side of the bed. "Her boyfriend's... unusual." "As the biological parent, I get to use the term 'weird.' Not to mention rude, lazy, violence-prone and penniless." Hank buttoned his pajama top and climbed in after her. He had good reason to distrust Spike. He had a gift for sizing people up. It had stood him in good stead in many a cutthroat board meeting and tricky client negotiation. It had even gotten him out of a few tight places outside the world of business, times when he'd been alone in a strange city with minimal command of the local language. From their first meeting that intuition had told him Spike was dangerous, not good enough for his girl--though at the time, he'd been mistaken about which girl of his Spike wasn't good enough for--and a poser. So far he'd seen no reason to change the assessment. Unfortunately that same intuition told him that the rude, lazy, violence-prone, penniless poser was also ferociously devoted to both his daughters, and better equipped to aid Buffy in dealing with Sunnydale's dangerous weirdness than he was--and that, if he were honest with himself, was the main thing fueling his dislike of the vampire. "Buffy asked you to invite him in. I didn't think about it earlier, but that's a little strange, isn't it?" Hank sighed. "Hon, Spike wrote the book on strange. He's got..." How was he going to put this? "...a lot of quirks. I haven't got the first idea why Buffy puts up with him, but she does, and I just don't want to alienate her any further by arguing about it--I know I haven't done as well by her and Dawn as I should have, and she's making it difficult enough for me to make up for it as it is. At least he's not living with her." Linda's brow furrowed, but she nodded and said no more. ***** There were times when Anya suspected that the love of her life was not entirely onboard with the whole wedding experience. Perhaps it was the fact that Xander could make any tuxedo collapse into wrinkles just by trying on the jacket. Perhaps it was the fact that he'd conveniently forgotten to mail the invitations for two weeks running, and after she'd bulldogged him into a trip to the post office, she'd found the ones addressed to his family stuffed behind the laundry hamper, where they'd accidentally (he assured her) fallen out of his pocket. Perhaps it was the way he cringed every time she mentioned the possibility of putting D'Hoffryn up for the night--an entirely reasonable suggestion, to her mind. It was not, after all, as if Sunnydale had any decent hotels which catered to demons. She made a mental note to check into the possibility of starting one--a nice bed and breakfast perhaps, with a view of the Hellmouth. She'd made a tidy sum selling short during the dot-com crash, and, as a patriotic resident, was looking for something close to home to invest it in. Property values in the neighborhood of the burnt hull of Sunnydale High were at rock bottom... "Anya, can you hand me the volume of Theminius there behind the counter?" Giles asked. He was pacing by on another of his circumnavigations of the store, book in hand and glasses sliding down his nose. As he passed the counter he set the tome he'd been paging through down and picked up the new one without missing a beat. "Thank you." The Watcher's lanky form circled round the store, through Charms and Amulets where Tara was sorting through a box of half-off gewgaws trying to find a suitable focus for her spell, past Incense and Ceremonial Candles, Herbs and Potions (Pre-Mixed) and come to a halt in front of a display of athames, frowning down at Theminius. "There is simply no connection," he muttered. "None whatsoever. We can't even be certain that the appearance of the loa is part of the overall pattern of manifestations--if there is a pattern--since it was, after all, summoned, however unconventionally. Blast it all." Anya considered her options. Giles sounded severely vexed. Now was probably the time for a remark indicating that she was actively engaged in the research process. Fortunately she was relieved of the necessity when the shop bell rang and Mrs. Dalgliesh's blue-rinsed head bobbed inside. She was a fairly regular customer, a birdlike little woman invariably dressed in flowered chintz. She tottered up to the counter and smiled at Anya. "I'm here to pick up that pixie repellant, dear." Anya reached down and retrieved the dark brown bottle with squirt attachment labeled "Dalgleish, twice daily, shake well before spraying" from beneath the counter and set it down with a beaming return smile. The oily liquid within sloshed against the sides. "Here you are, Mrs. Dalgliesh. Remember to store it in a dark place. You have the payment ready in full, of course?" "Why, of course. Don't I always?" Mrs. Dalgliesh opened her ancient carpetbag purse, extracted an equally ancient wallet, and began carefully counting out bills one by one, followed by exact change in pennies. Anya approved of Mrs. Dalgliesh's protective attitude towards her cash. Be good to your money and your money would be good to you was her motto. Or one of her mottoes, anyway; Anya had never been able to see how some people got by with just one. "My Social Security check came in today, and none too soon. The nasty little things are all over the gardenias." She picked up the bottle and held it up to the light, clucking her tongue. "I hope this is enough for the big one." Giles looked up, peering at the two of them over the rims of his glasses. "Big one?" Mrs. Dalgliesh nodded as Anya wrapped up the pixie repellant and slid it into a brown paper bag. "I saw him last night. Much bigger than the others, though I suppose the antlers made him look taller. He blew some kind of horn at me. It gave me quite a start. And the dogs made such a mess of the flowerbeds, too." "Dogs?" "A dozen, at least. White with red ears, I don't know the breed. Looking for bones, I suspect; I doubt he keeps them fed. Well, I must be off. Thank you, Anya." She tucked her package into the capacious purse and tottered out the door to the renewed jingle of the bell. Giles watched her departing back, stroking his chin with one hand. "Some sort of avatar of Herne the Hunter, perhaps?" He heaved a discouraged sigh and returned Theminius to his place on the shelves. "Just what's wanted, more random demonic activity..." "But it's not," Anya said. Giles adjusted his glasses. "Perhaps not random, but if there is a pattern--" "No, no," Anya interrupted. "It's not demonic. Not a single demon involved." For a moment Giles stood there, thunderstruck. "You're quite correct," he said slowly. "All the manifestations have been minor divinities of one sort or another--Spike and Xander said that the dragon they saw had five claws, correct?" Anya nodded. "An Imperial dragon, associated with the god-emperors of ancient China. Haitian loas, Chumash sacred bears, the leader of the Wild Hunt--specifically, human deities, from many times and cultures--" He was pacing again, excited. "But still, what does it mean? If these beings are gathering here there must be a reason for it. I've checked and double-checked all the usual texts, and while there's an extremely dicey mystical convergence coming up later this winter all signs point to its occurring further south. Whatever's causing this, it was nothing foretold in any prophecy the Council has access to, and I find that extremely disturbing." Anya sniffed. "I don't. Exactly what good has a prophecy ever done us? It's always 'The green cloud obscures the desert' and you never know if it refers to a plague of grasshoppers or if someone's started irrigating. Or how about the classic, 'A mighty army will be destroyed?' We know something's happening, and we know it's big enough to make gods sit up and take notice. I'd rather not know how it's going to turn out, thank you; that way I can assume that we figure out what's happening and beat it." Giles's lips quirked slightly. "That's a novel way of looking at it. But we're so short of real information I'd settle for an encouraging fortune cookie." Anya checked off Mrs. Dalgliesh's purchase on her list of special orders to be picked up. "Why don't we just ask them why they're here?" "Because--" Giles stopped. "You know, that just might work." ***** Buffy woke confused, sure she was in the wrong place. The mattress was not shaped to her body, the sheets smelled of some heathen brand of fabric softener, and the light was coming from the wrong direction, seeping through curtains of the wrong shade. She lay still, animal wariness taking over while she absorbed the unfamiliar sensations of someone else's bed. Finally she relaxed. She was in the wrong place, but she was supposed to be. The comfortable weight of the arm around her middle was right, and the cool firm body curving around her own. At times like this it seemed to her that the silence that was Spike's lack of heartbeat was of a different quality from all other silences, a unique quiet that she could distinguish in an instant from any common cessation of noise. She felt his breath against her ear and the brush of his lips against her throat as he sensed her wakening. Her own breath escaped in a soft yearning moan. "Mornin', love." His voice was just as low, rough with restrained passion. He touched her lips with a finger, forestalling her reply. "No--no noise. Not a peep. They'll hear, and we can't give your old Dad an aneurysm." She bit her lip and nodded, mystified but willing to go along. Spike glanced at the window, gauging the angle of the sun and the likelihood that its beams would strike the bed any time soon. Satisfied, he bent his tousled platinum head to her neck again, nuzzling her ear, nibbling slowly down the length of her neck from ear to collarbone and back again. His hand drifted to her shoulder, fingers stroking feather-light along her upper arm, but he touched her nowhere else. When she started to reach blindly out for more contact his fingers tightened on her biceps, holding her still while he continued to seek out the tenderest flesh, the most sensitive skin to torment. A languid heat began to build within her, lapping outwards from her center like a wave of warm honey, making her skin tingle all over and rendering Spike's ministrations all the more exquisite. It was not long before she was writhing against the sheets, digging her heels into the mattress and biting her lips to keep from crying aloud, a willing accomplice in her own sweet torture. Spike's breathing grew quick and harsh, deepening to a purring rasp of a growl, quickly silenced as his teeth grazed her collarbone. His lips played upwards along the long swan-curve of her throat to the angle of her jaw, agile tongue flicking against the old bite scars as if by accident. Now and again his fangs emerged for a quick playful nip, the delicate pinpricks sending sharper bolts of pleasure through the voluptuous haze enveloping her senses. She was dimly aware of his growing arousal, hard and eager against her, but the cords of her limbs were undone, all her strings cut, and all she could manage to assuage it was to grind her hips back against his. Desperate little grunts forced their way out of her, and when a hand thrust a pillow in front of her face she grabbed it and bit down on the corner as flares of light blossomed behind her eyelids, and her body dissolved a long-drawn-out upwelling of bliss. She heard the sigh as Spike exhaled, ridding his lungs of every scrap of air. He shifted position, rolling her onto her back and covering her body with his, and then he was sinking into her with a force that made the bed shudder. They both froze for a guilty second--this was a piece of furniture they had to be careful of. Buffy reached up and put a finger to his lips, just as he'd done to her earlier--Be still. He was still in game face, butting his head against hers like a cat demanding caresses; his eyes slitted in bliss as her hands moved up to stroke his brow ridges, then shot open as she put another set of Slayer muscles to good use stroking something else. As she drew him deep and closed around him exaltation washed over his face, and human features replaced demonic ones, blue chasing the gold from his eyes. It was the sexiest thing she'd ever seen, and she felt her own body gather for a second assault on the heights. With a breathless, noiseless roar, he exploded within her, and Buffy mashed her face into his shoulder to muffle her answering shout as they clawed for the summit together. Spike twined his fingers in her hair, pulled back and gazed into her eyes, caressing her cheeks with his thumbs. Buffy made a happy little 'mm' noise and gazed back. Bed intact. Wonderful news for furniture budget. Spike not nearly as heavy as previous boyfriends. Also very good. Could get used to waking up like this. Lost personal pronouns again. Who needs them? "What's the occasion?" "Happy anniversary, love. One week today." "Love you," she whispered, because there were no other words. He broke out in that sweet, glorious smile, the one she'd never seen him give anyone else--as if she were the only one worthy of it, despite being the remarkably self-centered and occasionally dense Buffy Anne Summers who was desperately trying to armor herself for the upcoming meeting with her former vampire lover by having as much fantastic sex with her current vampire lover as possible. Were there expressions of hers he treasured as much? She hoped so; it would be beyond unfair otherwise. He caught his lower lip in his teeth, full of small-boy anticipation. "Got you something." Buffy sat up, clutching the sheet to her breasts. "Spike, you didn't need to--it isn't, um--" Slayers intent on instilling virtue in morally deficient vampires should not be bouncing up and down in anticipation of probably stolen prezzies from said vampires. "You got something? For me?" Spike rolled over and reached over the side of the bed, rummaging around underneath for a moment. He sat back up with a small flat package wrapped up in butcher's paper and tied with string--not exactly festive, but Buffy felt her hand shaking as she undid the neat double bow. She peeled back the layers of paper while Spike sat cross-legged on the bed and watched her. It was a book--a slim volume bound in brown leather. For a second she had a weird flash of deja vu, and half expected it to be Browning's Sonnets From The Portugese. But it wasn't; it was the book Spike had been reading that night on the sofa in the crypt, the one she hadn't been able to make out the title of. Now, tracing the faded gilt letters on the spine, she could just decipher The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. It was old, old enough to be printed on rag paper that had been made to last. There were two inscriptions on the flyleaf. The first was in unfamiliar spidery script, the ink faded and brown with age, and read To William, from Mother, with love: May you know the joy you deserve. May 21st, 1877. The second one was in Spike's handwriting, his old-fashioned copperplate script at odds with the ordinary ballpoint it was written in--To Buffy: Seize the day. Love, William. Dec. 7th, 2001. It looked as if he'd been undecided as to which way to sign it; 'Spike' and 'William' had both been written in and crossed out at least once. A queer lump rose up in her throat and for a second she couldn't breathe at all. "Was gonna let you borrow it anyway, like I said, but then I thought you might like one of your own," Spike said, studiously examining his toes. "Sorry it's not a new copy, but I thought you'd rather have one that wasn't nicked." Oh, God, she was crying. Or laughing. Not sure which. Tears were pouring down her cheeks as if her personal sprinkler system had broken. "It's--it's--" She laid the book reverently down on the pillow and flung her arms around him. "Thank you. It's perfect." Spike, a little startled at the intensity of her reaction, pulled her close and stroked her hair. "Shh, Buffy, love, it's all right." His thumb smudged the tear-tracks across her cheek. "Your Dad'll be convinced I'm beating you now." She sniffled. "Right. I can whip your pansy English ass." He gave her his wickedest smile. "Promise?" "Pig." She snuggled into his shoulder and looked up at him, an innocent little smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "If you ask very nicely, I'll think about it." He laughed, and Buffy glanced towards the window, doing her own check on the progress of the sun. It must be close to eight o'clock, an ungodly hour to be awake in her line of work, but she felt surprisingly good. In the corner of her eye she saw herself in the mirror over the dresser, leaning cozily into thin air, long blonde hair apparently moving of its own volition as Spike's hand played with the sleep-tangled locks. With puffy eyes and a snuffly nose, which were absolutely not what she wanted to be displaying when Angel showed up. Which was bound to be soon--it was at least an hour's drive from Los Angeles to Corona, where the California Institute for Women was located, and there was no telling how long the wait to get in to see Faith would be once they got there. How exactly they were going to manage the matter of getting Angel from the car to the prison without combusting she wasn't sure; she couldn't imagine Angel galloping around under a ratty blanket, but he must have managed it somehow on previous visits. The California Department of Corrections wasn't about to change its visiting hours to accommodate vampires. Maybe they'd have covered parking. Spike was still lazing around on the bed with the book he'd brought with him when she got out of the shower; he'd gotten as far as pulling on his jeans but had only buttoned them up halfway. Of course, he could afford to put off getting dressed; Spike's idea of packing light (razor, toothbrush, Penguin edition of Typee , change of socks) limited his sartorial options. Manfully abjuring temptation, Buffy marched over to the closet and stood with hands on hips, surveying the clothes she'd brought along with the air of a general looking for volunteers for a suicide mission. There was the claret-red skirt and top ensemble which had been part of the Dawn-induced Dad-guilt haul last month. Worn last night to make Dad feel better, check. The little black dress--just in case they happened to end up at a gala L.A. cocktail party, she supposed; she really wasn't sure why she'd felt the need to bring it along. Several pairs of sensible slacks and blouses from the Office Drag Collection, for the prison visit and the ride home. She pulled the cowl-necked camel pullover out (the coffee stain had come out nicely) and held the hanger up to her chest. "Does this say 'I've moved on and am mature enough to see you as a beloved friend but if seeing me makes you rue the day you walked out on me, so much the better?' Or should I go with the blue?" Spike leaned back against the headboard and laced his hands behind his head. "That might be a bit much for any one article of clothing to convey, pet, but I'd go for the one that doesn't conceal the massive hickey." Buffy's eyes went wide and she dropped the pullover on a chair and darted over to the mirror, hand to her neck. Sure enough, there was a straggling line of livid rosettes winding all down the left side of her throat. They were already beginning to fade, thanks to Slayer healing, but it was going to be very visible for at least the rest of the morning. She groaned. "Why does everything that feels that good leave marks?" she grumbled. Something brushed sensually along her shoulder, sending a wave of gooseflesh up and down her arms--Spike had slipped up behind her, invisible in the mirror, and was going in for the kill on the other side. "Suits you, pet. Sends the message that someone doesn't need to puncture your jugular to get you off." Buffy smacked him away. "Down! I have to look virginal for Dad and irresistible but unavailable for Angel and unlike a potential hacksaw-smuggler for the warden. Instead I look like Miss December in the Skank of the Month calen--oooh... STOP THAT!" Spike beat a strategic retreat down the hall towards the bathroom, grinning like a loon, and Buffy turned back to the mirror with a silly little smile of her own and opened her makeup case. Foundation was her friend. Not like she didn't have plenty of experience concealing suspicious bruises, scrapes, and compound fractures; Slayer healing was good, but not instantaneous. She took the blue blouse out and held both of them up critically, then hung the blue one back in the closet. The camel one would cover up the marks without recourse to cosmetics. She pulled it on and tugged the collar up around her neck. On the other hand, maybe she wanted someone to see them. Collar down. Or not. Collar up. Angel-feelings currently way more confusing than Spike-feelings. A first in the Summers' cavalcade of romantic neuroses! She stepped into the rust slacks and pulled her hair back. French braid? Chignon? Last night hadn't gone too badly. Sure, Spike and her father had sniped at each other for awhile, but no one had taken any mortal conversational wounds. Linda wasn't the rapacious bimbo she'd been expecting. Buffy wasn't certain how she felt about that yet, but as Linda had circumvented the not-in-my-house-you-don't argument about her sharing a bed with Spike, Buffy was tentatively inclined to move her from the 'Homewrecking Fiend From Hell' category to the 'Probably Human' category. Maybe she could even handle the one-two punch of seeing Angel and Faith in one day... There was a hesitant knock on the door. French braid, definitely. "Yes?" "It's me." It was Linda, sounding worried. "Are you all right?" "As the proverbial rain," Buffy replied. "I might go so far as to say perky, which is downright unnatural at this time of day. Is something wrong?" "Can I talk to you for a moment?" "Just a minute--let me get decent." After a nervous glance at the bed and a few quick corrective measures--fluff one slightly toothmarked pillow, yank the blanket over the wet spot, arrange collar of pullover to cover massive hickey--Buffy opened the door. "What's up? Dad have a change in plans for tonight?" She tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice; they'd planned to go out to L'Orangerie after they got back from Corona, but it wouldn't be the first time her father had decided working late was more important than spending time with her. "No, nothing like that." Linda was fingering her necklace, turning the little gold cross over and over till the chain tangled. She was already dressed for work, purse clutched in one hand and professional veneer lacquered securely into place. "Nothing to do with your father." The sound of running water kicked in down the hall. Buffy hoped her father had gotten his shower in earlier, as she'd recently discovered that Spike would happily loiter in a hot shower until he grew gills. Linda relaxed slightly, but her voice remained low. "Spike left the bathroom door open while he was brushing his teeth, and I happened to look in going past, and I--I saw something that worried me." That was unexpected. Unexpected was usually bad. Buffy's smile became a trifle fixed. "Saw something?" All Spike parts property Buffy Anne Summers, individually and in toto. Flutter one wheat-grass-nourished eyelash in his direction and I'll remove your appendix through your nose, you homewrecking fiend from hell. Linda, luckily, didn't appear to be telepathic. "It was more like I didn't see something. Something that should have been there." She bent closer and whispered, "How long have you known Spike?" "About four years. Why?" "Has he seemed... different to you lately? Had any personality changes?" Buffy looked at her, brows knit. She didn't like the way this was going; she could practically hear the ominous music rising in the background. "He's gone through a lot of... I guess you'd call it self-evaluation in the last couple of years, but he's always been this annoying, if that's what you're wondering." Linda took a deep breath, her dark liquid eyes darting back towards the hall once more. "This is going to sound really stupid, but... have you seen him go outside in the daytime lately?" Uh oh. "Sure. Yesterday." Hiding under a blanket to get to the car counts. "Though he's, um, kind of a night person. Which is OK, because I'm a night owl myself, always burning that midnight oil--" The other woman looked exceedingly unhappy. "You're going to think I'm insane," she whispered, "but there's a chance we could all be in terrible danger." She wrung her hands. "I think your Spike might be... part of a gang." "Uh?" Buffy sat down on the edge of the bed. Was there any point at all in having a secret identity these days? "A gang. Of the PCP-taking, disappearing into thin air when the police arrive variety?" "Would you take this?" Linda reached into her pocket and pulled out another small cross on a chain. "I know your father isn't religious and I don't know if you are, but it would make me feel better if I knew you had... protection." Buffy took the cross and closed her hand around it. This was going to be awkward. "Wow. I had no idea you were familiar with the, uh, initiation signs." Not that Spike bothered to hide it much; Angel had always gone to great pains to appear human in the company of humans, but Spike, as far as she could tell, just didn't care all that much if he were outed. Which was pretty stupid in light of the fact that he was currently helpless against any human vampire hunters who took exception to his existence. They were going to have to have a little discussion about that. Linda's café au lait complexion paled. "Then you know--but you don't realize what he could do! He looks like the man you used to know, but he's not. You've got to get away. All of us do. He's a different person now, and he could--" "Spike can't hurt you," Buffy interrupted hurriedly. "He can't hurt anyone. Not won't, can't. If he tries he gets an electric shock strong enough to knock him flat. And anyway, he's reformed. I swear, none of you are in any danger from him." Down the hall the sound of the shower running cut off abruptly, but neither of them noticed. There was pity alongside the fear in Linda's eyes. "You love him," she said, her words coming quick and urgent. "You think you've found some way of keeping him under control. You're fooling yourself, chica. He'll last forever. It won't. You won't. How many people did he kill before you found your fix? How many do you think he'll kill after it breaks?" Out in the living room, someone knocked on the door, and Buffy heard the faint scrape of chair legs and footsteps crossing from the kitchen as her father left his morning coffee to answer it. Down the hall, behind Linda, Spike emerged from the bathroom with a damp towel slung over his bare shoulders, giving his hair a few last touches with one hand. He paused to listen for a second, his dark brows angled together. Then he ghosted down the hall towards them and popped up behind Linda, crooking his fingers into claws and making exaggerated biting motions. Buffy aimed a steely glare at him over Linda's shoulder. Something was putting her nerves on edge, but with Linda talking and Spike acting more than usually like an idiot... "Look, my grandmother is a bruja down in East L.A., and she knows all about...gangs. She knows a guy who does... deprogramming." Linda produced a small, dog-eared rectangle of cardstock from her purse and held it out to Buffy. "You should look him up, fast. It's not your Spike in there anymore." "Now there's where you're wrong, pet," Spike said conversationally. "It's always been her Spike in here." He reached over her shoulder with striking-snake speed and nabbed the business card from Linda's hand. Linda shrieked and jumped about a foot and a half in the air. Spike's lazy grin was pure predator, reminiscent of a well-fed cat unable to resist a chance to step on a mouse's tail. He held the card out and squinted at it, lounging in the doorway in such a manner as to block Linda's escape. "What the bloody hell is that, a lobster? Bet he drew the sodding logo himself rather than shell out for a graphics designer." "Knock off the attitude, Spike," Buffy said, in the tone of offhand authority which brought him to heel far more effectively than irritation would have. "You're scaring her." He looked down at Linda with an absurdly pleased expression. "Am I really?" "You heard her," a familiar voice said. "Knock it off. Or I will." Angel loomed in the doorway behind Spike, filling most of it, flexing the fingers of his right hand as if he'd like nothing better than to make a fist of it. Spike's every muscle went piano-wire tense. Topaz sparking and dying in his eyes, he turned, very deliberately, to face the maker of his maker. Buffy took the business card from his inattentive fingers. "As a matter of fact," she said with a weak smile as she handed the card for Angel Investigations back to Linda, "We've already got an appointment." Spike and Angel faced one another, winter-blue eyes locked upon chocolate brown, and the silence in the room was so deep and pure that Buffy was surprised that the sound of her heart pounding against her ribs didn't shatter it like glass, into shards sharp enough to cut with. Her Slayer senses were keening dissonant warning; she was strongly attuned to Spike's presence these days, even moreso now than she had been a week ago, but Angel's tug on her persisted still, tiny hooks set into all her bones. The conflict was like tinfoil on a filling, and without thought she rose from the bed and laid a hand on Spike's shoulder. The physical contact soothed the jangle along her nerves almost at once, and the boiling fury in Spike's eyes cooled to a simmer. He relaxed imperceptibly. "Hullo, Peaches." "Spike." Angel's voice was neutral. "Buffy. Your father let me in. Are we ready to--" He stopped, nostrils flaring, and unbelief washed over his face, transforming slowly into something approaching horror as the pieces came together. His eyes flicked around the room, taking in the two sets of clothing, the rumpled sheets on both sides of the bed, Buffy's hand resting on Spike's shoulder--and what must have been, to his enhanced senses, the unmistakable and overwhelming musk of their recent lovemaking. There was a blur of motion too fast for human eyes to follow and Spike was torn from her side, slammed into the doorjamb with wall-rattling force, and pinned there with Angel's hands about his throat. A raw snarl barely recognizable as words tore out of the older vampire: "What have you done to her?" "Put him down!" Buffy shouted. Angel ignored her. Spike's eyes blazed with triumph, and his smile was as vicious a thing as Buffy'd ever seen on a human face. "Nothing she didn't beg me to, mate," he gasped--Angel's cutting off his air couldn't hurt him, but it made it difficult for him to talk. "Not that she had to beg long. My pleasure. Each and every night, all night long--agh!" His face convulsed in agony and Buffy realized with a cold shock of terror that in another second Angel was simply going to rip Spike's head off his shoulders. She lunged towards them, but Spike had already brought one knee up like a pile-driver into Angel's groin. Angel howled and staggered backwards, his grip breaking, and Spike twisted free and dove after him with fangs bared, screaming, "How does it feel, Angelus? How does it bloody feel when it happens to you?" The two of them disintegrated into a snarling, roaring tangle of fists and fangs in the middle of the carpet. Linda screamed and ran for the living room. Change of plans. Buffy diverted her lunge towards the window, and in one swift motion her hand was on the curtain-pull. "If you two don't stop it RIGHT NOW you'll be vampire flambe in two seconds and I'll shovel your ashes into the same urn for eternity!" Even that threat didn't penetrate. Buffy yanked the cord down and the curtains flew open. Sunlight flooded into the room, striking the combatants in mid-grapple. Both Spike and Angel froze, blinking into the sunlight with identical expressions of shock before pain galvanized them into motion. "Fuck!" Spike screamed, and leaped for the closet as wisps of smoke started to rise from his exposed flesh. Angel, with less flesh exposed and less familiarity with the layout of the room, scrambled to his feet and dove behind the bed after a second's panicked reconnaissance. Buffy stood there for a moment, backlit dramatically by the morning sun, her lips pressed into a hard angry line. "Can you both move beyond being the poster boys for Neanderthal Nation for five minutes, or is that too much to ask?" she hissed. Angel poked a wary head up over the side of the bed. "Buffy," he said in the tone that meant he was trying very, very hard to sound reasonable, "I think you have some explaining to do." Spike inched out from behind the closet door, all glowery, sexy pout, and jerked his chin in Angel's direction. "He started it." He looked uneasily at the window and made a little curtain-closing wave with one hand. "Uh...pet, could you...?" How was it possible that one man could make her so sublimely happy and so completely furious in the space of an hour? She stalked over to the closet and gave him a look which would have stopped a glacier in its tracks, her chest heaving. "Is that what this is? Get back at Angel week?" His eyes fell away and his head dropped. "Don't you think we bloody well deserve it? Both of us?" She looked across the room at Angel's dark handsome face, agonized. "It wasn't his fault. Any of it." She believed that. She had to. Angel, whose eyes never quite lost the haunted knowledge of what he had done, was not Angelus, any more than Spike was William... "Then whose fault was it? Tell me who stole Dru's mind from her, and her heart from me? Who took your heart and froze it so cold even my hands can warm it?" The ridged brow and broadened nose of his demon-face melted back into the aquiline purity of his human one, and staring into those lucent blue eyes, Buffy realized that she no longer had any idea which of his faces was the mask. "Tell me who I can hate, Buffy! There's got to be someone." And she couldn't do the right thing, tell him he didn't have to hate anyone, because she knew too well that there were times when you did. "It's--it's over, all that. Past. This is now." She reached up and took his face in her hands, reading the planes of his cheek and jaw like a Braille of the heart. "We're now." Right there in her father's guest room closet Spike fell to his knees, supplicant at her feet for a heartbreaking moment before wrapping his arms around her hips and burying his face in her crotch. "Buffy," he moaned. Whoa. Stella Kowalski moment. For the second time that morning she found herself unable to breathe, unable to move, but for all the physical intimacy of their pose it was not lust that raced through her now--OK, not much lust--and for the first time she realized, like a mule-kick to the gut, that he feared losing her as deeply and terribly as she feared losing him. Doesn't he know? Haven't I told him? Her hands moved blindly over his head, fingers twining through his still-damp curls. "Get up," she whispered. "Get up." Spike obeyed, rising to his feet in one lithe surge, his hands and his eyes never letting go of her. They were the only people in the room, the building, the universe. "Buffy." Angel's dark warm voice, which had once been the one to which she compared all others, full of concern now. "Buffy, you've got to tell me what's going on here." The tug was still there. Once those hooks were set into bone they could never truly be removed. But it had never once occurred to her to go to him first. "Buffy!" Linda's fearful voice cried. "Are you all right?" Buffy took a shaky breath. "I'm fine. Could you close the curtains, please? We're coming out." As the room darkened once more, she took Spike's hand, and led him out of the closet.

He wasn't going to fuck this up. Spike slouched in the comfortable embrace of his beat-up armchair, turning his shot glass round and round in his fingers. Willow'd been gone for an hour, and the litany in his head hadn't let up for a second. The whiskey warming his belly was starting to get lonely and hint that it could use some company. He cast a longing glance at the bottle of JD on top of the refrigerator. His fingers clenched on the armrest, gripping the layer of ancient fabric and cotton batting so tightly that the wood frame beneath creaked under the pressure. He didn't want another drink; that would imply needing another drink which would imply nervousness which would imply he had something to be nervous about. Which he didn't. He wasn't going to fuck this up. He sank further into the chair and glowered into the depths of his empty glass. Not like it was the end of the world, or the beginning of it. Bit unexpected, was all. What the hell had Wills been thinking, yanking the chip out of his head without a by-your-leave? Bloke had to work up to something like that. Not that she hadn't done him a favor, not that he wasn't grateful--balls, he was bloody well overjoyed--but he'd have liked a little warning, and a chance to talk it over with Buffy first. He set the glass down on the crypt floor. What had Wiccagirl meant, telling him not to mention it? This was no time for modesty. No, he'd tell Buffy right off and they'd chat it out. Everything nice and civilized--they could do that, couldn't they? A snarl twisted his lips at the memory of their earlier argument. Self-righteous bitch'd probably decide he'd had it pulled on purpose and-- With a rumble of disgust Spike heaved himself to his feet and padded downstairs to change into jeans and...anything not a black T-shirt. But he'd been hitting his meager supply of non-funereal colors hard lately, and all he could find clean after ransacking both dresser and wardrobe (five black T-shirts, two plain black button-downs, three patterned black button-downs, one black turtleneck) was the godawful black-grey-white variegated knit pullover Dawn had given him just before her Dad had shown up to take custody. Probably nicked, which thought, no matter how dutifully he tried, still made him feel more pleased and proud of her than disapproving; would have been a crime to pay for a thing like that. Wasn't the reaction you wanted from an honorary white hat, was it? He'd have to do better than that. Make himself do better. The pullover made him look like an undead zebra, but it would have to do. Spike yanked it on over his head, laced up his boots, and started for the tunnels. Two steps into the echoing passageway he pulled up short and turned back to his bedroom, and hauled from beneath the bed the army surplus duffle wherein was stuffed a haphazard selection of his dirty laundry. He'd been meaning to hit the Wash N' Go one of these nights, but Buffy had a washing machine, and it was easier to have an existential crisis with more variety in his wardrobe. It should have happened at night, he thought as he made his way through the tunnels. He'd have known what to do at night. He'd have been one with the darkness, sure, strong, utterly confident in his decision to...what? Once upon a time, and not all that long ago either, he'd had it all planned out, what he'd do when the chip came out. Whole thing choreographed down to the last scream and witty remark: the stalk, the fight, the victory, the last shared look encompassing his triumph and the Slayer's utter defeat before his fangs tore the life from her throat. He'd put a lot of thought into the epigram he'd paint on the wall of the Magic Box with her blood once he'd drunk his fill--something from Donne, perhaps. Then he'd kill the whelp and the Watcher and turn the witch, who'd make a smashing vampire, and take her to Brazil, there to hunt up Drusilla and flaunt his new conquest in her face until she realized what a stupid cow she'd been to cut him off. His dark princess would beg him to take her back, and he'd punish her for a suitable length of time before doing so--Dru'd love that part--and then they'd be off, the three of them, traveling the world and leaving a three-deep trail of corpses behind them. 'Course after hanging about Sunnydale long enough, he'd had to change the plan around a few times. Shag Buffy within an inch of her life, so she'd realize what she'd been missing, and then kill her. Right. Much better that way. And maybe he wouldn't turn Red after all--she'd been right considerate, unlike the rest of the Scooby tossers. Maybe he'd leave her warm and breathing instead, get Dru to do that thrall thing. And Buffy--he'd leave her alive to appreciate just exactly how badly he'd beaten her. Besides, Joyce would get all teary-eyed if he killed her daughter, and he couldn't do that to the woman who made the best cocoa in Southern California. Though he'd definitely kill Harris. And then go on a spree the likes of which Sunnydale had never seen, flood the mortuary for a week. Yeah, that was the stuff. Or--yeah, this was it--he wouldn't do anything at all, just keep up the helpful act, and when the truth finally came out he'd turn to Buffy with a smug look: Yeh, love, it's been out for months. Told you I could be good and she'd fall into his arms and he'd give Harris the punch in the nose he so richly deserved... ...and now? The nose-punching still sounded good. Chip coming out didn't change a thing--just like he'd told Buffy, just like he'd told Angel, just like he'd told himself, he could do the right thing, chip or no chip. He could. Long as he could hold still long enough to suss out what the right thing was. What the hell was wrong with Willow? She'd been off, definitely off. Up to something. Something fucking brill for him, but something. Spike curled his fingers into a fist and watched the play of muscle and tendon under the pale skin as he strode down the long echoing tunnel, a feral grin spreading across his face. No more backing down from the likes of Shaun and David if a bet went bad, no more skulking, no more hiding. No more veneer of bravado plastered over rage and terror when some redneck bastard decided the little English guy was easy pickings. Not that he'd pick fights. Absolutely not. No swaggering into the Fish Tank and pounding the biggest, most thick-headed lunk in the joint into hamburger just because he could because... because why? Oh, yeah, it was wrong. Or so he was told. Though it would be fun. 'Cept it wouldn't really be in the nature of a fight, would it? More of a test. See if Wills had really done what she'd said she had, because after all this might be some sort of Wiccan practical joke, mightn't it? And absolutely no luring said thick-headed lunk into the alley and... A noise down the tunnel caught his ear. A splash, a chittering--Spike set the duffle gently down on the damp concrete of the walkway which ran above the sluggish stream of effluvium in the channel below. His nostrils twitched, his keen sense of smell sifting out the strong rank scent of Rattus Norvegicus from beneath the even less savory odors of the sewer. He let his breath out in a long hiss and slipped into game face, dropping into a crouch. He ghosted down the tunnel, boots feather-light on the pavement--how many times had Angelus thumped him for making noise, those first few years? If he had a quid for each beating he'd own Microsoft by now. But it had paid off--he might be a bit rusty after buying his dinner at the butcher's for the last two years, but a century and more of hard-won stalking expertise wasn't forgotten that easily. Ah, there it was. Spike's whole world narrowed to the sleek brown shape nosing along the base of the wall. The rat hadn't heard him yet; it bumbled along, sniffing for tidbits, licking the condensation which trickled down the tiles and provided a slightly less tainted source of drinking water for the creatures of Sunnydale Underground. He could hear its heartbeat over the low gurgle of the sewer if he concentrated, a swift fierce patter of life. It sat up on its hindquarters and bared strong yellow teeth in defiance at the world, and Spike grinned right back at it--You and me, mate, survivors. I just plan on surviving a little longer than you will. Spike swerved to avoid the pencil-thin shafts of sunlight filtering down through the holes in a manhole cover overhead, running the tip of his tongue over his fangs and reining in the hysterical giggle that threatened to burst from him at any moment. Christ, if anyone saw him now! William the Bloody, Scourge of Europe, giddy with joy at the prospect of killing a rat! He pounced with infernal speed, skidding across the concrete with arms outstretched and fangs bared. The rat had time to react, just barely, before his fingers closed on it. It squealed and twisted in his grip, incisors sinking into the flesh of his hand, and Spike struck back just as swiftly and viciously, fangs piercing thin, foul-tasting hide and penetrating deep into the warm flesh beneath-- No pain. Oh merciful heavens, no pain, no blue-white forked-lightning shocks shattering his skull, no nothing but sweet hot living blood on his tongue. Not the teasing, chip-aborted taste he'd gotten at Halloween, not the reheated, days-stale leavings of someone else's slaughter--this was life itself coursing down his throat for the first time since Dru'd killed that college boy for him, and a million times better because he'd made this kill himself. Even if it was just a sodding rat, and objectively speaking tasted like shit. Spike snarled as the creature twitched and stilled in his grasp and the flow of liquid bliss slowed to a trickle and ceased; there wasn't much more than a swallow or two in a rat. Licking every trace of crimson from his lips, he tossed the cooling corpse into the sewer and looked hungrily around for more. Stand very still, and listen... yeah. There. Fifteen rats and one stray Pomeranian (well, stray in the sense that he'd reached out of a sewer grate and snatched it) later, Spike ambled up to the bottom of the ladder leading to the manhole on Revello Drive, painfully full and blissfully happy. With any luck, in about ten minutes Buffy would be rubbing his tummy while he drowsed off his over-indulgence with his head in her lap--surely she was ready to make up by now. He patted the slight bulge in his normally board-flat stomach with a satisfied belch. Considering he was going to have to make a dash for Buffy's front door to achieve this nirvana, perhaps he'd gone a bit overboard, but killing the things was such a damned kick it was difficult to stop. Spike hitched his laundry over one shoulder and set out up the ladder. He was absolutely, positively not going to fuck this up. ***** Buffy and Dawn might regard Doris Kroger as a bureaucratic fiend in human form, dispatched to torment them with forms in triplicate, but Willow had never minded Dawn's social worker. They'd met several times over the summer, while Dawn had been staying with Willow's parents and Giles had been trying to track down Hank Summers in Milan or Zambezi or wherever he'd been. Mrs. Kroger was a plump fortyish woman with a pouf of henna'd hair and a fondness for polyester pantsuits, whose perpetual air of vague apology masked a pair of very sharp eyes. She reminded Willow a little of her own mother, except less strident and actually interested in what you were saying. Of course, Willow had always gotten along better with adults than with people her own age, and now at last her own age was getting to the point where getting along with adults was reason to rejoice rather than an occasion for another visit to the guidance counselor. But most of all Willow liked--nay, worshiped with an abiding passion--Doris Kroger because she was arriving in something less than forty minutes, and all attention would focus on her. There was a burning spot right between her shoulderblades, just in that spot where you couldn't reach to scratch. It was the accumulated weight of who-knew-how-many accusing searchlight stares following her, all of which knew exactly what she'd done--never mind that there was no one else in the living room. Her insides were a yarn-ball tangle of guilt and worry which would have done Miss Kitty proud. Where was that annoying dark voice when she wanted it to soothe her conscience and dismiss her fears? She hadn't done anything wrong, she reassured herself. Spike had wanted the chip out for ages. And he was all domesticated these days, just a big ol' bleached-blond teddy bear with fangs. Wasn't he? Willow took a firmer grip on the handle of the teacup she was setting out. The gilt on the rim was slightly worn, revealing the austere white purity of the china beneath. "Aurum in integrum restituere," she whispered. Power flowed and curled within her, smooth as film noir smoke, banishing doubt and fear. As her thumb traced the curvature of the rim, a slim perfect line of gold followed behind it. It glinted in the afternoon sun and for a second Willow felt happiness of the sort she would never, ever wish on Angel. Is it not worth a few small errands, this power? the ebony voice inquired, faintly amused. It was almost a relief, not to be alone in her own head. I'm not doing this for the power, she protested. I'm doing it to help restore the Balance. Laughter, deep and dark and bitter as Aztec chocolate, flavored with blood and cayenne. Yes, but the power is no less sweet for that, is it? her invisible companion said. You need not lie to me. Or to yourself. Only to them, as is necessary for their comfort. You deserve power, Willow Danielle Rosenberg. You were born for it. Do not shy from your birthright out of fear or false modesty. The images burned in her mind: what she could do, who she could become. Vampires exploding into incandescent clouds of dust at a wave of her hand, demons abasing themselves at her feet. She strode fearless through the streets of Sunnydale... or why not L.A.? Paris, London, Alexandria, Harvard, M.I.T., Cambridge, the Bodleian, Stonehenge--ancient repositories of mystic knowledge thrown open to her eager eyes by obsequious men and women in tweed and sensible shoes-- It's Willow Rosenberg! It's such an honor, Miss Rosenberg... A web of spells traversed the globe through glittering fiber-optic cable, slender silver threads converging wherever she was, carrying her will across oceans, magic and microchips fusing into a ecstatic new whole. Mom and Dad, finally impressed, finally noticing. Tara, proud and loving at her side-- I taught her everything I know, but of course she's taken it far beyond... The Hellmouth not only sealed but destroyed forever. Buffy wouldn't need to patrol; she could have the normal life she craved, and Willow, she could have... Anything she wanted. Everything she'd denied herself by remaining in Sunnydale. Willow squeezed her eyes closed and shuttered her mind and heart. It was only a partnership of convenience. Tonight she'd perform the last of her agreed-upon services and be free. Or mostly free. There was still the minor problem of her own magics being unreliable, and she wasn't so naive as to think that the force she was dealing with would allow her to tap infinite power for the rest of her life without demanding further little agreements. But with the power she had at her disposal, surely she could find or create a spell to fully heal her own abilities. She'd keep her bargain until then, and no longer. It wouldn't take long. She was sure of it. The front door blew open and Buffy came sweeping in, flinging her purse at the couch and her jacket at the coat rack. Willow, setting the platter of cookies on the coffee table (chocolate macadamia nut, extra forgive-y) was momentarily transformed into a single over-stressed nerve fiber, heartily twanged by the slamming of the door. Her fingers spasmed and the platter slipped from her hands and clattered to the surface of the table. A handful of cookies slid off the edges. "Buffy!" "At last report." Buffy strode into the living room and planted both fists on her hips, surveying the condition of the battlefield: carpet vacuumed, sofa cushions denuded of cat fur and Miss Kitty banished to the basement, from whence occasional plaintive yowls could be heard. Photos and knickknacks had been dusted and arranged for maximum wholesomeness, Joyce's good tea set arrayed upon the newly-polished surface of the coffee table. Buffy's pearly teeth fastened on her glossy lower lip; there was a tension in her that hadn't been present when Willow left for school that morning. Had the interview gone badly? "I guess it'll have to do," Buffy muttered. Like you were such a big help cleaning, Willow thought a trifle resentfully. "If you're really worried, Buff, we can do a teensy glamor--" The look that flashed through Buffy's sea-colored eyes was mildly appalled. "Thanks, but--" Her eyes went flinty grey as they zeroed in on Dawn, galloping downstairs in yet another change of outfit. "Dawn, it's barely three-thirty--why are you home already?" Her face went pinched and shrewish in Unpleasant Buffy Expression #36, and her voice could have cut glass. "This interview's eighty percent of the final as far as The Kroger's recommendation to the judge goes, and you're cutting classes on the very day--" Dawn did a freeze-frame halfway down the stairs with one foot in mid-air, gearing up for a full-on ear-grating whine. "I am NO--" She cut herself off, dropped her foot to the stair-step and took a deep breath. "No, I'm not," she said in carefully reasonable tones. "They let us out early because there was a demon in the cafeteria. Some kind of snakey thing. It swallowed one of the lunch ladies and went to sleep all over the jocks' table. The janitors were poking it with brooms to see if they could get it to hack her up." She teetered back and forth on the stair-tread, staring at the toes of her sneakers and playing with a lock of her hair. "I know today is important, Buffy." "Oh." Buffy ran a hand over her forehead and down over her eyes, as if she could wipe the stress-lines off her face. "I mean... I know you know. Sorry. I'm overly caffeinated." "'sall right," Dawn muttered. She clumped down the remaining stairs, eyes downcast save for one shrewd look at her sister. "He asked you, didn't he?" she said. "And you got into a fight about it, didn't you?" Buffy blinked. For a second there was naked pleading in Dawn's eyes. "I can do it! I'll practice every day--I've been watching both of you, I know some stuff already, sort of--please, let me help!" "Spike told you about--oh. You mean the fighty stuff." Buffy pressed her fingers to the sides of her nose for a second and turned away. "We'll talk about it later. I'm going to go upstairs and clean up. I'll be back down in a minute." There was a ground-in weariness of a sort Willow hadn't seen for some time in the drooping lines of Buffy's shoulders as she went up the stairs. Dawn might be off on the details, but Spike had said, back at the crypt, that they'd had a disagreement... come to think of it, she hadn't heard that particular tone of defiant bluster from Spike in quite awhile, either. The voice slipped back into her head, oozing between the cracks in her thoughts like that black oil on the X-Files. This had better end soon; she was running out of creepy similes fast. They feed off one another. For good or for ill. The vampire thing considered, Willow hoped that wasn't meant in an ickily literal manner, but she could see the sense of it. There was a connection there, always had been--maybe a Slayer/vampire thing, maybe just a Buffy/Spike thing, more likely a little of both--and while the connection itself couldn't be easily broken, their mutual trust in it, and in each other, was a new and fragile thing. The two of them could tear one another down with the same ease that they'd built one another up, these last few weeks. Just so. A weapon, at need. Willow sat down on the nearest arm of the couch, crossing her arms over her chest and huddling in on herself. She wasn't cut out for this sneaky stuff; she had a horrible urge to race upstairs and spill everything to Buffy, or dash into the kitchen and beg Tara to forgive her for whatever she hadn't done yet. Buffy's psyche was a mass of half-healed wounds that ached at every change of the emotional weather, and the largest and achiest had 'ANGELUS' tattooed on its butt. If she and Spike were already on the outs about something, discovering that the chip was gone might lead Buffy to panic and create a net increase in the quantity of vampire dust in the immediate vicinity before Spike could try to explain. Assuming Spike even wanted to explain. Oh, God, what if he went right out and killed someone? Her heart started to hammer in her chest and the air in the room grew progressively shorter on oxygen. What if he grabbed some innocent six-year-old and sucked them dry and--it would be all my fault--it-- How so? the ebony voice asked with crisp disdain. You gave him a gift. If he abuses it, that is his folly, not yours. Yeah, but... It was past time she got more information out of Mister Mystery. how is what I'm doing for you going to fix the Balance? You are an exceptionally intelligent woman. All acts have consequences. Surely you've divined that for yourself by now? Willow fiddled with the teacup. Pink roses in old-fashioned garlands bedecked the sides, below the rim of gold. Curing the crazies was obviously a gold star on the good side of the ledger, and removing their threat to the rest of the population of Sunnydale was even better. Using Dawn to power the spell... well, that was a little iffy. But Dawn wouldn't be hurt by it. That wasn't good or bad, not really, just... pragmatic. Removing Spike's chip...on the surface of it, enabling a vampire to prey upon humanity again was a bad thing. Except, she told herself firmly, Spike wasn't exactly Joe Average Vampire these days. She was just giving him a chance to prove what he'd been saying for months--that he'd changed. You're growing warm , the voice replied, amused. She didn't feel warm. Willow shivered, and went out to the kitchen to help Tara. ***** Dawn had never quite figured it out. Vampires, no problem. Hellbeasts, nothing to it. Ancient mystic orders bent on world domination, piece of cake. But put Buffy, who could charm and bully equally effortlessly when she was in Slayer mode, in the presence of some mundane authority whom she had to impress, and her sister fell apart like an overcooked macaroni casserole. Of course, that had been before the whole dying-and-coming-back-to-life thing. Post-resurrection Buffy had plodded through the first stage of the guardianship paperwork with grim, listless efficiency. Buffy was neither grim nor listless today--June Cleaver on crack, more like. Dawn wasn't sure which was worse. Dawn could only guess that the fight with Spike was throwing Buffy off her game. Like, into the next ballpark. She'd been jittery all through the tour around the house, answering questions with flood of too-cheerful babble which would have done Willow proud. Now she perched with ramrod-correct posture on the opposite end of the almost unrecognizably spruce couch--exactly far enough from Dawn and from the arms of the couch to discourage anyone else sitting on it. Despite cosmetic repairs (shoving Volumes 8, 15 and 22 of the 1979 edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica underneath the saggiest spot) it had yet to recover from its stint as Vampire Nookie Central, and made frightening sproingy noises if you shifted the wrong way. The Kroger was seated across the room in the overstuffed armchair, leafing through the pile of paperwork on her lap. She examined each document with excruciating care, as if she hadn't read them all six times before. Dawn was inured to the process by now, but Buffy had yet to build up an immunity. Mrs. Kroger looked up and inquired, "So, Ms. Summers--there are two other adults in the house besides yourself?" Buffy had changed back into her interview clothes--sensible skirt and blouse and pumps, very respectable, very adult, very, very not-Buffy--and the wide, gleaming smile plastered over her face was scarily reminiscent of Spike's long-disassembled robot version of herself. "Yes. Willow and Tara." One hand escaped from its primly folded station on her lap to flutter in the direction of the kitchen, where Willow and Tara hovered in the doorway, ready to airlift in supplies or fresh troops if necessary, Tara serene in the face of bureaucracy and Willow sporting a pair of small worried lines between her brows. "Because we're the village." Mrs. Kroger blinked. The Stepford Slayer smile winked out. "You know, because it takes a village to raise a...uh... cookie?" She thrust the heaping plate of chocolate macadamia-nut at the social worker. "They're homemade." It apparently struck her that this was not necessarily an endorsement of quality, and she amended hastily, "But not by me. Willow made them, totally by herself. Though I'm not saying I can't cook, I can. People just keep asking me not to." Dawn suppressed a groan and hastened to pour Mrs. Kroger tea from the rose-garlanded teapot. What had happened to the All-Business Buffy who'd railroaded Dad into signing over custody? The argument with Spike must have been a doozy. There had to be something she could say that would come off as well-adjusted and healthy-family-like rather than like a total brown-nosed suck-up. This teapot. Mom got this teapot from Grandma. And you see that little chip on the foot? I did that when I was eight and pouring tea for Mr. Gordo and Brown Bunny. I'm connected to this teapot. OK, technically as of a year and a half ago I was a blob of green energy with no teapot connections at all, but now I am. Connected. And you can't just-- "No thank you, dear, I'm trying to cut down." Mrs. Kroger declined the cookies with her usual vague smile and sipped her tea as if to reassure them that she didn't mean anything personal by the refusal. She set the teacup down and pulled a pen from behind one ear. "Let's see... you originally filed your application for guardianship last spring after your mother's death, is that right?" Buffy nodded, a nervous head-bob that made her resemble a dashboard ornament. "Your father was out of the country and unreachable at the time..." She glanced at Buffy with the look of mild inquiry Dawn had grown to dread over the summer. "But the first application was cancelled due to your death?" "Er." Buffy attempted a light, carefree laugh. "The rumors of my... uh. Yes. But obviously, not dead, so here we go again." Mrs. Kroger pursed her lips at the police reports (touched up after the fact by Willow Rosenberg, hacker extraordinare) and the doctor's affidavit (supplied by a physician with untraceable but persuasive connections with the Council of Watchers, one thing the Council had cooperated on). It all affirmed that Ms. Summers had suffered a head injury in a fall at an abandoned construction site. Ms. Summers had survived the fall and wandered away in a daze before her friends arrived on the scene and summoned the police, all of whom assumed that the small, slight, blonde corpse mangled beyond recognition by the fall was Buffy Summers, until she miraculously appeared on Halloween, having finally recovered her senses. Dawn watched Mrs. Kroger's eyes flicking back and forth across the close-typed pages. She'd practically memorized the thing; heck, she'd supplied some of the juiciest details of the cover story, and it was all she could do to keep from reciting it under her breath as Mrs. Kroger read through their literary effort. The doctor's report was full of catchy jargon like 'post-traumatic amnesia' and 'flattened affect' and ended with a comforting assurance that Ms. Summers was currently healthy and in full possession of her faculties. So far the Sunnydale tendency not to inquire too deeply into anything that whiffed of weirdness was working for them. "And you don't remember anything about where you were over the summer?" "No." This was more or less true. Buffy wove the fingers of both hands tightly together once more. "The doctor said it was a post-traumatic... shock... thingy. Is there anything else the judge is going to need to see to transfer my sister's custody back to me? Dad's not contesting--" "Mmm, yes, I see that. Our main concern is that you don't have a job at present." Mrs. Kroger peered at Buffy over the tops of her glasses. "So--" "But I'm looking!" Buffy protested, a note of panic peering over the concrete embankments of her good cheer. "I had an interview this morning, and I have two more later this week. I just haven't--" "I was just going to say," Mrs. Kroger leaned back, her smile growing somewhat fixed, "that your household qualifies for several varieties of government aid." Buffy, thoroughly derailed for a second, just gaped at her. "You mean... what do you mean?" "Job counseling services, certainly. Also financial aid services, food stamps--" "Food stamps? You mean--Welfare? " Buffy got out in a mortified squeak. "Oh. No. I couldn't--I mean, I'm sure we can get by without--I mean--" "Of course if you find a job in the next few weeks it won't be necessary, but I'm going to leave you the forms just in case." Mrs. Kroger handed Buffy a sheaf of papers, and Buffy took them in a shell-shocked daze, obviously still stunned by the dreaded vision of Buffy Summers, Welfare Mother. Mrs. Kroger folded up her reading glasses and replaced them in her purse. "You seem to have all your paperwork in order--your hearing is set for the twenty-first. Your father's nominated you as your sister's guardian and waived requirement of service, so--" The front door shook under a thundering volley of pounding, and the distinctive odor of singed vampire filled the air, temporarily drowning out the cookies. Dawn jumped to her feet, but Willow was ahead of her, sprinting for the door and flinging herself spreadeagled against it, more as if she wanted to hold it shut than in preparation for letting someone in. She opened the door the tiniest of cracks and peered out. "Spike!" she yipped, as if this were the last person she'd expected to see. Well, in the middle of the day, maybe... nah, this was Spike. "We're busy!" "Ducky. I'm smoldering." Spike applied his superior strength to the door and Willow was scooted backwards across the carpet. Spike elbowed his way through the door and toppled over the threshold, duster pulled over his head, trailing smoke and dirty socks behind him. He dropped his laundry in the foyer with a thump and shrugged his coat back into place with a catlike air of 'I meant to do that.' He was looking particularly disheveled and human despite the wisps of smoke, and the faint flush in his cheeks meant he'd been feeding very recently. Willow clung to the door, staring at him in round-eyed apprehension, like he had spinach in his teeth or something. Doris Kroger (and everyone else, for that matter) was staring too--though, due to the combination of the duster, the striped pullover, and Spike's usual collection of jewelry no straight man alive or dead ought to be allowed to wear, more in an "Oh my God, look at the fashion victim!" way than in an "Excuse me, why is that man on fire?" way. Spike had obviously forgotten all about the meeting with Mrs. Kroger. Confronted with the assembly in the living room, he squared his shoulders, flashed his on-the-pull smile at the social worker and rose above his sartorial handicaps by sheer force of charisma. "Hullo, all. Didn't mean to interrupt. Came over to use the washer, and--" His eyes locked onto Buffy's in one of those gazes that excluded the entire rest of the universe. "Something's come up." Buffy gave the vampire a narrow-eyed once-over to ascertain that, for once, he wasn't engaging in double-entendre, and whipped out the blinding smile again. "Mrs. Kroger, this is Spike." Dawn winced at Mrs. Kroger's sedate blink; undoubtedly 'Spike' ranked number three on the Top Ten List of Bad Boyfriend Names, right below 'Killer' and 'Fang,' though well above 'Ripper' and 'The Butcher.' "Spike...er...Williams. He's...uh..." Buffy's eyes glazed over in critical terminology meltdown; you could see the read/write errors piling up. "We're seeing each other. He was a big help with Dawn over the summer." "Right," Dawn agreed. "He's always very responsible and law-abiding and--" Buffy elbowed her in the ribs, and Dawn shot a glare at her--What? Spike warmed up the smile and caught Mrs. Kroger's eyes in the we-are-the-world look for a second--which, if Dawn was any judge, thawed The Kroger more thoroughly than a ream of signed testimonials. "Pleased ever so." He bent over and murmured urgently into Buffy's ear, "We really need to talk private-like, pet. Can we--?" He gestured towards the kitchen. Willow went into a coughing fit which prompted Tara to come over and thump her on the back in concern. Buffy rose briskly to her feet, irritation with Spike setting flight to her earlier nerves. "Spike, in case it's escaped your notice, I'm in the middle of something important." She latched onto his collar and headed for the front door, tugging him after her. "So if you'll just marshal all your lame arguments about the job for later, I'll--" Dawn frowned. Job? There was way more going on here than some argument over whether or not she could patrol. Buffy was freaking, Willow was freaking, Spike was failing to freak only because outsiders were present and he was hoarding cool points. The vampire dug his heels in and resisted tuggage. "Not about that, love. It's important. Very, very important." He was talking to Buffy, but looking at Willow, eyes brimming over with question marks. For a moment Willow's eyes were riveted to the toes of her sandals, but then her head came up defiantly and she smiled, a tight hard smile stuck somewhere between anger and determination. Whatever Spike was asking, she wasn't going to answer. Buffy, her attention still on Mrs. Kroger's reactions, hadn't noticed the exchange. She nibbled an impeccably manicured thumbnail, obviously coming to the conclusion that there was a slayage emergency--why else would Spike be interrupting now?--which would require her to dash off to the rescue, and simultaneously dash their hopes of Mrs. Kroger making a favorable report to the judge at the custody hearing. Annoyance, resentment and resignation warred in her eyes for a second before resignation won out. "OK," she said at last. "But make it fast." She turned back to Mrs. Kroger. "Would you excuse us for just a moment?" Another vague blink, in the space of which, Dawn was sure, Spike's height, weight, shoe size, and the exact shade of Clairol Ultra-Light Blond he favored were cataloged and submitted to the Social Services Dubious Associates Database via telepathy. "Certainly. Take your time, Ms. Summers." "Come on, then, Spike, and let me know what can't wait another hour." Buffy stalked off towards the kitchen, and without looking back waved at the duffle and added, "And bring that with you. The world can live without exposure to your Tigger jammies." "Oi, now, I don't--" Recalling the presence of The Kroger, Spike clenched his jaw on his intended rejoinder, snatched up his duffle and trotted after her sister. There was an uneasy silence punctuated by the sound of two pairs of feet descending the stairs to the basement, and two voices muffled to inaudibility by intervening layers of drywall and cinder block. Mrs. Kroger sat with plump implacable majesty, her bright starling eyes darting insatiably around the room. Dawn leaned unwarily forward to snag a cookie and the couch SPROINGed at her; guilt froze her in place with one hand outstretched. Footsteps, ascending. "...don't have time to play around now, Spike!" Heavier footsteps, booted, following. "Buffy, love, you've got to listen to me! I--" Lighter feet, halfway up, pausing, turning. Dawn imagined arms folding to the accompaniment of tight-lipped Buffy-disapproval. "What? You what?" "I--" Silence. Buffy's voice, sheathed in ice. "Hello, you have reached the end of Buffy Summers's patience. When you actually have anything worthwhile to say, please leave a message at the sound of the beep." Footsteps, heavier, booted, descending, with something of defeat in their cadence. And lighter feet ascending once more. A second later Buffy emerged from the kitchen, huge fake smile an insufficient mask over too-bright eyes and the angry tremor in her shoulders. Dawn blanched. There was a difference between normal Spike-and-Buffy sniping and a real fight, and this was it--hurt lurking within those eyes instead of irritation. Buffy seated herself upon the couch once more, re-folded her hands, and smiled warmly at Mrs. Kroger, all unease burnt away in the wake of her anger. "I'm so sorry for the interruption. I'm afraid Spike doesn't always take things as seriously as I'd like him to. Now--you said something about job counseling?" "We need more tea," Dawn whispered, seizing the teapot and heading for the kitchen, heedless of the sofa's agonized complaint. Halfway there she realized she was still carrying her filched cookie, but there wasn't any graceful way to turn around and put it back. "Dawnie!" Willow grabbed for her wrist as she whooshed past, heading for the basement stairs. "I don't think that's a good idea right now. He sounded pretty cranky, and--" Well, duh. Dawn rolled her eyes. Anyone who went tippy-toes around Spike when he was in a bad mood might as well give up talking to him at all. Willow should know the drill by now. "It's OK. I have a Ph.D. in dealing with cranky vampires." She left the teapot on the kitchen island and racketed down the stairs without slowing; the tawny forty-watt glow of the basement light was brighter than the candlelight in Spike's crypt, and she could take those stairs blindfolded. She made plenty of noise. Spike would hear and smell her coming regardless, but it was only polite to give fair warning when intruding on a sulk. The muted whoosh of the washing machine filling up drifted up to her ears. Spike was slouched in a sunshine-yellow vinyl beanbag chair, remnant of Joyce Summers's swinging 70's days. He leaned back against a pile of flood-damaged boxes, and a handful of styrofoam pellets trickled out through several small tears in the beanbag's sides, reminding Dawn why it had been banished to the basement to begin with. Three weeks after they'd first moved to Sunnydale, Mom opening the front door to find Buffy swinging it at a shrieking Dawn's head, and the living room carpet spangled with tiny white pearls... Another non-existent memory of her non-existent life. Everything I remember doing with Spike is real. She could hold on to that. Spike left off flinging his remaining clothes into haphazard piles (darks and darkers) as Dawn hopped off the last step of the stairs, and looked up at her with a frustrated snarl. Dawn ignored it. Spike's rages came and went with the force and speed of summer monsoons--by the time you got properly scared, he'd be flipping channels and demanding to know why the bloody hell you were cowering in the corner with a cross clutched over your head. Or you'd be dead. Either way, you might as well skip the cowering. She pulled up a box of her own and sat down. The mildew-stained cardboard sagged beneath her weight. "So. What's the panic? You all right? You look kinda green." "Your sis does that to me." Spike shot a venomous glance up the stairs, tossed the last pair of monster-goo-encrusted jeans into their proper pile and oozed further down into the beanbag. He let his belt buckle out a notch and closed his eyes. "Nah, I'm fine. Overdid a bit at lunch." Dawn snickered. "I didn't think that was possible." She extended a magnanimous hand and offered him the cookie. "Want dessert?" There were rules to everything: if you wanted information, ply Buffy with shoes, ply Spike with grease and sugar. At least until you were old enough to ply him with alcohol. Spike opened one eye, surveyed the cookie with disfavor, and closed it again. "Ha bloody ha. In the future, remind me that ten's my limit." Something about that statement made him snap out of his incipient torpor. Both eyes shot open, blue and cold, and dark brows dipped together over his nose. "Didn't stop me saying that," he muttered. "I had five too many rats for lunch." "Rats? Yeurch." Dawn curled her tongue in distaste. "I thought rats were, like, too gross even for trailer-park vampire cuisine. Mr. Kohlermann having a pig's blood shortage?" "Not exactly. Normally I wouldn't touch rat if you paid me, but this was a bit of a special occasion." Spike took a deep breath. "I k--" The word choked off as if someone'd cut off his air; Spike's face contorted and cords of muscle stood out on his neck with the effort, but nothing came out. He slammed a fist into the stack of boxes, panting. "There's got to be a way--" He leaped to his feet and began prowling the basement with frenetic energy. Pieces clicked into place. "You're under a spell." Abject gratitude lit Spike's eyes. "Got it in one!" "A rat-eating spell? Is that why Buffy's all ticked off? Lips that touch rat will never touch mine?" "Gah. No!" He stopped and smacked his fist into his palm. "Pen and paper!" Dawn cast about for a second. "Oh! Wait!" She dove into one of the boxes and emerged with a tattered cigar box full of broken crayons and desiccated Magic Markers. She shoved it at Spike. "Here." Spike grabbed a red crayon and dropped to his knees, scribbling out on the flap of one of the cardboard boxes 'I CAN KX##~~...' "Fuck!" he snarled and began again. 'W!77oooH TOK Th~^v^v...' "ARRRGGGHH!!!" Spike smashed the box to flinders, scattering mis-matched Legos and a selection of headless, chewed-on Barbie dolls across the floor, and knelt in the wreckage, chest heaving. "Okay, you can't talk about it or write about it," Dawn said, trying to project calm. "Can you nod yes or no? It's something you need to tell Buffy, right?" The vampire tensed and nodded. Lightning failed to strike. "Now we're getting somewhere," Dawn said, rubbing her hands. "Is it dangerous?" Spike hesitated, brows twisting, and raked both hands through his already-unruly hair. At last he nodded. "Is it happening soon?" Headshake. "A long time from now?" Another headshake, accompanied by rising frustration in his eyes. "It's already happened?" Vigorous nod. "Is it something Buffy needs to do something about?" Again a hesitation, but before Spike could determine which answer he wanted to give, the door at the top of the stairs opened and Willow stood backlit in the opening. "Do you two have something to share with the class?" ***** Dumb, Willow. She should have known trying to scare Dawn off talking to Spike wouldn't work; Dawn had never been properly afraid of the vampire even when he'd been dangerous. And she couldn't exactly hint that he wasn't un-dangerous any longer. She stared at the uninformative surface of the basement door with one hand on the cool worn brass of the doorknob and twisted another knot in the flowered gauze of her skirt. Her fingers tightened, and the knob turned. "Do you two have something to share with the class?" Two pairs of blue eyes, one large and warm, one narrow and chill, gazed up at her. Haloed in the light of the bare bulb, Dawn sat enthroned in cardboard, arms folded across her bony knees and her face rapt with the bizarre game of Twenty Questions she was conducting. Spike was pacing like Rilke's panther, caught mid-turn as Willow opened the door. Dawn scrambled to her feet, her upturned face blossoming with a smile of relief at sight of Willow. Spike looked up as well, but there was no smile in his eyes, only wariness. "Willow!" Dawn cried. "Just who we need to see. Spike's under some kind of spell and he can't talk about it but there's something important he needs to tell Buffy, and--" A rivulet of perspiration trickled down her temple, stinging in the corner of her eye. She couldn't do this. Willow Rosenberg had never told a successful lie in her life, she was worse at it than Spike was, she wasn't cut out for sneaky-- Willow raised a hand, feeling the rush as her eyes went onyx. "Dawn," she said softly, "Be still." She couldn't handle sneaky. But as she'd slowly come to recognize over the last few years, she could handle power. The girl froze in place, her lanky adolescent form half-way to standing, her eager mouth open. Dawn, interrupted. Spike took one look and all the muscles in his shoulders bunched; he whipped round to face up the stairs, both hands clenched on the bannisters, seeming all of a sudden a great deal larger than he really was. The ice-chips of his eyes bored into Willow's, full of fury--but more puzzlement. "Will," he growled, sandpaper-rough, "what the fuck are you doing? Why won't you let me tell Buffy about--" He gestured at his head. "What've you done to Dawn?" "Nothing," she said, harder and faster than she wanted to. "Nothing. She's fine. Just... stopped for a minute. Do you really think I'd hurt her?" Spike's cheeks hollowed. He hooked his thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans and rocked heel to toe, saying nothing for rather longer than was comfortable. "I'd've said no, yesterday." Willow felt heat rise in her own face. "Well, I wouldn't!" she snapped. "I just don't want anyone to know I took your chip out. I've got my reasons, all right?" "Feel a bit less dodgy if I knew what they were. Now Buffy thinks I've wandered over to cock up her tea party on a lark, and I can't tell her different." The anger in his eyes was layered over an inner bruising. "If you've messed me up for good with her, Red, I swear I'll--" Cue scary background music--Spike's Theme, menace in a minor key. "What, kill me?" Her voice was too shrill, and Willow forced it to a lower register. "Come after me with a broken bottle? Doesn't take you long to fall off the wagon, does it, Spike?" She felt a twinge of anger not her own in the back of her skull: her silent partner hadn't liked her saying that--why? The power surged up within her, wordless reminder that she no longer needed to fear Spike in any sense. He flinched and dropped his eyes--was the surfeit of blood in his system at the moment enough to justify the shamed tinge of red at his eartips? "Wouldn't do that," he muttered. "Not to you. Not nowadays." He met her eyes once more. "You understand that, don't you, Will? It's not...I just wouldn't." There was a subtle note of pleading in his voice. You have no need to play on this creature's shame or his sympathy for your own safety. Neither of which qualities he has any real claim on. "I know." Willow kept her own voice level in the face of another flare of anger from her invisible companion. It could just suffer; it needed her, or it wouldn't have gone to all this trouble to get her. She could afford to test her bounds a little. She and Spike had always gotten along, give or take an assault or two; there'd been a time when his assurance that she was bite-worthy had delivered a real ego-boost right alongside the abject terror. "Mrs. Kroger's leaving at five-thirty and we're going to go over to the Magic Box and meet the others at six to go over the crazy-catching plan. Go on up and I'll unfreeze Dawn." The planes of his face shifted as he gazed up at her, demon-ridges coming to prominence. A thought-swift blur of motion and Spike was beside her on the stair. Willow had time to draw half a startled gasp before the cool weight of his hand fell on her shoulder. She jerked her head up to meet the lambent golden eyes only inches away from her own, the pupils flashing red in the dim light. His voice rasped against her ear like a cat's tongue. "Anyone else pulled this with me," he murmured, "Or with her," he jerked his head down the stairs towards Dawn, "and they'd be picking my teeth out of their jugular by now. You might want to think about that." It wasn't even a threat. Just a statement of fact, one of Spike's not-so-subtle reminders: Hello, vampire. God, those fangs were terrifying up close, inch-long upper canines, half-inch lower canines, rip-saw rows of incisors in between...she'd seen what teeth like that, powered by inhuman muscle, could do to human flesh, seen mangled bodies and bloodless faces in the corridors of Sunnydale High. They had fun. What did it say about the infinite capacity of the human mind to trivialize that her primary reaction these days was Wonder how long Spike had to practice talking through those things to get rid of the game-face lisp? "You can't kill me, Spike," she said, a little breathless with the enormity of the realization. Hello, incredibly powerful witch. "You couldn't even if you wanted to." Spike's eyes reflected the truth of her words, made her reckless. "But I could kill you. And I haven't. Instead I gave you a nice early Christmas present. You might want to think about that." For once, Spike's face was unreadable. "I will, Red. I will." He turned, his features sliding back towards humanity again, and walked up the stairs. The open door framed him in light for a moment and he looked down at her. "You really would have made a smashing vampire." Then he was gone. Willow sagged against the railing with a little whoop of hysterical laughter . She couldn't afford to give in to it for long. She straightened and trotted downstairs. She halted among the remnants of the Summers girls' childhood, gazing at the motionless figure of Dawn and nudging red and yellow plastic bricks aside with the toe of the Birkenstocks. What now? Things were moving too fast, events banging into each other, bumper cars out of control. Dawn had figured out too much for comfort; should she erase the memory of her conversation with Spike? There was Lethe's bramble in her room upstairs, and the spell was a simple one. She could run up and get it now, and hope no one came down here while she was gone. Or she could let Dawn tell her everything, and pretend to investigate... Willow groaned; she could see this devolving into a farce all too quickly. Why is it so important no one know I took Spike's chip out? The dark voice within was silent. It had said all it really needed to say; do these things, and power is yours; refuse and I take it away. Except she wasn't doing it for the power, and why did that sound as lost and uncertain in her own ears as Spike's I wouldn't do that, not nowadays? Willow ground the heels of her hands into her eyes. She couldn't think about that now. There were too many ways Spike could get around the spell she'd laid on him. Unless... she laughed, relief washing over her. She could erase his memory! She should have thought of that before. He couldn't tell anyone how the chip came out if he didn't know. Buffy was still grilling Mrs. Kroger about job prospects in the living room when Willow slipped past and ran upstairs and into her and Tara's room. She grabbed the bouquet of herbs in the jar on the dresser--tansy and heal-all, fennel and columbine; there's rosemary, that's for remembrance; we need the opposite of that--and extracted the sprig of bramble. Purple bristles on a faded green stem, prickly to the touch. Clutching it in one damp palm she stole downstairs once more. No one looked at her. Spike was in the living room now, exerting his charm, such as it was, on Mrs. Kroger, while Buffy looked on with the air of the Russian judge about to award his performance a 6.5. Willow slipped past, back to the wall. Tara gave her a worried look as she raced through the kitchen, but Willow smiled and waved and mouthed 'Getting Dawn!' and was down the basement stairs before she could be questioned. The sweet musty odor of the herb filled the basement as she crumbled it beneath Dawn's nose and whispered, "Obliviscere." The broken fragments caught fire in her palm, consumed by cold blue witchlight. Power tingled and sparked in the air around them, rising like embers on the smoke of the burning. Dawn's nose twitched. Willow lifted her hand again. "Dawn, ferre!" Dawn sneezed and lurched into motion, immediately lost her balance, and staggered into the beanbag chair, cracking both kneecaps on the floor. "Ow!" she yelled, rolling over and clutching her knees. She looked up from her hedgehog-ball of pain to see Willow staring down at her and her cheeks went red. "I tripped on something," she said with a defensive hair-toss. "Not normally Superklutz." She sat up and rubbed the worst-bruised knee. "Ow... why am I in the basement?" One hand went to the back of her head in a tentative search for painful lumps, always the first possibility in Sunnydale when one found oneself in a strange place with memory loss. When her fingers found nothing, she grabbed the nearest box and levered herself to her feet. "Omigod, Mrs. Kroger! How long have I been down here? Buffy'll slay me!" "Not long," Willow reassured her, extending a helping hand. "You came down to check on Spike's washing." She walked over to the machine and held up a small plastic scoop half-full of blue liquid. "See? Forgot the fabric softener, and you know how hard he takes laundry mishaps." She opened the lid and poured the Downy into the reservoir. "You didn't come back up right away, so Willow to the rescue. Mrs. Kroger's still upstairs." Dawn stood rubbing her head for a moment. "I should get back." She leaped deerlike for the stairs, and Willow shouted after her, "Dawnie! Wait! How would you like to go along with us tonight? Just to make with observiness?" "Really?" Dawn paused on the stairs, looking stunned, for real this time. "You've got to be kidding. Didn't Buffy totally freak out when Spike asked her--" She frowned, confusion welling up in her eyes as her thoughts ran into the blurry, ragged edges of missing places in her mind. Willow watched closely; it was the nature of the human mind to fill in gaps--she'd learned that in the part of the psych class before the professor had gone insane. It was so easy to coax a mind into filling in the blanks... "Spike and Buffy had a fight," Dawn said with more confidence. "About me learning to patrol. I came down here to talk to him about it." She frowned. "And the laundry, I guess." "That was a good excuse," Willow said. "Look, I'm completely with Spike on this. Sunnydale's a dangerous place full of dangerous beasties, so Dawn with the kung-fu grip? Great idea. Hence the invite." Dawn bit her lip, tempted. "Won't Buffy have a spaz fit?" Willow grinned. At least something was going to be easy. "What Buffy doesn't know won't hurt us. I can disguise you so you won't be in any danger. Sort of a variation on the glamor spells Buffy's using to patrol incognito, except it'll just make you..." "Invisible?" "No, too many side effects. Just unnoticeable. You know, like Hitchhiker's Guide? A Someone Else's Problem field. Villainous types can see you, they just won't think you're important. Heroic types likewise." Dawn considered this, her eyes lighting up and an answering grin spreading across her face. "Sounds cool. When do we do it?" Willow pretended to think about it. "Meet me down here after Mrs. Kroger leaves. I'll cast the spell, and make sure you get into the car when we drive over, and don't get any doors slammed on you. Once we're at the Magic Box, if you just hover and don't say anything, no one will realize you're there. You can watch the whole thing, get a good first-hand look at the crack world-saving team in action. Sound good?" "Sounds fantastic," Dawn crowed, whatever minor worries she'd had about her lapse lost in the excitement of the new plan. "I'd better get up there, before Buffy implodes. See you later!" As the younger girl dashed off up the stairs, Willow's sight doubled for an instant and instead of Dawn's familiar coltish grace she saw an intricate mandala of green, shimmering and pulsing in the darkness. Power. As much power as she herself was now tapped into, but fallow, useless--the engines of Creation, harnessed to a go-cart. Tonight she'd change that. She walked over to the washing machine and leaned into it, folding her arms and pillowing her head on its vibrating surface. Another mission accomplished. It was all coming together. Whatever was to occur tonight would steady the teetering Balance, and save Buffy from whatever obscure but doubtless unpleasant fate awaited the person who'd upset it... Willow Rosenberg, Big Gun, would have saved the day once again. Maybe, for once, she'd get a thank you.

Seven o' clock, Sunday morning, cold as Southern California allowed and slightly foggy; earlier, before the sun had come up, breath had been visible on the still air. Daniel Tanner shuffled down the sidewalk and turned into the alley behind the Doublemeat Palace, heading for the dumpster where, if he were lucky, he'd find the leftover burgers tossed out by last night's closing shift, still safely ensconced in their greasy wrappers. A careful walk down the center of the alley, one foot before the other in the grimy trickle of condensation. Not too close to the doors, not too close to the watching huddles of trash or the looming metal bulk of dumpsters--mouths had teeth, teeth to bite with. Lizzie had died in the night, slipped out of herself through the hole in her crushed skull and danced away with never a word, and he'd spent the rest of the night bullying a terrified Jim and Ramon into helping him move the body out of the landfill. There was no end. There was no cure. They'd lied, the eyeless men, opened their dead mouths and spat out maggot-words that meant nothing. "There are rules," he muttered, and knew with some small part of his mind that the words were too loud, too angry, that if people heard him they would shy away. "There are limits and bounds." There were laws that circumscribed the greatest of forces, promises that had to be kept or unmake their guarantor in their neglect. He'd kept his half of the bargain, and he would see, if it meant his dissolution, that the eyeless men did likewise. As soon as he raided the dumpster. Vengeance was a luxury reserved for those with full stomachs. ***** Willow Rosenberg woke to the certainty of power and the sweet weight of her lover's head upon her shoulder. With her fingers she parted the netted swath of honey-blonde hair concealing her beloved's face, exposing to mortal view the shuttered eyes, the stubby dark blond lashes lying upon the silken cheek. This was Tara in a nutshell, some part of her forever aloof, forever hidden. Not by design or desire, but simply because there was always more of Tara, the farther in one went. Tara hid her serene face behind a curtain of hair, Tara hid her unfashionably lush body behind baggy sweaters, Tara hid her iron will behind a facade of diffidence. There was always one more veil to pierce, another hope that this was the final curtain and behind it the white limbs of the goddess would rise from the pool, sky-clad and radiant, and rather than striking the intruder blind would fold her to her bosom... Now am I special enough to catch your eye? Now do I have the power to hold you? Tara's eyes opened, blue-grey, the color of distant mountains. Tara's lips curved, no less sweet than the curve of her hip beneath the blankets, the succulent weight of her breasts pressed against Willow's slim body. She could nestle into the comforting softness of Tara's arms, worship at the altar of her body, bury her face in the well of delight between her thighs, and Tara would cry out in joy and weep in ecstasy beneath her lapping tongue... But there was always one more veil. ***** Dawn Summers lay awake watching the moving shadows on the ceiling, and thought bitter thoughts about the coming appointment with her social worker. Her existence was built on a foundation of sand. The photographs hanging in the stairwell and tucked into little stick-on holders in the photo albums, bright fleeting images of vacations past. The box of report cards (A's, A's, and more A's; until last year, the good sister, the smart sister, the sister who didn't burn down gymnasiums). The chess set under the bed with the broken black rook, chipped against the wall when she'd thrown it at Buffy when she was six--all, all a sham. She hadn't existed before last fall, the chess set hadn't existed. They told her it didn't matter, they told her that they loved her anyway, but in the dark hours of morning when she stared at the ceiling and thought Who am I? it did matter, because they'd been made to love her. I steal, therefore I am. ***** Buffy Summers dreamed. She didn't want to examine the darkness too closely; something prowled back there. She could hear the pad of feet on floorboards, the low growl... but she couldn't stay in bed; Willow was calling and she had to go downstairs again. She got up, her long white nightgown trailing on the floor. She took up the candle from her bedside in her hand, holding it high overhead. "Boy," she said, "Why are you crying?" He looked up from his cross-legged seat on the bare wood floor, moonlight curls tumbling over the high forehead. Silver tear-tracks marked his cheeks. "I've caught it," he said, "but I can't hold on forever." His shadow stretched away into the darkness, black as jet; in its arms a bright shape struggled. The thing in the darkness crept closer, and its growl muted to a pleading whine. It slunk up to rub against Spike's knee and he reached down, ruffling its fur and crooning to it. She couldn't see its face, but she could hear its claws kneading the floor. "Send it away," she whispered. "Can't do that, love. It's not mine. Here--you have to take this." He held out the bright shape; it flickered in his grasp and darted away into the shadows. She gasped, snatching for it, but the beast was faster, leaping after the shining figure with a snarl. Spike was gone, replaced by a bespectacled young man in antiquated clothing. A green-scaled, razor-fanged demon crouched at his side. He held a hand to his mouth, hiding an apologetic cough. "I realize our situations are not precisely identical," he said. "But sooner or later one has to come to an accommodation." The demon growled agreement and bumped its nightmare head against his arm; he scratched its spiny ears fondly. For a second they looked at her with identical pairs of blue eyes before blurring together into Spike once more. The beast trotted back from the shadows, the shimmering figure held with tender care in its jaws. Spike smiled proudly and patted it on the head. "There's my girl." He looked at her. "Blood and a little kindness--best feed it, pet. They get stroppy when they're starved." He took her shadow from the beast's mouth and held it up. "Well?" "Soap won't do," she said. "It must be sewn back on." She sat down on the edge of the bed, wincing in anticipation, and lifted one bare foot. He sat down tailor-fashion and pulled a needle and thread out of his duster pockets and held them up; the needle glinted bright and wicked as a dagger in the candlelight. Spike began to sew her shadow back on. She scarcely felt the first needle-pricks, but as he continued to work, the pain increased. Blood ran down his fingers, and every few stitches he stopped to lick his hands. "They'll never be clean, you know," he said. "And this--" He lifted one hand up, pale tongue flicking out to capture a crimson rivulet before it reached his wrist, and pointed to the limp rag-clad heap in the corner-- "Is your fault." The heap of rags was a body. The dead woman's face was pale and waxy, and the hair around the depression in her skull, smashed in as if by a length of pipe, was matted with old blood. Tanner crouched over her, looking up at Buffy with fathomless dark eyes. "Her name was Lizzie." They were all looking at her, the dead woman, the living man and the undead one. The beast growled softly, uneasy. She should have known the name. "It's in a good cause," she said, hearing the weakness of her own words. "Isn't it?" Spike shrugged. "We won't know for certain until it's too late, will we?" He held out his hand again, palm cupped; it was full of tiny blood-red droplets. Pomegranate seeds. "Here. You get this out of it, anyway. I can't promise they'll taste good." She took the handful of seeds and regarded them doubtfully. Had she heard this story before? She could throw them away, crush them underfoot. "What about you?" she asked. "Ah, I've eaten already." He patted his stomach. "Came off the other tree, and I think it was green. It's given me a hell of a bellyache. May take awhile to digest." Could she afford these? The budget was so tight. She felt a blunt head nudging her elbow from behind, and a warm damp tongue tickled her fingers. She wasn't ready to look it in the eye yet, but... hesitantly, she stroked the beast's muzzle. She stuffed the seeds into her mouth, crunching down hard on the pips as the juice ran down her throat, red as life's blood, red as fire, and heard the beast break into a rumbling purr. The pain wasn't in her feet any longer, but in her gut. With every stitch, the needle dug deeper, the thread grew stronger. It hurt. It hurt. It... The dream dissolved into shreds and tatters, leaving the bittersweet richness of pomegranate juice on the back of her tongue. Buffy lay there, unwilling to open her eyes and admit she was awake just yet. She could feel the twinge deep in her belly as her body grudgingly followed her mind into wakefulness. Damn. Cramps. It was a good sign, she supposed. Her first period since coming back, proof that all the plumbing was in working order. It was difficult to feel disassociated from reality when your uterus was tying itself in knots. She got up, checked to make sure there was no blood on the sheets, and shuffled across the hallway and into the bathroom to ransack the cabinet drawers for a tampon. Suitably fortified, Buffy faced herself down in the mirror, scrubbed her teeth (dutifully turning off the water during; a Slayer was conservation-minded, except when engaged in hour-long hot shower orgies with the undead--but, she assured herself, it had been with a low-flow shower head) and did fearless battle with the horror that was bed hair. So this is the face of a girl who sleeps with vampires. Funny how it didn't look that much different from the face of the girl who violently repressed any desire to sleep with vampires. Where was the mark of Cain, the scarlet letter that she could flaunt defiantly? Not even an incipient zit. Buffy bared minty fresh teeth at her reflection, spat toothpaste foam into the sink, and went back into the bedroom. The starkness of her room dissatisfied her. The furniture was still the same--the white-painted iron bedstead, her dresser, the chairs. Dawn had saved her diaries and Mr. Gordo and one or two small things as mementoes, and Spike had rather shamefacedly returned a few photos he'd snatched after the funeral, but everything else had been thrown away or given to charity after her death: posters, knickknacks, stuffed animals, clothes, all gone. When they'd moved the furniture back from the U-Stor-It, the week after she'd returned to the land of the living, she hadn't cared. The monastic austerity of bare walls had been soothing. She went over to the suitcases she'd left behind the bed last night, opened her overnight bag, took out the copy of the Rubaiyat Spike had given her, and put it on the bookshelf. It was a start. Buffy pulled open the curtains and let the morning light flood in, looking out the window into the branches of the oak tree where another vampire had so often crouched in the wee hours of the morning. Spike just used the front door. He was a ghost in the house this morning, a blanket-stealing, bony-kneed, tobacco-breathed, too-chilly-for-December phantom with tousled platinum hair--curled at her side when she woke, standing beside her in the bathroom, sleepily scratching his chin and expounding on the art of shaving without a reflection. In a little while he'd follow her downstairs and gross out Tara with his disgusting bloodsoaked mess of a breakfast and fight with Dawn over the comic section. If she was going to be haunted it might as well be by the real thing. For better or worse, she'd wrestled the earthshaking ethical dilemmas of their situation to a temporary standstill, and now they were left with the hard stuff. Question: how exactly does one unemployed vampire slayer, sister and mortgage in tow, put together a life with one vampire of infinite heart and limited ethics? With a shake of her head she went over to the dresser, pulled out the top drawer and started tossing things onto the bed. Answer: One drawer at a time. "Hey, are you coming down to breakfast or not?" Dawn asked, poking her head around the door a minute later to find her sister sitting on the edge of her bed surrounded by piles of clothes and gazing blankly at the now-complete disarray of the dresser. "Tara's making pancakes. Are you zoning out again?" Buffy picked up a pile of sensible slacks, all calculated to assure an interviewer that this, by golly, was a reliable team player, and eyed them with loathing. "I do not zone. I engage in clothing feng-shui." At one halcyon time, she'd owned six-count'em-six pairs of leather pants, seven if you included the pair that didn't quite fit because she'd lost ten pounds the year before starting college but couldn't bear to get rid of because Angel had once admitted to liking them. Maybe she could find out which thrift store had gotten the bulk of her pre-death wardrobe and buy it back at bargain prices. Dawn looked from the clothes to the empty drawer hanging out of the dresser, and back to her sister. "Earth to Buffy!" She was not going to blush; there was nothing to blush about. "It's for Spike. Here, hold these." Maybe if she moved the underwear to the bottom drawer... There wasn't much, mainly because half of it had been ripped to shreds in the last week and now resided in Spike's squicky-flattering collection of Stuff That Smelled Like Buffy. She was going to have to talk to him about that, though it might be a good idea to hide that t-shirt of his she'd snitched before she did so. "Ohmigod!" Dawn squeaked, clutching the uninspiring slacks and bouncing up and down. "Is Spike moving in?" "No!" Jump the gun much? "We've only been...um...for a week." Buffy shoved some t-shirts to one side and scrunched the slacks in beside them. "This is purely for slaying emergencies, so he'll have some things on hand if he can't get back to the crypt before sunrise." Maybe she ought to hunt up an ashtray--for the porch, because no amount of great sex was going to buy him a ticket to smoke in the house. "Riiiight. Riley never got a drawer." Dawn flopped across the bed on her stomach and propped her head up on her hands. "You're, like, serious now, right? I mean, you're having sex. That's serious, isn't it?" At Buffy's stunned-deer expression she scowled. "Don't go all Mom-like on me. You're not Mom, you're my sister. We're supposed to talk about boys. It's in the manual." Buffy sat down beside her. "I know, it's just--" When had Dawn gone from 'eww, boys' and safe, chaste crushes on Xander to using the word 'sex' in a grammatical sentence? "Yes, it's serious. In a way. It's--" She shifted sideways, pulling a knee up on the bed and taking Dawn's shoulders in her hands. "Complicated. Dawnie, please don't pin all your hopes on--I know you like Spike a lot, but there's all kinds of... issues. It may not work out. Things could happen--" Dawn snorted. "No way can he lose his soul more." "As if--I'm sure the next Buffy boyfriend disaster will be something entirely new and original." Buffy picked up one of the least objectionable sweaters and began re-folding it. "I just don't want to get anyone's hopes up for an ever after here, much less a happily." Dawn regarded her with the smug and infinitely irritating wisdom of a younger sibling. "Then you should stop with the happy every time his name gets mentioned. So what's it like?" "What?" "Sex. Does it hurt? Is it like in those books where the--" Buffy dropped the sweater and clapped her hand over Dawn's mouth. "Aaahh!" Deer weren't big and stunworthy enough for this expression--elk, maybe, or wildebeests. Dawn rolled over and crossed her arms. "Geez, Buffy! It's not like I'm a quivering virgin or something--I've kissed!" "You have? Who? Who have you kissed?!" "It was over the summer. This guy I met at one of Janice's parties. Spike killed him." "WHAT!?" Visions of Spike-as-chaperone, gleefully strangling some pimply and presumptuous suitor while Dawn stamped her foot and complained that he was embarrassing her swam through her head. "Willow helped!" Dawn went into a defensive sulk. "He was kind of a vampire, and no, I didn't notice, it's not like I'm Miss Slut-Bomb 2001 with vast experience of what a vampire doesn't kiss like. Unlike some people I'm related to." Buffy was overwhelmed with the feeling that the world in general and her sister in particular had breezed past her. Dawn lay there glowering at the ceiling, the treads of her sneakers shedding tiny flakes of dried mud onto her older sister's quilt. Fifteen was still a little kid, wasn't it? At fifteen she herself had been... stealing lipstick, shaking her pom-poms at any member of the football team whose eye she could catch, cutting class to kill vampires. OK, bad example. "Valiantly attempting to be the cool yet authoritative older sister here, but you can't just drop the whole sex talk thing on me like that. I have to prepare. Work up a speech. Find some hand puppets." Dawn's eyes revolved, blue but not so innocent. "I know how it's done, doofus. We had the whole 'put the condom on the banana' demo in health class. I just want to know what it's like . It's not like you guys were exactly quiet that night on the couch--which is still all creaky and weird to sit on, in case you care." "Um..." How the heck did you answer a question like that? Great, until your boyfriend loses his soul and tries to destroy the world? Way to give your impressionable sister a complex. "I guess that depends on who you're doing it with. And why you're doing it. If you're with someone you love, who loves you, it's..." She bit her lip. "Life-changing. So be darned sure you want your life to change." Maybe that had sunk in; there was a thoughtful moment before Dawn smirked in a manner entirely too reminiscent of certain vampires. "I think I'll tell Mrs. Kroger that my juvenile delinquent behavior is due to being exposed to my sister's perverted love life. Unless I get something like, say, an XBox for Christmas to drown out the gross smoochy noises in the middle of the night--" Buffy threw a rolled-up sock at her and Dawn disappeared down the hall, cackling. The house was filling with the heavenly odors of coffee and Tara's pancakes when Buffy came downstairs a few minutes later, mingling with the pervasive pine-scent of the Christmas tree. Buffy stopped to give it a wondering look on the way into the kitchen--decked out in tinsel and lights under Dawn's exacting artistic direction, it was the most perfect tree she'd ever seen; it could have been torn from a Currier & Ives print. She ran her fingers over the needles, plucked a few off, bruised them, held them to her nose; tiny drops of resin oozed from the broken flesh. It looked, felt, smelled... alive, and yet it was growing up out of the same old tree stand. Was it all just an illusion, or had Willow really transformed their scroungy old fake Douglas fir into the real thing? Buffy had managed by dint of great effort to avoid learning anything about magic theory over the past six years, but whether this was just a fantastically detailed glamour or a real transformation, it argued serious power. And raising you from the dead doesn't? "Hey, Buff!" Willow was sitting at the kitchen table with Dawn while Tara stood over at the stove, pouring another dollop of batter into the skillet. "You made it! We saved you a few pancakes. Anya e-mailed me a copy of the ceremony we'll be doing." She passed Buffy a sheet of paper. "We're meeting at the Magic Box at nine. You get to be the la-place, whatever that is." Buffy gave the printout a cursory glance. "I'll assume that's a good thing to be. I'm going to have to talk to Giles anyway--I think I had a Slayer dream last night." Willow's cheery expression morphed into unease. "You think? You don't know for sure?" Buffy shrugged and poured a generous helping of syrup over her pancakes. Mmm, buttery goodness. "As prophetic visions go, it was low on predictiness, high on annoyingly cryptic symbolism." "I'll bet it predicted lots of broken furniture in your bedroom," Dawn said. "Ow! You can't hit me, I'm normal!" Buffy bestowed an angelic smile on Dawn, who was rubbing her arm with an exaggerated look of agony. "That's debatable." "Kind of a Brunel thing, sans slashed eyeballs?" Willow didn't wait for an answer, but got up and started rinsing off her plate. "I've got to head over to the Magic Box now and help Giles set up--oh, and don't take the lid off that saucepan on the back burner, cause Miss Kitty getting into it would be of the bad, unless we want a pet hermit crab--nothing against hermit crabs, they're kinda cute, but no fur, which makes the petting thing problematical--" Buffy interrupted the babble-stream before it could develop into full-blown free association. "Dreamwise, we have death, small amounts of gore, and formless guilt. The usual." Self-analysis came about as naturally to her as the milk of human kindness did to Spike, but it didn't take Sigmund Freud to figure out that part of her was expecting cosmic retribution any minute now. Good girls didn't sleep with soulless vampires. "Do you guys have the spells online for tomorrow night? I've got a job interview before lunch, and that appointment with The Kroger after lunch, but I should be free by four." "Online, on board, on track--we are the essence of on. Be vewy quiet, we're hunting cwazies." Willow grinned, waved, and was out the door. Buffy leaned back in her chair and watched her all but skipping down the driveway, then eyed Willow's coffee cup. "Maybe it's time to have that talk with her about decaf again." Tara flipped the last of the pancakes onto her plate and brought it over to the table. "I think she's just jazzed about having her powers back." She didn't meet Buffy's eyes. Well, that was understandable. If being unable to cast spells had felt anything like the dull grey misery she'd recently clawed her way out of, Buffy couldn't blame Willow for being the extra-bouncy human superball now. She felt moderately bounceable herself. She speared herself another bite of pancake and swirled it around in the pool of syrup. Plus--lucky Wills!--she wouldn't be battling the persistent worry that her recovery was bought at too high a price. "So, what's my part in the ritual?" Dawn asked, snatching the printout and scanning it for her name. "Right there. 'Dawn Summers, staying home and being grounded for her sordid life of crime.'" "What?" From the tone of her sister's anguished wail, Buffy might as well have said 'Stay home and have your liver removed without anesthetic.' "That's completely unfair! I'm so telling The Kroger you abuse me!" "Oh, yeah, you do that. 'Mrs. Kroger, my mean old sister won't let me participate in dangerous Satanic rites!' Did it ever occur to you that mystic Keys to the universe and rituals to open doors to the spirit world might possibly not be mixy things?" "Good point," Tara said. "Though strictly speaking, Satanism isn't anything like... oh, never mind." Dawn shot her a look of wounded betrayal. "I'll bet you just made that up." Buffy sipped her coffee and adopted her best Sphinx-like-adult smile. "Since you're not going to be there, we'll never know, will we?" ***** The gym mats were rolled up against the walls, fat blue coils of tarpaulin and foam. The pommel horse had been dragged aside as well and sat watching the proceedings with cockeyed dignity from the corner. Willow and Tara sat on one of the rolled-up mats, the floor at their feet awash with books dragged in from the front room of the store. Xander sat opposite them, playing around with the drum they'd lugged up from the basement, a big-bellied, cowhide-covered instrument of uncertain provenance. In the center of the training room floor, Rupert Giles crouched beside a circle of white chalk, an unlikely houngan in sneakers and sweatshirt. His hand moved over the floor, dispersing a thin, even trail of yellow corn meal from between thumb and forefinger. In its wake the sigils grew like living things: the vèvè of Legba, a crossroads atop a stylized globe, crowned with a second globe, one arm pierced with a walking stick; and the vèvè of Ghede, a tau-cross atop a mausoleum, flanked by a stylized rake and shovel on one hand and a coffin on the other. Various other items for the ritual were scattered about the floor--a squeeze bottle of water, the dish of cornmeal, and a large gourd rattle. Buffy knelt at the edge of the circle, taking candles as Anya handed them to her from the box and setting them up around the circumference. "...nineteen, twenty. There is no way that the people who come up with these things don't own major stock in a candle factory," she grumbled, setting the last of the fat white cylinders in place and rocking back on her heels. She was dressed in training gear--leggings, a pair of worn Nikes and a white tank top, with her hair pulled back into a ponytail. Willow flipped through a few more pages of the book she was consulting. "Are we sure this will work without the... you know? 'A speckled cock for Legba--to be killed by wringing its neck, not cutting its throat.' Cute little fluffy chickies? We can't kill cute little chickies." Tara wrinkled her nose. "Not to encourage the blood sacrifice concept, but you've never met any roosters personally, have you?" "There are other acceptable sacrifices," Giles said, keeping his attention on the near-complete vèvè and carefully releasing another thin stream of corn meal from between thumb and forefinger. There was something ironic--or a touch frightening--in the fact that Willow had been more willing to sacrifice a human soul than a rooster. He sometimes thought that it wasn't entirely for the best that some branches of modern Wiccan practice had so thoroughly expunged the darker aspects of the craft; it left the practitioners with no sense of proportion. "Voudoun ceremonies are remarkably amenable to, er, customization. It's the thought that counts, as it were. I've even corresponded with a vegetarian Quabbalist Mambo." Tara laughed. "You're kidding! I love it! Go syncretism!" Buffy and Anya exchanged blank looks. Tara looked as if she were about to launch into an explanation, then thought better of it and sighed. "I guess you have to be there." "We are here," Anya pointed out. "And yet the humor escapes us." "All things considered--" Giles propped a small wooden cross up in the center of the circle. "We should be grateful we're only dealing with the Rada loa. The Petro loa demand pigs, goats..." Occasionally people... He stepped over the ring of candles and out of the circle, careful not to disturb any of the cornmeal patterns. He contemplated the assemblage. There was something missing, the most important thing. What were the questions he should be asking? The obvious, of course; what was drawing the powers to Sunnydale in the absence of Hellmouth rumblings, ill omens, or prophecies of any type, and what, if anything, ought they do about it? But if one was summoning up a being reputed to give unfailingly accurate advice, the temptation to ask a few personal questions as well was nigh-overwhelming. Or even, he thought, a few less-personal questions. Candles disposed of, Buffy was limbering up, doing stretches by the weapons rack. She took one of the fencing sabers from the wall and began running through a few basic thrusts and parries, warming up for what was to come. She danced through the movements, graceful and deadly as the blades on the wall behind her, and Giles tried to put aside his personal affection and observe her with a Watcher's clinical detachment. She was near the top of her form these days, whipping through her training exercises with enthusiasm both gratifying and daunting. Any casual observer comparing the Buffy of four or five weeks past to the girl before him now would have opined that her health, physical and emotional, had improved immensely, and the degree of improvement correlated closely with the amount of time spent with Spike. The question was, was this something which would have occurred on its own as the effects of the Raising spell faded? Was it, as a sentimentalist might have claimed, the effects of true love? Or was some other factor at work? Buffy's exercises culminated in a full-extension lunge with the saber-tip pointing at the door. Spike appeared in the doorway a second later with a paper bag in the crook of one arm, looking sleepy (ten in the morning was an unholy time for him to be up) but unsinged; he must have come through the tunnels in the basement. Now the vampire raised an eyebrow at the sword leveled at his chest and waggled his free hand at Buffy. "Only five fingers here, Inigo." Buffy lowered the point of her sword with a grin and bounced to her feet, flinging her arms around his neck. "They look good together, don't they?" Tara said. "I'm not certain," Giles admitted. "I avert my eyes whenever it appears that physical contact is in the offing." Still, Tara was right; Buffy wasn't the only one who looked... he wasn't certain that one could apply the term 'healthier' to an animated corpse, but he couldn't think of anything more apt; Spike had quite lost the gaunt, hollow-eyed look he'd acquired over the summer. Giles adjusted the position of one of the candles by half an inch with the toe of his sneaker and risked a glance across the training room. Buffy still had an arm around Spike's waist and a proprietary thumb hooked through one of his belt loops, but the unseemly snog-fest had broken up and Spike was pulling things out of the paper bag: a pair of covered Styrofoam cups with the Kohlermann's logo on them, and a bottle of cheap white rum. "You have it?" Giles asked, walking over. Spike nodded. "Yeh, buckets of it. Benny was glad to be rid of it; normally he can't give the stuff away. At least pig's blood's got body to it. Gave me a ten percent discount too, and don't mention that to his Dad--not that one, you git, that's my breakfast. Give over." He tossed Giles the other container. Giles made a show of inspecting it, though he wasn't certain what he should be looking for; one pint of blood looked much like another to one unequipped to smell the difference. Blood from chickens of indeterminate sex and color, slaughtered at a civilized remove from the proceedings to spare the feelings of tender-hearted Wiccans; was there any virtue left in it, or would the loa dismiss it with as much disdain as Spike? Only one way to find out. He picked up the bottle of rum, and took it and the chicken blood over to the circle of candles to join the other offerings: a plate of roasted peanuts and cornbread, a handful of pennies and a wad of pipe tobacco. He unscrewed the cap and poured a measure of the rum into a paper cup, ripped open a little restaurant packet of pepper, and dumped it into the liquor. "This will, of necessity, be an abbreviated version of the full ceremony," he said, passing out photocopies of the responses as everyone took their places. "Unfortunately it wasn't possible to obtain the proper drapeau or--" "And the model's not to scale and you didn't have time to paint it." Xander rolled his copy up and beat out an experimental tattoo on the drum. The resulting noise was startlingly deep, rolling through the enclosed space of the training room like tame thunder. "Spinal Tap, here I come." Giles ignored him--ignoring Xander was often the only possible option--and picked up the rattle. "Places, everyone. Now, Xander." The drumroll sounded again, and Giles took a deep breath. "Annoncé, annoncé, annoncé!" Buffy leaped into the center of the room, twirling the saber behind and before, dancing backwards round the ring of candles and central cross and then forwards, saluting the cardinal points of the compass on her way. Revolution completed, she brought the blade up, poised for an instant on her toes. Spike stepped into her path, weaponless, an anticipatory grin on his face. Buffy smiled back, and struck; Spike dodged, and they were off, two magnificent animals evenly matched in speed and nearly so in strength. This was for show, only a shadow of the real battles they'd fought in the past, Giles knew, but even the shadow of that power and savagery was enough to catch the breath and speed the heart. Spike, of necessity, fought defensively, blocking, dodging, evading the lightning-swift darts of Buffy's blade. Now and again pain arced across his face as he made some move too aggressive for the chip's liking. Giles had rather expected the glint of lust in the vampire's eyes, but it was unnerving to see it reflected in Buffy's face. Both of them were breathing hard, completely absorbed in their dance. Buffy lunged forward, the tip of the saber aimed straight at Spike's heart; she was not holding back now, as the mock-battle reached its culmination. He doubled over backwards, falling to his knees and avoiding the thrust. Spike knelt before her, visibly aroused and grinning ear to ear as she pressed the sword-tip to his chest, nicking the royal-blue fabric of his shirt. Her eyes never left the his. Slowly, Buffy lowered the sword, dropping the point to rest on the floor between Spike's knees. Just as slowly, still with his eyes fixed upon hers, Spike bent his head and kissed the hilt. A tremor ran through Buffy's body as he did so, as if the weapon were an extension of her hand. Disturbing, very disturbing, but Giles couldn't afford to think about it just now. The spell broke; Spike rose, and the two of them backed away from one another, returning to the outskirts of the room. Willow and Tara, water bottles in hand, paced from opposite ends of the room towards the circle, pouring a stream of water behind them. As they passed, Giles intoned, "A Legba, qui garde la porte." Feet moving to the rhythm of Xander's inexpert drumming, the women pinwheeled out to the opposing set of walls and came back to the center once again, completing the crossroads of water. Giles set the offerings within the circle of candles, then knelt and picked up the dish of cornmeal, raising it overhead and drawing a crossroad in the air over the vèvès. Papa Legba, ovirier barriere pour moi agoe Papa Legba, ovirier barriere pour moi Attibon Legba, ovirier barriere pour moi passer Passer Vrai, loa moi passer m' a remerci loa moin. He set the dish down and picked up a candle, repeating the gesture. "Aux Loa de feu au Sud." He passed the fingers of his left hand through the candle-flame, too quickly to take hurt, and held his hand over the vèvè. "Ago! Ago-é!" the others chorused. Giles picked up another water bottle, feeling a frightening elation. Save for the summoning of the First Slayer, it had been years since he'd been part of this kind of ritual, and in those days he'd been calling on beings far more dangerous, but oh, yes, the rush was still there, the feeling of being outside oneself, caught up in something vast. He poured out the libation of water at the cardinal points around the circle, calling on the proper powers at each one before swinging into the mind-numbing repetition of the lapriyè. By the time it was over, eyes were beginning to glaze. Giles picked up the gourd rattle--no proper asson, lacking the beads and snake bones, but it would do, would serve--and made a sweeping gesture over the vèvès, as if to fling aside a veil. "A l'Espirit surtout, royaume de Bon Dieu. Pour les Marasa, Jumeaux sacrés qui se refléctent de chaque côté di mirior." Water spilled clear and lovely from the lip of the bottle, the drops spattering the carefully drawn lines of cornmeal, but that was right and proper at this stage, and Giles felt no regret. All things passed in their time. "Ago! Ghede! Ago! Ghede! Ago! Ghede! Ago-é!" Giles braced himself, took a mouthful of the peppered rum and spat it onto Ghede's vèvè; his mouth burned, but he scarcely noticed. Everyone except Xander shuffled into the center of the room to join the dance, and as they swirled round the ring of candles. Xander, still seated off to the side with the drum, was concentrating on keeping the beat, with no attention to spare for anything else. Willow and Tara stamped and swayed exuberantly, completely caught up in the rhythm of the ritual. Anya danced carefully, copying the steps he'd demonstrated earlier, as if she expected a test later. Buffy looked determined, and Spike looked embarrassed enough to combust on the spot, but this, Giles had made it very clear, was a participatory rite; there were no spectators. The drum rumbled on, counterpointing the slap and scuff of feet on concrete; each beat clear, very clear, each note distinct yet blending into an overarching framework of sound which permeated the room, the building, the world. ***** Bugger this. It wasn't that he didn't like dancing, because he did, and he was bloody well good at it, thank you very much, but that was dancing--be it waltz or a foxtrot or free-form modern dance club writhing, the point was you were talking to someone, body to body, pure communication unsullied by words. Dancing was a primal shout--yeah, world, this is me! And this thing they were doing now, he didn't know what it was, but it was all about talking to something too big to listen, one with the hymns he'd suffered through in his youth, and what if there was a beat to it? The whole purpose was to sublimate the self, not express it. Besides, how could he concentrate on some sodding ritual dance with the maddening scent of a Slayer on the rag in his nostrils? Blood and sweat and the hint of arousal, oh, more than a hint, she'd enjoyed their little dust-up every bit as much as he had and Christ he wanted to drag her away from this farce, spread those taut golden thighs and... White. He blinked, staggered. There was an illusion, when you stood on the platform at the back of a train while it pulled out of the station, that you were standing still and it was the world that was rushing away with ever-increasing speed, and it was like that now; everything was receding--well, why not, the universe was expanding at the speed of light... or something like that; what had he been thinking...? The drumbeat was a roaring in his inhumanly sensitive ears. His limbs froze, and he stumbled again. He was supposed to keep dancing. It was important. Giles had said so, and he respected old Rupert--didn't like him, of course, hello, vampire, and vampires don't like anyone and why the hell was he dancing again? And where was everything and everyone and who... White. ***** Spike's gone. Buffy whirled around in time to see Spike stumble and catch himself, breaking rhythm. Despite the fact that the familiar black-clad body was standing there right behind her, part of her remained absolutely convinced he was nowhere in... not sight, but whatever it was that told her he was here. Giles and the others broke ranks, piling up behind Spike. The drum faltered and fell silent as Xander realized that something had happened. Spike, or whatever was inhabiting his body, looked at her and broke into a lascivious grin, tongue-tip dancing across sharp white teeth--Spike, but not-Spike. "It's you again!" she blurted out. He bent over, and picked up the remains of the peppered rum, tossed it off and licked his lips. "You went and opened the door, ti-blanc," he said. It was Spike's voice, a touch more nasal than usual, but the intonations, the accent, were all wrong. "Why you so damned surprised when we walk through?" He stretched out one arm and examined it, twisting his hand back and forth so the muscles of his forearm rippled under the pale skin. "Fuck me, I got to get one of these. You smell good enough to eat, ma Cherie." It had been bad enough when Tara had been the one ridden by the loa; this was somehow infinitely worse. An irrational and extremely pissed-off voice in the back of her head was screaming Give him back, give him back, give him back! Buffy forcibly muffled it and pulled away as Giles stepped forward, the gourd rattle still clasped in his hand. "Papa Ghede," he said respectfully, "please accept the offerings we've brought, and favor us with your advice on the questions which trouble our minds." "There's offerings and offerings." Not-Spike grinned at Buffy again and grabbed his crotch. "You found the cock you was chasing, no? You had your mouth full of that drumstick often enough, Cherie; how come you still so hungry?" Buffy clenched her teeth and felt her face heating up; was it kosher to give the god you'd just summoned a good punch in the nose? Not-Spike just laughed and dropped to the floor cross-legged, grabbed the chicken blood and the roast peanuts and began crunching them down happily. "Good stuff. I like the barbeque flavor better, just so you know. So what's so damn important to ask Papa Ghede?" he said with his mouth full. Giles, somewhat nonplused at the informality of it all, squatted down beside the loa. "Well... I suppose the most important question is why are you here? I don't mean here specifically, or you specifically," he added hastily. "In the last week or two there's been an unusually high concentration of... well, for lack of a better term, emanations of the divine in and around Sunnydale. And yet we can find no prophecy to explain this--no apocalypses appear to be on the schedule. What does this mean?" Ghede finished off the chicken blood and took a pull from the bottle of rum. "The world's out of balance. Someone's got too many players on the field, and the other side's gone and bitched to the ref. There's rules, ti-blanc. There's limits and bounds, and someone's been stepping over them." He shrugged. "Something gonna snap soon." Before Giles could pose another question, Willow interrupted, her voice unwontedly shrill. "You mean the Balance, right? That it's gone out of whack? And we should all be doing anything we can to make sure the good guys win, right? Because last time, Acathla, Hell, cats and dogs living together--major badness!" Bright blue eyes darted to the witch's face, knowing. "You think Light should win? You try getting to sleep when the sun never sets. You think Dark should win? You try eating bread when the corn don't grow! You can't have a world without day and night both. Both sides, they fight like kids on a see-saw, but we in the middle, we know. The seesaw don't work without a weight on both sides. So we come to watch where the big fight is, and maybe we put a thumb on the scales... or maybe not." He winked, a conspiratorial grin lighting his face. Giles wrested back control of the conversation. "If the Balance is indeed being upset, what can we do to restore it?" Ghede threw back his head and laughed. "Take the extra players off the field--or switch the team shirts!" He finished off the last of the peanuts and began tearing into the cornbread. Possession didn't appear to make much difference in Spike's appetite. "Who are these extra players?" Those eyes came back to her, sparkling with amusement. "You see one every time you look in the mirror, Warrior of the People." A thread of panic entered her voice. Did someone mention cosmic retribution? "You don't mean--" "What I mean, I say. Now I'll answer the one you don't ask: Like calls to like, and opposites attract. Night and day make a world." He took a final swig of the rum and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "Looks like you're out of peanuts, Cherie. Tell my horse he do okay for le mort ti-blanc." Spike's face went slack and the blue eyes went white, rolling back in his head. The vampire collapsed, strings cut, and the bottle left his limp hand and clattered to the floor. Buffy dove for him, grabbing Spike's shoulders before his head could slam into the floor and pulling him upright again. He engaged in a brief struggle to sit up on his own, then melted woozily against Buffy, head cradled between her breasts. "What the bloody fuck...?" he croaked. Spike's back, Spike's back, Spike's back... Anyone else would have been gasping in agony at the amount of pressure her arms were exerting; Spike just grunted a little and burrowed into her shoulder. "You're not going to throw up, are you?" Buffy asked. It would have been a lot easier to sound casual and unworried if her voice hadn't kept cracking. "Because if you are, I'm dropping you, right now." Half a bottle of eighty-proof rotgut was barely enough to make an impression on vampire physiology, and Spike was a far more hardened carouser than Tara anyway. "M'fine, love. Not gonna sick up." He showed no signs of wanting to get to his feet any time soon; the possession itself seemed to have taken considerable toll. He aimed a bloodshot glare at Giles. "I've got you in my book, Rupert--if you ever snooker me into another--" "It was rather fascinating, wasn't it?" Giles was watching the two of them with an inscrutable expression. "I could have wished for more time..." "Well?" Spike hadn't grown any patience in his encounter with divinity. "What's the skinny then? Who do we kill?" Giles sat down on the pommel horse and began polishing his glasses. Buffy looked him. Go on, say it. Giles was always the one to say the necessary and unthinkable. But this time, all he did was drop his eyes and say nothing, nothing at all. Buffy's mouth tightened, and she hauled Spike to his feet. "I'm going to get him back to his crypt. Talk among yourselves." ***** No sun penetrated the lower levels of the crypt, but there was always light. Splayed in the middle of the four-poster bed, Buffy was lapped in mellow candlelight. Her hair spilled golden over the pillows, her head arched back upon the rumpled sheets that smelled of cigarettes and him--of both of them, now. Spike lay cradled between her legs, as still as she save for the tiny, subtle movement of lips and tongue in the secret places of her body, millimeter strokings and sucklings, all that was needed to coax her to the crest of yet another melting rapture. He could have brought her to the peak simply by breathing on her; three, six, who-knew-how-many previous climaxes had left her whole body pliant beyond measure to his touch, held together only by breath and exquisitely sensitive skin. She had barely the energy to sigh as the warmth within her swelled up again and flooded out through all her limbs. Good girls don't sleep with vampires. Spike's moan of delight segued into slurpy noises of the sort Dawn would doubtless have parlayed into a new jacket or three. At last he raised his head from between her thighs, licking his bloodstained lips with a dazed, glassy-eyed smile. "Nectar," he got out, his voice husky with satiety. "Nectar and sodding ambrosia. God, to think you've been going to waste for years... we've got a new rule from now on. Once a month we go to bed and don't get out for the next three days." Good girls don't fall in love with soulless monsters. "Spike, you're disgusting." "Yeh, and you love it." He pulled himself up the bed, elbow over elbow, her demon lover, terrible as an army with banners. His body was lean and taut-muscled as a racing greyhound's, arching over hers, hard for her again--perhaps Slayer's blood really was an aphrodisiac. He kissed her full on the mouth, and the taste of her own blood and come on his tongue was as rich and wild as pomegranates. His whispered endearments filled all the empty aching places of her heart, as his cock filled all the empty aching places of her body--so good, so full and whole she felt with him inside her! Spike moved within her, slow and sweet and gentle, fangs teasing her neck but never drawing blood--what need had he to steal what was freely given elsewhere? His beautiful face transfigured as they approached completion together: man to monster and back again, every aspect of him rapt in her. In the ruddy glow of candlelight his shoulders were scored beneath her searching hands, marked with swiftly-healing crisscross welts from the times before which had not been so gentle. Good girls don't bite and claw. Good girls are very careful never to break their boyfriends' bones or egos. Good girls save the world without wanting money for it. "Love?" His hands cradled her face as her breath hitched and tears rose in her eyes, large, strong hands, hands which had slain their ten thousands. His arms encircled her shoulders, holding her as tenderly as a mother her child, while Buffy sobbed against his chest, as utterly abandoned in grief as she had been in love. "Shh, love, Buffy-sweet, it's all right..." Good girls don't get turned on by sneaking out to kill things in the middle of the night. Good girls put duty above love, always. Good girls never, ever feel good about themselves. "It's not!" She tore the words ragged from her throat; they didn't want to leave. "I have so much I need to do! I have to have the sex talk with Dawn. We have a tree now, I have to buy Christmas presents--I have t-to find a job, just in case! And I love you, I love you so much! I can't--I don't--I don't want to die! I don't want to die! Spike, I d-don't w-w-want to--" "Then you won't!" Inhumanly strong fingers tightened on her shoulders, candlelight flared and danced in inhuman golden eyes and limned the serrated lines of bared fangs. Her beautiful monster, who had so much man in him. "I won't let it happen. I'll be dust before I let a one of them lay a finger on you or the Bit." Her Spike, who would live for her, die for her, kill for her, whom no really good girl would allow herself to love for precisely that reason. So you can't be a good girl, can you? "Will you stop me, then, if I have to jump again to make things right?" Spike's eyes dropped, unable to meet hers. And she, stupid girl, had thought the worst she'd have to face was the prospect of Spike killing someone else. "You know what it said. Tara said it was always right--" She pressed her face into his chest, feeling the cool firm muscle contract and shift beneath her cheek. "It can't just be that there's two Slayers, there's been two Slayers for years. I came back wrong. That's the only explanation. I came back wrong, and--" "Bollocks." Spike sat up, pulling her with him, stroking her hair as she had used to stroke Dawn's when Dawn had had a nightmare. "I'd know if you weren't Buffy. I'd know. There's something else, and we'll find it. Go home. Check on Dawn. Change for Anya's party. You'll feel better." He ran the pad of his thumb across her cheek, wiping away the tears, and his voice grew light and teasing. "Hell, pet, worse comes to worst I'll turn you. You'll have switched sides. End of problem." She punched his arm, and said "Asshole," with the inflection that meant 'I love you.' Don't you get it, Spike? I'm afraid that I already have.

Under Any Other Circumstances "This is where he lives?" Harry asked, standing across the narrow road and gazing speculatively at the small, unassuming Muggle house. Minerva McGonagall nodded tersely, her lips pressed into a tight line. "Harry, are you certain you wish to--" "Yes," Harry cut in before McGonagall could complete the question. "I want to. I have to." McGonagall nodded again. "Very well. But remember what I told you." "I know, I know. No mentioning the war, or Voldemort, or any of that stuff." "The man deserves some peace." After a short pause, McGonagall added, "He isn't the person you remember." "We'll see," Harry said. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and began walking toward the brick home. * * * * * Professor McGongall peered sternly down her nose at Harry from across her desk, making Harry feel like a first year who'd been caught breaking the no flying rule. Harry reminded himself that he was no longer a student and thus couldn't be given detention, and waited for McGonagall to explain the purpose of this meeting. As it turned out, he didn't have to wait long. "Harry, let me get right to the point," McGonagall said. "I'm concerned about you." "About me?" Harry asked, surprised. "Why?" "I hear from a number of sources that you've become quite interested in Severus Snape of late." Harry frowned. "I'm not interested in him," he attempted to explain. "It's just that I think he's still alive. Only no one believes me." "Your friends are worried about you. They think you're becoming obsessed with this notion." Shaking his head, Harry said, "Look, it makes sense. We never found his body, right? His portrait never appeared in the Headmasters' office. Snape survived years as a spy in Voldemort's inner circle. He wasn't the sort to go into a situation unprotected and unprepared, you know?" "Harry, you yourself reported Professor Snape's death to all of us. You witnessed it." "I know, but…" Harry paused to chew his bottom lip. "I might not have seen what I thought I saw at the time. I mean, I didn't exactly stop to check his pulse…" McGonagall sighed. "It's natural to want to blame yourself for his death, but there was nothing you could have done to prevent it. You're living too much in the past. You need to let it go and focus on your future now." "That's not it," Harry objected. "I don't blame myself for anything. I honestly think he's still alive, and I'm going to find him." He crossed his arms in a stubborn gesture. McGonagall removed her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "You're truly not going to let this go?" "No," Harry said flatly. "I'm sorry, Professor, but I'm not." "In that case, there's something I must tell you." "Oh?" Harry asked, uncrossing his arms and leaning forward. "You are correct. Severus Snape is alive." * * * * * The march to the front step of the house seemed to take an eternity. When they reached the door at last, Harry glanced once at McGonagall, then raised his hand to knock. A few agonizing moments later, the door swung inward and the imposing figure of Severus Snape stood peering out at them. Snape looked much as Harry remembered, if perhaps a bit older and more worn. He was still too thin, his nose still too large; a curtain of dark, lank hair didn't quite succeed in hiding a fine web of silvery scars on his neck. Harry fought down the urge to touch his own scar and shudder at the memory of what had happened in the Shrieking Shack. "Good afternoon, Minerva," Snape said before his gaze slid over and landed on Harry. Harry waited for the customary barrage of insults, but none came. There was no look of loathing, no spark of recognition in Snape's eyes at all. "Severus," McGonagall greeted. "It's good to see you. This is the young man I mentioned in my letter," she said, nodding toward Harry. "Ah, indeed," Snape said noncommittally. "Please, come in." Harry was vaguely astonished when Snape stepped aside and gestured for them to enter his home. Harry followed McGonagall inside, and Snape said, "Make yourselves comfortable. I'll start tea." As Snape disappeared into the kitchen, Harry had the opportunity to take in the room into which he'd been ushered. It was a small sitting room, simple but surprisingly cozy, with a sofa, wingback chair, and small table in the center and a fireplace to one side. The walls were entirely lined with book cases, their contents appearing neat and meticulously organized. Harry didn't know what he'd been expecting -- cobwebs and bats, perhaps -- but somehow this was very Snape, he decided. Settling a bit uneasily on the sofa beside McGonagall, Harry waited for Snape to return. A few minutes passed before Snape reentered the sitting room bearing a tea tray. He placed the tray on the table, then sat in the chair and looked across to Harry. "I must apologize for not remembering you, Mr...?" "Harry. Just call me Harry." The idea of Snape drawling "Mr. Potter" at him at every available opportunity didn't appeal to Harry in the slightest, whether Snape remembered him or not. "Very well... Harry. Minerva tells me you were one of my students." "Er, yes," Harry said. "I was your student for six years." "I must have been one of your favorite professors if you've gone to the trouble of coming to visit me," Snape remarked. "Well, uhm, not exactly," Harry hedged. "To tell you the truth, we never really got along." "Indeed," Snape said, leaning back into his chair with an expression of mild surprise. "Then I suppose you disrupted my classroom on a regular basis and I gave you detention at every turn." Harry smiled wryly. "Something like that, yeah." It wasn't entirely the case, but Harry wasn't about to tell Snape that he'd despised Harry and attempted to make his life miserable for no good reason. "In that case," Snape said, "one has to wonder why you would have bothered to come here at all." His tone was mild, but his eyes locked on Harry's and seemed to bore into them, seeking an answer. In that instant, Harry felt certain that Snape was as perceptive and calculating as ever. Willing Snape to see his sincerity, Harry held his gaze steady and said, "We might not have got along when I was your student, but later I came to appreciate everything you'd done for me. For all of us." Snape's expression didn't change. He was silent for one brief moment before he nodded his head slightly then turned his attention to McGonagall. "So Minerva. Tell me the latest news from the school at which I used to teach. How is the search for a new Herbology professor going?" Just like that, Snape changed the tide of the conversation, and the rest of the visit was spent with Snape and McGonagall pleasantly chatting about the recent goings-on at Hogwarts. McGonagall carefully avoided any reference to the war or the ongoing rebuilding efforts at the school, and Snape gave no indication that he was aware of any such events. As Harry sat in silence, he found himself studying Snape, fascinated by the ways in which he was both similar to, and distinctly unlike, the harsh professor that Harry remembered. As the brief visit drew to a close, Harry couldn't say what possessed him to abruptly ask, "Professor… Would it be all right if I came again sometime next week?" Harry held his breath as he waited for Snape's reply. After a long pause, Snape said, "I cannot think of any reason to deny you such a request." "Great," Harry said, oddly relieved. "Then I'll see you again soon." As they rose from their seats, Harry extended his hand to Snape. He couldn't help but be a bit surprised when Snape accepted the gesture and they shook hands for the first time in all the years of their acquaintance. Harry looked across at Snape and suddenly realized that they were of a height now. When had that happened? Perhaps Severus Snape wasn't such an imposing figure after all. * * * * * "What?!" Harry said. "What do you mean he's alive? How? Where is he? How many people know about this??" "One thing at a time," McGonagall said, firmly taking charge of the conversation once more. Harry sat back in his chair, anxious to have his questions answered but aware that he would not be able to rush the information out of his former Head of House. "After you reported Severus' death to me, I discreetly asked Kingsley Shacklebolt and Madam Pomfrey to investigate," McGonagall explained. "They went to the Shrieking Shack immediately and found Severus alive, but barely. Poppy later determined that he'd been taking an antivenin in anticipation of just such an attack. So it would seem you weren't entirely wrong about Severus not going into situations unprepared. "Nonetheless, he'd lost a great deal of blood and his recovery was very difficult. We nearly lost him a number of times. If Kingsley and Poppy had arrived any later than they did, or if Poppy were not so skilled as she is, I'm certain Severus would no longer be with us." "But he is. With us. Right? So where is he?" Harry asked, glancing around the office as though he expected Snape to materialize out of the shadows. "Someplace safe," McGonagall said. Crossing her hands on her desk, she leaned forward and fixed Harry with a severe look. "Only four people are aware that he is alive; Kingsley, Madam Pomfrey, myself, and now you. It must remain that way. If the wizarding world at large were to find out that he's alive, it could put him at terrible risk." "You think so? Even though I've made sure that everyone knows about everything he did for us and which side he was really on all that time?" "Not everyone is convinced of his heroism. The Wizengamot would almost certainly still want him to stand trial for his use of an Unforgivable curse. That is, assuming one of Voldemort's former supporters didn't find him and kill him first." "I suppose you're right," Harry said, blowing out a frustrated breath. "Still, knowing Snape, I'm surprised he hasn't marched right into the middle of the Ministry and demanded his Order of Merlin." "Perhaps he would if…" McGonagall frowned. "Harry, there's something else you should know." Concerned by those ominous words, Harry looked at McGonagall questioningly. "When he finally woke up, he didn't remember anything," McGonagall said. "Oh. Well that's not too unusual, right? I've heard lost of stories about people having accidents and waking up in hospital and not remembering what happened or how they got there." "No, Harry. I mean he doesn't remember anything." * * * * * "So you've returned." Snape spoke from the front doorway of his home. He stood with one hand on either side of the doorframe, his body blocking the entrance, and looked out at Harry with an inscrutable expression. Apparently he was back to being imposing. "I told you I would," Harry said, trying not to sound too defensive. "Indeed you did." As Snape continued to stare at him without saying anything more, Harry grew distinctly uncomfortable. "So. Er. Did I come at a bad time? Are you busy?" "No," Snape said, and shook his head slightly as though he were clearing it of a persistent thought. "No, of course not. Please, come in. I was just about to make tea." He stepped aside smoothly and gestured for Harry to enter. Harry was caught off guard by the sudden change in demeanor, but he quickly followed Snape inside. As before, Harry sat on the sofa while Snape disappeared into the kitchen to make tea. Snape returned a few minutes later, this time levitating the tea tray ahead of himself. "Oh," Harry said, "You remember how to do magic!" "As you can see," Snape said, lowering the tray to the table smoothly. "Why is it you can remember that if you can't remember anything about your life?" Snape took a seat across from Harry. "For the same reason that I can remember how to speak or make tea, I would assume." "Oh. Right." Although Snape didn't seem especially put out, Harry felt foolish for having brought up the potentially touchy subject of Snape's memory loss without thinking. Embarrassed, he busied himself with preparing a cup of tea. The pair sipped their tea in silence for what felt like an eternity to Harry. Desperate for a topic of conversation that wasn't off limits, he finally blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "I have a wedding next week." Snape raised an eyebrow. "You're getting married?" Harry nearly choked on his tea. "No! No, not me. My best friends are getting married. To each other. It's about time, really. They've been mad about each other since we were kids." "You've known them that long? Then I suppose these friends of yours were the bane of my existence when I was a professor as well." With a humorless smile, Harry replied, "Not as much as I was, I'd say." "Do they know you've visited me?" Snape asked, suddenly looking interested. "No, I haven't told them anything." Belatedly realizing how his words might be taken, he added, "Not that I'm ashamed of it or anything. Professor McGonagall has just asked me to keep quiet about it for now. She doesn't want too many people, er, bothering you." "Yes, she does seem rather… protective," Snape said, frowning. "It's only fair, really," Harry said, shrugging. "You looked out for all of us all those years. I suppose she's only trying to return the favor." "Hmm," was Snape's only response before he looked away and appeared to consider Harry's words. Worried that the conversation would lapse into uncomfortable silence again, Harry quickly resumed talking. "I'm the best man at the wedding. Which is an honor, of course. But I'm terrified I'm going to lose the ring or something equally stupid and disastrous." "Yes, I see your point," Snape said. "And I have to make the toast to the couple!" Harry went on. "I'm terrible at public speaking and have no idea what to say." "If the wedding is next week, you'd best figure it out quickly." Harry groaned, set his tea cup down, and buried his head in his hands. "It can't be that difficult. Why don't you just say the same thing you said to me?" Snape suggested. "That they've been "mad about each other," as you put it, for years, and this union is long overdue. They deserve each other, I'm sure…" Grinning, Harry tilted his head up to look at Snape. "That's pretty funny." "What is?" Snape asked, sounding as though he were a bit peeved to not be in on the joke. "You giving advice to me," Harry said. "I never thought I'd see the day." "Hmph. I shall endeavor to refrain from doing so in future." Snape suddenly sounded very much like his old self, and oddly, it set Harry at ease. "Professor," he said, "Would you mind if I came again next week, after the wedding? So I can tell you how it went?" "You're not bored with me yet?" Snape asked. "I've called you a lot of things over the years, but "boring" has never been one of them," Harry said. "Then once again I cannot think of a reason to deny you." "Yeah," Harry said. "Sorry about that." * * * * * "Well, how was the wedding?" It was the day after Ron and Hermione's wedding, and Harry once more found himself sitting in Snape's home with a cup of tea in his hands. He'd received a warmer reception from Snape this time -- as warm as Snape ever got at any rate, Harry figured -- and he felt considerably more at ease. "It went really well," Harry said. "Ron was so nervous that I didn't have time to worry about myself. He looked so awful, for a while I thought he would sick up all over the cake! But there were no serious blunders in the end. And no, before you ask, I didn't lose the ring." "Thank goodness for small favors," Snape quipped. "And how was your speech?" "Everyone said I did great, so it must have been all right. Thanks for your advice on that, by the way. It really helped. I was definitely over-thinking it." "You're welcome," Snape said. "But don’t expect it to happen again." Harry couldn't help but laugh. Somehow it was comforting to know that Snape, although he had lost his memories, had not lost his sarcasm in the least. "What about you?" Snape asked. "Will you be next to follow in your friends' respectable footsteps and immerse yourself in matrimonial bliss?" "What, me?" Harry said. "No, definitely not." "There's no serious girlfriend, then?" Snape pressed. "There's no girlfriend at all!" "Hmm. How very unexpected." "Well, there was a girlfriend, for quite a while, actually. But," Harry shrugged, "I guess it didn't work out." "Oh? And why didn't it?" Harry looked into his tea cup while he decided upon an answer to Snape's question. At last he said, "You know, when Ginny and I split up last year, we told everyone it was because we weren't ready to settle down yet. We were too young, we both wanted careers first, that sort of thing. But the truth is…" He looked up from his tea to Snape once more. "Have you ever wanted something really badly for a very long time? But then, when you got it, you realized it wasn't what you wanted after all?" Snape met Harry's gaze for a drawn out moment before he replied, "I wouldn't know about that, regrettably." "Oh. Of course not," Harry said, shaking his head. He was startled at how quickly he had forgotten that Snape had lost his memories -- or that the man sitting across from him was Snape at all, really. The very notion of relating his relationship woes to Snape the snarling, Gryffindor-hating Potions Master made Harry grin at the absurdity. "What?" Snape asked, frowning at Harry's change in expression. With a chuckle, Harry said, "Nothing. It's only that there was a time when you would have just as soon dumped a jar of lizard spleens on my head as listened to me mope about my love life." "Preposterous," Snape grunted. "That would have been a dreadful waste of lizard spleens." * * * * * "Anything?" Harry asked. "You mean… Are you saying he has complete amnesia?" "I'm afraid so," McGonagall replied. "We don't know the precise cause. We can only assume it's a result of the terrible physical shock his body sustained. Poppy initially thought that it might wear off fairly quickly, but it's now been well over a year, and he has shown no sign of regaining any memory whatsoever." "So he doesn't remember the war, or Voldemort, or Professor Dumbledore, or being a spy. Or my mum, or Hogwarts, or me." Harry's mind whirled as he attempted to process this information. He couldn't imagine Snape being Snape without those things. "No," McGonagall said. "And to be honest, Harry, I believe it might be for the best." Harry nodded slowly. He didn't need to be told that Snape would have very few pleasant memories to regain. "I need to see him," Harry said. McGonagall sighed. "I expected you would say that." Harry opened his mouth to speak, but McGonagall held up her hand, silencing him. "I will allow it. Under two conditions. First, you must not let anyone know that he is alive or that you have seen him." "Of course," Harry said. "Second, you must not talk about the war or attempt to remind him of his prior life. If he regains his memory, he will do so in his own time. For now, he has earned the repose." * * * * * "…but of course, they thought you were trying to kill me. So Hermione snuck up behind you from beneath the bleachers and set your robes on fire. Not exactly subtle of her, but it was definitely effective!" "Well, I am given to understand that subtlety is not a Gryffindor's strong suit," Snape said, the corner of his mouth twitching up into a small smirk. "As much as I might like to, I suppose I really can't argue with that," Harry chuckled. Harry never would have dared to bring up such topics with the old Snape for fear that he'd be hexed inside out before he could say "oops, bad idea." However, the new Snape (as Harry sometimes thought of him now) seemed to be amused by the tales of Harry's more dubious exploits. Harry, too, enjoyed recounting the stories to Snape, since it was a bit like confessing his misdeeds and reliving fond memories at the same time. Over the past weeks, Harry had continued to return to Snape's home, and his visits had gradually become more frequent and longer in duration. Somewhere along the way, the usual tea had begun to be replaced by beer or wine from time to time. While Snape was still as sarcastic as ever, Harry had developed an appreciation for his quick wit, and he found himself increasingly drawn to Snape's company. Yet, it was growing more and more difficult for Harry to talk to Snape without making reference to the war. For better or worse, it had been a huge part of his life for many years, and it wasn't easy to simply omit it. And, although Harry didn't wish to dwell excessively on those events, he sometimes thought that it might be nice to be able to discuss them with the person who was probably best able to understand what Harry had endured. Except that Snape wasn't that person anymore. Harry still couldn't decide how he felt about that. On one hand, Snape never would have allowed Harry to set foot through the front door of his home, let alone visit repeatedly, had he remembered who Harry was. But on the other hand, without his memories, Snape could never know how thankful Harry was for everything that he'd done. With a sigh, Harry set his half-empty glass of beer aside and leaned back in his seat. "Professor," he said, "Don't you ever wonder about your old life?" Snape lifted an eyebrow. "What do you mean?" "I mean, you never ask me about the past. It's like you're not even trying to remember." "Trying to remember doesn't seem to have any particular effect, and in fact appears to be a rather fruitless endeavor," Snape said, his tone dry. "I prefer to simply engage in something that passes for normal conversation. All things considered, I should think you would prefer that as well." "Yeah, you're probably right," Harry said. "Even so… Look, there's something I want to say. I know Professor McGonagall doesn't want me to talk about this, but…" He trailed off and shrugged. "Ah. I'd suspected she'd given you some instructions of that nature. I am also given to understand that a Gryffindor is not prone to following instructions terribly well. I suppose you'd best just spit it out, whatever it is." "Professor, that's the first time you've ever given me permission to break a rule!" Harry laughed at the irony. "Judging from the stories you tell, this is the first time your rule-breaking hasn't been directly injurious to me." "Point taken." Harry grinned briefly, then turned somber again. "There was a war," he said. "Against a powerful dark wizard and his followers. You were a hero of that war. You did more than any of us, sacrificed more than anyone to stop Voldemort. I know you don't remember it, but I want you to know how much I appreciate everything you did, even if you didn't do it for me. I think you're probably the bravest person I've ever met." Snape steepled his fingers and looked past Harry at some distant point. He was silent for so long that Harry began to worry that he'd said something terribly wrong. "Professor..?" he asked tentatively. "Harry," Snape said, abruptly focusing on Harry once more. "I've not been a professor in some time. You may call me Severus." * * * * * Harry yawned again. "Am I boring you?" Snape asked in that tone which Harry had come to interpret as amusement rather than true ire. Flashing a groggy smile, Harry said, "'Course not. Told you before, boring's about the last thing I'd ever call you. 'S just really late. I ought to go, I suppose." Harry's visits with Snape had grown longer still, and the two frequently talked late into the evening. The conversation seemed more relaxed now that Harry didn't have to be constantly wary to avoid any mention of the war. This time, however, Harry had lost track of the time and had stayed longer than he'd intended. He'd also drank more wine than he'd intended. He realized the latter when he rose to leave and the room spun sharply to the left. Harry leaned to the right to compensate, and it was only Snape's quick reflexes that prevented him from ending in an ungainly sprawl on the floor. As he stumbled into Snape's outstretched arms, Harry giggled. "There you go saving me again. My hero." "Old habits die hard," Snape said. "Next time I should let you fall on your scrawny arse." "Hey!" Harry protested. "My arse isn't scrawny!" Snape rolled his eyes. "I stand corrected." He placed one hand on Harry's chest and gave him a firm shove, sending him flopping back down onto the sofa. "You're in no condition to Apparate. Your ample arse will end up in Aberdeen." Head lolling back into the cushions, Harry said, "Be damned if I'm taking the Knight Bus." "You're sleeping here," Snape declared. In a muttered tone, he added, "I hope my sofa gives you a backache." "I'm sure I deserve it," Harry said, already stretching out and making himself comfortable. As he closed his eyes, he heard Snape snort lightly, then felt a blanket being tossed over him. A thought came to him then and he said, "Hey, Sev'rus. Why were you surprised when I told you I didn't have a girlfriend?" "I assumed you were still in denial," Snape deadpanned. "Go to sleep, you inebriate." "Ha. Ha," Harry managed to mumble, already following Snape's order. All was darkness and silence for some time, and Harry thought he might have dreamed it when he heard Snape say, "And because I simply cannot imagine anyone not wanting you. Miss Weasley is a colossal fool." * * * * * When Harry awoke on Snape's sofa, he didn't care about much of anything besides the herd of hippogriffs tap dancing on his skull. Once the pounding subsided, however, he remembered Snape's final words from the night before. Although the memory was vague, the more Harry thought about it, the more he was certain he hadn't dreamed it. Again and again Harry turned Snape's words over in his head, but no matter how much he examined them, he kept coming back to the same conclusion. There was only one possible way to interpret Snape's declaration. Yet the notion was completely absurd. Snape couldn't honestly be attracted to Harry… could he? Under any other circumstances, Harry would have declared it impossible. But Snape no longer remembered ever having hated Harry; no longer remembered their past animosity and many confrontations. Over the last few months, they'd come to know each other as friends and equals. It wasn't entirely out of the question that Snape could have developed some… feelings. The question, then, was how did Harry feel about Snape? And what, if anything, should he do about it? They seemed to get on well enough now, but if Snape ever regained his memories, he'd almost certainly hex Harry into oblivion. Harry wasn't sure it was worth the risk. Despite appearances to the contrary, he didn't have a death wish. "…so I've decided that the best course of action would be to give up modern comforts, move to New Guinea, and run naked with the native wildlife for the remainder of my days." "I'm sorry, what?" Harry said. Snape gave a long-suffering sigh. "Exactly when did you stop paying attention? Was it before or after I said, "Good evening, Harry; do come in?"" Harry smiled sheepishly. "I'm sorry, Severus, really. My mind has been on something else lately." "Whatever it is, I do hope it's at least--" "Did you mean what you said the other night?" Harry asked suddenly. Clearly taken aback, Snape blinked. "I don't suppose you could be more specific?" "Did you mean what you said when I asked you why you were surprised that I didn't have a girlfriend?" Harry clarified. "What, when I implied that you came across as a flaming shirt-lifter upon first meeting?" Snape asked. "Yes, I'm afraid it's true." "No, the part that came after that," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "I have no idea what you're on about." Snape sounded just a bit too defensive to Harry's ears. "Yes you do. You said that you couldn't imagine anyone not wanting me, and that Ginny was a fool." "I most certainly did not," Snape insisted, but the flush blooming on his pale cheeks said otherwise. In that instant, Harry knew with complete certainty that he hadn't imagined Snape's answer that night, and that he'd interpreted it correctly. He also knew what he wanted to do about it. "You did." Harry spoke the words very softly, but with absolute conviction. Slowly, Harry stood and took two paces forward, coming to a stop before Snape's chair. He leaned down until his hands met the armrests of the chair and his face was mere inches from Severus'. Again he asked, "Did you mean it?" Harry's heart pounded in his chest and his legs trembled as he waited for Snape's response. Gryffindor courage only went so far. He watched as something like uncertainty flashed through Snape's dark eyes. Then, barely above a whisper, Snape said, "Yes." It was all the encouragement Harry required. He moved forward until his lips met Snape's, the barest of brushes, a question more than a demand. In answer, Snape brought one hand up to cradle the back of Harry's neck, held him firmly in place, and deepened the kiss. Then Snape was grabbing fistfuls of Harry's clothing, pulling Harry to him roughly. Harry complied eagerly, climbing into the chair until he was straddling Snape's thighs. Suddenly Snape's hands were everywhere, tugging at Harry's clothing, tangling in his hair, and it was all Harry could do to just hold on to Snape and remember to breathe. The speed with which Harry's cock rose only served to prove how right this was, how much Harry wanted this. With a low moan, he rocked forward to rub against Snape's body, seeking friction, and immediately found an answering hardness. Snape gasped at the motion, and Harry's cock throbbed in his denims. Losing any semblance of patience, Harry tore at the fastenings of Snape's robes, unmindful of the possibility of lost buttons or ripped fabric. Apparently determined not to be the only one exposed, Snape reached for the placket of Harry's trousers, popped the button and pulled down the zip. In the race to see who could get the other's prick free first, Harry won. As he wrapped his fingers around Snape and felt him twitch in his hand, he wasn't certain whether the resulting groan came from Snape or himself. Harry began to stroke Snape, running his thumb over the tip, smearing the copious fluid he found there. Snape's head dropped back and his fingers dug hard into the arms of the chair. Harry's own neglected cock bobbed and jerked in the air, and abruptly Harry developed an idea. Shifting forward a bit, Harry aligned his cock with Snape's and encircled them both in his hands. Harry looked down, fascinated by the view of the two of them pressed against each other in his grip. He quickly found a rhythm, their mingled precome making everything slick, making hot, wet sounds to accompany moans and pants. Snape closed his own hands over Harry's, increasing the pressure. Breathing hard, they moved together, thrusting up into Harry's grip. Harry felt Snape tremble beneath him, every muscle taut as a bowstring. "Harry," Snape gasped. "I…" "God, yes," Harry groaned. Snape made a strangled noise in his throat as he came hard. Hot fluid spurted up, landed on Snape's chest, flooded Harry's hands. It was too much for Harry. Releasing Snape, he wrapped his fingers around himself and tugged frantically. "Oh god, oh god," he chanted mindlessly, just before he bucked forward and added his own come to Snape's. Harry collapsed against Snape, utterly spent. Some indeterminate amount of time passed as their pulses slowed and their breathing returned to normal. At some point, Snape had the presence of mind to cast a cleaning charm and readjust their clothing. It was fairly impressive, really, since Harry was still attempting to remember how to speak. "Wow," Harry said at last. "That was… I just… wow." "Indeed," Snape said, running his hands idly up Harry's back. "As eloquent as usual, Mr. Potter, but in this instance I have to agree with the underlying sentiment." Chuckling, Harry rested his forehead against Snape's shoulder. Then the import of Snape's words hit him like a bucket of cold water. Abruptly tensing, Harry slid off Snape's lap and began backing away slowly. "Mr. Potter?" he repeated, shaking his head. "I never told you my last name." "Harry, wait," Snape said, not moving from the chair. "You bastard! You've been faking it! All this time?!" Harry continued to back up until he was stopped by the front door. "Harry, listen to me--" "No!" Harry shouted. "No, I've listened to you enough! I've listened to you for months while you've lied to me!" "I haven't lied to you," Snape said. "Oh, sure! You haven't lied. You've just failed to include a few minor details!" Fuming and completely unable to articulate how very manipulated and betrayed he felt, Harry settled for shouting, "Fuck you, Snape!" Then he spun and reached for the doorknob. Before Harry could fumble the door open, Snape vaulted from his chair and flew across the room. "Harry, wait, please," he said, grabbing Harry's arm. "It wasn't my intention to deceive you. Don't leave. I'm sorry!" Startled by Snape's ardor, Harry released the doorknob and turned. As he looked into Snape's openly anguished face, he suddenly remembered a vision of a much younger Snape standing outside the Gryffindor common room, begging a red-haired girl to forgive him. "I'm sorry," Snape said again. Harry's ire melted away. "Okay," Harry said. "Okay. But… Severus… Why?" Dropping Harry's arm, Snape sighed and began to pace the small room. "Self-preservation," he said. "When I first awoke, I truly didn't recall much of what had happened. Minerva and Pomfrey assumed my memory loss was greater than it was, and I didn't see any reason to dissuade them in this belief. By pretending amnesia, I could ensure that they would keep my existence secret while supplying me a certain amount of information about the wizarding world." "And if you ever decided to disappear without a trace," Harry said, "you'd catch them completely off guard and no one would ever find you." "Yes, that as well," Snape conceded. "So why didn't you tell me the truth?" Harry asked. "I didn't expect you to keep coming back." "But I did," Harry said. Snape shrugged. "And then I grew… accustomed to things the way they were." Feeling his anger spike again, Harry said, "You continued to lie to me because you were accustomed to it?" "I didn't lie," Snape insisted. He huffed in annoyance and crossed his arms, but the gesture looked defensive to Harry. "We were getting on well enough. I didn't see the point in complicating matters. You seemed to be content with our association." Gradually, Harry began to understand what Snape wasn't saying. "You thought it would ruin everything if you told me you remembered it all. You thought I'd see you differently," he said. Snape issued a faint snort, but did not argue with Harry's assessment. As Harry left the front door and moved towards Snape again, he asked, "Why did you care that much?" For several moments, it seemed as though Snape wouldn't answer, but at last he said, "You were the only one who didn't wish to coddle me, nor did you attempt to use my "amnesia" for your own benefit. You were always surprisingly forthright." Harry couldn't help it. The hilarity of the situation struck him, and he nearly doubled over with uproarious laughter. Snape's frown deepened to a full-fledged scowl. "I'm pleased to know I've provided you with such an ample source of amusement these past months," he said, his voice dangerously cool. "Severus, no, it's not that," Harry said, shaking his head and attempting to gain control over his mirth. "It's just… You have to see the irony. You came to likeme because I was honest with you, so you tried to keep me around by being dishonest? I think there might have been a tiny flaw in your plan!' "I do not need you to point out the irony to me, you cheeky brat. I'm shocked you even know what the word means," Snape groused. However, Harry could tell that his true anger had been defused. Still snickering, Harry said, "Oh, it must have killed you when I showed up on your front doorstep and you had to be nice to me!" "You have no idea," Snape said. "You completely deserved it, you know." Snape's features softened as he looked at Harry and said, "No, I'm quite sure I didn't." Feeling his face heat, Harry slid his arms around Snape. "So what happens next?" he asked. "Next? You continue to visit me on a regular basis. Sooner or later, I imagine your presence might trigger a resurgence of my memories. Perhaps the strain of keeping our association a secret will eventually prove too great for you, and you'll tell a few trustworthy individuals that I am alive. You'll confess this to me, of course. And then, if those individuals have taken the news reasonably well, maybe -- just maybe, mind you -- you'll be able to convince me to reveal myself to the rest of the world." Harry's jaw dropped in astonishment. "You've actually thought about this," he said. "I've merely considered a variety of possibilities." "Well. I'm better at taking things one step at a time than thinking several moves ahead, personally," Harry said. "For right now, I'll just settle for spending the night. May I?" "Once again, Mr. Potter, I cannot think of any reason to deny you," Snape replied. Smirking, he added, "Besides, if I haven't managed to rid myself of you these past months, I don't imagine you'll take no for an answer and leave now." "Under the circumstances, I imagine you're right," Harry said. "And don't you forget it."

Perfect. Just perfect. Blair was going to be back any second -- there he was now, starting down the hallway to the office. Frantically, dirt crumbling beneath his fingers, Jim shoved roots and dirt all the way back into the pot, straightening out the stalks and patting the dirt's surface more or less flat. He was not admitting to this, not after telling Blair earlier that he'd never dropped anything during a move in his life. He'd never hear the end of it. He checked for footsteps again: halfway down the hallway. He had about fifteen seconds. One glance at the dirt still on the floor was enough to convince him he'd never get it cleaned up before Blair got back. Grimacing, he did the only thing he could -- kicked it under the desk. A quick wipe of his hands on the rag shoved into his back pocket left them looking no dirtier than would be expected after an afternoon of moving dusty, grimy boxes and books and god knows what else. By the time Blair walked in the door a few seconds later, the plant was sitting innocently on the edge of the desk, and Jim had his arms full of the last box of books. "Hey, Chief. Looks like we're about done here." "Yeah," Blair agreed. He ran one finger along a scarred filing cabinet. "Kinda hard to believe. I've gotten so used to this place...." Jim hitched the box up more securely, and tilted his head toward the plant. "C'mon, just one more trip. You grab that." "Right." Blair took a deep breath and picked up the plant, turning and walking out the door without a backward glance, Jim a step behind him. A couple of hours later, Jim emptied the last of the books onto a shelf and tossed the box into the corner with the others. "We done here, Chief?" He stretched, then glanced over at Blair. "Yeah, I think so. I can take care of the rest later." "Finally," Jim muttered. Blair ignored him. "I can't get over the windows. I mean, I have a view. Too weird." "Should suit you, then," Jim said. Blair turned away from the window to make a face at him. "And the windows are a good thing," Jim added. "You're less likely to develop a vitamin D deficiency here." "Hah, hah." "No, really, your color's better already. Those windows are really making a difference." "You slay me, man, you really do." Jim grinned. "C'mon, you can admire everything more on Monday. There's cold beer at home." "That sounds so good," Blair said. He glanced around his new office one more time, shaking his head. "Too weird," he murmured again. Jim picked up both their jackets and stood next to the door. "Chief?" "Yep, coming." They made it home in record time, and less than a minute after walking in the door were leaning side by side against the counter drinking in companionable silence. Jim drained the last of his beer and turned to rinse out the bottle, leaving it beside the sink. "Okay. I'm claiming seniority." Blair opened his mouth then wisely shut it again. Jim mock-glared a second longer just to be sure. "I'm taking a shower." "Please," Blair said, wrinkling his nose and waving a hand in front of his face. Jim laughed and aimed a swat at him. Blair ducked out of reach, grinning, but Jim faked him out and caught him in a headlock. "Some respect for your elders, if you please," he said, tightening his arm a bit. Blair just laughed into his chest, arm circling Jim's back to hold himself steady. Jim held them there for a moment, letting warmth soak into him from both sides. Reluctantly, he let Blair go, sliding his hand along until he could cup the back of Blair's neck, then shaking him lightly and giving him a little shove away, grinning at him. Blair just drew himself up and tried to look stern. "You just wait, pal, you'll get yours. I know all your weaknesses, remember." "In your dreams, Sandburg," Jim said over his shoulder as he headed for the bathroom. "I can hear you coming a mile away." With Blair's "Hah!" floating behind him, Jim headed for the bathroom and the shower he'd been wanting for the past two hours at least. He relaxed under the hot spray, feeling the grime slide off him. A hot shower, a pizza, a game on the tube, just him and Blair -- perfect end to a good day. Jim jingled his keys softly as he walked down the corridor, humming to himself. Automatically, he focused on Blair's office, not wanting to interrupt him with a student, and slowed when he heard Blair's voice. He stopped dead for a second as he realized what he was hearing, then ghosted forward, hand wrapped around his keys to silence them. He eased up to the partially opened door and let his eyes confirm the situation inside. "C'mon, Wayfarer, you can do it, I know you can. Reach for that sunshine! Atta boy, you'll be okay. Big tough guy like you, you can take a little move, right?" Jim couldn't contain his grin at the sight. Blair stood at the windowsill, gesturing ceilingward with one hand as he carefully watered a plant. Focusing on the object of Blair's attention, Jim recognized it as the one he'd dropped the other day. He slid silently forward another couple steps, propping himself up on the doorjamb. "Wayfarer?" "Jim!" Blair spun, water droplets flying from the mouth of the bottle he'd been using, worried frown smoothing out into a grin. "How long have you been standing there?" "Long enough to hear your patented flora pep talk. Wayfarer? Kind of a weird name for something without feet, don't you think?" Blair didn't even have the grace to look embarrassed, just grinned more broadly and turned back to finish his careful watering. "It suits him," he said cheerfully. "And I'm just trying to get him in touch with his inner jungle self." "'Inner jungle self'?" Jim asked in disbelief, a laugh gusting out of him. "Okay, Chief, if you say so. You hungry?" He bounced his keys in his hand. "I thought we could go to that new coffeehouse for a sandwich. My treat." "Damn right, your treat. I told you the Pacers had that game sewed up. You owe me, man." "Yeah, yeah," Jim said. "Lucky guess. So? Food?" "I could eat," Blair agreed. He put down the bottle after dribbling a few more drops carefully onto the soil and grabbed his jacket. "But we're not going to a coffeehouse. We're going to Michael's." "Michael's?! Over on Pine? Jeez, Sandburg...." "You back the wrong team, you gotta pay the price," Blair said serenely as he walked past Jim into the corridor. Jim lunged, but Blair was ready and took off sprinting. Laughing, Jim chased him all the way to the truck, where Blair collapsed panting. "Safe!" he crowed. "You cheated," Jim said, leaning on the truck and dragging in air. "Hey, all's fair, man." "Clichés can't save you, Sandburg." "Tough guy," Blair mocked. "And don't be a sore loser. C'mon, I'm starving." "Oh, sure, he expects me to still buy him lunch...." "Damn straight. That one I won fair and square." Conceding defeat, Jim pushed himself off the truck. "Get in, then, Bruce Jenner." "Yes!" Blair said, punching the air in triumph. "Winnah and still champeen!" "Don't push your luck," Jim growled, grinning, as he shoved the other man toward the door. Blair just laughed as he climbed in. As soon as Jim settled himself behind the wheel, Blair pointed regally out the windshield. "Michael's, Jeeves. And don't spare the horses." Jim just shook his head and turned the key. This was gonna be a long lunch. Once they'd been seated and served, though, he had to admit, Michael's had been a good choice. Not too fancy, just quiet and comfortable and with a damn good prime rib. "Good filet mignon, there, Chief?" "Perfect," Blair agreed after he swallowed a mouthful. "I still think a hamburger would have made you just as happy." Blair grinned at him and ostentatiously cut off another piece of his steak, putting it in his mouth and chewing blissfully. His eyes even closed. "Mmmm." Jim found himself memorizing the look on Blair's face, the way his nostrils flared, the way the skin between his eyebrows first smoothed out then creased as Blair's brows drew together, the way his tongue darted out to catch a bit of juice on his lips. The image got stored with the others, safely away from anywhere they might interfere with everyday stuff. Those images were kept for purely private moments, hoarded against the day there would be no more lunches with Blair, no more truck trips, no more bets over basketball games, no more sharing the last beer because they were too lazy to go out for more. Hoarded against the day Blair moved on, and left him with just the images to hold on to. Blair swallowed, sighed happily, and slowly opened his eyes. Jim grinned. "Enjoyed that, huh?" "Oh, yeah." Blair grinned back and attacked his green beans. "So what are you doing this afternoon, anyway? New case come up?" "Nah, still running checks on the Townsend case. You gonna finish those mashed potatoes?" "Eat your own potato!" Blair said, indignant. "I did already." Blair, without an ounce of compassion, sat there and ate his mashed potatoes at Jim until they were gone. Jim glanced up from the paper as Blair walked in. "Hey, Chief." "Hey, Jim." "There's pizza in the fridge -- I didn't feel like cooking anything." "Cool, thanks." Jim kept watching as Blair hung up his jacket then picked up the backpack he'd dropped at his feet. "Everything okay?" "Yeah, sure, everything's fine, why?" "I dunno, you look... I dunno. Never mind." "Okay." Blair walked past him into his room, putting his backpack down on the desk and unzipping it. Carefully, he lifted something out and carried it across to his shelves. Jim recognized the markings on it. It was the pot he had dropped on the floor a week or so earlier -- with no plant in sight. Apparently you couldn't just stuff a plant back in its pot and pretend nothing had ever happened. A twinge of guilt made Jim put the paper down and go to Blair's door. "Wayfarer didn't make it, huh?" "Nope." "I'm sorry, Chief." Blair turned and smiled easily, his fingers sliding off the pot's curved side. "No big deal, man, it was just a plant. Hope you got mushrooms on the pizza." "I did on your half," Jim said, backing out of the doorway and heading for the couch as Blair walked to the kitchen. "Can you grab me a beer while you're in there?" "Sure." Blair turned the oven on, then poked around in the fridge for a minute, Jim tracking his movements by sound. Orange juice, water, bowl of whatever-it-was that Blair was planning on having for dinner tomorrow, which had been "marinating" since yesterday. "Wrong shelf," he called. "Wrong shelf for beer," Blair corrected. "Ah, here we go." He pulled out something plastic and opened it. Jim wrinkled his nose as a pungent odor filled the air. "What is that?" "Something Steve gave me to try the next time we had pizza. Says it jazzes it up." "Just tell me it's legal." Blair snorted and pulled out the pizza box, letting the refrigerator door swing shut as he turned to the counter. He dumped the pizza onto a cookie sheet, sprinkling the whatever-it-was on top, then stuck it in the oven and turned back to the fridge. Jim frowned again, staring blindly at the tv, remote clutched in his hand. No running commentary about what Blair had just added to the pizza, no promises of gustatory heaven tomorrow as he'd moved the marinating... stuff. Nothing. Vaguely, he recognized the sounds of glass bottles clinking, but didn't really register them until he felt cold approaching the back of his neck. "Try it and you lose that hand at the wrist, Sandburg." "You are no fun at all," Blair complained, stopping the bottle less than an inch from Jim's skin. Jim rolled his head a bit, enjoying the contrast of bottle-chill and Blair-warm air on his skin, and reached a hand up over his shoulder. Muttering something Jim chose not to hear, Blair put the bottle in his hand and swung around the side of the couch to drop down beside him. "So what's on?" "No idea," Jim admitted, and started flipping channels. Blair didn't offer any suggestions, and Jim looked at him sidelong. Silently, he settled on the show they probably would have compromised on -- a Simpsons rerun -- and settled back to watch. Blair got up at the next commercial to rescue his pizza and took it to the table to eat, pushing aside Jim's paper. "So does that stuff help?" Jim asked finally. "Huh?" "That stuff. On the pizza. Better?" "Oh. Yeah." "Good." More silence then, broken only by the television. Jim found a movie after The Simpsons ended, one that Blair had been telling him for two years he just had to see, and Blair came back to the couch when he'd finished his dinner. "You want another beer?" Blair held up his half-finished bottle. "I'm good." Jim nodded and got up to get himself one, giving the whatever-it-was in the bowl another suspicious look as he opened the fridge door. "Are you sure this is going to be safe to eat?" That got a laugh out of Blair, and something tense in Jim's gut eased. "Yeah, I'm sure. Some Ranger you must have made!" "What I'll eat to survive and what I eat for regular meals don't necessarily overlap, Chief," Jim said, coming back to the couch. Blair grinned up at him, and Jim bounced his fist lightly against Blair's jaw a couple of times, grinning back, before he dropped back into his seat. "Sandburg?" "Yeah?" "Did duck hunters just shoot down an alien spaceship?" "Yep." "Just checking." Blair grinned and tipped his beer up, taking a long swig. "Love this movie." Jim shifted into the corner of the couch, angling himself so he could watch Blair as well as the tv, and spent the next hour and a half watching Blair's animated features react to everything that happened. When it ended, Blair turned to him with a huge grin. "Was that a great movie, or what?" "I had fun," Jim admitted. "Yeah," Blair said, stretching hard. "I never get tired of it." "Did they ever make the sequel?" "No, dammit. Man, I am beat," he added, dropping out of his stretch to yawn widely. "This is kinda pathetic." "You said it, Chief, not me." Blair flipped him off, then got up and headed for the bathroom. Jim grinned, clicking off the tv and grabbing the empties off the coffee table. He walked into the kitchen and rinsed them out, leaving them next to the sink. "I'm crashing," Blair said as he walked toward his bedroom. "G'night, Jim." "'Night." Bed sounded like a very good idea. Jim made his own trip to the bathroom, checked the locks, turned out the lights, and headed upstairs. He undressed quickly, stripping down to boxers, and climbed into bed. After checking to be sure the alarm was set, he slid his sleeping mask on and let the darkness envelop him, rebuilding an image in his mind: Blair, sprawled against the other end of the couch, flushed with laughter and looking over at him to share the moment. Jim reached down in the darkness, into his boxers, stroking his cock lightly. It stirred under his fingers, hunting for a firmer touch. The Blair in his mind was letting Jim undress him now, still flushed and happy, making little noises as Jim touched him on his neck and his nipples and down his sternum. He could smell the warm scent of him, could almost taste him -- he froze, eyes opening behind their mask, breath caught in his throat. If sight could piggyback onto hearing... why couldn't taste piggyback onto smell? Jim drew a deep, shaking breath and rolled over onto his side. If the pulsing cock still in his hand was any indication, he really, really wanted to test this. But taste... taste would make this so real, too real. This was supposed to be just a fantasy, something that didn't involve the real Blair. Something that wouldn't tie him to Blair. Something he could hang on to, if Blair decided to leave someday. Something that Blair already knew he had, that he couldn't be angry about if he found out -- sight and sound, touch and smell. But taste would make this so good, so real.... Jim moaned faintly, rolling onto his back and shoving his boxers down. He started jerking hard at his cock, wanting to finish before he couldn't resist any longer. Touch. He needed to focus on touch. Blair's hand warming the air at the back of his neck; Blair's stubbled jaw under his knuckles; Blair's hand, again, this time patting him on the thigh to get his attention. The heat of that touched burned in memory on his thigh, and he felt it creeping higher, toward the cock he was working so fiercely. "A little more, just a little more," he breathed, until finally that heat touched his balls and his back arched. He clamped his jaws shut as he came, not making a sound other than the rasp of skin on skin as he milked his cock. He reached for a tissue, reminding himself for the hundredth time to remember to bring a damp washcloth upstairs the next time, knowing he never would. He dabbed at the worst of it and tossed the wadded-up tissue at the wastebasket, grinning as he heard it bounce off the far side and go in. "Two!" he breathed. One last check of the loft, and the building, and the block, to listen for anything out of the ordinary, and Jim drifted off to sleep. "Hey, Chief. You hungry? I was thinking of doing a stir-fry." Yesterday it had been pasta. The day before, grilled-cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. Jim leaned against the doorjamb and sipped his beer, watching as Blair moved papers from one pile to another on the bed. "Nah. I'm good, thanks. I don't want to lose the flow here." "Sure." Twenty minutes later, he was back at the door, plate in hand. "Sure you're not hungry? I made plenty, I can just leave it on your desk." "I'm sure, thanks." "Okay." He went away again, back to the kitchen, where he wrapped the plate and put it in the fridge in case Blair got hungry later. Later came and went, and there was still no sign of Blair. Enough was enough. Frowning, Jim went back to the door. "Chief?" "Yeah?" He hesitated, then asked, "Everything okay?" "Everything's fine, Jim." Jim would have been happier if the tone had been saying 'Everything's fine, Jim,' instead of 'If you ask me that fucking question one more time I'm going to ram a notebook down your throat, and all the covert ops training in the world won't save you.' But since he'd probably brought that tone on himself by asking once too often -- okay, more like ten times too often -- in the past couple of days he didn't really think he had grounds to object. He took another sip of beer, and tried to figure out a different way to ask. Dammit, Blair didn't feel right. No matter how often he said he was fine. "I'm sorry about the plant, Chief," he offered. Blair paused, hands stilling on a bright red folder as he glanced over at Jim. "Wayfarer," Jim clarified. "Thanks, but it's no big deal. It was just a plant." Except absolutely nothing had gone wrong in Blair's life lately except that plant dying, as far as Jim could tell. And something was seriously bothering him. The memory of his careless fumble in Blair's old office made him wince now, and he straightened against the doorjamb. Time to fess up. "No, I mean it. I'm really sorry." "Jim, relax, it's okay. It was just a plant, and it died after being moved. It happens." Jim grimaced. "Not this time. I, uh -- I killed it." "C'mon, Jim, be serious. That plant's been dying for days. The move killed it. The change in lighting, in ambient humidity, something like that." "No, I did. I dropped it in your old office. I stuck it back in the pot, but I guess... well. I killed it. I'm really sorry. If you tell me what kind it was, I'll get you a new one." "You killed it." "Yeah." Blair nodded slowly, staring at the bed for a few heartbeats before looking back over with an easy smile. "Don't worry about getting me a new one. I'll try something different next. Time to move on, right?" But there was a shadow in his eyes. "Chief?" Jim asked quietly. "Who gave you the plant?" Bingo. Blue eyes flicked toward him and away again, and Blair smiled, a smile that was half delight and half pain. Jim didn't know whether to comfort him or laugh with him, so settled for taking a step further into the room and leaning against the dresser. "Naomi." Of course. Blair shifted the piles onto the floor and sat down cross-legged in the middle of the bed. "She brought it to my college graduation. I wasn't even sure she'd make it, you know? I mean, I knew she'd try, but she can lose track of time sometimes." Jim took a sip of beer, figuring that was safer than actually biting his tongue. "But there she was, camera in one hand and this tiny piece of green in the other. She said she'd been talking to a holy man in Tibet -- Nepal? No, Tibet -- or wait, maybe Sri Lanka -- " "Heck of a difference there, Sandburg." "Gimme a break, this was a long time ago, and I wasn't paying that much attention. I was busy trying to see if Julie Fuller was talking to her ex-boyfriend, because she said she'd broken up with him, and if she had I was gonna ask her to a private graduation celebration -- " Blair gave a filthy chuckle and waggled his eyebrows at Jim, who just shook his head and took refuge in his bottle again " -- but I didn't really believe her because they broke up all the time, man, and always wound up back together, which made me crazy, y'know? And I couldn't see her anywhere, which wasn't making me happy -- " "Okay," Jim said loudly. "So Naomi was in Tibet or Nepal or Sri Lanka, and...?" "Oh! Right! Okay. I think it was Tibet. I'm pretty sure. So she was in Tibet, talking to this holy man about me, and graduating, and stuff. And he was saying all this holy man stuff to her -- " Holy man stuff? Jim's eyebrows tried to climb off his forehead as he stared at Blair. " -- and don't give me that look, I told you I wasn't paying that much attention at the time, I had other things on my mind than just my mom, you know? -- so one of the things he told her was that something like that was truly a new beginning wrapped up in an ending, and that she should do something for me to symbolize that, because it was an important step." "New beginning. Right. And the plant...?" "Was a new beginning, of course." "Ah, of course." Blair got off the bed, walked over to him, and smacked him in the arm. "So anyway," Blair said as he walked back to the bed and sat down, lounging back against the wall and giving Jim one last glare to keep him in line, "he gave her this little cutting from out of his garden, and told her it would be lucky for starting me out on my new path. I don't even want to know how many borders she smuggled that thing across." He laughed up at Jim. "I mean, I pity the poor customs guard who tried to stop her." Jim grinned. "Yeah, I can see what you mean. They'd never know what hit 'em." "Exactly. So she got it all the way back to the States, and made it in time for my graduation. I think she stopped every time she found a priest to get it blessed by as many traditions as possible." The grin that had lit his face dimmed a little, and Jim flinched. "Ahh, Chief," he murmured. Blair glanced up and shook his head, smiling again. "It's okay, Jim. Anyway. She handed it to me and made me stand there holding it up while she took a picture." "Are you serious?" "Yeah, of course! Here, I've got a copy of it here somewhere." Blair launched himself off the bed toward the pile of stuff in the far corner and started digging through books and papers. "It's here somewhere, I know it is," he muttered. "Photo album?" Jim suggested helpfully, not budging an inch. "No, it's -- ah! Of course!" Blair pushed the mess he'd surrounded himself with back into a semblance of a pile, shoving it back upright and shifting a few things when it started to topple over, until finally it was more or less steady. He got to his feet and pointed a stern finger at it. "Stay!" "Think that's gonna work?" "Mock if you must, but you wait, you'll see. It'll stay," Blair said, still looking at the unsteady pile. "There, see?" He turned and headed toward Jim, face full of purpose. He flapped his hands in a brisk shooing motion. "Move." "What's the magic word?" "Do you want to see this picture or not?" "That's not the magic word," Jim pointed out, but he moved anyway, more curious than he cared to admit about this stray piece of Blair's past. "Do I want to know why you keep photos in with your shorts, Chief?" "Do I want to know why you're asking about my underwear?" Blair shot back. Jim grinned. Blair rummaged through a couple of drawers, pulling a few things out to get them out of the way of his search. The rabbit's foot got an absentminded stroke before being put aside, and Jim made a mental note to ask about it another time. The shorts were all boringly normal. "A-ha!" Triumphant, Blair tugged for a few seconds and finally came up with a small stack of photos from under a pile of t-shirts. Jim put his bottle down and reached a long arm over, plucking the entire batch away. "Anything in here I shouldn't see for professional reasons, Chief?" he asked, straightfaced. "Very funny. No, there's nothing incriminating in there. Think I'd keep that sort of stuff around while I was living with a cop?" Jim blinked and looked at Blair. "What?" "Gotcha. Just look at the pictures. And if you laugh, I hurt you. Just so you know." Jim held out his rock-steady free hand and made it shake briefly. "Terrified over here, Sandburg." "Asshole," Blair said cheerfully. At the third picture, Jim stopped. "This it?" Blair craned his neck, then moved to stand at Jim's shoulder so he could see more easily. "Yeah, that's it. God, I look about twelve. I felt so grown up." Jim grinned. "Yeah, I remember that age. You think you have all the answers...." "And you don't have a clue," Blair finished, laughing. "Nope. Naomi was right, you really did used to have short hair." He touched his forefinger lightly to the photo, where Blair's hair was cropped to only a couple of inches long. It should have made him look older, but didn't. He hadn't been far off when he'd said he looked twelve in this. "You were a good-looking kid." He glanced sidelong at Blair. "Pity...." Blair smacked him again without looking away from the picture. Jim grinned. "So where's the plant?" "Right there." Blair reached over his arm to point at the plant clutched in his younger self's hand. "See?" "Yeah, I see." Jim didn't bother trying to focus deeply; snapshots went grainy too fast. He just stared at the faint line of green against pale skin and black robe. Eventually he realized he'd been staring too long, and started going through the rest of the stack. Blair rattled off names that meant nothing to him as each picture made it to the top, until finally he'd gone all the way through and was back at Blair at his graduation. "No other pictures of you in here, huh?" "Hell, Jim, I know what I look like," Blair said with a grin. "You done?" "Yeah, Chief, I'm done." Jim handed the stack back to Blair, who looked at the picture of him with his plant a moment longer before placing it back in the drawer. "So why Wayfarer?" Jim asked, reaching for his bottle again. Blair looked up from where he'd been staring at the closed drawer. "Huh? Oh." He smiled. "Well, it just seemed to fit, after the journey he'd been on, you know?" "Wait," Jim interrupted. "How do you know it was a he? I mean, how do you check plants, anyway?" Blair shook his head. "Jeez, Jim -- you don't get girl plants out of a monastery. No women allowed!" "Ah. Right. Stupid of me." Jim sipped his beer, content. Sandburg's face was doing that repressed-laughter thing again. "So you named him Wayfarer because he'd traveled so much." "Well, sorta. Also because he was supposed to keep me company on my journey. And he did, too. Well, when I didn't have to leave him with people. Can't just take a plant with you on trips." "No," Jim agreed, some part of him absently noting that the knots that always accompanied any mention of "journey" or similar words in Blair's voice were alive and well and living inside him. "So," Blair said, "that is the Story of the Plant. Anything else you want to know?" He moved away from the dresser, patting Jim's arm absently, and returned to the bed, where he sat and stared at the piles of paper on the floor. "Oh, hell," he said with a sigh. "This is taking forever." "What is it?" "Filing." Jim blinked. "Filing?" "Yeah, you know, filing. Paperwork. Bills and correspondence and stuff. It was starting to get too disorganized, so I figured I'd sort it all out. I mean, I still know where everything is, but it was getting kinda... complicated. But I don't know about this. This is a pain." "Uh, Chief?" "Yeah?" "How long has it been since you did this?" Blair looked at him, eyebrows drawing together. "Oh my god," Jim said. He shook his head and took another swig of his beer. "Good luck. There's food in the fridge. If you haven't surfaced in three days, I'm sending in a rescue squad." "Very funny!" Blair called after his retreating back. Jim walked into the bullpen to a chorus of whistles. "Yeah, yeah, guys, very funny," he said, shaking his head as he walked to his desk. "Chief?" he said, surprised. "Thought you were busy this afternoon." "Got cancelled," Blair said, looking him up and down. "Nice suit, Jim, but shouldn't you be wearing a tie with it?" Jim pulled the tie out of his pocket and let it dangle from his fingers. Blair grinned. "Hope you had it on in the courtroom." "Of course I had it on," Jim said, shooing Blair out of his chair. Blair slid into "his" chair instead, and Jim dropped into his seat, the part of his brain that was always checking to see if anything was out of place relaxing as he glanced around. Everyone was where they were supposed to be. "Worst thing about testifying, having to wear those damned things." "Not the cross-examination?" "Nah. I can handle defense lawyers." Blair coughed and bent over his notebook. "What?" "Nothing, nothing. Just thinking about the Patterson case...." "He wasn't a defense lawyer, Sandburg. He was Satan." Blair laughed. Jim grinned and tossed the offending tie onto the corner of his desk as he sat. "So how'd it go?" "Pretty good, I think. The jury looked pretty horrified, and the DA's case was solid." "The jury deliberating now?" "Not yet. More testimony and closing arguments to go. It'll probably end tomorrow morning at the latest, though." "Cool. Here's hoping they throw away the key on that bastard. Hey, you want a coffee?" Blair asked, rising. "Yeah, thanks," Jim said, reaching for the file on top of the small stack. As he opened it the memory of Blair's once-over flashed back into his head, and his hands stilled. The look in Blair's eyes... he shook his head. He had to be imagining it. "I've been thinking," Blair announced. "You don't say." "C'mon, Jim, I'm serious." "Okay, you've been thinking. I'm hoping it's been about this case, and how this bastard managed to kill Townsend and be back home in fifteen minutes flat." "I have no idea how he did that. I've been thinking about potting soil." "You... no, never mind, I probably don't want to know." "Potting soil," Blair repeated anyway. "It's interesting stuff." "If you say so, Chief." The light changed, and Jim drove forward. "I swear, they change the lights so that going home, the red lasts twice as long." "Really? I always thought it was the other way around, to slow you down and make you late for stuff." "That, too," Jim agreed. "So basically, the red lights always last twice as long, whatever way you're going." "Yep." "One of the great mysteries of the universe." Jim glanced over to see Blair grinning happily at the windshield, hair blowing in the breeze from the open window. "Home," he said as he pulled in in front of their building. Upstairs, they went through the usual routine of hanging up coats and getting beers. "I hope you're not hungry right this second, Jim, because that couch is calling my name." Blair walked over and flopped down in the middle of the couch, putting his head back and letting out a groan. "Long day." Jim grinned and followed, settling in on one end. "The couch is good." Idly, his eyes traced the line of Blair's jaw and neck. "Food is going to be an option at some point, though, right?" Blair's lips curved. "Yeah, yeah. I'll make pasta in a little while." "Good." They just sat for a few more minutes, relaxing into the silence. Finally, Blair stirred, twisting so that he was facing Jim. "So you probably noticed I was a little bummed about Wayfarer going to that big greenhouse in the sky." "I noticed," Jim said, meeting Blair's eyes squarely, wishing the other man was within reach. "Yeah, well, I couldn't figure out why, you know? I mean, it was just a plant." "Chief, your mother gave it to you for your graduation, of course you were attached to it." "No, it was more than that. It was like... me. Symbolically me, see?" "Symbolically you," Jim said. "Yeah!" "You're a plant?" "Well, sorta." "Time for you to ease up on those algae shakes, Chief." "Very funny." "Sorry, sorry. Okay, so you're symbolically a plant. What exactly does that mean?" "Just... okay, it's like this. Naomi gave me Wayfarer to sort of symbolize my new life after graduation, right?" "Right." "Right. So when he died, it was kinda like I died, y'know?" Jim's stomach clenched, and he stared at Blair. "Like you died?" "Not literally, Jim, jeez," Blair said. "Symbolically. Like part of my life was gone." "You had a hell of a lot invested in a plant, there, Chief." "Tell me about it. But I was wrong." "You were." "Yeah." "Okay, I'll bite. How were you wrong?" "Repotting." Jim blinked. "Hence the potting soil thoughts?" "Exactly! You've got it!" "Actually, I don't have a clue here. What are you talking about?" "Okay. Wayfarer was the part of my life that was about journeying, right? Going from adolescence into adulthood, finding my path." "Okay," Jim said cautiously. "And then he got uprooted, and he died." Jim winced. "When I dropped him and then put him back in his pot." "He's been dropped before, Jim, and moved before, dozens of times. This is the first time he didn't make it. It wasn't your fault. I figured he just couldn't handle being uprooted, even though he tried." "Right," Jim said hollowly. "And this is you?" "No, see, that's where I was wrong. I was thinking that I'd been uprooted, too, sorta. You know, living in a new environment, doing different things -- not being able to just drop everything and go off on an expedition and stuff, y'know?" "So I'm cramping your style." "No! No, no, man, that's not it at all." "Then what?" "Because I thought growth was about the journey, but I forgot all about repotting." "I still don't have a fucking clue what you're talking about, Sandburg." Blair sighed. "Plants get stifled when they're in pots that are too small for them, Jim. You have to uproot 'em every now and then, put 'em in a bigger pot so they can grow more easily, put more roots down. It wasn't being uprooted that killed Wayfarer; it was trying to make him fit back in his old pot afterward. He'd outgrown it." "Yeah, so?" "I've been repotted, see?" "I can see that you're a bit potty," Jim muttered, earning himself another smack. "I used to just have one pot -- the journey pot, just like Wayfarer. But lately I've moved into a bigger pot. A real office at the university, my work with the PD, the loft with you. Bigger, see? My roots have grown, gotten deeper." "So...." "So I'm settled now." "And settled is...?" "Good. Settled is good." Jim nodded. "Settled is good," he agreed. The knots that had begun multiplying inside him during all of this started loosening, until even his breathing was easier than he could remember it being since -- well, for as long as he could remember. Settled was very good. Blair looked at him. "What?" "Nothing. So, looks like I'm stuck with you, huh, Chief?" "That a problem?" "No. No problem." "Good," Blair said, grinning. "'Cause I plan on sticking around." "Guess I can live with that," Jim said. He smiled as he met Blair's eyes, then caught his breath at the look in them. The heat he thought he'd imagined the other day was back, full force. Settled had real possibilities.

Time was running out. The thought was becoming a useless but insistent mantra, increasing in frequency and pressing in on her even now, despite the decadent, warm pleasure that cocooned her senses. “No worries, love,” he murmured against her shoulder before lazily trailing his lips down her back. In spite of herself, Hermione let out a blissful sigh, melting into another slow-swelling wave of arousal under his touch. A gasp and shiver followed the sensation of his tongue at the base of her spine. She smiled into her pillow – or rather, his pillow – and felt that familiar and inevitable surrender. She’d quickly learned over the past three weeks that there really wasn’t any point in resisting. Sirius seemed to have a knack for dissolving all of her tensions in the most divine ways. Surprisingly enough, he also seemed to have the uncanny ability to read those tensions, almost with the accuracy of a legilimens. “He’ll come around,” he said, the roughness of his stubble-covered jaw tickling against her hip now. “But you know him – he doesn’t want to ‘taint’ you.” “Seems a bit late for that,” Hermione mumbled, a wicked grin playing her lips as she felt his large, calloused hands sliding up the insides of her legs. Anticipation gathered into a core of heat and tension – a much more pleasant sort of ‘tension’ – thick and heavy in that most intimate place. Shifting slightly, she could already feel the wetness of her arousal. Merlin, the things this man did to her with a simple touch… He didn’t have to tell her, but she loved to hear him say it, so she kept her thighs pressed together, falsely demure. “Open for me, sweetheart,” Sirius whispered finally. With just those words and the slightest pressure of his hands, she was lost. Her legs slid over fine, burgundy sheets as she gave herself to his touch. Closing her eyes, she forced herself to breathe steadily as his fingers and mouth moved across her flesh with slow, agonizing grace. Weeks ago, she’d had zero patience for this lazy, deliberate sort of lovemaking Sirius often enjoyed. It had been a battle of wills at first, one that she never managed to win. Not that she counted that as a bad thing. Sirius made a sound that was something between a hum and a groan as he reached her apex, his fingertips just brushing her outer folds. A muted whimper escaped her throat and she couldn’t help moving into his touch. He didn’t give any more than that though, but kept lightly stroking her with one hand while he moved back up to lie on his side next to her. Hermione watched as his grey gaze flickered over her features with a mix of tenderness and heat. His eyes crinkled at the corners briefly before meeting hers directly. “Yeah, it might seem a bit late for that, but you know how Remus is,” he continued lightly, as if they were merely chatting at the kitchen table. All the while, he was softly and idly petting her like she was some kind of possession, like she belonged to him. It was such a simple gesture, yet so maddening. “That warped sense of honor of his can make him blind as a bat. And it doesn’t matter that you and I’ve already performed countless acts of ‘depravity and debauchery.’ He’d expect nothing less from me, but you’re like this innocent little lamb to him, just fallen under my spell. He was right pissed off at first, you know.” He was torturing her with this casual, careless touch. She nearly bit through the flesh of her inner cheek when one of his fingers pressed between her folds and slid along her wetness. She didn’t cry out or give in, however. Instead, she swallowed hard and forced herself to play along, giving him what she hoped was an easy smile. “I’m hardly innocent here, Sirius. And he knows that – I know he does. He can smell just as well as you or I can. And I can smell him, too. It’s not as if he doesn’t want it.” “Maybe he’s waiting until we’ve run the gamut of filth and perversity, then. That way, when he finally joins in it won’t be so much of a shock,” Sirius joked. ‘When he finally joins in…’ Not ‘if,’ but ‘when.’ It was definitely going to happen, and it was definitely going to involve all three of them at once. It had to. And it had to happen soon. Time was running out… Fenrir’s attack on her at the last full moon had been interrupted, thank God. Had he been able to go through with more than just the bite on her shoulder as he’d intended, he would have claimed her as his, mated by blood, sex, and a magic older and deeper than all of wizarding history. Hermione becoming “mated” to both Remus and Sirius instead was the only way to trump the mark Fenrir had left on her. And it was only by the grace of an unknown accident that this was even possible; the night she and Harry had helped Sirius escape the Dementors, Remus had bitten him while he was in dog-form, rendering him not quite fully a werewolf, but close enough to count as “pack.” The claim of a pack overruled that of a single alpha, and there was their solution. Only, they were one week away from the next full moon and still missing a key component – Remus. Hermione had to admit that the idea of being with two men at the same time had been a little intimidating at first. Hell, just the idea of sleeping with Sirius Black had been intimidating. But she realized it was the shift from fantasy to reality that was so nerve-wracking. Because it was a fantasy, one she’d kept to herself, buried deep and only looked at in privacy and on rare occasions. Now, however… Arousal warred with nerves every time she thought about it. So many questions came up, mainly about the logistics. What would be required of her to make this bonding process work? Would she need to have sex with both of them at the same time? Sirius made a soft, purring noise and slid a second finger between her folds. Hermione gasped, her eyes fluttering briefly as he pushed those two digits into her. “This whole thing really has you worked up, doesn’t it, pet?” he whispered as he began slowly finger-fucking her. “Love that look in your eyes when I know you’re thinking about it – about being fucked by both of us.” Her insides curled in on themselves, clenching and unclenching in hunger and pleasure. This was all so wrong, and so good… “It is a bit much though, hmm?” Sirius continued. He moved closer, and she could feel his erection pressing against her thigh. He didn’t stop, but added his fourth and fifth fingers into the equation, sliding them over her clit in rhythm with the two that were pumping her. “Oh, God,” Hermione gasped, opening her legs wider, her hips undulating against him. And still he kept murmuring to her, his movements slow and steady as he fed her words and thoughts that seared her nerves. “You know, Remus is a smart man – he was your professor, after all,” he reminded her, as if punctuating how wonderfully filthy this whole situation felt to her. Two men, both technically old enough to be her father, one a former teacher and the other her best friend’s godfather… The scandalous nature of it just added fuel to an already white-hot fire. “I bet he’s already thought it through, probably just waiting for us to show him you’re ready.” With this last bit, Hermione felt Sirius’s thumb press against her in a wholly new place. Well, new as it related to her experiences with an actual lover. One didn’t fantasize about taking two men without experimenting on oneself, after all. Lubricated with her own arousal, his thumb slipped easily in once she pushed back at it. “You’ve done this before,” Sirius said. A statement, not a question, but the tension in the way his hand now held her demanded a response. “Not… with anyone,” Hermione replied softly, not meeting his gaze. He leaned in and planted a tender kiss on her temple before getting to his knees behind her. Not removing his hand, but taking care not to hurt her, he slipped his other hand beneath her pelvis and urged her to kneel up, murmuring for her to keep her shoulders down. They’d already had plenty of sex with her on all fours, but this position – her arse in the air and her head pressed into the pillow – had her feeling more exposed than ever before. Her body convulsed involuntarily around Sirius’s fingers, and she blushed as she heard him chuckle behind her. “You look so fucking gorgeous like this, pet,” he said. “And the way your pretty little cunt is begging at my fingers, I just want to slam my cock into you right now.” Hermione bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut as she felt her body react to his words. Yes, please… do it, she pleaded inwardly. “Oh yes, I will,” Sirius reassured her. “But first I want to hear more about this.” She gasped as he gently wriggled his thumb, pushing it a fraction farther into her arse before pulling back slightly. The movements were small, meant to tease, to do little more than remind her of the inevitable. “You said ‘not with anyone,’ Hermione,” he said. “Then what did you use? Your fingers?” A moan escaped her as he pushed back in, his ring finger stroking over her clit. But then he stopped, waiting for her answer. She’d already learned how “patient” Sirius could be when he wanted something from her. So, taking a deep breath, she summoned all the courage she could in such a situation. “No,” she replied shakily. “I have a – a…” It seemed simultaneously ludicrous and dirty to her mind. “A what, princess?” Sirius pressed, using his newly adopted nickname for her that sounded so condescending, reverent, and affectionate all at once. “A toy,” she whispered. “Ah.” He was completely unsurprised, naturally. Hermione was just thankful he didn’t laugh at her. But then he asked, “How big is it?” Oh, god. “Not very,” she answered, thinking back to how mortified she’d been when she’d purchased the slender little vibrator at the “pleasure party” Ginny had thrown a couple of years back. “Well, we’ll just have to work from there, then,” he said quietly. “Now…” Sirius slowly pulled his fingers from her body, causing her to shiver both at the loss and at the anticipation of more. She wasn’t disappointed. Seconds later he moved in behind her, the rough hair on his thighs tickling the backs of her legs. The angle wasn’t right, however, so he reached underneath her, coaxing her into position. Once she was on all fours, he settled against her entrance while his hands cupped her breasts. Then, giving a sharp pinch to her nipples, he drove into her hard and deep, ripping a cry of pained pleasure from her throat. Remus was a fool, but Sirius was definitely not complaining. Every day of the past three weeks had been a new adventure in peeling back the cover of Little Miss Bookends. And while Sirius normally didn’t have much of a problem with sharing, he was more than happy to have the brilliant witch to himself. Eventually, though, they were going to have to go through with this “bonding” business, and that meant Remus was going to have to step up and join in. Sirius had been hesitant to bring the subject up to Hermione right away; he’d figured it’d be better to ease her in to the idea, try not to freak her out too badly. Time was running out, however, and he could tell she’d been thinking about it more and more lately. What he hadn’t been prepared for was her reaction when confronted with the idea head-on – the way her eyes had darkened to burnt chocolate, the way her body had melted into heat and sweetness, and now this. Just the thought of prim, uptight Hermione Granger frigging her arse with a “toy” was nearly enough to make him blow his load. Ever full of surprises. That was Hermione. God, she really was gorgeous, even from this vantage. Sirius straightened, gliding his hands over the soft flesh of her stomach, up and around to her back. Her whole body was wound tighter than Diana’s bow-string and her breath was ragged and uneven, but she remained still. For a split moment, he had a doubt – they’d only recently discovered that she liked being fucked hard and rough. But he would never want to really hurt her. Then again, Hermione Granger would never let a man really hurt her, not if she could help it. Sure as hell not now, after that sick fuck had bitten her. Sirius still had a bruise on his right leg that proved that point, and they’d only been wrestling in the parlour when he’d earned it. No, if she was in pain, she wouldn’t still be there, cat-like on all fours, her honey-brown curls falling every which way over her shoulders. And the way her tight little pussy was rippling around his cock… He felt an unexpected warmth in his chest as he suddenly realized: she was waiting for him. “There’s my good girl,” Sirius murmured, stroking a hand down her back before grasping the luscious flare of her hip. He knew it would outrage her and simultaneously turn her on to be spoken to in such a way, but he could distract her with enough pleasure that she’d forget to say anything about it. Remus really was a fool – Hermione had a bit of a submissive streak in the bedroom that would have suited his old friend’s darker tastes. But Sirius had no intention of giving her up now. Still… An idea began to form in his mind. A wicked, irresistibly perverted idea. With his other hand, he reached around to her pelvis, threading his fingers through the neatly trimmed curls leading to where their bodies were joined. He pressed his middle finger against that sweetly sensitive button and held it there, silently daring her to squirm. “Oh, princess,” he said, slowly dragging almost all the way out of her tight passage before plunging back in. “The things we’re going to do.” A shudder rippled through her entire body and a harsh moan rolled out from her throat, raw, primal, and honest. He pulled back out and slid back in, slow and deep, growling softly in pleasure as she arched her back in response. Again and again he did this, fucking her so deliberately it was damned near torture for him as well as her. But he had plans for his little closet deviant, and they couldn’t be rushed. “Sirius, please,” Hermione finally whinged in frustration. Her voice was rough with need, her hands were fisted tightly in the bedclothes, and a fine sheen of sweat had formed across her back. They were close – so close. But he wanted her frenzied and begging, bargaining for her satisfaction. Just then, out of the corner of his eye, Sirius thought he saw a movement. He turned his head slightly and noticed the bedroom door was cracked, but no one appeared to be there. Then again, Disillusionment charms were a given. Turning back to Hermione, he smirked as he caught a whiff of a familiar male scent. Time for a change of plans. “Tell me something then,” Sirius drawled, smoothing his hands over the soft globes of her arse and spreading them slightly with his thumbs. He tilted his head in admiration. The sight of her wet cunt stretched around him was so sensual it made his cock lurch against that tight, velvety passage. He groaned silently as her body answered in kind with a hard, involuntary twitch. Bloody witch would be the death of him, he swore. And there just above where they were joined, puckered and waiting, was the next delightful hurdle in their adventures. All he had to do was brush the tip of one thumb over that opening and Hermione jerked and gasped. He hoped like hell Remus was watching and kicking himself. Sirius gave her another long, slow stroke before continuing. “Were there any other ‘toys’ involved?” He sucked his index finger, coating it with saliva, before teasing it against that little rosebud. “Wha-I…” Hermione squeaked and whimpered, and finally sighed as his finger gained entrance. “Tell me, Hermione,” he demanded. “You weren’t just fucking yourself in the arse, were you?” He pulled himself nearly all the way out and lingered there, waiting. “No,” she panted, “I-I wasn’t. Please…” An image so perverse and so fucking hot burned itself in Sirius’s mind, and he found himself suddenly grappling for some thread of self-control. He squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. Then, hissing out an exhale, he sank back into her warmth, pressing his finger deeper into her at the same time. He grinned in satisfaction at the guttural sound that came from his witch in response. “And is this what you thought about when you were playing, pet? Being filled in both holes at the same time?” He asked gently. He wanted her truth now, not their usual banter. “Is this what you’ve been thinking about for the past three weeks?” Her shoulders slumped and she exhaled, letting her head drop in resignation. “God, yes,” she answered, her voice thick with relief and need. Gently removing his finger, Sirius leaned over her and wrapped an arm around her middle, nuzzling the damp skin between her shoulder blades. “You’re amazing, Hermione,” he rasped as he began moving inside her at a more tolerable pace. The time for teasing was over. “You’re so fucking sexy, princess. So beautiful. C’mon and come for me, baby.” With his cock still buried inside of her, Sirius held Hermione by the waist and guided her hands to the headboard of his bed. The change in angle caused him to hit a spot inside of her that made her see stars. She had to have screamed or something, because he pulled back and slowly dragged himself across that spot again, tweaking her nipples as he did so and murmuring some filthy sweet nothing into her ear. She didn’t care. She just needed more. And then he was really fucking her, finally – he’d abandoned the slow but blissful torture of his previous pace and was now driving her to a dizzying climax faster than she could process. He didn’t stop there, either, but slammed through her orgasm with that raw, reckless abandon that reminded her of wild animals and dark magic. She tried to relax into the hard, almost violent thrusts, but Sirius was having none of that. Clamping one hand on top of hers against the headboard, he reached down between her legs. “You’re not done yet, princess,” he gritted against her ear. “I want you to show our little audience just how ready you are.” He wasn’t making any sense, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered were those wickedly talented fingers of his as they pressed against her. Hermione grinned through the sharp hum of pleasure in her lower body. That was one of the first things he’d made her show him – how she liked best to be touched there. Everyone was different, after all. The sharp, frantic, back-forth rhythm of their fucking against the solid pressure of his hand on her clit was more than enough to push her right back over the edge again. “So goddamned beautiful,” Sirius growled into her hair. “Fuck…” His body went rigid and she felt a sharp pain in her shoulder where he’d sunk his teeth, bellowing against her broken flesh as he came. “Argh – the fuck?!” he barked as her elbow came in contact with his ribs. “I think I’m bleeding, you arse!” Hermione snapped. “What – shit, I’m sorry,” Sirius muttered, quickly untangling himself from the mess of limbs and bedclothes that had resulted from their descent. He reached across Hermione for his wand on the bedside table and muttered a quick healing charm on the small, red cut that marred her shoulder. A frisson of guilt swept through him as he remembered something, but he pushed the thought away – nothing to be done for it now, and no point worrying in the meantime. “There,” he murmured, and kissed the spot that was still fading from red to pink. “All better, love. I’m sorry – got a bit carried away, I suppose. All right?” he asked, pulling her into his arms as he settled back into bed. Hermione hummed lazily as she curled up against him and threw a leg over his. After a moment, she said, “I’m glad we had this talk.” Chuckling softly into that cloud of unruly curls, Sirius kissed the top of her head and pulled her even closer. “I agree. I really feel like we’ve cleared a lot of things up,” he said with mock seriousness. He had just begun to relax into the drug-like wave of sleep pulling at him, when she popped her head up again. “What was that you said before about ‘our little audience’?” she asked. The question brought Sirius back to his senses with everything he’d learned that evening. He glanced toward the door that was now curiously shut. Turning back to Hermione, he grinned. “I’ve got an idea.” xX0Xx “Too tight?” Sirius asked, giving the silk a hard tug. Hermione’s eyes glittered as she shook her head in response, her lips curving slightly at the corners. Oh, sweetheart, he thought, if you only knew what you were getting into… He’d told her about Remus watching them, and he’d promised her he would make this happen, not only because her life might depend on it, but because he wanted to help her experience this fantasy firsthand. He just hadn’t divulged any of the details, including the time or place. As far as Hermione knew, they were just trying something new – a little bondage play between the two of them. And they were, to be certain. He had every intention of sampling her in this environment before putting his plan into action. Moving down her body, Sirius paused to pay homage to one of the most perfect pair of breasts he’d ever had the pleasure of worshiping. He grinned when she jerked against her bindings, then let out a shaky sigh. He looked up just in time to see that moment of comprehension flicker in her eyes before they glazed with lust. It was the moment of understanding, where one’s helplessness sinks in and they realize their body is at the mercy of their captor. He couldn’t fight the temptation to linger just a bit over those rosy peaks, teasing and torturing her with the sharp little nips he knew drove her mad. But it was the particular way she writhed and squeezed her legs together that brought him to his senses. “Ah-ah, princess,” he said, grasping her hips to still her. “Remember what I said – your job here is to simply feel.” “I - ” “Yes?” he asked, giving her a look that dared her to say the wrong thing. She blushed and looked away, silent. Sirius smirked and moved lower. Either way, he’d have her gagged soon enough. He summoned the cushioned wedge he’d purchased earlier that day and moved her into position. “Lift your hips, sweetheart,” he commanded softly, and slid it into place. “Oh,” Hermione breathed, her eyes widening. Yes, ‘Oh.’ The prop was a Muggle invention – all the better, in Sirius’s opinion – and with her knees slightly bent, it left her quite deliciously exposed and accessible in every way. He hummed in appreciation and ran a hand over her mound, spreading her lips briefly to admire the moisture that was already glistening there. It took everything he had not to dive into her right then. Instead, he indulged himself by quickly skimming his mouth across her heat, deeply inhaling her musk before leaving a soft bite on her inner thigh. He chuckled at the way her leg muscles twitched, her toes curling into the sheets in an effort to keep still. “You’re getting better at this, pet,” he murmured as he began tying another strip of silk around her ankle. “Perhaps I need to try harder.” “Whatever you wish,” Hermione answered softly in a nearly perfect tone of submission. Sirius couldn’t contain his laughter. There was a world of difference between “play” submission and what was going to be pulled from her over the course of the evening. He’d let it go for now, though. Once her legs were secured to the lower bedposts, he stood before her and admired his work. She looked truly glorious spread out before him like that, her curls a wild halo around her flushed face, her lips moist and swollen. He was sure she’d been biting them in an effort to contain herself, and now they seemed to beg for his cock. Not yet, however. Tilting his head in mock-consideration, Sirius said, “Something’s missing.” There were several ‘somethings,’ actually, but for now he summoned one more item from his shopping excursion and climbed back onto the bed between her legs. Hermione was so turned on, she suspected she’d be soon causing a damp patch on the fabric-covered wedge Sirius had positioned under her hips. She had very little leeway to move around; if she straightened her legs a bit, she’d gain a bit of slack there, but the wedge didn’t allow her to do that comfortably. And her arms were pulled out as far as they would go without being too tight, attached by long silken cords to the upper posts of Sirius’s mammoth bed. In short, she was helpless. She’d truly come to trust Sirius almost implicitly, however, so that even the jumble of nerves in her belly served to feed her arousal. Whatever he planned to do to her, he would never hurt her or take her somewhere she didn’t really like. She still worried about the situation with Remus, but at the moment it was the farthest thing from her mind. “Know what this is, princess?” he asked, drawing her attention to where he was crouched between her legs. Her mouth went dry when she saw the item he held up. Slender, arrow-shaped, with a wide flare at the base, it gleamed darkly in his hand. Why she was still mortified by something that brought her such pleasure was beyond her, but she could feel a deep, red blush creep over her face. “Well?” Sirius demanded. Hermione swallowed hard and nodded. “Then you know what I’m going to do to you,” he said, now sliding the smooth, shiny plug between her folds. She expected it to be cool to the touch, but it was surprisingly warm. She gasped and squirmed impotently as he slowly pushed it into her pussy, paying her a few shallow strokes before sliding it back out again. A faint prickling of magic brushed over bottom and she felt something akin to heated silk coat her insides. Then he was there, gently nudging the blunt tip against her arse. Oh, God, this is really happening, Hermione thought feverishly, because she knew without a doubt what he was going to do to her after this, which in turn made her think of what brought them to this point originally, which was the inevitable ‘mating’ with both Remus and Sirius at the same time... “Push, sweetheart,” he commanded gently. It slid in easily – it was quite narrow, after all. The shape was unexpected, however, and it took a moment to adjust to the sensation of something being ‘secured’ in that part of her body. Then, just as she was getting used to it, Sirius uttered something unintelligible and the thing swelled – not enough to cause any real discomfort, but certainly enough to startle her. “Too much?” “No,” Hermione gasped. “More?” She hesitated, then shook her head. “Not yet.” The smile he gave her as he set his wand to the side filled her with a strange kind of warmth. It was simultaneously wicked and tender, and made any thoughts or feelings of embarrassment dissolve at once. “Do you have any idea how utterly sexy you look right now, princess?” he asked, sliding his fingers between her slick folds. “Can’t wait to fuck this gorgeous cunt while you’re all filled up like this.” He spread her open and she briefly felt the air cool against her wetness before he pressed his mouth ever so softly to her. His lips and tongue barely fluttered over that desperate bundle of nerves like some kind of mockery of a kiss. She tried to lift her hips, to gain a little more pressure, but her restraints made it impossible. Giving them a frustrated jerk, she whimpered, “Sirius, please - I need more.” He hummed against her clit, which sent a dizzying but short-lived vibration through her nerves. “You’ll get more, pet,” he reassured her even as he pulled away. “In time,” he added with a smirk. The angry snarl she gave was all the excuse Sirius needed. With a snap of his fingers, the thick roll of fabric he’d prepared appeared in his hand. He didn’t care for the look of the ball gags he’d seen at the sex shop, and he was sure this would do nicely instead. “What are you--” “Rules are rules, princess,” he said gleefully. “What rules?” she demanded against the cloth he was now pressing between her lips. “Open up,” he instructed, and pushed the gag past her teeth before reaching around her head to tie a simple knot. “Your tone is hardly what I’d call submissive, love. You’ll get what you ‘need,’ when I decide to give it to you. Now, is that too tight?” She looked at him like he’d gone mad, so he waited patiently. Sure enough, her eyes took on a moment’s consideration, and then she slowly shook her head. “Don’t worry, pet – I promise you’ll enjoy this. Have I ever let you down?” Hermione grunted and shook her head again, albeit grudgingly. “Of course not,” he agreed, and kissed her on the forehead. “There are a couple more things though, if you think you’re up for it, of course.” A defiant glare and a snort was her reply. “Brilliant,” Sirius said with a grin, and summoned a black velvet blindfold, charmed to be impenetrable. He noticed the look of hesitation in Hermione’s eyes and paused. “Trust me?” Slowly she nodded, and he felt an arrow of heat jolt to his groin as the last part of his plan fell into place. It was ironic, really, that it took ‘restraining’ her, when she was far more than willing. But he knew his friend all too well, and with five days left till the full moon, it was time to make this happen, even if it meant playing on Remus’s tastes to the extreme. “I promise you, love,” Sirius whispered earnestly into Hermione’s ear, “this is going to be worth it in ways you can’t begin to imagine. If it really gets to be too much, your wand is within summoning distance.” Her whole body relaxed with this last statement, and Sirius felt his heart give a slight tug. The past month had shown him what an amazing woman Hermione Granger had become, yet sometimes he was still reminded of the brave young Gryffindor with so much to prove to the world. Either way, she was incredible. And it wasn’t just about the sex, either. The fact that she’d been bitten by a werewolf was hard enough for anyone to handle. But to be marked as she’d been, and then confronted with such an unlikely and shocking solution… He’d fully expected her to approach the situation like – well, like Hermione Granger the prim little know-it-all. He’d envisioned her coming to bed with a stoic and resigned coolness, clinically accepting her fate, and carefully planning everything out. Instead, she’d blossomed right in front of him like some kind of exotic flower. He really wasn’t sure he was going to be able to give this up. She squirmed against him, jolting him out of his thoughts. He didn’t have a choice, he reminded himself. She never agreed to be ‘his,’ and even if she ever did, her life depended on this bond, on being mated to both him and Remus. Pack. Spurred into motion by that reminder, Sirius sat up. He knew the next part might come off as a bit ridiculous, but he also knew Remus’s weaknesses, especially as the full moon approached. “You know, princess,” he began lazily, “now that I have you at my mercy, there’s something I’ve been dying to do. If you’ll indulge my taste buds, of course.” He grinned affectionately at the little wrinkle of confusion that formed between her brows. It was a legitimate point, really – she’d never let him do something this messy to her if she had a choice in the matter. Especially with something so expensive. One final package was summoned from the bags in the corner, small and fancifully wrapped in gold and black. He uncapped the jar and took a deep whiff, smiling with satisfaction. Well, Hermione did have a point, Sirius thought some thirty minutes later as he siphoned the chocolate concoction from his body with his wand. She was still covered, of course – a moaning, writhing, decadent mess on his bed. He sighed. Now was as good a time as any, really… “Damn,” he muttered suddenly. “There’s something I’ve forgotten. Just stay quiet for a few – I’ll be right back. Promise.” He leaned over and brushed the damp curls from her forehead before kissing her cheek. Then, grabbing a pair of jeans, he slipped out into the hallway, got dressed, and trotted down to where he knew Remus was working in the library. He gritted his teeth and took a deep, calming breath before pushing through the French doors. He would be there the whole time, he reminded himself. It had to be both of them, after all. He just had to actually get Remus there. “Moony?” he softly called out to the shadows. The lamp on the desk was lit, and Remus’s jacket was draped over the chair, but his friend was absent. He was just about to go searching for him when he heard footfalls on the stairs. A moment later, Remus entered with a steaming mug of what was likely hot cocoa, his sandy-brown hair disheveled and a tense look on his face. “There you are,” Sirius greeted him. “Hermione wants a word with you.” Remus raised an eyebrow. “Where is she?” “Upstairs,” Sirius answered. “She couldn’t come see me herself?” Sirius rolled his eyes. Fucking Moony. Can’t make this simple, can he? No, never. Bloody voice of reason, all the damned time… “Look, can you just go talk to her, please?” he snapped impatiently. Remus looked at him for a long moment before setting his cup down on the desk and nodding. Sirius fell back against the door to the library and exhaled, raising his eyes to the ceiling. He waited a solid three minutes before returning to his room. Hermione’s attention snapped to the doorway as the heard the approaching footsteps. She jerked against her bindings and arched her back in spite of herself. She knew it would do no good, but it was at least something. The chocolate on her skin was beginning to dry and tighten – especially maddening on places like her nipples, which Sirius had treated with a particularly thick coating. The floorboard just inside the bedroom doorway creaked, but he said nothing. In fact, he wasn’t coming any closer. She froze, listening for any clue as to what he would do next, but all she heard was the uneven rasp of an inhale. Then, taking a deep breath herself, she smelled him - Remus. Oh God… Oh damn… Oh help… Hermione’s mind was a jumble of heat and panic, and yet her body remained calm, listening, waiting. With every breath, she was able to smell his reactions, almost his very thoughts – shock, his own panic, anger, resignation, and beneath all of that, a constant, thick vein of desire, feral and hungry. A shudder swept through her body as she heard him finally move into the room. The faint whisper of fabric – one of his button-down work shirts, no doubt – tiny sounds that ended in the unmistakable flutter of its removal. He was standing at the foot of the bed now, and she could practically feel his gaze. Her body betrayed her as she felt a trickle of wetness seep from her sex. She couldn’t help but think of how she must look to him – bound and gagged, spread-eagle with her hips raised like some kind of perverse, chocolate-covered offering… Wait. That was it! As if in response, she heard a second pair of footfalls coming up the stairs, into the room. Sirius. Neither man spoke, however, and she was lost in the dark. Especially now that their smells were mixing as they moved around her. She gave a little moan and tried to shift her body, but she was quickly shushed. That, she was certain, was Sirius. He gathered her hair and swept it off her neck and face before kissing her tenderly on the forehead again, yet still he didn’t speak. Hands, warm and rough, grasped her ankles, smoothed up her calves to her knees and behind her thighs. At the same time, Sirius slid his arm under her neck to hold her while he traced his fingers lightly over her stomach. Hermione was certain she’d begin hyperventilating any second now. Why weren’t either of them talking? But then suddenly oh, God, Remus’s tongue was on her inner thigh, and at the same time, Sirius began laving and suckling and nibbling at the chocolate coating her nipples. A soft, ragged groan came from between her legs, and Hermione blushed furiously with the realization of just how close Remus was to her sex, and how she was dripping with arousal right in front of his face, how that engorged plug was still rammed up her arse and oh bloody hell he was nibbling away at the trails Sirius had painted over her body earlier. Trails that lead straight to… The bed shifted as he suddenly pulled away, and Hermione wanted to cry in frustration. She did whinge against that awful gag, in fact. Remus finally spoke. “Remove them,” he said, his voice harsh and commanding. For a strange and frantic moment, Hermione thought he was referring to everything – blindfold, gag, bindings, the plug – and she wasn’t certain she could face what was going to happen on her own. But evidently he only meant the first two. Sirius stayed by her side, one arm holding her for comfort as he peeled away the blindfold and unknotted the gag. “Remember our rules, princess,” he murmured in her ear. “Look at me, Hermione,” Remus growled, and her eyes snapped to the man standing at the foot of the bed. She swallowed hard. She’d never seen him like this before. Hell, she didn’t think she’d ever even seen him shirtless before! He had a naturally lean sort of musculature that reminded her of a dancer, whereas Sirius had that chiseled look that came only from concentrated effort and self-care. Pale and scarred and graceful and very definitely male, she thought suddenly, as her eyes followed the faint trail of light brown hair down his stomach to his trousers where an extremely impressive bulge tented the material. “Hermione,” he repeated, an edge of amusement in his voice now. Her gaze shot back up to his, and she blushed. “Sorry,” she whispered hoarsely. She heard Sirius curse softly, and a second later a glass was held to her lips, trickling ice cold water over her tongue. “Fenrir’s dead.” The words may as well have been the contents of the glass Sirius had summoned, shattering and shocking them all into a frozen sort of tension. The arm holding her shoulders tightened, and Remus looked away. “They caught up with him last night and he wouldn’t go down without a fight to the death. So all this…” He waved awkwardly around the room and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry – but I couldn’t, in good conscience, let this continue without telling you.” “Oh. Of course,” she replied tightly, mortification seeping in and leaving her cold. “Stop this,” Sirius growled suddenly. “And bollocks to your ‘good conscience,’ Moony. Or are you so honourable that you’d choose to shame her over your own desire?” “Let me go,” Hermione whispered fiercely. She didn’t want this, didn’t want to remain sprawled on display like this while Sirius and Remus had some damned moral debate. When neither of them responded, she remembered Sirius’s earlier words and Accio’ed her wand, quickly untying her wrists in a matter of seconds. Unfortunately, both wizards reacted before she could even think about her legs or that damnable plug still lodged in her bottom. “No,” Sirius barked, looping his arms around hers so she couldn’t move, and tossing her wand aside. “I’m sorry, princess, but he’s going to fucking fix this. I promised I’d give this to you, and if he’s too much of a nancy boy to deliver what you clearly both want, I’ll not have you bearing some kind of bullshit shame for it.” Remus gave a weary sigh. “Don’t be so dramatic. I didn’t say I couldn’t let this continue, Padfoot. I said I couldn’t let it continue without telling her.” He gave Hermione that wry, knowing smile she’d always wished meant more than it did. Only, apparently it did mean more. “If you want this, Hermione, I can’t deny you. And there is something to be said for Pack bonding, after all. But if we do this, it’s out of want, not duty. Although, somehow I doubt Sirius is willing to let this be more than a one-time experience.” Hermione frowned at this and looked up at Sirius, who suddenly seemed unable to meet her gaze. “Remus is right,” he whispered miserably after a long silence. “I want you to be happy, princess, but after this, I don’t think I can share you. I’m sorry.” Did he just say what she thought he said? “The” Sirius Black? All of a sudden, the whole situation seemed too ludicrous for Hermione. She was still half-covered in chocolate, naked, arse in the air and legs spread wide while two gorgeous wizards twice her age discussed just what they were going to do with her. “Sirius,” she said, fighting down the bubble of hysterical laughter that was threatening to break loose. “Untie me, please.” He couldn’t help but look at her now, his steel grey eyes uncertain. “And then - ?” “And then I want to be fucked by you and Remus until I can’t think properly.” Grey turned to charcoal and his voice sounded like bourbon and caramel. “And then…?” “And then I want you to make love to me until we’re sick of each other?” she proposed softly. “I’m not sure that’s ever going to happen, princess,” he warned. “All the more reason to try,” she replied, melting into his arms as she felt the mattress dip and Remus released her ankles from their bindings.

Draco had never noticed how many different types of fungus grew on a dungeon's ceiling before, even in the Slytherin Prefects' small common area. He had counted at least six variations of mold spore and it was in the minority among the different kinds of odd algae-looking green fuzz covering most of the ceiling. He had been staring at the ceiling so long the clumps of mold seemed to be moving by the time he finally sighed and turned over to lay on his stomach. He crossed his arms to rest his chin on them as he continued to fantasize about the cute Weasley twin, Frederick. "I'm such a girl ," Draco chided himself suddenly, staring at the far wall. "It's not like Freddie would ever be interested in me. I mean, I'm just a skinny fifteen-year-old and he's seventeen." Harry stopped revising his Transfiguration notes and turned the swivel chair he was sitting in, folding his arms across his chest as he looked at Draco. He spent a few moments watching him, wondering if Draco even remembered he was there, but eventually decided it was likely he didn't. Draco had been zoning out at the oddest times recently, and Harry had gotten used to glancing up and finding Draco staring off into space. He was becoming adept at making up excuses for the behavior when they were in class, much to the amusement of most of their professors. "What does how old you are have to do with it?" Harry asked finally, bemused. "I'm the same age as you, and George likes me well enough." Draco turned to stare at his brother, looking rather like a sad taffy spaniel puppy with big silver-blue eyes. "Yeah but you're not dating George, you're just friends with benefits. I want to actually date Freddie, maybe even get married to him. Have his babies and name them Fred, Fredina, and Efredia." Harry smirked suddenly and let the 'friends with benefits' comment pass, his green eyes dancing with amusement. "You're so gone on him that you want to curse a baby with the name Efredia?" "Efredia is a perfectly acceptable name!" Draco replied haughtily, looking quite indignant. "And I'm not gone on him, I just I think he's really cute and has nice hands and lips." Harry grinned, his green eyes still sparkling with barely-restrained mirth. "He's got nice everything Dray, I promise. George says they're very nearly identical, and his hands and lips are the least of his charms." Harry paused a beat, smirking as he added, "And Efredia is a terrible name. What would you call her for short, Effie?" "No, Fredie of course. Duh, Harry, and you're supposed to be the smart one." Shaking his head, Draco stopped for a moment and then the rest of what Harry had said finally sank in and he whipped around to look at his brother. "And when you said identical, do you mean...?" Draco trailed off as he turned beet red and pointed helplessly toward his crotch. Harry smirked, shifting to fold his hands behind his head and lean back in the chair. "Georgie's hinted as much, but I've not seen for myself." Harry paused a second, his expression growing even more wicked, and then added, "Yet." "Yet? You mean you haven't seen George naked yet? How is that possible?" Tilting his head to the side, Draco looked at Harry bewildered. Harry laughed, shaking his head. "No Dray, I haven't seen Freddie naked yet. If I had, I'd know if they were identical or not, since I'm rather familiar with George's body." Harry smirked again, adding, "I do know they've both got the same birthmark on their left shoulder blade though." "You mean the little snitch?" Smiling fondly, Draco traced the pattern into the dusty dungeon floor. "It's kind of cute." Harry stood up abruptly, grinning as he walked over to sit down in the floor next to Draco and then pulled one knee up to his chest. "It's quite a bit more fun to play with than a real snitch, though. George is ticklish around his. If you nibble on it, the way he wriggles around is quite ... nice." Draco looked down, blushing crimson. "You're talking about sex, right? You've had real sex with George." Harry shook his head, resisting the urge to tease Draco about being a prude. "No, but we've done just about everything else." He looked down at his knee as his grin faded away, getting a wistful look on his face. "I told George I wanted my first time to be with someone who was in love with me, but he hasn't made any move to try it." Draco reached out and wrapped his arms around Harry's ankles, kissing his knee affectionately before he whispered, "He'd be a fool not to love you. You're just too loveable for words, Harry." Harry smiled at Draco, reaching out to brush a bit of dust out of his pale hair. "Thanks, Dray. I hope you're right." He grabbed some of Draco's hair and gave it a little tug, adding, "Freddie'd have to be crazy not to want you, y'know." He grinned suddenly. "You looked positively edible last weekend in your black jeans and that dark blue silk shirt you pinched from Dad. I caught Freddie with his eye on you quite a few times." Blushing bright red from the tips of his ears to the collar of his shirt, Draco buried his face against Harry's legs. "I may have looked good, but Dad was so not pleased that I borrowed that shirt. Did you know Mom gave it to him for his birthday? I swear I got my arse reamed out without any of the benefits." Draco continued blushing at the thought of Fred checking him out and Harry tried not to laugh, ruffling Draco's hair. "It's not like you ruined it or anything, you just wore it. Dad's probably forgotten all about it already, you know he'll forgive you anything." Harry smirked suddenly, leaning down a bit closer to Draco as he added, "And I know where to find the little Muggle shop Mom got it from, so we can get one for you as soon as term's over and we're allowed to go to London." Looking up at Harry with his silver-bright eyes blazing with adoration, Draco squealed like a little girl and launched himself at his brother. He knocked Harry backwards to sprawl on the floor as his arms wrapped tightly around Harry's lithe body, which was very similar to his own other than the fact Harry was a bit shorter and an inch or two wider across the shoulders. Draco pressed kisses to Harry's cheeks repeatedly, and Harry just laughed and let him until Draco exhausted himself and settled down to lay across Harry's body, his head tucked under Harry's chin. Harry held Draco loosely, still chuckling a bit as he murmured, "I'll take that to mean you'd like one or two." He hid a grin against Draco's hair, rubbing Draco's back. "Dad might even let us take the Mustang. Papa hinted that we'll get driving privileges if we do well on our O.W.L.s." "That would be bloody brilliant, being able to drive the Mustang over the summer hols. Varoom varoom!" Draco made soft car noises into Harry's chest. Harry laughed softly against Draco's hair. "You sound like Ron, he's obsessed with cars. Fred and George are trying to get their father to let them rebuild that old heap Ron and Ginny lost in the woods, and Ronnie's determined to make sure they get it so he can get driving privileges, too." Smiling slightly into Harry's chest, Draco squeezed him tightly in affection. "Cars are wicked." Harry squeezed back, grinning. "Yeah, they are..." He trailed off and was silent a moment, looking up at the ceiling then added suddenly, "You've got to stop being bashful and make a move on Freddie so we can double date this summer. Mum'll never let either of us take the car on a date alone, but if we went together she might go for it, especially with the twins. She really likes Mrs. Weasley." "But Harry, what would we talk about? I mean, he already knows all about us and our family and we pretty much know the same about the Weasleys..." Draco rubbed his cheek against Harry's chest and then finished quietly, "And I'm not experienced Harry, not like you. What would we do while you and George are snogging? Talk about the Chudley Cannons? I'd feel like a complete tool." Harry rubbed Draco's back, trying to reassure him. "George and I wouldn't put you on the spot like that Dray, I promise." He paused a moment, thinking, and then added, "Surely you can think of something you'd like to talk to Fred about. Well, unless you just want to let Freddie snog you silly, which I have no doubt he'd enjoy as much as you would." He grinned suddenly. "As I said, you've been known to look quite edible." "What if I freeze, Harry? I really like Freddie, he's just so wonderful. I don't want to mess up and lose him because I don't know anything." Harry kept stroking Draco's back as he said soothingly, "Dray, he's still the same Freddie we've known since we were nine, he hasn't changed just because you realized how hot his arse looks in tight jeans." He smiled and rested his nose against the top of Draco's head as he murmured into his hair, "And if you tell him how you feel, you might find that he feels the same way, and then you'd have no reason left to worry." Sighing softly and pressing his mouth against Harry's breastbone, Draco sank into silence instead of replying, letting himself be wrapped up in Harry's affection. He was still more than a little leery of letting Fred know about his feelings, but Harry didn't seem to give much credence to his fears. He decided not to bother his brother about it any more and worried in silence. ~*~*~*~*~ A freckled fist moved methodically over a nicely thick cock, palms roughened with Quidditch calluses scraping lightly up and down the velvety length and adding just enough friction. Long muscular legs stretched over the bed, one crooked at the knee, the other splayed to the side as thick fingers scratched through deep red pubic hair that curled in little ringlets over the tips. After a few moments of deep breathing and slight rustling noises, cupid bow lips parted and a sex-deepened groan issued forward, making the boy across the room roll his eyes. "George, you know I love you, but do you have to wank right at this moment?" "My cock is hard, therefore I am." Fred snickered at that despite his best intentions, turning around in his chair to look towards the bed. "You should have gone looking for Harry, he'd be glad to help you with that." George turned his head and smirked wickedly at his twin. "I'm sure he would've, but today I'm spending quality time with you, Freddie." Fred smirked, propping his elbow on the back of his chair and resting his chin in his hand as he let his gaze roam over his twin's naked body. "What makes you so sure I'll just drop everything and participate?" "Because you're horny, you haven't even been able to get close to Draco yet, and oh, did I mention that you're horny?" George beamed at his brother innocently despite the fact he was still lazily stroking his cock. Fred groaned, standing up and then sitting down again astride his chair, facing the bed as he folded his arms over the back. "You just had to bring up his loveliness, didn't you?" Fred put his chin on his folded arms as he watched his twin, his gaze lingering on George's cock as he added, "You do look delicious, though..." Smirking slightly and wiggling his hips, George lifted his free hand and crooked a finger at Fred, beckoning him over. "Come on, Freddie, come tell your favorite brother Georgie all about it. And while you're at it, get naked so I don't feel so freakish." Fred snorted, smiling. "If I come over there and get naked, neither one of us will want to talk for long and you know it as well as I do." George pouted at that, sticking his lower lip out at Fred for a moment before he said, "I solemnly swear that we'll talk about Draco and how you can get him, then we'll do a little lick and nip." "Thanks, Georgie." Fred stood up and reached for the collar of his uniform shirt to begin unbuttoning it as he walked towards the bed. "I've been considering cornering Harry to ask him, but I haven't had the guts to do it yet." Fred's expression grew a bit wistful as he finished unbuttoning his shirt and shrugged out of it. "I realized I didn't want to know if Dray's really not interested." George gazed up into his brother's eyes and looked contemplative as he shifted over on the bed and then got comfortable again, tucking one hand behind his head while the other drifted idly over his belly and up towards his chest. "He'd be a fool not to want you, Freddie, I mean look at you. You're absolutely gorgeous, and hung like a centaur to boot." Fred snorted and reached for the button of his trousers to start taking them off. "You can stop praising yourself any time you like, Georgie." "Hey!" George exclaimed, half sitting up. "I'm not! I just know that my brother is extremely handsome and hell, I'd shag him, so why wouldn't Dray?" Fred shoved his trousers and briefs down, shrugging unobtrusively as he did so. "Why don't you ask him that? I'd really like to know one way or the other instead of just watching him and hoping." He kicked the clothes aside and climbed onto the bed, sitting cross-legged next to George as he added, "I don't have the patience for the whole hope and pray thing, especially when we'll be graduating soon and then we'll hardly ever see them." Poking Fred in the ribs, George gave his twin an annoyed look. "You're too shy, but if you're a wanker and don't mind me getting both of the Malfoy-Snape boys to myself, I'll ask him for you. But, I seriously suggest you get off your arse and use your bollocks and your brains to take what you want, and you want Draco." Fred made a face at George. "It's not that I'm shy, dimwit, it's that I don't want to scare him. You remember how that bastard Blaise chased him about don't you, treating Dray like a piece of meat and then breaking Dray's heart? He's been different since then. He acts like he just wants to get away when someone flirts with him. I don't want to make him run from me, too. At least we're good friends now, and that's more than I'll have if I put the moves on him and scare him." "Blaise is an idiot, he let go of a choice piece of arse. And for what? Pansy Parkinson. Fucking idiot." George huffed and laid back against the bed again, beginning to think of ways to torture Blaise without getting caught. Fred swatted George's thigh hard enough to leave a faint hand print, making George give him an indignant look again. "Draco is not a piece of tail and I'll thank you to remember that." Fred gave George a pointedly annoyed look and then added, "And I know Blaise is an idiot, and you know he's an idiot, but he still put a bluff in on Dray. I've been scared to do more than look at Draco ever since he practically fell all over himself getting away from Neville. Everyone knows Nevy wouldn't hurt a fly, but Dray still acted like he was afraid to even talk to him." "Freddie, Neville may be a softy but he was also stuttering so badly that Dray probably thought that he was having a conniption fit when he tried to ask Draco to go out with him. It's different with you and him though, you two are close." Fred sighed, looking down as he shifted to lay sprawled on his side next to George with one thigh draped casually across George's knee. "I know..." Fred trailed off and then began playing with the hair on George's thigh. "We're friends, good friends, and I don't want to scare him and lose that. I don't think I could stand it, he means a lot to me." Running his fingers through Fred's hair, George sighed softly. "But Freddie, you'll never know if you could be more if you don't ask him. You know if I ask Dray he'll think I'm joking, or maybe even angling for a threesome." Fred looked up at his twin. "Maybe, yeah, but you could ask Harry. He's got to know, and you know he wouldn't tell you to encourage me if Dray's not interested." Fred swallowed hard and then added more quietly, "And then if Dray's not interested I won't have to mess up our friendship to find out, and Dray'll never have to find out I want to kiss him until we both forget our names." "Oi Freddie, do you really want me to do this? Come on bro, seriously?" Fred bit his lip, looking at George a moment before he asked, "What would you do? If it was Harry who was so gunshy I mean?" "I'd go to him as a friend and ask him to take a walk with me around the lake." George carded his fingers through Fred's hair as he continued slowly, "Then I'd take his hand, and if he didn't pull away then it's a good chance he'd be mine." Fred's expression turned wistful as he smiled just a bit and looked down at George's leg again, running his fingers through the soft ginger hair there. "That'd be nice, a long walk with just the two of us..." He trailed off and then his smile faded away again as he looked up and asked, "What if he doesn't want to go?" George chuckled softly and tugged gently on Fred's hair. "Then you see if he's hungry and ask him to go to the kitchens with you. You know Dobby would feed you two up, and it would relax Draco." "True," Fred agreed, smiling again. "And we've gone on snack runs often enough that it wouldn't scare him off if I suggested it. Maybe I should try that, then if it goes well, I could suggest the walk around the lake afterwards." Nodding his head, George started massaging Fred's scalp with the tips of his fingers. "It would seem natural to walk off all the food that Dobby'd stuff you with." Fred leaned into George's touch, his eyes closing halfway because of how good the scalp massage felt. "And taking time for the snack first would give him plenty of time to relax with me before I try anything stupid." "You won't do anything stupid, Freddie, you care about him too much." Freddie wasn't very convinced but was enjoying the massage too much to argue. He made a noncommittal noise and then was quiet a few moments before he suddenly changed the subject. "Have you and Harry admitted that you're really in love yet, or are you two still lying to yourselves?" George chuckled as he deepened the scalp massage. "Well, Harry told me a few days ago that he wants his first time to be with someone who's in love with him. Does that count?" Fred made a noise that greatly resembled a purr, leaning into George's hypnotic fingers for a few moments before he remembered the question. "Only if you two've gone all the way since then." "Not yet, but Harry hinted that he wants it to be me." "Do you still tell people you're just friends with benefits?" Fred asked as he stroked George's thigh, his slightly slurred voice making it obvious just how much he enjoyed the scalp massage. With a shake of his head, George trailed his fingers down the back of Fred's neck. "We stopped saying that a month ago. I haven't heard Harry call me anything else though, or correct anyone. I get the feeling he's waiting for me to make the next move there." Fred slid his hand up George's leg, running his fingers along the line of muscle where his thigh and belly met. "And does he know about this?" "About you and me?" George asked, waiting for Fred's nod to be sure what he meant before he went on. "Pretty much. He didn't buy my 'learnt on popsicles' story for much more than a minute. He's adorably gullible, but not stupid." Fred snickered. "You didn't." George smiled crookedly at his twin. "It was worth a try, y'know? I wasn't sure how he'd deal, but Harry took it pretty well, even told me, 'We both know you've been practicing on Freddie, so don't bother making up any more stories'." Fred chuckled, running the palm of his hand up George's belly. "Harry's always been a step ahead of you, Georgie. You should have known better than to try to lie to him." His expression suddenly turned curious. "Do you think Harry has practiced with Dray?" "I don't know, but they're as close as us. When Harry and I were talking about it he even said that he thought it would be like wanking, only with extra hands." Fred smirked. "I like how he thinks." George grinned at the expression on Fred's face. "Well that's how he described it. To him, we're parts of a whole, so it's only showing love and affection." Fred moved his hand back down George's belly, running his fingers through the hair below George's navel with a wicked little grin. "Love and affection, eh? Not horniness and a complete lack of self control on the part of the one who started this, who shall remain nameless?" Laughing softly, George shook his head. "I'm sure he knows about that part too, but he knows that I'd only ever touch you like this..." George trailed off, sliding his leg up the length of his brother's inner thigh to settle it against his crotch. "...because I love you." Fred let out a little pleased noise and shifted to press his erection a bit more firmly against George's leg, smiling as he dragged one fingertip slowly along the top of George's cock. "It has always been more than just getting off." "Always." George shifted and slid his hands under Fred's arms to urge him to move up along his body. "I don't know what I would've done without you." Fred rolled to his hands and knees and let George guide him upwards until they were face to face, sliding one hand under George's shoulder as the other hand moved to rest on George's chest and he smirked down at him. "You would probably be blind by now, and with hairy palms too, if those tales about wanking are true." George snickered "How do you explain Ronnie, then?" Fred snorted, his hazel eyes sparkling with amusement. "Ronnie's too much of a prude to wank that often." George grinned, nuzzling Fred's jaw. "Wanna bet? He wanks about four times a day to hear Dean tell it. Gets to swearing up a bit too." Fred snickered, sliding his hand across George's chest to lightly tease his nipple as he murmured, "Ronnie? Our little Ronniekins, wanking and swearing with Dean as an audience? You've got to be kidding." George smirked up at Fred and rolled his hips, crushing their groins together. "Oh no, my dear Frederick, it seems that Ronald is quite the exhibitionist. He'll wank for anyone in his dorm, seems he even got Neville to join him one night." Fred's eyes widened at that mental image, then he started snickering, rocking his hips slightly to rub against George. "I'd bet anything that Dean gave them the idea." "Possibly," George murmured as he lifted his head to lick at Fred's bottom lip, his hands sliding down Fred's back to cup his arse. Fred nibbled delicately at George's lips, then murmured against them, "Dean's got a thing for Ronnie." He smirked against George's lips, gently pinching his nipple as he added, "About seven inches, according to Kevin." Snorting through his nose, George nipped at Fred's lips and then whispered, "I'm sure Ronnie's going to be able to accommodate Dean quite easily, if what I heard about he and Oliver in the locker room bears any truth." Fred snickered a bit as he rocked his hips again, licking at George's lips and then murmuring, "Ronnie always has had a thing for Quidditch." "More like a thing for Quidditch players," George replied with a low groan as he spread his legs, looping one around Fred's hips while the other rubbed up between Fred's thighs. Fred chuckled slightly and rocked against George again, moving to lick and nibble at George's throat just below the corner of his jaw before he murmured against his skin, "Dean had better hurry up and learn how to play, then." ~*~*~*~*~ Harry let the silence drag on between them for a long while, just holding Draco and trying to think of a way to convince him to talk to Fred about how he felt. He finally decided to drag out an old idea and said softly, "Why don't you let me talk to George about it? He'll know, and then you'll not have to worry anymore." "George'll think I'm a baby for hiding behind you, Harry," Draco responded plaintively as he pressed his face into Harry's chest, trying hard not to whine. Harry chuckled softly, rubbing Draco's back. "No, he'll think I'm trying to keep you from getting hurt again, which is the truth." Looking up at Harry, Draco pressed his chin against Harry's breastbone and stared into Harry's eyes. "You'd really ask George, for me?" as he asked tentatively. "Of course." Harry impulsively stretched to kiss the tip of Draco's nose before smiling at him. "I'd do anything for you, Dray, you know that." Draco blushed a fine line of crimson across the bridge of his nose and then just chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, contemplating asking Harry something. Harry watched him with a little smile, waiting patiently, but when Draco still hadn't spoken after a few minutes he lifted one hand to run his fingers through Draco's silky blond hair. "What are you thinking so hard about?" Closing his eyes at the feel of his brother's hand toying with his hair, Draco spoke without really thinking about it as he admitted, "I was wondering if I could get you to show me how to please Freddie." His eyes snapped open as he realized what he'd said and he started blushing even redder, hiding his face against Harry's chest as he groaned and then mumbled, "I did not just say that out loud." Harry snickered softly, ruffling Draco's hair a bit. "Yes Dray, you did." He paused, thinking for a second, and then decided that Draco might not be asking what he thought he was. "Exactly what would you like to know?" With his face still pressed against Harry's chest, Draco mumbled something completely unintelligible. Harry watched the tip of Draco's ear get even redder and tried not to laugh again, running his fingers slowly through Draco's hair. "Try again, Dray, and this time look at me so I'll have a prayer of making sense of it." Still blushing a fiery crimson that was completely at odds with his pale skin and hair, Draco lifted his face and whispered, "Can you show me how to make him love me?" "Oh, Dray..." Harry began, trailing off as he wondered what to say. He finally leaned closer to kiss Draco softly, just barely brushing their lips together before he rested his forehead against Draco's and whispered, "Just be you. Freddie's nobody's fool, and he'd have to be an idiot not to fall head over heels for you." Draco blinked slowly as he looked into Harry's eyes, completely shocked. "You-- You kissed me. On the lips." His tongue snaked out and licked his lips, tasting, then he whispered, "Wow." Harry's eyes widened a little bit as it dawned on him that he actually had kissed Draco. "Well, yes. I suppose I did." He pulled back a bit, wanting to be able to see Draco's expression better and looking a little hesitant as he asked softly, "Would you rather I hadn't?" "Huh? I mean-- Wow. Harry, that was-- And-- Wow!" Draco mumbled inarticulately, his wide silver eyes still a little dazed as he kept licking at his lips. Harry's expression changed to a bemused look that wasn't quite a smile, not sure whether he should be flattered or worried. "Dray, that was barely even a kiss, really. Didn't Blaise ever snog you properly?" Draco blinked again at hearing Blaise's name and then took in Harry's expression for a moment before he snorted. "Blaise kept trying to touch me, and he slobbered. It was disgusting." He shuddered just thinking about it. "When I wouldn't let him grab my-- me he left and went sniffing after Parkinson. She puts out." Harry's green eyes narrowed, getting a glint of sudden anger in them. "Huh. Well, I'll just have to have another little talk with him." He paused a moment and then blinked, consciously getting control of himself again before he went back to the previous subject. "So you've never been properly kissed?" A slight shake of his head had Draco blushing again. "No one's ever kissed me like that. Like I mattered. It was nice. Really nice." "Blaise Zabini is an idiot! " Harry exclaimed, surprised. "You're positively edible, how could he not have wanted to kiss you?" "He was really nice at first, but now I think he just wanted to shag me and maybe see if I could get him into dad's good graces," Draco said with a slight shrug, trying not to let show how much it had hurt him to realize that. "He didn't act as though he really cared for me when I kept telling him no." Harry growled softly, his eyes narrowing with anger again. "Oh, yes, I really must have a talk with that slimy git." Running a long fingered hand over Harry's chest in circles, Draco whispered calmingly, "It's alright, Harry. He doesn't matter to me anymore." He looked worriedly into Harry's eyes, still rubbing Harry's chest. He didn't like it when Harry got truly angry; he acted almost like a different person. Harry realized he was upsetting Draco and forced a smile, stroking Draco's hair and making a mental note to corner Zabini the next time he had a chance. "It's okay, Dray," Harry said as his expression softened, his eyes gentling with love as he added, "I guess I'm just a bit overprotective. I don't like the thought of anyone treating you badly." "You've always looked out for me, even when we were babies. I just hate it when you get mad. You lose yourself," Draco whispered softly, still a bit worried. Harry stroked Draco's hair, thinking about what he said for a moment before he finally replied, "I don't lose myself, really, I just let loose a part of me that you're not used to seeing." He paused, sighing softly before he added, "That you shouldn't have to see. I'm sorry." Draco pressed a soft affectionate kiss to Harry's chin, his sudden smile wordlessly telling Harry that he forgave him. Harry's arm tightened around Draco's back and the fingers of his other hand tightened slightly in Draco's hair as he tried to change the subject. "You never did tell me what you'd like to know." Draco had groaned softly when Harry tightened his hand in his hair, but the sound was almost sensual, obviously not a reaction to pain. Draco's eyes darkened into a slightly deeper silver than they normally were, sliding halfway closed as he moved into Harry's hand and whispered, "Teach me how to make him happy, Harry. How to make him want me, and how to keep him once he does." Harry slid his fingers slowly through Draco's hair, enjoying the feel of the cool silken strands against his skin and wondering if he was dreaming. He looked into Draco's eyes for several minutes before he finally managed to speak and murmured huskily, "Just breathe, Dray. He'll want you, I promise." Closing his eyes the rest of the way, Draco leaned into Harry's gentle touch, his entire body relaxed as he murmured in voice so low it was more of a soft purr, "That feels so nice. Do it again, Harry, please." Harry licked his lips and moved his hand again, carding his fingers slowly through Draco's hair as he watched Draco's expression and fought a losing battle with himself. He stroked Draco's hair several times before he finally whispered softly, "I could show you things that would feel so much better, Dray, if you want me to." Draco pressed his body against Harry's as he opened his eyes. "Would you? I'll do anything you want. I trust you." Draco's expression was earnest and open, and the desire and complete trust shining in his eyes made Harry groan softly. He shifted a bit, hoping Draco wouldn't notice why he was uncomfortable as he gave Draco's hair a gentle little tug to distract him. "You're so bloody tempting, and you don't even know it. Are you sure about this, Dray?" He was going to end there but he spoke again almost against his will as he added, "Really and truly certain this is what you want? If anyone found out I touched you, there would be hell to pay." "Who'd find out? And it's not like you don't touch me anyway. You're Harry and I'm Draco, we're the queer Malfoy-Snape boys who mince around like nancies and get away with murder because all of the professors adore us," Draco joked lightly as he shifted on top of Harry, trying to find a more comfortable position. Harry smiled and then made a soft little noise and bit his lip to keep back the words that wanted to come tumbling out as Draco's shifting around put more pressure on his crotch. He waited until Draco was still again before he swallowed hard and then said quietly, "Yes, but we'd not have to tell, really. I think anyone who really knows us would know something had changed. I could tell something was different with Fred and George when they-- Well, got closer." "Harry...?" Draco half-asked, looking uncertain for a moment as he thought about what his brother just said and tried to think of when he might have noticed a change in Fred and George. "Yes?" Harry looked quietly into Draco's eyes, deciding after a moment that the uncertainty in them was probably because Draco didn't know whether he'd want to answer whatever his question was. "You can ask me anything, Dray." Clearing his throat, Draco asked tentatively, "George and Freddie, do they sometimes..." Draco trailed off as he searched for the word he wanted, his cheeks flushing slightly again as he finally said, "Love each other?" "They always love each other, Dray," Harry corrected softly. "But they kiss and touch too, yes. Possibly more, I don't know for sure. I haven't asked." He paused a moment and then added, "Well, either that or George has a boyfriend I don't know about." "I don't think so, George hasn't been looking at anyone else, especially not the way he looks at you." Harry nodded, smiling a little. "So I think it's probably Freddie." He stroked Draco's hair, debating how much to tell him, and then finally admitted, "George has had love bites that I know I didn't give him." He grinned suddenly, a wicked glint in his eyes as he added, "And in the most unusual places sometimes, too." "Does it bother you, Harry?" Draco asked softly, a strange huskiness to his voice. "The thought of them together I mean?" Harry looked into Draco's eyes, obviously surprised by the idea. "Not at all. Does it bother you?" Draco blushed and shook his head as he shifted slightly, the heaviness between his legs pressing against Harry's thigh as he began to move away, not quite able to make himself say that he thought the idea was rather erotic. Harry realized immediately that Draco was just as aroused by the idea as he was. He tightened his arm around Draco's waist when he tried to move away, moving his hand from Draco's hair to cup his jaw as he said impulsively, "I think it's kind of hot. Sometimes, I dream about them making love to each other." Harry felt his cheeks heating as he admitted more softly, "Or with us." "They're beautiful," Draco agreed softly. "I'm sure it would be amazing to watch them together." Draco looked down into Harry's eyes, not really thinking about it as he moved so that he was laying draped completely over Harry again. "Sometimes..." Bright spots of color bloomed on Draco's cheeks again. "Sometimes I have dreams about us. All four of us." "Me too." Harry licked his lips, looking into Draco's eyes as he stroked Draco's cheek with his thumb and admitted very softly, "And sometimes I just dream about you." Draco's eyes widened slightly and his voice dropped into a soft baritone deeper than his normal speaking voice as he whispered, "Tell me, Harry. What do you dream about me?" Harry thought about his dreams a moment, the ones that had made him lay awake and watch Draco sleeping just across the room. "Sometimes I dream about kissing you and touching your beautiful body, or about sleeping with you like we did when we were little, only without the clothes. Those always turn into the kissing dreams by the time I wake up." Harry swallowed, gathering his courage, then added in a near-silent whisper, "And, if I don't wake up, sometimes we make love." "Do you want to make love to me, Harry?" Draco asked softly, surprised curiosity in eyes. "If you wanted me to, I would," Harry replied quietly, completely aware that he was not quite answering Draco's question. Draco didn't say anything as he leaned down slowly, almost hesitantly, letting his eyes focus on the curves of Harry's full lips for a moment before he brushed a soft kiss against them. Harry's hand slid around to cup the back of Draco's head as Draco lifted his head again, his green eyes soft and luminous with love and desire. He looked up into Draco's eyes for a long moment before he gently pulled him down for another kiss. Draco whimpered softly and his body tensed up as he pressed his lips against Harry's, then Harry realized Draco had stiffened in his arms. He pulled away, licking at his lips and not meeting Draco's gaze as his cheeks heated up suddenly. "Dray, I'm sorry," Harry whispered, ashamed of himself. "I just-- I've wanted to do that for such a long time, and--" He realized he was babbling and bit back the words that wanted to come flooding out. He felt like a complete arse and hoped he hadn't scared Draco too badly as he finally repeated even more softly, "I'm sorry." Draco didn't really hear most of what Harry said, his eyes watching Harry's mouth. The muscles in his back and shoulders were bunched and trembling slightly under his skin with nerves and something more. "Kiss me again, Harry." Harry looked into Draco's eyes again finally, surprised, then let out a soft relieved noise at the hunger he saw there and kissed him again, their lips pressing together sweetly. Harry resisted the urge to deepen the kiss when Draco's lips lingered against his, keeping it gentle and almost chaste even though he wanted so much more. Harry's left hand stroked Draco's back gently as his right hand moved to rest on the side of Draco's throat, but he didn't do anything more because he wanted to let Draco set the pace. After a pause of what Harry couldn't have said was ten seconds or ten minutes Draco finally let himself relax again and molded his body against Harry's, earning a soft pleased sound from Harry. Draco felt so many emotions as they kissed that he couldn't have catalogued them all if he tried, but the uppermost one was trust. Draco trusted Harry in a way that he had never trusted Blaise, and that trust let him relax into the kiss. He decided that he quite liked the way Harry's lips and body felt under his. Draco felt so safe with Harry that he stopped worrying about how little he knew about kissing and just enjoyed the feeling of having lips pressed against his own as a gentle hand stroked his back. Harry smiled against Draco's lips after what seemed like forever, sucking gently at Draco's lower lip to see how he would respond. Draco groaned low in his throat, the sound seeming to travel to through his lips into Harry's mouth as Draco pressed closer. Harry shivered slightly, his lips parting as he slid his hand down Draco's throat, fingers dipping into the collar of Draco's shirt to stroke along where his neck met his shoulder. Harry wanted to feel a lot more of Draco's smooth skin than the curve of his shoulder, but he wasn't sure how Draco would react. Draco whimpered again a moment later but the sound was from arousal this time, not nervousness. He pressed his hips more firmly against Harry's, half-afraid he would be pushed away but wanting more. Harry growled softly into the kiss and lifted his hips to rub up against Draco as his legs spread automatically, responding to the tentative advance with enough obvious desire that Draco carefully rocked his hips in reply. Harry's right hand tightened against the small of Draco's back then to urge him to move again as his legs spread even wider. He slid his left hand around to the back of Draco's neck and down into his shirt, caressing soft skin as Draco moved against him again. Draco nipped softly at Harry's upper lip and then lifted his head, his silver-blue eyes darkened to a startlingly vivid cornflower blue by desire and love. "We can't do this," Draco said softly then in low, sultry tone of voice that affected Harry like a shot of bourbon. Shivers of warmth and desire spread through Harry even though 'stop' was the last thing he wanted to hear, but his disappointment didn't last long. "Not here, anyway," Draco added, staring at Harry almost as if he'd never really seen him before. Harry licked at his lips to see if he could taste Draco on them as he stared up into Draco's eyes, marveling at their change in color. He wondered if his own eyes did the same thing as he moved his hand out of Draco's shirt and then stroked Draco's cheek with his fingertips. "You're right," he whispered huskily, "we should move this to our room." Draco pushed himself away from Harry and moved backwards, the evidence of his arousal obvious at the front of his trousers. His cock pressed almost painfully against the fabric as he flinched slightly but stood up with the natural grace that he had inherited from Lucius. He offered his right hand to Harry, breathing hard as his smoldering gaze roamed over Harry's body to linger on the outline of Harry's erection against tight denim. Harry just looked up at Draco a moment before he lifted his right hand, letting Draco pull him to his feet. He let go of Draco's hand and stepped close to him then, lifting both hands to cup Draco's cheeks as he leaned close and whispered simply, "You're beautiful. Did you know that?" He didn't wait for a reply, kissing Draco instead and letting Draco feel some of the hunger coursing through him as their lips moved together. Leaning against Harry was so natural for Draco that he couldn't help himself, his lips parting slightly against Harry's as his hands went automatically to Harry's hips, pulling him closer. Harry made a soft pleased noise against Draco's mouth and licked slowly along Draco's upper lip, his hands gently cupping Draco's jaw. Harry's swayed a bit closer a moment later, pressing up against him and letting Draco feel again just how aroused he was. Draco moved away suddenly, his gaze going down immediately to focus on the bulge in his brother's pants as the blush from earlier rose up on his cheeks again. "Uhm..." Harry moved his hands to Draco's shoulders, resisting the urge to kiss him again and silently watching Draco's face, letting Draco have a moment. He waited for Draco to meet his gaze again before he asked softly, "Are you sure you're okay with this? We don't have to do anything, Dray. I'm sure you won't have a problem with Freddie. He'll be putty in your hands after the first minute." "I don't have a problem with it, Harry, really, it's just..." Draco's blush spread to the tips of his ears as he looked down again and whispered, "I'd like to know how to give someone a hummer. Would you teach me?" He looked up through his eyelashes at Harry's face, studying him as he added quickly, his voice soft and low, "You don't have to, but I feel comfortable with you and you said you wanted me to tell you what I wanted to know. I-- I'd like to taste you." Harry swallowed a groan and leaned closer to kiss Draco quickly again before looking into his eyes. "I would love to teach you anything you want to know." His lips curved into a wicked grin suddenly, love and desire bright in his sparkling green eyes as he added, "As I might've told you, Dray, you're positively edible." Draco's blush darkened and extended down his neck as he shook his head and looked down again. He couldn't quite make himself believe the compliments that Harry was giving him. "I'm not." Harry's wicked grin faded. "Have I ever lied to you, Dray?" Draco gave another quick little shake of his head but still didn't meet Harry's gaze. "Never." Harry lifted one hand from Draco's shoulder to stroke along his jaw with his fingertips and then lifted Draco's chin to make Draco look at him. "I'm not about to start now. I don't know how anyone could resist you, you're very nearly perfect." Harry kissed Draco again then, trying to let him feel the love and desire he felt for him, and Draco's eyes fluttered closed, his body swaying forward to lean heavily against Harry as he lost himself in the kiss. Harry made a soft pleased noise, moving the hand hovering below Draco's chin up into his hair as his other arm slid around Draco's waist, holding him close. Harry's lips were so soft, so completely entrancing that Draco would've happily stayed lost in the kiss forever as their lips moved against each other slowly, savoring something they had wanted longer than either of them cared to admit. Harry sucked gently at Draco's lower lip and slowly ran his fingers through Draco's hair, but he was careful to keep the kiss and his touches gentle. His body was fairly humming with desire but he had to keep reminding himself that this was Draco and not George. He couldn't just push Draco up against the nearest wall and have a go at trying to find his tonsils. Draco wasn't ready for that yet and Harry knew it, and he didn't want to do anything that might scare Draco or make him regret what they were doing. Harry knew just exactly how wonderful it was to have George concentrating on making him forget his name, and he hated seeing Draco afraid to allow the same because of Blaise's ham-handed 'affections'. Draco raised a hand from Harry's hips to place it on his shoulder, the long fingers curving over solid muscle as he shyly licked at Harry's lips, humming at the hint of chocolate from the candy Harry had eaten earlier. Harry made a soft encouraging noise and opened his mouth in invitation, wondering for only a moment what Draco would do before Draco's tongue slipped into Harry's mouth. Harry couldn't help a low moan as Draco licked slowly along the inside of his upper lip and then hesitantly touched his tongue to Harry's. Harry licked at Draco's tongue and then sucked gently as Draco withdrew it, his fingers tightening slightly in Draco's hair with a low whimper. Draco's breath ghosted against his lips as he kissed Harry softly, whispering huskily between kisses, "Weren't we supposed to go back to our room, Harry?" "Mm-hm," Harry agreed softly, kissing back every time Draco's lips touched his and running his left hand down Draco's back as he moved slightly against him, still half lost in Draco's kisses. Draco smiled softly against Harry's lips as he kissed him again, sounding amused as he murmured, "Then don't you think we should go?" Harry pulled back a bit, looking into Draco's eyes with a sudden little grin. "Lead the way, I'll be right behind you." Harry didn't add that he'd be staring at Draco's arse, since he wasn't at all sure Draco was ready to know that yet. Draco kissed Harry once more before pulling away and then turning to head towards their bedroom. Harry followed without hesitation, his gaze on the tight jeans that Draco wore. The denim encased his lean form like a second skin, caressing every curve as he walked and drawing attention to his long legs and the high, full curves of his arse. Within a few steps Harry had a decidedly predatory glint in his green eyes, making them very reminiscent of the green flames of a Floo. Something on the floor caught Draco's eye and he stopped abruptly and bent over, his legs slightly spread as he picked up the object. Harry stopped a bit more than a pace behind Draco and bit his lower lip to keep back a groan, shifting slightly and flexing his hands as he reminded himself again that Draco was not George. If he grabbed that perfect heart-shaped arse Draco was more likely to shriek than to push him against the nearest wall and growl in his ear, and it would undoubtedly scare him. Harry had to keep his hands to himself. Draco picked up the shiny knut and then straightened again as he slipped it into his back pocket, inadvertently stroking his arse. Harry made a soft noise and watched Draco's fingers, practically drooling and wishing that was his hand sliding into that pocket. Or his tongue; that would work, too. With a toss of his head, Draco flung his hair backwards to rest on his shoulders again as he reached for the doorknob and then slipped into their bedroom, leaving Harry in the short hallway alone. Harry bit his lip a little harder and took a deep breath, then reached down to adjust himself with a grimace, taking a moment to get control of himself again before he followed Draco into their room. He'd been quite certain he could manage himself when he had made the offer, but the closer he got to actually doing naughty things to the person he loved most in the world, the more aroused he got and the less control he had over his reactions. He had tried very hard to avoid even thinking about touching Draco -- well, except in his dreams, he couldn't control them -- since he had noticed how beautiful he was quite a long time ago. Ideas of just what he could do with Draco were flooding his mind in a chaotic, erotic blur now that he wasn't suppressing the very concept anymore. Harry realized suddenly that his hesitation might bother Draco and took another deep breath, making a conscious effort to clear his mind as he followed Draco into their room. He prayed that he would be able to behave himself well enough that he wouldn't scare Draco. He just couldn't bear it if he added to the bad experiences Draco had already had.

A week had passed since what became affectionately known between Draco and Harry as 'That Night', and Harry still felt sudden flashes of heat as memories played in his head at odd moments. Draco had been simply beautiful all stretched out on Harry's bed with his head thrown back and his neck exposed, his skin hot and slick with sweat where Harry's hands held him to the bed. They were lucky that they were alone and that Harry had cast a silencing charm around the room, or there was no doubt in Harry's mind that someone would've rushed in at Draco's first groan. Draco had sounded like he was being tortured as his impossibly blue eyes glazed over, muscles rippling and his voice deepening as Harry used every trick he knew to make Draco feel good. He had wanted Draco's first time with someone else to be something he would never forget, and he was pretty sure he had succeeded. The thrill that went down Harry's spine as he swallowed that first pulse of precome had made him shudder. He could almost feel Draco's hands tangled in his unruly, sweat-soaked hair still, fingers clenching as his cock throbbed in Harry's mouth. Harry had done the same thing with George often, but it hadn't affected him quite like being with Draco had. It was beautiful to see Draco so free and uninhibited, and Harry hoped that Fred knew what a gift he was being given. Draco's body had rolled with sinewy movements very like those of a snake gliding through tall grass, every movement instinctive and so graceful it was almost as if Draco had practiced it. Draco, who was so innocent, had sounded as if his body and soul were being ripped from each other when he climaxed. Draco's flushed skin had shone with sweat as he sprawled there in Harry's bed and tried to get control of himself again. Harry had found himself unable to do anything but marvel at Draco's beauty afterwards, savoring the taste that was lingering in his mouth. Draco was breathtaking lying there like a debauched angel, his pale skin seeming almost to glow against the dove-grey sheets and his hair fanned out over the pillow in a pale golden halo. Harry had spent what seemed like hours slowly running his lips and hands over Draco's body, worshiping him while Draco slowly regained his breath and scattered thoughts. Draco's unique personal scent, a mixture of sandalwood and soap, had clung to Harry's body afterwards, not fading entirely until after his shower the next morning. Harry could never put into words how it made him feel to know that he had shared this with Draco, how he felt to know that even though Draco would hold and even love other people, Harry would always be the first one who had kissed him breathless. Fred, if he had any brains at all, would be the first to make love to Draco, but Harry had still been the first to learn Draco's perfect body and make Draco feel loved. "Harry...?" Draco's voice pulled Harry from his daydream and brought his attention abruptly back to the present. He focused on the blond standing across the room, watching Draco hold up two shirts, one a slate blue and the other a burgundy rose. "Hmm?" They had both been tailored specifically to fit Draco's broadening shoulders and narrow waist, and both looked so very nice on him that Draco was having a hard time choosing which one to wear. "Which looks better?" Harry licked his lips, comparing the two shirts and then letting his gaze roam slowly over Draco's form as he said softly, "The blue, definitely. It brings out your eyes and always looks spectacular with those black jeans you're wearing." "Alright," Draco replied with a bit of a smile. He recognized the look that Harry was giving him as being inspired partly by frank appraisal and partly by lust. Turning around, Draco hung up the burgundy shirt and then carefully slipped an arm into the blue one. After 'That Night' Draco had begun to feel an answering rush of desire whenever Harry gazed at him like that. He was still getting used to seeing Harry as someone he wanted to shag someday. Just the thought of it brought a bright flush to his pale skin and made him want to moan. Harry licked his lips as he watched the play of muscles in Draco's back for a few moments before he noticed Draco's reflection in the mirror. Draco was still a bit nervous about what he was going to do, and it showed in the way his fingers trembled on the buttons. Harry quickly stood and walked over to help, brushing Draco's trembling hands aside and then buttoning the shirt as he smiled reassuringly at him. "Don't worry, Dray. Everything will be okay, I'm sure of it." Taking a deep breath, Draco nodded slowly. "It's only Fred, that's what I keep telling myself, but it doesn't seem to be helping." He watched Harry's fingers deftly buttoning up the shirt and sometimes even brushing his skin, unable to keep from remembering that those were the hands that had pleasured him, kept him safe, and made him feel loved. Harry smiled, nodding and watching Draco's face as he replied softly, "You're going to be as safe with Freddie as you would be with me, Dray. I know he would never hurt you." He finished buttoning the shirt and stepped back a bit as he tilted his head a little to one side and looked at Draco, then tugged gently at the shirt and added, "I think you should tuck it in, show off that perfect arse of yours." "Harry!" Draco squeaked out, his voice cracking on the upnote as another memory slipped its way into the forefront of Draco's mind. The things that Harry had done to his arse had been heavenly, especially with his tongue. Draco had wanted to ask if that was a natural talent or if he could learn to make someone else feel like that, but he hadn't been able to make himself say the words. Harry looked into Draco's eyes with a little grin, the wicked glint in his green eyes making them sparkle. "Would you like me to do it for you?" He tugged Draco's shirt up and hooked his fingers loosely into the waistband of Draco's jeans as if to unbutton them, smirking when Draco made no move to stop him. "What a great idea." "I swear you're a c-co--cocktease, Harry." Draco felt the flush that was becoming a permanent fixture on his face deepen even further as he looked back at his brother. Draco truly wished that he didn't stutter when he was feeling horny and nervous, but it had passed quickly when he was with Harry so he hoped that eventually it would go away completely. Harry wriggled his eyebrows, glad that Draco hadn't made a move to stop him as he stepped closer to him, leaving just enough room between them for his hands to unfasten Draco's jeans. "It's only being a tease," he murmured, "if I'm not willing to follow through." He leaned closer to kiss Draco's lips softly and then looked into his eyes as he added, "I'd be happy to take the edge off for you, before you go. It might help you relax." Licking his lips, Draco slowly shook his head even as his hands went to his zipper and dragged it down with a soft rasping noise that seemed loud in the sudden silence. "No. I don't think that even you could get rid of these nerves, and I have to meet Fred by the main staircase in a few minutes." Looking shyly at Harry, he finished in a whisper, "And, well, I don't want to waste the chance by not being able to, uhm, finish, if things go well. Maybe-- Maybe tonight you could let me practice on you a bit?" Draco was hopeful, thinking that he would need Harry's comfort after what he planned to try on Fred. Harry leaned closer again to kiss Draco's lips softly before he smiled at him, his green eyes gentle and full of love. "Anytime Dray, it would be a pleasure." He moved his hands to start tucking in Draco's shirt, his touch lingering only a little as he tucked the shirt down along Dray's upper thighs with a sudden grin. "And you don't need to worry you won't be able to finish. If you make it that far, you'll find that you won't have any trouble at all." Draco ducked his head to give Harry's lips a feather-soft kiss and then whispered softly, "Thank you." Harry smiled at Draco, recognizing the tremble of nervousness in Draco's voice for what it was as he rested his hands on either side of Draco's waist. "You don't have to thank me, Dray. I love you and I love being with you, no matter what we're doing." Draco's expression relaxed into a sweet smile and he beamed at Harry, nodding. "I know and I love you too. You're my big brother." Draco grinned suddenly and added teasingly, "Well, sort of. You are a bit short." Harry laughed and gave Draco a little shove. "It's not my fault I take after Mum. We can't all be tall and perfect." Harry grinned and leaned up to kiss Draco's cheek, then moved away to go over to the dresser across the room. "Finish tucking in your shirt, I know just what the final touch should be." "Yes sir," Draco replied half-mockingly, then wiggled his hips from side to side as he began tucking his shirt in again, mentally cursing how tight his jeans were. After making sure that the material laid flat with little patting motions, he finally buttoned his jeans and then tugged up the zipper before he exhaled the breath that he'd been forced to hold with a loud whoosh. "I might have to stretch these, I doubt I could sit down in them without doing myself serious damage." Harry turned back towards him with a silver chain dangling from his fingers and gave Draco another of those frankly appraising looks, then smirked wickedly. "Oh no, they're perfect, I promise." "If you say so," Draco replied dubiously, watching as Harry walked back towards him. "I do." Harry stepped very close to Draco and then lifted his hands to put the necklace on Draco, sliding his hands under Draco's pale blond hair to close the clasp. The feel of Harry's fingers brushing against the soft skin at the nape of his neck was enough to make Draco shiver. Harry caressed the soft skin again just to see if he'd react the same way, and a certain part of Draco's anatomy started to stand up and pay attention. "Harry, look what you did!" Draco complained, his tone somewhere between amused and whiny. "Now I have to think of something to get it down again. There is no way Papa's going to let me walk out of here with a stiffy." Harry snickered softly as he used the excuse of smoothing the chain around Draco's neck to stroke the soft skin of his throat again. He straightened the tiny sliver dragon charm that hung from it before he stepped back and moved his hands to Draco's waist, tugging the shirt up just a bit to make it fall more naturally. "Think about Neville." Harry paused, tilting his head to look at Draco's shirt with a grin as he added, "Or kissing Mrs. Norris." Draco raised one eyebrow in a close imitation of Severus, looking down at Harry. "That was the singularly worst, most disturbing image possible," he said very dryly, no tone or inflection in his voice even though the thought of kissing Mrs. Norris did make his erection subside again. "I don't think I'll ever be able to get it up again. You have ruined my sex life before it's even started good." Harry snickered, his green eyes dancing with laughter as he wriggled his eyebrows at Draco. "Oh I doubt that! But, I'm sure I can get a ... reaction, if you'd like proof." Draco crossed his arms in front of his chest and looked skeptical, his stance relaxed even as he mock glared at Harry. "That mental image was too disgusting." Harry smirked, a challenging glint in his eyes as he moved around behind Draco to lean close to Draco's ear without actually touching him and murmured, "Don't you remember how much your cock just loves my mouth? All hot and wet and tight, and when I hum it sends vibrations straight to your bollocks and your lovely arse and makes you want things you don't even know about yet..." Draco shivered, remembering that feeling, and then Harry licked lightly at the edge of Draco's ear before he added in a husky whisper, "Wouldn't you like to come down my throat again tonight?" Inhaling sharply, Draco moved away from the torturous beast known as Harold Evan Malfoy-Snape as he muttered, "You are evil." Carefully adjusting himself in the tight jeans, Draco tried unsuccessfully to envision Neville kissing Mrs. Norris, instead of remembering flashes of Harry's mouth on his cock that made him want to groan. Harry smirked and moved to one side so he could see Draco's face better, his green eyes sparkling as he folded his arms across his chest, parroting the stance Draco had taken a moment ago. "Have any more doubts, Dray?" Not liking the smirk that was on Harry's face, Draco's eyes narrowed as he turned slowly and stalked towards him. He didn't know where he was getting the stones to dare, but his actions were deliberate as he reached out and wrapped his fingers around the back of Harry's neck. Pulling him close to his body, Draco dipped his head down and slowly started devouring Harry's lips, licking at the upper then sucking on the bottom as Harry melted against him with a soft little surprised sound. Draco stepped back suddenly just as Harry began to really respond to the kiss, leaving him wanting more. Draco smiled at him almost innocently and said rather cheerfully, "No, not really." Harry took a deep breath as he blinked twice to clear his vision and muttered, "I've created a monster." Harry licked his lips, then a predatory little smile slowly spread across his face. "Or maybe a master..." Blushing, Draco ran his fingers through his shoulder length blond hair and scuffed his toe against the floor, secretly pleased that he'd been able to distract Harry, however briefly. The smile on his face spread tentatively after a moment as he glanced at Harry and asked, "Was that … all right?" "All right?!" Harry scoffed, grinning and looking a bit surprised. "No, it wasn't all right. It was bloody brilliant, and don't let anyone tell you differently." Draco beamed at Harry and stepped closer to him, kissing Harry on the forehead and giving him a tight hug before he let go. "I guess I should go. Thank you, Harry, for everything. I love you." Harry kissed Draco's cheek and then smiled at him as he said, "I love you too, and you don't have to thank me, Dray. It's always an honor." "It was an honor to suck my prick?" Draco teased, his eyes sparkling with silent mirth. Harry smirked. "It was an honor the be the first to suck your prick." Draco couldn't help but grin back despite his blush. "Even though I wasn't the first to suck yours, it was an honor to be taught by you. It was fun." "Thank you, it's supposed to be fun." Harry reached up to tuck a bit of Draco's hair behind his ear, smiling. "And I'm not as patient as you are, Dray, so when I caught George staring at my arse I had to do something about it. If I hadn't, you would have been my first too, I think." Draco smirked as his hands slid down to cup Harry's arse and murmured, "And why wouldn't he stare? You arse is round, soft, tight, and very squeezable." Tightening the hands that were curving over Harry's arse, Draco got a good feel as if to demonstrate, then nodded. "Yes, definitely squeezable. George would've been a fool not to try and lay claim to it." Harry slid his arms around Draco's neck and swayed closer to press his body against him with a wicked little grin, his green eyes sparkling with amusement and something more. "Are you sure? Maybe you should check again." Running his hands over Harry's arse, Draco started pushing Harry back towards the wall, walking slowly as he murmured in a husky baritone that Harry knew meant he was getting quite aroused again, "How would you like me to make sure? Maybe lift you up and press you against the wall to snog you until you're melting in my hands, hmm? Would you like that? Being held up only by my mouth on yours, and my hands and cock pressing against you?" Harry groaned and slid his hands into Draco's hair, looking into his eyes with undisguised hunger as he licked his lips and then whispered, "I'd love it." Draco leaned forward just as Harry's back hit the wall and dragged his tongue along Harry's throat as he listened to Harry moan, molding his body along Harry's. He rubbed his renewed erection against Harry's hip as he whispered into his skin, "You make me want to stay here and see just how far this can go." Draco bit gently at the soft skin over the throbbing vein in Harry's throat, his mouth wrapping around the skin and slowly drawing it into his mouth as he suckled hungrily. Harry let his eyelids fall closed, shuddering and making tiny little needy noises as his hands tightened in Draco's hair. Draco licked and sucked at Harry's throat until a light bruise had formed from the pressure and then pulled back his head just enough to survey his handiwork. The almost purple mark stood out starkly against the pale skin of Harry's throat, and Draco couldn't resist the urge to give the tasty skin one final lick before he pulled back far enough to see Harry's face. "You taste like heaven," Draco whispered softly, "but I need to go try this on Freddie before I forget myself." Harry opened his eyes, swallowing hard before he said huskily, "Freddie's going to be putty in your hands, Dray. He'll never know what hit him." Draco smiled at Harry, encouraged by the faith that Harry had in him and by the way Harry had reacted to his advances. "Wish me luck." Brushing his lips across Harry's once more, Draco pulled back feeling much calmer than he had earlier. Harry returned the smile, his green eyes sparkling as he gave Draco a squeeze and then let him go. "You won't need it, but good luck." Stepping backwards, Draco took a deep breath and then muttered to himself, "Neville and Mrs. Norris. Frenching." He made a face at the thought but the front of his pants didn't become appreciably looser. "All right… Neville French kissing Filch." That mental image was enough to draw a shudder. Harry chuckled softly and Draco gave him a blinding grin, then walked quickly towards the door. Harry moved over to throw himself down face-first on Draco's bed, groaning at the sudden pressure against his cock and not even noticing it when Draco closed the door. Harry took a deep breath, inhaling Draco's scent from the pillow even as he tried to will away his erection, mentally promising his aching cock a very nice blowjob later. He knew it was rather stupid and that thinking about a nice blowjob would probably just make him harder, but he still thought it. He knew Draco loved Fred at least as much as he loved George -- which was quite a lot -- and he couldn't think of anyone in the world who might understand how much he loved Draco except the twins, so he was devoutly hoping that everything would go well with Freddie. He simply couldn't imagine he and Draco actually dating anyone else, and no one would understand if Draco and Harry tried to date each other. After laying on the bed a few moments going over the possible worst case scenario in his head Harry suddenly turned his face to the side, looking at the wall. Even though Harry and Draco weren't related, they had been raised as brothers. Harry knew that if he was wrong and the twins didn't express their love for each other physically, then there was very little chance anyone would ever understand he and Draco doing so. If Harry was wrong about the twins' activities together -- and if he was wrong then George had quite a lot of explaining to do, both for not correcting Harry when he'd hinted as much and for cheating on him -- then it was very likely that when Fred and George found out they would want nothing more to do with them. Harry loved George quite a lot and knew that he wanted to spend his life with him, even if he hadn't ever admitted it out loud to anyone, but Draco was his other half. Harry couldn't imagine giving up the privilege of showing Draco how much he loved him, not even for George. ~*~*~*~*~ Draco stopped for a moment in the sitting room to kiss Sev on the cheek before he said with a bright grin, "See you later, Papa. I'm going out for a walk around the lake." Sev glanced up from his book idly and then his eyes narrowed as he noticed a rather obvious bulge at the front of Draco's jeans and gave Draco a more searching look. Draco was dressed much as Lucius had dressed as a teenager when he wanted to score with a pretty girl, and seeing him brought back quite a few memories for Sev. He hadn't seen Draco so obviously dressed to impress for quite some time, but he thought that going out was quite an improvement over how quiet Draco had acted recently so he didn't make any attempt to disrupt Draco's plans. "Do have fun." "Oh I will, Papa," Draco replied cheerfully over his shoulder on his way out of the suite, completely oblivious to the way Sev was watching him. "Have no fear." Sev watched Draco disappear through the doorway and then looked back down at his book with a slight frown, trying to decide whether or not he was imagining the fact that Draco had not only been aroused, but looked as though he'd just been thoroughly kissed as well. He knew that Harry and Draco were very close -- inseparable might have been a better term, really -- but he hadn't thought that they were experimenting sexually with each other. He had actually been worried that one or both of them might be involved with either Granger, Longbottom, or the Thomas boy since Harry and Draco spent quite a lot of time with the Gryffindors, but he hadn't ever seen Harry or Draco return from a 'study session' in the state that Draco had just left their room. 'Of course,' Sev thought after a moment, 'it's not as though it would truly be wrong if they did. Lily won't like it, but I suppose no mother likes it when her children begin having sex. They are not related by blood, and they're even closer than Luc and I were at that age, if such a thing is possible. I suppose, since they do both seem to be quite as queer as I am, that I should have been expecting that they might experiment a bit with each other.' Sev looked back down at his book and began to read again, but after only a moment another thought crossed his mind and he lifted his head again, his eyes widening. 'But, if they are as close as Luc and I were, then where the hell was Draco going?! I know a Malfoy on the prowl when I see one, and that boy is looking to get laid. The question is who he has his eye on.' Sev looked at the fireplace for a long moment, then sighed softly and closed his book, setting it aside. 'Harry will know, but whether he will tell me or not is a very different question.' Sev stood abruptly and walked to Harry and Draco's room to knock on the door as he called softly, "Harry? Are you busy, son?" Sev waited patiently for a response instead of just entering because he well remembered being a teenager and knew that his sons valued their privacy as much as he himself did. They were at that age where even a well-intentioned entering was viewed as a threat, mostly because it could be quite embarrassing. Sev and Luc had both been overrun with hormones at that age and had often gotten off either together or alone several times a day, after each other constantly when they weren't busy tormenting the seventh years and Lucius wasn't chasing some skirt or another. Knowing that Draco had just left the boys' room with a stiffy, Sev wasn't about to just waltz into their room. He thought it quite likely Harry would be in a rather compromising position. Harry rolled over and sat up on Draco's bed, glancing down at his lap and adjusting himself quickly to make his fading erection a bit less noticeable. He finally looked back up at the door and called, "No, I'm not busy. Come on in, Papa." Sev opened the door and walked into the room, noticing immediately that Harry was on Draco's bed even though he didn't say anything. He knew it wasn't unusual for the two of them to violate each other's personal space. It was a concept that they just didn't seem to think applied to them. "Your brother just stormed out of here like a heathen in heat, and I was wondering if you might be willing to tell me why." Harry snickered at that, his green eyes lighting up with amusement as he shifted to pull one knee up to his chest, folding his arms on his knee and resting his chin on them. "He's got his eye on someone and is trying to impress them." "Should I be terrified?" Sev asked as he gazed at Harry, his eyes alighting on the bruise on Harry's neck. 'Well, there's the answer to my question. That is definitely a love bite that he did not have when they walked in here an hour ago, or I'm not a Potions Master.' Harry shrugged a bit, smiling. "I don't think so Papa, but I'm just his brother." Nodding his head, Sev said quite decisively, "In that case, yes, I should be terrified. Please do warn me before he brings this person home." "Yes sir," Harry replied with a grin, glad it was Sev asking questions instead of Lily, who would have kept digging until she was sure she knew everything he did. Sev turned as if to go, then paused and looked back at the bed. "Oh, and Harry?" Harry lifted his head and gave his father a questioning look. "Yes, Papa?" Sev tapped the side of his own throat and looked pointedly at Harry's neck. "I would recommend the application of a concealing charm before your mother sees that. She is very unlikely to let it pass without embarrassing you thoroughly." Sev strode out of the boys' room with a dark chuckle, shutting the door behind him just in time to cut off the muffled sound of another voice as Harry's eyes widened. Harry jumped off the bed as soon Sev closed the door, moving to the nearby mirror to look at his neck. He took a few moments to inspect the bite on his throat before he turned away to go get his wand, muttering, "We're definitely going to have to talk about where it's safe to mark each other." Harry picked his wand up off of his bed and then moved the few steps back to the mirror to try and conceal the mark, wishing he were better at that particular spell. It wasn't as easy as an invisibility spell, which was a shame since he'd been able to perform one of those since midway through fourth year. He had to focus his attention exactly right if he wanted to conceal the bruise on his neck in such a way that it wouldn't be obvious that there was something different there. Harry knew that all three of his parents were quite observant enough to catch a poor attempt at a concealing charm, so it would have to be perfectly applied. Harry's first try looked quite good until he moved, then he groaned as he realized he had focused incorrectly and cast the concealing charm on the mirror, not on his neck. He ended the spell and tried again, touching his wand to the love bite and then attempting to cast the charm again. The spell again looked to have worked, at least until Harry moved the wand away and saw he'd put an illusion of the wand-tip onto his neck. Harry let out another low annoyed noise and ended the spell again, moving so that he had a better view of his neck and then concentrating for a few moments on picturing exactly how it should look before he tried the spell again. There was a knock on the door just as Harry finished the charm again, and Harry looked in the mirror, quickly craning his neck around to be sure the concealing charm had worked before he moved to the foot of Draco's bed and flopped down on it as he said, "Come in!" George stuck his head in, grinning at the way Harry's eyes lit up when he saw him. "Your Mum said it was alright to visit. She's dragging your other two parental units out for an evening of, in your Dad's words, 'peace and bloody quiet!'" Stepping into the room and quietly closing the door, George smiled at Harry as he added, "Also, I came to report on the meeting of the two berks known as our brothers." Harry grinned, patting the bed next to him. "Come, sit! Tell me everything." Leaning back against the closed door, George teasingly shook his head. "I don't think it's a good idea for me and you to both be on Draco's bed." With a wiggle of his eyebrows and a crooking of his finger, George beckoned Harry over as he added, "I might be persuaded though..." Harry smirked and stood up, walking slowly towards George. "It could be quite fun to persuade you. Did Mum say when they were leaving?" "Oh, about two minutes ago. They were taking the Floo out when I walked in here," George replied with a deceptively innocent grin. "I wanted to make sure they were really gone before I came to see you." Harry's smirk turned positively wicked as he stopped in front of George, standing very close to him and resting his hands on George's hips. "Mmm, I do like a man who thinks on his feet." Smirking, George slid an arm around Harry's waist and pulled him close, molding Harry's smaller body against his own. "I can do quite a lot more than think on my feet." Harry melted against George, sliding his hands around to cup George's arse as he looked up into his eyes with a wicked little grin. "Oh yes, I know. I'm quite the lucky guy." George pulled Harry closer, his free hand going to the back of Harry's neck and tugging gently as he moved forward until his lips were almost touching Harry's, then a slight shimmer caught his eye and he stopped. "Harry, what's that?" Harry pulled back slightly with a surprised expression, then saw George was looking at his neck a blushed a bit as he murmured, "Nothing important." He leaned closer again, wanting to kiss George and not really thinking it was important that they talk about it. George had never attempted to explain the hickeys he had that Harry hadn't given him, but he didn't stop to think that the courtesy should go both ways. He was still focused on Harry's neck and looking a bit uncertain as he said softly, "Harry..." Harry paused again, seeing the uncertainty in George's eyes and wanting to reassure him as he said softly, "It's just a hickey, George. I had to hide it so Mum wouldn't see it." "But --" George protested softly, his eyes beginning to shine a little as he reached up to trail a finger over the edge of the glamour. Harry lifted his hand to stroke George's cheek, concerned. "George, what's wrong?" "I didn't give that to you, Harry," George replied quietly, his expression suddenly more closed and serious than Harry had ever seen it. Harry's eyebrows went up and he let go of George, stepping away from him slightly. "George, you have hickeys I didn't give you all the time, and you've never even attempted to explain them. Why is this different?" "I didn't think you'd find another boyfriend though." Pushing Harry away a little, George moved past him to sit on Harry's bed. "I thought I could be enough for you." Harry followed him, moving to sit next to George and looking seriously at him. "Am I your boyfriend, George?" Looking at his folded hands, George spoke quietly. "I hoped. I mean, you're the only one who touches me besides Freddie, I wouldn't let anyone else near me. I just thought..." "I know that I love you, and think of you as my boyfriend, but you've never said you wanted that George, so I didn't push." Harry reached for George's hands as George looked at him suddenly, the closed expression falling away. Harry covered George's hands with one of his own and added softly, "And nobody touches me except you... And Draco." George's eyebrows lifted at the mention of Draco and curiosity shone in his eyes, but he didn't feel that he had the right to ask because he had avoided answering when Harry asked him about Freddie. Thinking back on that now he regretted it and wished he had been honest, but he really wouldn't be able to blame Harry if he decided to evade the question. Turning his hand over, he laced his fingers with Harry's and squeezed. Harry squeezed George's hand and leaned closer to kiss his cheek quickly before sitting back again. "Go ahead and ask," he said softly, amused by George's expression and the curiosity in his eyes. "We both know your curiosity will drive you barmy if you don't." "You and Draco are, well, like me and Freddie?" "You've never told me how things are between you and Freddie," Harry replied reasonably, "so how am I supposed to answer that?" George looked at Harry for a moment, then cleared his throat and asked a little hesitantly, "Do you touch because it feels like you're the only ones that can ever completely understand how much you mean each other? When you kiss, does it feel as if your soul's on fire?" Harry nodded slowly, his eyes softening as he remembered what it had been like, and George swallowed hard before he asked very softly, "Do you and Draco make love because it's the closest you can ever be to each other?" "Kissing is exactly like that, but we-- We haven't actually had sex, just done other things." Harry paused a moment, looking down at their linked hands, then looked back up at George. "I didn't plan on it, but Draco was worried because he didn't know much about kissing or fooling around and wanted me to show him." Harry's cheeks flushed. "Once we started kissing, things got out of hand pretty fast." "His kisses were addictive and his touch even more so," George spoke softly, moving one hand from his lap to drape that arm around Harry's shoulders. "And he tasted like sin and heaven all at the same time." Harry nodded, looking into George's eyes and wondering how he knew just exactly the right words to say to describe such an ambiguous feeling. "I've always thought he was beautiful, but seeing him like that..." Harry trailed off, at a loss for words. George smiled softly and tightened his arm around Harry's shoulders, giving him a squeeze. "A little part of you fell in love." Harry nodded, still gazing into George's eyes as he said softly, "But that doesn't mean I love you less." "I know." It was said without any hesitation, a simple statement of belief that was almost as profound as the look in George's eyes. Harry was suddenly sure that George knew exactly what he was feeling, how he was thinking, and approved because he felt exactly the same way about Freddie. Harry smiled, thinking about how lucky he and Draco were that they had met the twins, the only people Harry thought could ever understand their love for each other well enough not to be jealous. Harry just stared into George's eyes for a long time before he finally spoke again, changing the subject as he asked with a smile, "Did you see Dray when he went to meet Freddie?" "Did I see Draco?" George repeated, smirking at Harry. "I think everyone in the castle saw Draco." His expression turned into an evil grin as he added, "Especially Blaise. He noticed Draco to the point that Parkinson had to jerk on his arm to get his attention, and the git nearly took a header down the stairs." Harry returned the smirk, a wicked twinkle in his eyes as he said firmly, "Good! The bastard needs to see just what he's going to be missing out on at least once before I manage to corner him and kick his arse." "I love it when you talk tough." George pulled Harry into his lap with a grin and then added, "Your brother had the serious strut going. Even McGonagall stopped and stared at him. Hooch too." Harry settled astride George's thighs as he rested both hands on George's shoulders, smirking. "I really had to work at it to get him from scared shitless to strutting." He paused and then asked curiously, "What'd you think when you saw him?" "Honestly? I wanted to fuck him, hard. Pound his lovely ass right into the ground." George looked up into Harry's eyes and arranged him over his erection. "See? I was hard the whole way here." Harry smirked and rocked slowly against George's cock, teasing him as he asked, "Are you sure you picked the right brother?" "Oh I picked the right one, all right." Leaning forward, George kissed Harry on the neck, murmuring, "He fits me perfectly." Harry smiled, tipping his head to the side in obvious encouragement as he asked quietly, "Are you sure? The other brother is much more beautiful..." George bit Harry's neck gently, then reprimanded him in a low voice, "Harry, you're fucking gorgeous. Don't think that you aren't." Harry slid one hand up from George's shoulder to comb through George's hair. "Maybe, but Dray's still beautiful." "Harry, you're beautiful too. In fact, I'm going to prove it to you. Get up, baby." Harry climbed off of George's lap to stand against the side of the bed between George's knees. He let his hands rest on George's shoulders again, absently stroking the muscles there as he gave George a bemused look and tried to decide whether or not he should feel girly for liking the fact George had called him baby. "What exactly do you have in mind?" "Stand in front of the mirror for me?" George asked with a smile. "I'm going to show you just how beautiful you are." Harry gave George a dubious look but pulled away and moved over to the mirror, looking at himself a few moments before he looked at George again. "I'm still just me, George." George stood and walked over to stand behind Harry, wrapping his arms around Harry's waist as he spoke low into his ear. "Tell me what you think about your face." Harry looked into George's eyes in the mirror for a long moment, leaning back against him, then turned his attention to looking at himself, seeing the same face he always saw. He shrugged slightly after a minute or two, letting his gaze move back to the reflection of George's eyes. "I look a bit like Papa, but not as much as I did when I was little. I've got my mother's eyes and mouth and it makes me look vaguely girly, but not terribly so." "Harry, you have a strong face. Beautifully high cheekbones, sensual lips just made for kissing, marvelous verdant green eyes, a perfect slim nose that fits your face." Harry blushed, looking down at where George's arms were wrapped around him and stroking the backs of his hands without replying. George kept whispering into Harry's ear, watching him in the mirror. "You have a smattering of freckles on the bridge of your nose that are so faint I hope no one but Draco and I have gotten close enough to see them, and your skin's smooth as satin and sunkissed. Plus you have this thick, gorgeous hair that's black as night and so silky to the touch." Harry's cheeks flushed a bit more and he looked up slowly to meet George's eyes, listening silently both because he had no idea what to say and because he didn't really want to distract George and make him stop talking. "You even have the cutest earlobes," George added softly with a little smile, "just the right size to nibble and suck on." Harry smiled slightly at that, unable to resist asking, "You like my ears?" "Baby, I love your ears." George nibbled on the curve of Harry's left ear, making Harry shiver and moan softly, and then he whispered, "They are absolutely perfect, just like you." Harry stroked George's hands, tipping his head in obvious invitation. "I'm glad you think so." George nuzzled Harry's ear, whispering softly into it, "I'm not the only one. I had to threaten a few people so I'd have a chance with you, little love." Harry smiled and laced his fingers with George's, holding his hands and watching George's face in the mirror. "Did you really?" "Want a list?" George asked with obvious amusement as he looked at Harry in the mirror, his thumbs rubbing over Harry's hands. "I dare say you know the majority of them." Harry giggled slightly, looking into George's eyes. "When did you start telling them to back off?" Looking a bit sheepish, George murmured, "Right after the Sorting Feast." Harry's eyes widened. "Yours or ours?" With a bit of smirk, George kissed Harry's cheek. "Guess." Harry laughed softly and replied, "I'm going to guess ours. Yours would be just a bit scary, since all you knew about me then was that I have a habit of roaming at night, I'm scrawny, and I run like a girl." George teased with a smile, "But what a cute scrawny kid you were." He became a bit more serious then, pulling Harry closer as he went on, "And the first time I told them to back off, it was because they looked at you the way Blaise has always looked at Draco." "Did they really? I've caught a few people looking at Draco, but I never noticed them watching me..." Harry trailed off, surprised, and then asked softly, "Who was looking at me like that?" "Flint, Wood, Diggory, Zabini, Chang, Davies, Warrington... A few others." Tightening his arms around Harry, George held him close while he briefly got lost in memories of seeing other people stare at his Harry. "I didn't like that they were looking at you like that. You were sweet and so innocent, and you didn't deserve to be dragged into the power games." Harry leaned his head back on George's shoulder, turning his head to rest his forehead against George's ear. "I never really understood all of that. I mean, I knew, but somehow it didn't really connect, you know? Mum and Papa are just professors, and Dray and I definitely aren't the only students that have a parent in the Ministry." "Harry, your Mum, she's a hero. Your Papa too, and your Dad has all the right political connections. If they told the Ministry to jump on something, there's a good chance it would happen." "Maybe," Harry conceded, "but I doubt they would. Mum thinks all of that Woman Who Lived business is complete codswallop, and Papa and Dad agree with her. Mum and Papa just want to teach and do a little bit of research on the side, and Dad quite likes his job with the Department of Mysteries." "I know that, and you know that, and Dray and Freddie know that, but some people just want to use whatever and whoever they can to get ahead. I didn't want that to happen to you, and Freddie didn't want it to happen to Dray. He even threatened Percy." Harry nuzzled the side of George's throat as he thought about whether or not he wanted to know why Fred had to threaten Percy, but after a few moments he finally decided he didn't. "I'm glad we've got you two to take care of us." Catching the side of Harry's mouth with a tender kiss, George just held him. "Always." Harry smiled, his eyes shining as he kissed George softly and then whispered, "I love you." Quidditch callused fingers stroked Harry's jaw slowly as George's lips brushed over his cheek. "I love you, too. I think I have since the very first time I saw you, when you and Dray charged to the rescue before McGonagall could catch us." Harry swallowed hard and leaned into George's touch, whispering, "You have no idea how long I've hoped you would say that to me." "I didn't want to push you too fast, or to think that I was after something." Harry looked into George's eyes, a soft smile on his lips. "You wouldn't have been pushing me, George. Didn't you ever wonder why I didn't date anyone?" Shrugging, George steered Harry back towards the bed, still pressing against him. "I thought it was because you were being Super Brother to Draco. You were always scowling at anyone who got too close to him until he fell for Blaise, and when they broke up you got even worse." Harry giggled a little, letting George guide him towards the bed. "Dray needed someone to take care of him, he doesn't do very well with crowds." "I've noticed." Harry giggled again, turning in George's arms and reaching up to wrap his arms around George's neck. "I'm sure you have. It's pretty obvious, and you have known us for nearly seven years now." "Fuck, I love it when you giggle, you sound so carefree." George smiled as he slid his hands down to cup Harry's arse, pulling him closer. "And you look so beautiful with your eyes all sparkling and happy." Harry returned the smile even though he was blushing again, pressing his body up against George's and running his fingers through George's hair as he said softly, "Most just think it makes me sound girly." "Fuck'em," George answered with a little grin as he leaned in and kissed Harry's lips slowly. Harry's arms tightened around his neck as George tightened his hands on Harry's arse and lifted him up a little, arms that were nicely muscular from years of wielding a bat holding Harry's weight easily. George was half of the best team of Beaters Gryffindor had ever had, and years of practice had done wonders for his build. Harry lifted his legs after a moment, wrapping them around George's hips and then grinding against George's erection as he murmured against his lips, "Why don't you fuck me instead?" George's head went back to look Harry in the eyes, surprise obvious on his face. "Harry, you don't really want me to do that." Harry's eyebrows went up as he gave George a little grin. "I don't? You sure could have fooled me." He flexed his hips to grind his cock against George's belly slowly, still looking into George's eyes. "I've wanted you to make love to me for a long time. Why do you think I told you that I wanted my first time to be with someone who loved me?" George looked into Harry's eyes a moment longer and then said quietly, "We'll do it one night, baby, but not tonight. I'll make it good for you when we do." "I know you'll take good care of me, George. I'm not worried about that at all." Harry looked into George's eyes for a moment and then asked softly, "Would you tell me why you don't want to?" "A little something called Double Potions tomorrow. Your Mum and Pop are the professors and I think they'll notice if you're sitting a little tenderly." George smiled reassuringly. "Believe me, if I could make it so that it won't hurt, I would but...." Harry blinked in surprise and then blushed. "I hadn't even though of that." Pressing a quick kiss to Harry's lips, George carried him the few steps to the bed and laid him down on it, letting Harry pull him down on top of him. "It's alright, but I know what it feels like and I don't want you uncomfortable and squirming through classes all day." Harry looked curiously up at George, stroking George's shoulders as he asked quietly, "What was it like, really?" George settled across Harry, shifting to the side to take most of his weight on one elbow as he rubbed the other hand in a circle on Harry's stomach. "Well... At first it was like the fingers. You know how you slide one or two inside when you're blowing someone?" Harry nodded, smiling a bit and toying absently with George's hair. "Yes. I like that, as you well know." George chuckled a little, his hazel eyes sparkling. "Yes, you're quite responsive. Well, it feels like that when you're getting stretched, only more slippery because if you don't use a lot of lube, there's no way a prick's going up your arse. I guess it depends on the position you're in too, but I had my legs over Freddie's shoulders." Harry licked his lips at that mental picture and murmured, "Merlin, what I wouldn't give to have seen that." He realized he'd spoken aloud and his eyes went wide as he blushed and hid his face against George's shoulder. "You didn't hear that." Smirking at the blush on Harry's cheeks, George tilted Harry's face up so that he could look at him again. "Don't be embarrassed, I wish you could've been there, too. Just to see what it was like." He stared into Harry's eyes a moment, unable to miss the desire, love, and trust mingled in them, then he blinked and coughed slightly to clear his throat before he continued. "But, even with my legs on Fred's shoulders, it hurt when he pushed in. Felt like he was tearing me open and my arse kept clenching so tight he'd slip out. It took a bit of time but eventually he got in and stayed in, even though it hurt." Harry's blush hadn't faded and his eyes were still wide as he asked, "It does get better though, right? 'Cause, otherwise, what's the point?" "It gets a lot better, baby, I promise," George replied, trying to be honest and comforting at the same time. "I just want to be sure you know not to expect the first time to be perfect. You'll get at least some pleasure from it after your arse adjusts, but it still hurts at first." Harry looked relieved. "Well, as much as I like it when you finger me, I sort of figured I'd like it when you make love to me, too. I can handle a little pain, as long as it'll get better eventually." "Oh, it gets a lot better with practice," George replied, nodding as he grinned at Harry. "It feels like you're flying and filled to the brim, and there's really nothing like having a cock rubbing against your happy button." Harry giggled a bit at that as he looked up at George, running his fingers through George's hair. "I love to fly." George leaned in and brushed his lips against Harry's neck, nuzzling and playfully licking the skin there. Harry tipped his head to give George more access, the fingers in George's hair urging him closer as Harry made a soft, pleased noise. Whispering softly against Harry's neck, George made his voice a little deeper, "I'll show you how to fly without a broomstick. Show you how good it can feel to have someone inside of you, giving you everything that they have. For you to feel like you're complete." Harry let out a soft little moan, closing his eyes and moving to hook one leg around George's hips, pulling their bodies closer together as he asked softly, "Is that what it's like for you, with Freddie?" "No. " George reached up and stroked Harry's face and throat gently, tipping his head up a bit to look at Harry's face. "That's what I'm hoping it will be like for us." Harry turned his head to kiss George's palm then looked down at George's face, the hand in George's hair urging him upwards for a kiss as he murmured, "It will be, I know it. No one else can make me feel like I feel with you. Not even Dray." George smiled and moved so that he could brush his lips against Harry's, and then Harry murmured against George's lips with a soft smile, "I do love you, you know." He kissed George again, his lips parting against George's almost immediately as he licked delicately at George's lower lip. George sucked gently at Harry's tongue before releasing it to murmur, "And I love you, Harry, more than I could ever put into words." Taking Harry's hand in his own, George intertwined their fingers and added softly, "I can't make love to you tonight, but you could make love to me." Harry looked up at George, his green eyes surprised even as there was a flash of something hot and hungry in them. He swallowed hard, not even noticing the way his grip tightened on George's fingers as he asked softly, "Do you really want me to?" With a slight curve of his lips, George nodded, his gaze still on Harry's eyes as he watched the desire in them flare brighter. "I've wanted you to shag me for a long time, I just wasn't sure you were ready for that." Harry swallowed again and shuddered under George, getting a bit more wide-eyed as his green eyes glittered and he said rather calmly, "I think I'm going to come in my pants. Just so you know." George's eyes widened and then he broke down into deep rumbling chuckles and he moved slowly off of Harry, teasing, "Hair trigger you have there, baby." Harry blushed hotly almost to the collarbone, not really wanting to let go of George but making himself do so. "It's just that I've dreamed of making love to you and hearing that you really want me to, and tonight, is just..." He trailed off, blushing even more if that was possible and looking like he wasn't sure if he should be mortified by the fact he was about to come from just the idea or not. "Blame it on Dray's teasing today and the fact you're so bloody hot." George reached for Harry's jeans to unbutton them and slide the zipper down slowly, pulling the material up enough that it wouldn't rub against Harry's erection too much. "Well, I think I know exactly what will make you feel better," he murmured as he parted the denim and tugged Harry's boxers down a few inches, gently freeing his erection. "Something to take the edge off." George moved to wrap his lips around the crown of Harry's cock, licking at the slit before he suddenly sucked harder and drew Harry's cock into his mouth. Harry shuddered and fisted the coverlet under him, his hips lifting from the bed to push a bit deeper into George's mouth as he groaned out, "Oh, fuck! Your mouth is amazing." His hips rocked upwards again, his cock throbbing in George's mouth as it released a generous pulse of precome and Harry muttered breathlessly, "You should give lessons." George chuckled around Harry's cock and when Harry groaned at the vibration he sucked strongly on the head of his cock and then let it slip from his mouth with a pop, tilting his head to the side and sliding his lips up and down the length, fastening tightly at the base every few times. He moved his hands to tug at Harry's jeans then and Harry lifted his hips to let George tug his jeans and boxers down to his knees, revealing beautifully tanned skin as Harry let his arse fall to the bed again. George moved his hands to curl his fingers over Harry's hips then and stroked the skin there as he concentrated on licking and sucking Harry's cock while Harry's balls drew closer to his body and he made soft little encouraging noises. Harry rocked his hips a bit harder as he whispered huskily, "Feels so, oooh, so fucking goo--" Harry's words faded into a low shuddering groan, his muscles jumping under George's hands as his hips moved in jerky little thrusts, his cock throbbing. George moaned softly and increased the suction as another spurt of Harry's unique taste hit the back of his throat, rolling the slightly bitter cream around his tongue as his lips milked Harry in time to the spasms of his cock. Bringing the stretched 'O' of his mouth up to the crown, he slowly swallowed the mixture of Harry's come and his own saliva, savoring it as it rolled down his throat. Harry shuddered, his cock pulsing one last time before he let out a deep sigh and relaxed, the clothes he still wore feeling somehow more confining than they had a few moments ago. Remembering that Harry hated to wear anything after he came, George began to carefully maneuver Harry's jeans and boxers down his sweat sticky skin, pausing often to stroke Harry's sensitized skin before he finally tossed Harry's jeans and boxers off the bed. George removed his mouth then from the softened, spent cock that he had been gently nursing, nuzzling into the musky curls at Harry's groin and inhaling his scent with a low pleased noise. Harry shifted to prop himself up on one elbow, smiling and reaching out with the other hand to stroke George's hair and then giving it a gentle tug as he murmured, "Come up here George, I want to kiss you." Crawling slowly up Harry's body, George nipped at his belly along the way, asking teasingly, "What if I'm having fun playing down here?" He dipped his tongue into Harry's belly button, licking around the circular nub as Harry made a soft pleased noise. "I'll not argue too much," Harry replied with obvious amusement, stroking along George's jaw. "I do want to kiss you though." With a final slow lick at Harry's stomach, George climbed the rest of the way up to lie on his side next to Harry, his hazel eyes twinkling. "You rang, master?" Harry rolled towards George, smirking suddenly as he pushed George to his back and moved to kneel over him, his hands braced on the bed on either side of George's neck. "I sure did." Harry leaned down to lick delicately at George's lips, making a soft noise in his throat and then gently biting the lower lip before letting go to murmur against George's mouth, "I could eat you alive." Harry kissed him again, sliding the tip of his tongue along George's lips as George nipped playfully at it and reached up to start unbuttoning the shirt Harry was wearing, taking his time to explore as he sucked at Harry's bottom lip. George let go of Harry's lip after a moment and then Harry licked into his open mouth, tasting his own semen mingled with a hint of chocolate as he let out a soft groan. Harry shifted to hold his weight on one hand so he could move the other to George's collarbone, enjoying the feel of George's solid muscular chest under his hand as he slid it down to slowly tease George's nipple through his shirt. George slid his hands inside Harry's open shirt to run his hands over Harry's chest, groaning into Harry's mouth at the feel of Harry's heated skin against his palms. Harry leaned into George's touch with a low noise very like a purr, making George suddenly quite glad that he'd decided to report on Draco and Fred's progress when he did. Harry rubbed his thumb slowly back and forth across George's nipple as he thrust his tongue deeper into George's mouth, sliding it wetly along George's tongue as he shifted his hips to press down against George's crotch, rubbing against the denim with a little hungry sound even though the rough fabric was uncomfortable against his still-sensitive cock. "Harry... Harry," George groaned his name into the cherry red lips, trying to get his attention as he tugged on Harry's shirt, wanting to get it off of his shoulders as it tangled around Harry's arms. "Take this off, baby." Harry pulled back a bit to look down at George, his green eyes bright with desire as he shifted to kneel astride George's thighs and tossed his shirt into the floor. "I think you're wearing way too many clothes." He reached for the waist of George's jeans to begin unfastening them, sliding his fingers inside quite a bit more than was strictly necessary. "If I'm going to be naked, you're going to be naked." George thrust his hips upwards slightly, trying to press the outline of his cock against Harry's fingers as he smiled, amused. "Naked's a good thing, want to finish my trousers while I take this off?" he asked, his large hands moving to the top of his shirt to begin unbuttoning it slowly as he watched Harry's face. Harry smirked when he felt skin and coarse hair against the back of his fingers, sliding one hand into George's jeans. He stroked along George's cock with the tips of his fingers as he said teasingly, "I think you forgot something when you got dressed." He curled his fingers around George's cock, squeezing gently. George groaned at the feeling of Harry's hot hand wrapped around him and then Harry was sliding the zipper down the rest of the way with his free hand as George asked, "Now what could that be?" Harry smirked, enjoying the feel of George's cock heavy and hard in his palm as he carefully freed it from his jeans, stroking just enough to keep him wanting but keeping his grip fairly loose. "Well, it might be what you're supposed to put on before the jeans." Tapping Harry's bottom lip with a finger, George remarked, "But Harry, I did put deodorant on." Harry laughed, giving George's cock another teasing squeeze. "Yes, well, you forgot your underwear." "I didn't forget Harry," George protested with a cheeky smile, moving his hips in rhythm to Harry's squeezes. "I just didn't bother to put any on." Harry chuckled and squeezed George's cock again, dragging his hand slowly along the heated length and then palming the crown to rub over it, fingertips teasing the shaft. "If I had known that, you might never have made it past the door."

One of the first rules of being a food critic was to not go to restaurants alone. Having one or two other people meant the critic could sample more menu items in a single trip, and some foodie snobs discussing their meal was much less obvious than sitting alone with a notebook, scribbling between bites. However, the upside of ignoring this rule was that most restaurateurs expected critics to come with others and when Apolo came in with a stack of scholarly books on Medieval Heresy and tells the maitre’d that he will be dining alone, the man simply clears the second place setting from a quiet table in the corner, tells him his server will be with him shortly and leaves him alone. It’s Apolo’s first stop on his new beat in the Bay Area. His editor had thought for a good first splash, rather than try to say something new about the most famous restaurants in San Francisco he should go to some newer places that were generating buzz just outside the city. And now he was sitting at Fil-Am, an Asian fusion restaurant in Berkeley that was getting some positive word-of-mouth buzz for its twists on Filipino classics, and its Asian-Spanish-American flavor combinations. As his server approached, he artfully scattered a few marked up articles across the other side of the table and pulled out his notebook. The young man carefully filled his water glass and handed him a menu. “Good afternoon, sir, my name is JR and I will be your server. I’ll give you some time to look at our menu, but could I start you off with a drink? On a nice early spring day like this, I would recommend one of our sweeter chardonnays.” Apolo looked up at the waiter and was surprised at how young the man standing next to his table looked. Before he could stop himself blurted out, “Are you even old enough to know the wine list well?” which was terribly rude, but his waiter—JR—only smiled. “I’ll be 23 in a few months, and all of the Fil-Am staff have an excellent knowledge of both the wine list and menu.” Apolo hated sweet wine, but he was here to critique both the restaurant and the staff so he agreed to JR’s suggestion, and the boy walked away. Apolo pretended to look at the menu but he had already studied the weekly menu on the website and chosen his order. More quickly than he would have expected, given the crowd of diners finishing lunch (Apolo purposefully came at the end of the lunch rush—that was the true test of a good restaurant), JR returned with his glass of wine, which he set down in one of the few empty spots on the table. Good waiters simply did their jobs and heeded subtle cues from the diner as to whether they were interrupting a conversation, or if the diner had had sufficient time to look at the menu. Apolo did not look up, signaling he was not ready to order yet but JR didn’t walk away. “Um, I suggested a sweeter chardonnay but after a second thought, you look more like a dry wine fan, so I hope you don’t mind that I picked a different chardonnay for you. I mean, you agreed to my suggestion, and I thought it was more my recommendation than the actual suggestion you agreed to, so it would be okay to change it.” Obviously JR wasn’t that good of a waiter. Apolo looked up at him, and he looked genuinely concerned over Apolo’s choice of wine. “I’m sure it will be fine, and you’re right, generally I do prefer a dryer wine.” The smile on the boy’s face was practically blinding, as if he had grown and fermented the grapes in Apolo’s glass himself. “Great! Well, if you are ready to order, I can take it now, or give you a moment to consider while you enjoy your wine.” JR seemed to be trying his hardest to act like a quiet professional, the attitude of most upper level waiters, but wasn’t quite succeeding. Apolo decided to just go ahead and order a starter of deconstructed lumpia and an entrée of pansit. JR wrote it down, then hesitated like he was going to say something, then just nodded and walked off. Apolo started taking notes about the décor, how long the other diners seemed to be waiting for drink refills, and what menu items were popular, while sipping his (very good) wine when JR appeared again. Was he the only table this kid waiting on? Didn’t he look busy? He looked up exasperated at the interruption to see JR nervously playing with the string on his apron. He raised an eyebrow expectantly. “The pansit is usually really good, it’s one of my favorites, but we just ran out of our homemade pasta and had to switch to dried.” He said it all in a rush. “So it will probably be good, but not as good as it usually is, and I thought I would tell you just in case you wanted to change your order.” “I’ll chance it with the dried pasta.” JR nodded and left again. Really, how many diners would have even noticed the difference? Apolo would, but he had a trained palate and five years of professional food criticism under his belt. And what was with the worried act? He wasn’t the president or something, he was just a guy eating a late lunch alone, which hardly merited this level of concern. The appetizer was delicious, instead of the traditional wrapped up rolls, the meat was in a pile on one side, with crispy won-tons on the other and an artful swirl of spices and oils in the middle. Blended together it had the perfect lumpia combination of moist-crispy-spicy. The pansit was equally well-flavored and with the exception of the slightly too-tough pasta, it tasted fresh and perfect. JR cleared his plate, let out the distractingly bright grin when Apolo confirmed his meal had been fine, and brought the check. Apolo always paid cash to avoid revealing his identity, and was authorized to tip 18%. He hesitated, thinking about how the boy had broken almost every rule of being a waiter at a high class establishment and weighing that against the beautiful smile and honest worry over Apolo’s meal. He tipped 20%, gathered up his books and left. Since he chose to dine alone, it did mean in order to get a full array of the restaurant’s offering he’ll have to go back, but Apolo thinks of that as being thorough. He likes to go for one lunch (preferably towards the end), one weeknight dinner, and one weekend dinner. So a few nights later he goes back, and is surprised to see JR at his table again—after the first meal he had assumed the kid was green and only worked day shifts. “Good to see you back, sir.” He begins, and Apolo thinks he must either be the nicest waiter he’s ever met or a really good actor because he genuinely looks thrilled Apolo is there. “It’s a bit chilly tonight, so I would recommend a Spanish red with some really bold spicy flavors.” He says it blandly, like this is his wine recommendation for every table, but his eyes are dancing, and Apolo suddenly feels like it’s a challenge, and he’s always loved competition so he goes ahead and orders a bottle, which makes the younger man smirk. Again, he has his books and papers as props, and again, JR seems to ignore his deep-in-thought routine when he comes back with his wine. “So are you a student or professor?” JR asks, setting down the wine, and pulling out his notebook. “You look old enough to be a professor but young enough that you could still be in grad school.” He then seems to realize what he just said and blushes just a bit, though it’s hard to tell under his brown skin. Usually Apolo would just lie and say he’s a visiting scholar or something, but this boy has been so honest, wringing his hands over store-bought pasta that the lie won’t come out. “I—uh—am really just interested in history.” He says lamely. “And the Middle Ages are interesting.” God it’s a bad story, but JR seems to buy it at least. “Well, I just graduated from Berkeley and history was one of my favorite subjects. I majored in Sociology though. No wonder I work at a restaurant.” He then seemed to remember that he was talking to a customer and took Apolo’s order (Mahi-Mahi cooked with saffron over traditional root vegetables from the Philippines and some sort of clams steamed with greens in copper pots from the Basque region of Spain. JR seems to approve both choices, and although he wouldn’t usually pair a red wine with seafood, the spices of the dish (never so strong as to smother the delicate flavor of the protein, more complementary) stand up well to the wine, and Apolo is pleasantly surprised by JR’s choice. Again, the food is excellent, and Apolo has written down some phrases in his notebook that he feels are perfect for his first review, but when JR comes to clear his plate he pauses. “So if you’re just reading for enjoyment, you aren’t visiting, but you’re here alone. You prefer Fil-Am to Café Strada, or your friends aren’t into inventive cuisine?” He says it in a light-hearted way, but Apolo hears the more serious question underneath. “Well, I enjoy fine dining, and I’m new in town.” He thinks this is a suitably vague answer considering that his waiter really shouldn’t be asking personal questions at all. JR nods understandingly. “Yeah, since my college friends moved, it’s been hard to meet people. I live with a couple guys I skate with, but I need time away from them.” “Skate?” “Yeah, I speed-skate on ice, I used to be pretty good, but I got sidelined by an injury. Still, I love to race. That’s why I’ve got this crazy big ass.” He seemed to realize at that point that he had just invited Apolo to stare at his ass, and blushed. He takes the plates away and brings the check. Apolo leaves cash again and gets up to leave. Before he’s quite out the door, JR appears beside him one last time, a bit breathless. “What’s your name?” JR asks. “I mean, if you come again, I should call you something besides ‘sir’ because you’ll practically be a regular.” Apolo hesitates. His name is his stock and trade, in certain circles it’s very well known, and it’s not exactly a common name. He answers anyway, and reaches his hand out. “Apolo.” JR shakes it and grins that mega-watt grin again. “Pleased to meet you.” He says, gripping Apolo’s hand firmly. When Apolo comes the third time he isn’t surprised that the maitre’d leads him past plenty of suitable tables to a particular two seater that just happens to be in JR’s section. It’s Friday night and the place is packed. This will be another big test, on a really busy night, will Fil-Am be in the weeds, will the food taste blasé or will they continue their winning streak. JR’s eyes look tired when he comes to Apolo’s table, but he brightens upon seeing Apolo, and without even asking, he brings him a very good caipirinha, then recommends that the calamari would be a good salty combination with the sweetness of his drink. It comes in strips instead of rings and is tender rather than chewy, with a hint of lime in the batter. JR, despite the number of tables he’s working, checks on Apolo frequently, and always with a smile. When he leaves the receipt this time, there is a phone number on it, and a note saying If you want someone to show you around, call me. Apolo leaves his money and tip and leaves quickly frowning. Nineteen-year-old girls at Chili’s leave their phone numbers. Professional waiters at restaurants hoping for Michelin stars do not. He’s thankful this was his last visit, and that he won’t have to have any kind of awkward confrontation with JR again. He can just write his piece and move on to covering restaurants in Emeryville and Pleasant Hill and Oakland and not have to deal with Fil-Am, and its beguiling tastes, or JR and his beguiling beauty (fuck, he did not think that), or Berkeley and its beguiling flowers and palm trees and slight hint of weed in the air. He keeps the receipt, even after he makes a copy for his reimbursement, and he tells himself he’s not ever going to actually call some waiter he doesn’t know, no matter how cute he was, or how bright his eyes were, or how much heat he gets in his stomach thinking about him. Apolo Anton Ohno started reviewing restaurants after legendary food critic Antoine Ego heard him give a visceral critique of a vinaigrette that had broken. He has worked in Atlanta, GA, Salt Lake City, UT, Seattle, WA and is now our full-time food critic. Fil-Am has received quite a bit of attention from foodies and locals alike for their delicious Filipino and Spanish food, often with a modern American twist. Their seafood, meat, and umami inspired dishes all delight the palate, and whether you go for lunch or dinner, you are likely to encounter a beautifully displayed meal that would meet the standard of almost any critic. With the exception of an overuse of cilantro in the otherwise perfect saviche, Fil-Am delivers a lovely atmosphere with little of the technical trickery too commonly misused in modern restaurants. Instead, the flavors speak for themselves, and dishes are given the proper amount of attention for flavor to build and peak on the plate. While the service may not be up to the standard of some other highly sought out Bay Area restaurants… “Hey, JR! Did you see this review?” Christopher, the chef and owner, is waving the paper around. “It’s really good, I mean, about the food, this guy is a little snippy about the service, but what can you expect about some asshole named after a Greek God? Do you recognize these dishes? Have any groups that came in and ordered them?” JR froze. Greek God? Apolo? Snippy about the service? FUCK. He stammers out that he doesn’t remember any groups (that’s true enough) and then spends the rest of his shift distracted by the memory of this man eating with thoughtful bites, surrounded by books, who JR kept playfully suggesting drinks to and flirted with, and GOD he gave him his number, which was so unprofessional he had never even considered it before, but something about that guy had just got to him. Firstly, he was hot with the longish-hair and the stupid soul patch that would have looked like he was trying too hard on some people but on Apolo, it looked like he just didn’t give a fuck about what other people thought. JR had given a FOOD CRITIC his PHONE NUMBER. Dear God, why was he such an ass? The more he thought about it, the more pissed off he got, but then somewhere half-way into his shift he just got pissed. That guy had lied to him! Pretending to be some kind of Medieval scholar while scribbling notes about the food and JR. He wasn’t cute and intriguing, he was a dick. And he deserved to know that. After his shift (he usually got off early on Wednesdays for skating), JR went home to change and tell his roommates he wasn’t going with them to the rink, then headed out the door. JR used the time it took on BART to get from Downtown Berkeley to Civic Center, where Apolo’s office was, according to the paper, to calm back down again and plan out what he wanted to say that wouldn’t sound petulant, but would get his point across. The newspaper building was big and slightly intimidating. JR suddenly felt ridiculous and young going into a major business in skinny jeans and a zip up hoodie, but he reminded himself that he was there for a reason, recalled Apolo’s words about him, “The waitstaff at Fil-Am is as knowledgeable as one would expect, but is perhaps slightly too involved and clingy to be called excellent servers…expect service with a smile and a few overly personal questions…” He got angry and embarrassed again just thinking about it. However, he covered it at the receptionists desk, and flashed a big, friendly smile while telling the girl he couldn’t remember which way Apolo’s office was. She pointed it out to him, and he shrugged his shoulders a few times to psych himself up for the coming confrontation. When he found Apolo’s office, the door was open and he could see him pacing while looking out the window and tapping a pen against his wrist. Far from the professorial look (jeans, t-shirt, blazer) he had worn at Fil-Am, he was wearing a slim, fitted suit, hair tidily arranged. JR was working up to announce himself but for a second all he could think was that Apolo was shorter than he had expected while standing and was hotter than he remembered. Just as he was opening his mouth, Apolo looked up and saw him, surprise immediately illuminating his face. “JR! Um, what are you doing here?” Apolo just stood there staring at him for a moment before regaining his bearings and gesturing for him to come in, and shutting the clear door behind him. Apolo went around to sit behind his desk. JR didn’t sit. “You lied to me, you dick.” Apolo flinched but JR continued, “You acted like you were some kind of scholar, and you flirted with me, and you let me act like a total loser, and even when I freaking gave you my number you didn’t tell me you were a critic! You were done with Fil-Am, you could have said something, so I wouldn’t have to find out when my boss showed me your stupid review!” JR knew he was probably red, and he was usually really good natured, and suddenly this angry outburst seemed to take a lot out of him, and he sank into one of the chairs in front of Apolo’s desk. “If you think you acted like a loser, it’s not like I LET you do anything. I just ate at your restaurant, it’s not like there is some kind of sacrosanct bond between diner and waiter.” Apolo knew he sounded defensive, and he was, because he had wondered if JR would see the review and know it was him, and the kid (he looked so young sitting in Apolo’s fancy office) had taken it personally. “And I didn’t flirt with you.” Shit, that just made it seem more obvious that he knew he had (what had he been thinking?). “Like hell you didn’t. I was nice to you, and thought you seemed nice, and you made me look like a tool. God, I can’t believe I even came here to tell you this, obviously if you had any sense of decency you wouldn’t have written it in the first place.” He launched himself out of the chair and turned to the door. “Wait!” Apolo stood up and walked over to him. “I won’t apologize for what I wrote, because it was true, and I won’t apologize for being undercover, it’s part of my job, but I did get too personal with you too. I never use my real name, I don’t even know why I wanted to tell you, and I should have stayed more aloof.” He paused. “And maybe I should have called you before the article came out.” JR nodded tersely and walked out of the office without looking back. The next night when he gets home from work and throws his keys on the table, Travis shouts to him from the couch, where he’s eating Pringles and watching TV, “Hey dude, some sharp-looking guy brought something by for you. It’s in that bag on the counter.” JR sees the bag, a tall, thin gift bag and pulls out a bottle of Chardonnay—fuck, a really nice bottle of Chardonnay—and a note. I’m sorry we didn’t meet under better circumstances. If you would like to start over, call me. Apolo A. Ohno A phone number was scribbled on the back. Apolo had come to his grotty apartment and met Travis and left an expensive apology gift. He wandered into the common room, still clutching the bottle of wine. Travis looked up. “That what was in the bag? Nice man, where’d you meet a dude like that? Does he wanna be your sugar daddy?” At this, JR blushed and plopped down next to him. “Shut up Travis. It’s just from this guy I met okay?” Travis raised an eyebrow. “Just this guy? Just this guy meets you and feels compelled to find out where you live and bring you a gift? That sounds like a stalker-loser and this guy did not look like a loser. HEY JORDAN!” he yelled “GET OFF FACEBOOK AND COME IN HERE. JR NEEDS LOVE ADVICE!” JR groaned as his other roommate came out of his room. “Hey, remember how I told you that guy came by with the gift for JR? It’s wine, and JR is claiming it’s nothing. We need the real story.” Travis shifted on the couch, to face JR more fully and muted the TV. “Okay JR, out with the full story. Or else that drunk video I took last month gets public.” “Jordan, that is blackmail.” “Dude, it’s negotiation. Either spill your guts to your roommates about what’s up with wine-guy or the entire world gets to see you drunkenly stammering about how you want some guy’s soul patch rubbing all over your body.” Suddenly Travis’ eyes got huge. “It’s the same guy! The guy with the wine had a soul patch! JR! You like that guy, why are you acting all weird?” JR put his face into the arm of the coach. “Dude, it’s this or the internet.” He raised his head again. “Okay. He turned out to be a food critic, and he wrote some shitty stuff about me in the paper, and I was pissed that he lied to me and made me look bad, and that’s why I skipped out on you guys yesterday, I went to his office and yelled at him. I don’t know why he brought the wine, it’s not like I ever want to face him again.” Travis and Jordan looked at each other. “JR, man, unless he called your mother a whore in the paper, I think this is a pretty classy move.” Travis put in. “Was there a note, what did it say?” Jordan added. “Yeah, there was a note.” JR produced it from his pocket and handed it to Travis, while Jordan craned over Travis’ shoulder to read it. “Please tell me you are going to call him. Just call and thank him, and see if he says anything else.” “JR, the guy was hot. He brought you wine. He said he’s sorry, and you guys aren’t even dating. The last guy you dated drank Bud Light, and didn’t even apologize after he ruined your favorite shirt. Call the guy. But wait until tomorrow.” It actually wasn’t until Saturday that JR could make the call, because he felt like it would be a cop out to call when he knew Apolo would be at work, and then he had the dinner shift Friday. So with Jordan and Travis listening at the door, he dialed the number on the back of the card. After a couple of rings, Apolo picked up. “This is Apolo.” He said. JR felt his mouth go dry and suddenly he couldn’t believe he had yelled at this guy and now was calling him hoping for a date. “Hello?” Apolo said again. “Um, hey Apolo, this is JR. I just wanted to thank you for the gift. It, uh, was nice.” JR finished lamely and wished he could stuff his face in his pillow. He felt a little better when Apolo’s voice seemed a little less confident on the other end. “Yeah, well, I wanted to make it up to you, and I seem to recall you might like a sweeter white.” “Yeah, I’m sure it’s good. So…thanks.” Should he say good bye? Would it seem like he was fishing to keep talking? “No problem.” Neither of them spoke for an awkward moment, and then they both spoke at once. “Well, I have to—“ “Um, would you like—“ They both laughed a little nervously. “You first.” JR said. “Well, I was serious about starting over. I don’t really know anyone in the Bay Area yet, and I usually cook dinner for my friends Sunday night. And since I don’t have any friends yet, if you wanted to come over, that would be nice.” “Um. Yeah, the restaurant is closed Sundays. I could come.” JR heard some jostling from the hallway. “Mission district? Okay. Yeah. That sounds good. Thanks. Bye.” When he opened the door, Travis and Jordan were both grinning like idiots. JR rolled his eyes. “He invited me over to dinner, but it didn’t really sound like a date, more like a ‘let’s be friends’ thing.” “Oh come on. Are other people going to be there?” “No.” “It’s a date, dude.” “Whatever, I have to get to work, have fun watching some Meg Ryan movie and crying like the saps that you are.” JR headed out the door with a little spring in his step. Maybe, he thought to himself, it was a date. Sunday afternoon he and the other guys usually went roller blading through Berkeley, a tough, hilly workout that really demanded his concentration, since they tried to keep the speed up. Going downhill was a rush, and it always felt on the verge of uncontrollably fast, where JR had to concentrate on not wiping out, and then uphill he had to pump himself up for each burning stroke, so he didn’t really have time to get nervous until he was standing in his room wearing only his underwear looking in the closet. How casual should he dress? I mean, it was just going to a friend’s house for dinner. Unless it was, like, a candle-lit date dinner, in which case, maybe he should dress up. He finally settles on a button down shirt with some nice jeans. He looks in the mirror with the shirt untucked, then tucked, then untucked again. Damn it, he was 22, and Apolo was…well, he didn’t know how old Apolo was, but older, and he should be able to play this cool. Should he wear cologne? Was that totally lame? He settled on spraying it in the air and walking through it like he saw girls do, and then set out. This time Jordan was on the couch, and seeing JR he let out a wolf-whistle. “Daayyyum JR, you’re cleaning up nice. So much for it not being a date. Are you bringing him flowers?” “Go screw yourself Jordan. I just didn’t want to look bad….is it really too much? Fuck.” He ran his hand through his hair, forgetting he had just spent 15 minutes making it look right. “Dude, I’m just trifling with you, I’m sure he’ll like that you tried to look nice, just go kill it bro.” With that stellar advice, Jordan unpaused Mario Kart and ignored JR. Apolo had decided to pursue JR after the younger man had left his office and he had thought over what he had said. So yeah, he had flirted with him, and obviously what he, Apolo, thought had mattered enough for him to come into the city and confront him instead of sending an angry letter or e-mail. And when he was standing in his office doorway, not in his waiter’s get up, just himself, sexy and confident in being right, Apolo had suddenly wished so badly that he had been just some scholar and he could’ve just called the phone number on the receipt, and asked him out and then JR would have just come to his office to tell him to stop working so hard and make him enjoy the afternoon after the fog had burned off and before the smog had set in. So somewhat impulsively he had bought the wine, written the note, charmed one of the fact-checkers into finding JR’s address and figured that if JR never called, at least he could feel better about having lied. Then he had been surprised by how glad he was that JR had called, he had decided to make the meticulous meal that now was taking longer than he expected. And then their was a knock. When Apolo answered the door, he was still wearing a pair of ratty jeans, a frayed t-shirt and had a bandana on to keep his hair out of his face. He had planned on taking a shower, taming his hair into something more presentable, and doing his best to look hot, but his first batch of short grain rice had burnt, and the tempura had been trickier than he had remembered, and he had realized when he only had thirty minutes before JR was supposed to arrive that maybe he had decided to try to make too many different kinds of sushi, and now that had to be JR at the door, a thoughtful ten minutes late, and he looked like crap. He was torn between trying to at least put a dress shirt on top, but that would make JR wait too long at the door, so he went ahead and opened the door. Fuck, he looked good. Slim jeans and a charcoal grey oxford emphasized his height and that he had that sexy shoulder-to-hip ratio that made Apolo want to run his hands up and down his sides to feel the angle. And now he was staring. Even if he looked bad he could be a good host. “Hey, JR, thanks for coming. I’m a little behind, so I didn’t have time to change, but you look really great.” Smooth Apolo. If you were planning on keeping this slightly-less-than-date-like you just failed, he thought. He let JR pass him and showed him to the living room, which had a great view, being on the fourth floor. “Hey, great apartment.” JR said taking in the minimalist furniture. “Yeah, ever since I moved out of my Dad’s place, he always comes by to make sure my house is all feng shui and rearranges my stuff, so I finally just went along with it and now I try to keep everything pretty basic.” Apolo led JR to the coffee table where there was edamame and sake. “Um, I have some Japanese beer too. I’m half Japanese, so that’s kind of the theme of the meal.” “No, sake is fine. I was going to return the favor and bring some wine, but since I didn’t know what I was pairing it with, I came empty handed instead. My mom would flip out if she knew I didn’t bring the host something, but, whatever.” JR shrugged and then flashed that bright smile again, and Apolo felt his face relax into a grin too. Probably a dorky one, Jesus, was he 15 or 30? Apolo decided the sushi would keep, and sat down in a chair to the left of the couch he had gestured JR to, and as he poured their sake and they went through the awkward motions of squeezing out the edamame, suddenly he felt like this might work. Once he got over being glad JR had agreed to see him, Apolo had suddenly been struck by all sorts of other worried, like what if they had nothing in common, what if once they were in the same room eight years seemed like an insurmountable gulf, what if JR didn’t even show up, but now those fears were fading. They talked about places they had lived (JR: SoCal and NorCal, Washington, Utah; Apolo: Washington, New York, Utah, a short stint in Vegas, and now San Francisco) and the differences between their lives growing up (JR: mom, dad, two brothers, dogs; Apolo: only child of a single parent), and then they moved to the dinner table and JR’s eyes got huge as he took in all the work Apolo had done to make homemade ramen and five or six different rolls of sushi, just for the two of them. “Wow, this looks amazing, it must have taken forever.” JR said, scooting his chair in and picking up his chopsticks. Apolo suddenly was embarrassed by his efforts, like it was all too much, he was obviously trying too hard, and he rubbed the back of his neck, not meeting JR’s eyes. “Well, I like food, so when I cook I like to do it right.” When he glanced back up, JR’s eyes weren’t on his face either, but glued to where Apolo’s shirt had ridden up when he reached behind his head. Well. That was promising too. JR’s eyes jerked guiltily back to Apolo’s face as he joined JR, sitting across from him. Apolo felt more in control of himself, and divided the rolls, giving JR a couple pieces of each. “So let’s dig in.” He flashed JR his best charm smile, and the meal passed in good conversation, punctuated with JR’s extravagant compliments about the food. They finished with green tea ice cream on the small balcony, each eating slowly, as if after they finished the ice cream, there would be no reason to linger any longer. But finally, they were both done. It didn’t matter. Somewhere along the way, they had gotten onto the topic of music, and it seemed like JR could stay on the topic forever. Apolo felt like he might like that and so kept encouraging him to go. Now he was talking about some band called Over the Rhine. “I mean, once you hear Karin open her mouth, you just feel like you’ve been transported into a speakeasy where everyone is smoking handrolled cigarettes and drinking bourbon. It makes you want to melt, and the lyrics are just…so lyrical, even when they don’t mean anything, they make you feel something, you know?” He looked so earnest, and even though Apolo really didn’t know, he nodded, just to make JR smile. “Um, and they are actually going to be in town this week, at the Fillmore. I already got the night off from work, and Travis and Jordan have no appreciation for music without a pounding bassline, so if you wanted to come, that would be cool.” Apolo found himself agreeing, although he tended to think that music was what could be danced to, not what could be nodded along with, but he had drank a lot of sake, and JR’s eyes seemed brighter, and dimples deeper, and he was pretty sure that if he had suggested they go hang gliding, he would’ve agreed to that too. Finally, JR looked at his watch and said that if he didn’t leave soon, he would catch the train back, and there was some hesitation at the door, but Apolo just goes for it, and tilts his head up to kiss JR’s soft lips, and JR’s hands clench at his sides, warm through the thin fabric of his shirt, and Apolo thinks it’s probably the best first kiss he’s ever had, and JR seems to enjoy it too, because it definitely goes beyond the technical definition of first kiss into first make out session, but finally Apolo realizes that he either needs to invite him to stay over, or let go of his hips, and looking at the young, flushed face, decides on the latter, and watches him walk away, having promised to see him on Wednesday at the show. At first Apolo had been a little uncomfortable listening to a throaty woman sing while her husband played a huge piano, but when he was midway through his second beer, and JR slipped his hands around his waist and tucked his chin on Apolo’s shoulder, it suddenly seemed worth it. And as he relaxed, suddenly he started to enjoy it more, and feel less out of place amid all the hipsters with their chunky glasses (JR was wearing them too, but Apolo kind of found it sexy, just like he was finding everything else about JR), and more like he was just a guy on a date with a sexy younger man. So when Linford encouraged them to dance, Apolo turned around and pulled JR close and began to step in time to the music, and JR looked both surprised and delighted, so that Apolo didn’t worry that they were one of very few dancing couples, because he was pretty sure the smile was worth it. After listening to a couple hours of crooning, the show is over, and JR is so excited he can’t stop talking about how much he loved the way Karin and Linford eyefucked during ‘Trouble’ and he grasped Apolo’s hand and twirled around, eyes shining while they walk to the BART station. They get there and JR, who’s lived in the area for so much longer, explains the best way to get back to his apartment, and before he can think better of it, Apolo asks if he would rather just come back to his place for the night. When Apolo blurts out that finding his way home would be easier if JR just came with him and spent the night, JR isn’t really sure what kind of invitation it is. The sexy kind? And should he have sex on a second date? He wants to, sure, Apolo is gorgeous and sexy and both their dates have been way better than expected, but still. Then he looks at Apolo’s face, and he sees a twinge of fear in Apolo’s light brown eyes, fear that JR will say no, and so JR says sure, he’ll spend the night. Apolo smiles and runs a hand through his hair (JR is starting to realize this is a reassuring gesture for Apolo) and they both act a little awkward on the way back to Apolo’s apartment, because they’ve basically agreed they are about to have sex, but now have a train ride to think about whether it will be good or bad, all while talking about how neither has played an instrument, but Apolo would like to play bass and JR would like to learn to play piano. When they get to Apolo’s apartment, they are barely through the door before they are suddenly kissing, and JR manages to kick off his shoes and pull Apolo’s shirt off before they’ve even gotten down the hallway. “God, I’m so glad you said yes.” Apolo gets out between kisses. “I’ve been thinking about you all week, and I swear you look more gorgeous than I remember.” JR had gotten his shirt off too, so that Apolo could see his tattoo for the first time. He traced his fingers over the design, and looked at JR questioningly. “Pinoy and Polish flags. My heritage.” JR says before Apolo—FUCK—started to lick the design, pausing to give his nipple extra attention. Apolo then led him to his bedroom, which is just as bright and carefully understated as the rest of the apartment, only with an enormous bed. Apolo seemed to get his bearings once he was faced with JR actually in his bedroom, because he looked at JR with serious eyes. “Um, this is probably obvious, but I want to have sex with you, full on, my cock in your ass sex. And I would be okay with, you know, just frotting or jerking each other off, but, uh, I guess I should go ahead and ask what you want.” JR’s dick twitched at the thought of Apolo naked and needy, preparing him. “Yeah. Yeah. I want that too.” Apolo gave a sigh that was half of a laugh and half relief, and took off his shoes and jeans, revealing a bulge in his boxers, then grabbed JR’s belt loops and pulled him so that they fell on the bed together. JR felt like he must be pressing the slightly-smaller man into the bed uncomfortably, but Apolo seemed content to have JR on top of him for the moment, and while JR propped himself up on his forearms, Apolo ran his hands over his back, dipping into the waistband of his pants. “You were right, as soon as you came to my table, I wanted you, and you were so fucking adorable with your big eyes and smile that it killed me to think that my review might hurt you.” He buried his face in JR’s shoulder, biting the juncture there lightly, before starting to kiss his way up the side to JR’s ear. “And then you came into my office, and called me out on it…and thanks for giving me a chance.” He nipped at JR’s ear, and gripped his ass more firmly as he ground up against him. JR moaned, it had been a while since he had gotten laid, and Apolo’s hot breath and tongue and hands were driving him crazy. Placing a kiss on the center of Apolo’s chest, he sat back on his haunches and unbuttoned his jeans, then laid down to wiggle out of them and kick them off. He pulled Apolo on top of him, enjoying the feeling of his firm body pressed against his entire length, and enjoying it even more, when Apolo settled so that their hips rested slightly off center, so that their cocks were tight against the other’s thigh. Apolo used one of their undershirts to clean them up a little before they fell asleep curled facing one another. In the morning, JR woke up slowly, and heard the shower running. God, he hated that the shower was so loud in his room, and that Jordan woke up so early. Then as he rolled over, he realized he wasn’t in his bed, he was in Apolo’s, and as he stretched out against the empty space, feeling a pleasant soreness, that Apolo, not Jordan, was the one in the shower. Squinting at the clock, he saw that it was still early, and he rolled his face into the pillow and fell back to sleep. When Apolo came out of the shower, JR was sprawled across most of the bed, his back mostly bare, and his hair messily spread across the pillow. Apolo loved it. There were few things as sexy as seeing your recently-fucked lover in your bed, and as he pulled on his pants, shirt, tie, and finally jacket, he kept turning to look at JR. Finally, checking his watch, he knew he only had a few minutes before he had to get to work, so he sat on the side of the bed, and kissed JR’s shoulder, as he shook him awake. JR smiled sleepily and for an instant Apolo considered screwing work and taking his suit back off to have another go, but he was still new to the job, and really couldn’t. “Mmm, ‘Polo.” JR mumbled in a gravelly voice. “Good morning sunshine.” He replied, smoothing JR’s hair. “I have to get to the office, but you’re welcome to stick around as long as you want and help yourself to breakfast, there’s coffee in the kitchen—Peet’s, not Starbucks—but I need to get to work.” JR darted a glance to Apolo’s mouth, and he took the hint and kissed him. Having a sensitive palate did not go well with morning breath, so he steeled himself for the kiss, but the combination of his cold, mint-flavored mouth, and JR’s warm, wet mouth seemed perfect. “So…last night was great, all of it. Maybe we could get together again this weekend?” JR nodded, and ran a hand lazily up Apolo’s crisp shirtfront, to pull him down for another kiss. Apolo disentangled himself before he really was going to be late, and walked from his apartment to the bus stop with a smile. Since Apolo works days and JR works most nights, they really only get to see each other a couple times a week. JR goes with Apolo to a few restaurants he’s reviewing and Apolo finds JR’s company isn’t as distracting as he thought it might be, and being on a date is great cover because no one wonders about lovers feeding each other bites off one another’s plates. After JR’s night shifts, it’s usually too late to go into the city, so Wednesday and Sunday nights are the only times they get to spend time together, but Apolo gets bored thinking of synonyms for ‘delicious’ and calls JR during the day to hear the smile in his voice. When they’ve been seeing each other for a little over a month, Apolo goes with JR to hear a band at a bar down the street from JR’s apartment and spends the night, the two of them entwined together on JR’s tiny bed. JR seems a little embarrassed by his apartment (it does kind of scream ‘college!’ with the haphazard pile of video game controllers and Travis’ giant Tony Hawk poster) compared to the adultness of Apolo’s. The walls are paper thin, and even though they were trying to be quiet (in that we’ve-had-too-much-to-drink way), Jordan pounds on the wall, and Apolo had to bite down on JR’s shoulder to stay quiet as he came. The next morning, Apolo was making coffee in his boxers, grimacing at the state of the coffee pot before finding a French press that was more to his liking, when one of JR’s roommates stumbled into the room, scratching his ass. It was the one who usually had the backwards hat on, who had answered the door when Apolo brought over the wine. “Dude, so we finally get to see you.” He pulls a carton of orange juice out of the fridge and drinks straight from the container. “Other than skating we barely see JR any more, but he seems happy.” He puts the OJ back and wiped his mouth. “Good job man.” Before Apolo can make any kind of reply, he shuffles off again, and judging from the sounds in the other room, starts playing video games, then was joined by the other roommate, so that while Apolo carefully plunges the coffee, all he can hear is male bonding. Looking through the meager supplies of the fridge, he pulls some stuff out and began to poach a few eggs. By the time, JR slides his arms around Apolo’s chest and rests his chin on his shoulder, Apolo has made the closest thing this apartment has ever seen to eggs benedict, and when all four of them are eating it at the table, JR’s roommates keep taking bites and then looking at him with wonder. “Okay, I forgive the sex noises, this is worth it. I’m about to make my own sex noises right now.” Jordan proclaims, making Travis laugh and JR blush. In the kitchen, looking at the stupid toilet humor phrases made out of word poetry on the fridge, and taking in that the quality of beer was far higher than the quality of cheese, Apolo had felt suddenly like maybe he was too old for JR, that if this was JR’s natural environment, Apolo might not fit in, but now, as JR grabbed his hand under the table, and Travis and Jordan started making small talk he thought maybe they fit together okay. Christopher closes Fil-Am for a week of vacation around the end of the summer, so Apolo invites JR to come with him to Napa for a week while he attends the crush parties. They dress up and go to the French Laundry, where Apolo tells JR that since he isn’t there on business, they should fuck with the waiter so JR can see how the best waiters deal, so they sit on the same side of the booth and ask ridiculous questions about the meal, and JR makes his eyes hugely wide while he pretends to not understand the wine list. The food is, as expected, spectacular, and they drink two bottles of wine, and the waiter never breaks away from his carefully neutral expression. “See, this guy didn’t even tell us his name because he knows he’ll be so on top of things we won’t need it.” “Apolo, I told you my name so you’d know what to scream later.” JR grins at the bad line and Apolo laughs too, feeling warm from the wine and JR pressed against his side. They pay the bill with Apolo’s credit card, and the only expression the waiter makes the entire night is when his eyes widen at the name on the card, which makes JR and Apolo grin even more. It’s a great week of sunshine and vineyards, food and wine, lazy morning sex, and dressing up for partes at night. Neither wants to go back to their two-dates a week schedule in the city. They are sated for the time being late one night and it’s too hot to be too close together, so they are lying next to each other in bed, one leg touching, and JR is idly twirling Apolo’s hair, when Apolo bites the bullet. “So, I know your lease is up in a few weeks, and Travis and Jordan are moving back to Salt Lake City,” he began, taking a deep breath, “and I thought maybe instead of finding a new place you could move in with me.” JR shifted to his side, moving his hand from Apolo’s hair because he’s propping himself up with that arm, “Apolo, wow. I mean, that would be great, and I appreciate the offer, but you know I can’t commute from your place and work nights. And we both know I don’t want to work at Fil-Am forever, but I can’t really quit my job to live with you.” Apolo knew that was probably what JR would say. He sat up, Indian-style, on the messy bed. “Well, I know that. But last week my editor—you know Susan is in charge of all the entertainment stuff—told me they were looking for a new music critic and asked if I knew anyone and I said I might know someone who was interested. And it’s been established that you aren’t the world’s best waiter, so…” He had been said this staring at JR’s tattoo instead of his face, but now he looked up at his face to gauge his reaction. “You think I could do that? Write about music?” “Well, you’d have to cover more than your little indie bands, but yeah, you have a good ear, and you are good at putting how music makes you feel into words. And you could move into the city. With me.” JR flopped onto his back again. “Wow. Apolo.” He looked over at him and his voice got a bit heavier. “You’ve been really thinking about this? About us being together?” “Um. Yeah. I want you to live with me, and not just because you need a place once your lease is up.” With JR’s eyes studying him so intently, he suddenly felt too exposed sitting up, and fell against the bed for a lower profile. JR’s hand snaked out to grab his. “Okay. I’ll do it.” Apolo exhaled deeply and squeezed JR’s hand. Yeah. This was going to work out.

1 Gran's radio is made of four kinds of wood with fancy diamond-shaped inlays and fins radiating out from its sides. The tuner looks like the speedometer of Sookie's first car: a Bonneville that used to be her dad's. That car sat under a tarp for years after he died, waiting for her to be old enough to drive it. It's hers, now. Everything is hers. 2 Some days it's hard to feel good about the vampire rights movement, but one thing's for sure: the vampires sure saved radio. The middle of the night used to be total dead time. Now the vampires play good music, and lots of people call in. Even the ads are interesting; DJ Danny Breaux does them live, and he's got a nice voice, smooth, like he's talking right to you. "So if you're out by Route 167, you should stop in and see the good folks at Night Tee Night, central Louisiana's only all-night golf course. Tell 'em Danny from KBTR sent you and get a free bucket of luminous balls..." His voice is familiar, soothing. Maybe late night DJs were always vampires, Sookie thinks. 3 She's got the late shift at Merlotte's, which is good and bad--more money, but also more drunks with their sad, vicious thoughts--and when she gets off work, she's too wired to sleep. Some nights, she goes out with Bill; other nights, she just goes home: does her chores, pays her bills, listens to the radio. She goes to sleep when the sun comes up, and sleeps into the early afternoon. It's gotten to be a habit. Really, it's not that much different from how Mrs. DuPaul, her old next door neighbor, used to live: she was a night nurse at the county hospital. It turns out that there's a whole load of people who sleep during the day: emergency workers, truckers, convenience store clerks. You see them down the counter of the diner, ordering breakfast after sundown, and only some of them are eating eggs. The rest have one of the Pitt Grill's liquid lunches: screwdrivers, whole truths, tequila sunsets, tru norths. 4 Sookie's sitting in Gran's old chair, hastily sewing a button back onto her blue dress and humming along to the song on KTBR. "...her skin is cool, like lying under the trees / on a starry September night / Once bitten, never shy..." Sookie glances at the clock--nearly midnight--quickly bites the thread, and tucks her needle back into her sewing box. In the mirror, her eye catches an image of herself--a flash of white panties and her arms raised--throwing her blue dress over her head and shimmying it down. 5 The song ends just as she's tying the bow on the back: carefully, so it sits just at the rise of her ass. DJ Danny is purring, "That one was recorded in three late-night sessions in room B of the famous Sweetwater Studio, with Don Hubbard on piano, Georgie Walters on bass, and Louis Labrode on the sax--and only Labrode was a vampire." Danny Breaux chuckles, low and throaty. "Caller, go ahead..." "I would like to hear 'Winternights,'" and Sookie stares at the radio, at the worn ivory knob, and feels the hairs on her arms stand up. She doesn't even know what she knows, and then all at once her brain slots the pieces into place: faint Eurotrash accent, that offhand sense of control. She pictures him, sitting at a table in the fluorescent light of Fangtasia's back room, counting out big piles of twenties, a thumping bass vibrating the thick metal door. Big deal: Eric Northman listens to the radio. She shakes off her paralysis and bites her lips a few times, to redden them. 6 "Sookie Stackhouse," Bill drawls drunkenly, mouth curling with the most wicked courtesy the world has ever known, "I do so enjoy keeping company with you." Sookie rolls her eyes and laughs at him. "Oh my God," but of course she's pleased. Bill's draped against the doorjamb. It's a little game: she lets him in, she keeps him out. Foreplay--or at least door-play. "C'mon. Let me in." "It's four in the morning!" she protests, taking a glance at her watch. "Four-thirty!" "My point exactly!" Bill looks hungrily at her, but he can't come in until she lets him. He can't even try. "My dear Sookie, the night is still young..." "But you are not." They can tease like this because they both know there's nothing doing: she's got the lunch shift tomorrow. "Go to ground early," she advises, stretching over the threshold to adjust his collar. "Rest up. After all," she adds, as innocently as she can manage, "you've got a younger woman to keep up with." He's gone in a blur, and she laughs and shuts the door. 7 She listens to KTBR as she brushes her teeth. They're playing "Born to be Wild", which is a little raucous for four-thirty in the morning, but she's had a good time tonight and she finds herself humming along. "Mmmmmm mn mn mmmmmmmMMMmmmmm..." She spits, and then, over the song's outro, DJ Danny says, "That was 'Born To Be Wild', by Steppenwolf, dedicated to Marla from Charlie. Steppenwolf began life as a band called The Sparrows; their first hit as Steppenwolf was 1968's 'A Girl I Knew.' Next caller..." There's a buzz of chatter, laughter, and then he, Eric Northman, he-- "Stop playing that terrible werewolf shit immediately," Eric demands, and Sookie can see it like it was television instead of radio: the crowded bar, Eric with a cellphone pressed to his ear and a giggling stripper (or two) draped across his shoulders. "Play 'Bela Lugosi's Dead,'" he suggests, and screams of laughter echo down the line, "or--" She looks at her white-foamed mouth in the mirror. He's drunk, she thinks. He has drunk. She can tell, somehow; a faint slur in the voice, an undertone of satiation. "--or you know," Eric says, still talking, "anything by The Cure would be acceptable." Sookie quickly scoops water into her mouth and spits. "Except for 'Friday, I'm In Love,'" Eric adds, and chin still dripping, Sookie marches into the bedroom to switch off the radio. 8 "Slow down," Bill mutters, but Sookie can't slow down: she wants to get home, she wants to clean the blood off her face, she wants this night to be over. Perversely, she stomps on the gas. "Sookie," Bill warns again, but to HELL with him, he wasn't the one who'd just decapitated a zombie with a rusty shovel. This was just the last thing she needed: she's still stiff from last month's Gorgon attack, she's had to cancel her salon appointment twice (plague of blood, plague of frogs--though at least they nipped that in the bud) and Sam is almost certainly going to ask her to pull double-shifts for the foreseeable, because Merlotte's always gets so goddamned crowded during Homecoming Week. "Sookie..." and you know, Bill has some fine qualities, he really does, and she's recited them often enough to her so-called friends and neighbors to know them by heart, but honestly, the man just does not know when to shut up. You'd think, Sookie thinks, reaching forward to snap on the radio, that he might take a goddamned hint from the fact that she's been ignoring him for the last six miles. After all, it isn't like going 70 in a 55 mph zone is the most dangerous thing they've done all night. Bill just wants to tell her what to do, is all. Bill Compton: forever driving from the passenger seat. Tammy Wynette is belting out "Stand By Your Man," and it's just so beautiful, and it's all Sookie can do not to burst out laughing, because good lord, what bullcrap. 9 The radio's playing softly when the fangster muscles her into Eric's office. It's been a rough ride, and he's still holding her a lot harder than he needs to, so when Eric gestures for him to take his hands off her, Sookie gives him a good, hard kick to the shins for payback. The fangster howls, eyes going red and fangs dropping, but Eric smirks and stops him from going for her throat. "Go to the school nurse if she's hurt you," Eric drawls, and the fangster scornfully turns up the collar of his leather jacket and stalks out. "Ms. Stackhouse," Eric says, "I appreciate your stopping by," and ha, that's a laugh: Eric's goons snatched her from Merlotte's parking lot and brought her here in the trunk of a car. Sookie's nails dig into her palms. "You monster," she begins. "How dare you--" but Eric's holding out a battered sheet of parchment covered with the ornate, curlicued writing she's come to associate with vampires, most of whom have very nice penmanship, their other flaws notwithstanding. "Have you ever heard of the Order of St. Antoine?" Eric asks, settling back into his red leather desk chair. "What?" Sookie asks, trying to make sense of the writing. "No." "Well, they've heard of you," Eric says, just as her eyes pick out her name, written with S's so huge and ornate that she hadn't originally seen them as letters. It feels like a violation, having her name appear on this paper, and she looks to Eric to demand an explanation. He leans back and stretches his long legs over the desk. Sookie wants to hit him, but instead she crosses her arms and stuffs her fists into her pits. "The Order of St. Antoine," Eric begins, "is a secret society. They think they're crusaders for justice, but as Sherriff of Area Five, I'm obliged to regard them as vigilantes." He leans back further; his chair creaks. "They band together to fight drainers and other threats to the vampire community. I've just intercepted that missive," he said, nodding at the paper in her hand. "Apparently they're planning to come through my territory. And apparently there's enough of a buzz about you that they feel obliged to investigate." Sookie feels tired, suddenly. "Are you warning me?" she asks. "Is that it?" Eric just looks amused. "Maybe," he says, tilting his head. "I'm also maybe a little worried about them. They're not a bad lot. I can't say I approve of their methods," he adds, eyes sparkling, "but that's only because I prefer to limit their use to myself." "Wait, I'm sorry." She rubs her forehead with the heel of her hand. "You're saying--" "I'm saying I'll try to see that they leave you alone," Eric says, and then his voice sharpens. "And I'll trust you to do the same," and it isn't until much later, after a sullen female vampire has driven her home and Sookie's standing in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil that she replays Eric's words in her mind and says, aloud, "Wait, what?" 10 "I'm not trying to patronize you," Bill pleads, hands outstretched. Sookie slams the bottle of orange juice down harder than she means to, her nightgown--a gauzy little thing, almost see-through--fluttering around her. She'd meant this to be a romantic evening. "Well, it sure sounds like you're trying to patronize me." "All I want is to protect you. And I can't do that if you're not honest with me. Sookie, you are so precious to me, more precious than you can ever know, and this world is full of dangers you can't even begin to--" "Oh, for the love of Pete!" She's so angry she sloshes juice over the side of her glass, and impulsively, she picks up a bottle of vodka Tara's left there, though she's too cautious to put in more than a splash. Still, it gives her that little bit of extra recklessness that she needs right now. "You don't want honesty; you want control. I want to share my life with you, but that doesn't mean I'm obligated to give you a daily report of--" "The Order of St. Antoine?" Bill shouts, and okay, so that's what this is about. "You're being investigated by The Order of St. Antoine and you don't think that's something--?" "Nothing happened!" Sookie screams back. "I didn't see hide nor hair of 'em! It was a total non-event--Eric took care of it!" and the moment she spits that out, she regrets it, because Bill's face gets even more pinched than usual, and boy, that's saying something. "Eric took care of it," Bill repeats savagely. "Eric Northman, who's repeatedly used you like some sort of freak, who would suck you dry, given half a chance--" "He's had half a chance. He's had a whole chance," Sookie replies, but there's no heat in it: maybe because it's so obviously true. "Plenty of chances," she muses, thinking it over, because the thing is, Eric's never made her feel like a freak. Feeling a little sick, she flips the idea over: it isn't Eric who makes her feel like a freak. "Sookie?" Bill says in a voice that says: pay attention. "Bill?" Sookie replies, and then: "You know, I think you should go now," and relief washes over her immediately, erasing all her doubts. She gets a glimpse of his shocked face and elaborates, "I do hereby rescind my invitation," and after he's gone, she laughs and puts a teensy bit more vodka into her OJ, just a drop. 11 They barricade as many of the larger windows as they can, using tables, chairs, barstools, everything that isn't nailed down. Sam is racing around in a jangle of keys, locking everything that will lock, and Terry appears unexpectedly with a charcoal-blackened face and a machine gun and announces he's going up to the roof. Eric takes up a position just inside the splintered front door. He's got a smear of brown blood on his cheek, and the axe he's carrying is matted with blood and hair. He looks really happy. "I told you," Eric says, twisting around, "guns don't work very well." "They work for me," Sookie says firmly, and fires both barrels of a shotgun through a broken window and into the chest of a zombie staggering across the parking lot. "Arrr," the zombie says, sounding more disappointed than anything. It looks down sadly at the hole in its chest, then staggers forward again, reaching for Sookie through the window. In a flash Eric is there, hacking away at the zombie's torso while Sookie falls back and reloads. Eric swings like a major league hitter, and one of the zombie's arms thumps to the floorboards, still in its tattered blue dress shirt: his funeral shirt, Sookie guesses. The zombie's stump oozes brown blood. It roars and snatches wildly at Eric's face with its other arm, looking like a confused Nazi frantically trying to salute. Eric stops only to toss the hair out his eyes. "Yeah, fuck you," he says, and then snarls, "Lefty." Another good swing of the axe, and the zombie's other arm falls to the floor. A piece of bone protrudes from its sleeve, just below the elbow. The zombie totters, then leans forward through the broken glass, snapping at them with rotted yellow teeth. "At least aim for the head," Eric says, gesticulating, and Sookie blows its head off. Then she wheels on him. "Okay, what the hell is the gameplan, here?" but of course that isn't fair. They wouldn't have had any idea that Merlotte's was about to be under zombie attack if Eric hadn't come to warn them, and more important still, he'd stayed to fight alongside them. 12 They jump at a sudden burst of machine gun fire--geez, good thing Terry's on their side. "Did you kill a couple of zombies near Buxtown a few weeks ago?" Eric asks, after dispatching a young guy with a half-rotted face wearing an LSU jersey: Go Tigers! "Yes?" Sookie screws the heel of one hand into her eye, trying to staveoff a headache. She can still hear the shuffle, shuffle, arr! of the approaching zombie horde. "It was an accident. Sort of," she adds, hating her own need for accuracy. "The first one was." It takes a moment to catch his drift. "Why, do you think they're out for revenge?" "Doubtful," Eric says, as the next wave of zombies converge at the door. "Zombies aren't very good at planning. Terrible organizational skills: can't run a meeting for shit." "But you think it's me they want?" Sookie presses, and Eric cuts a sideways glance at her. "A not unreasonable conclusion, in my experience," he says, and raises his axe. 13 She's exhausted by the time they mow down the next group. "Look, I think there's more of them," she says, seeing another ring of shadows. "Where do they all come from?" Eric sighs. "The dead are numberless. It's one of the worst things about them. That and their incredible lack of hygiene," he adds. "Can't you guys feed off them?" asks Sookie desperately. "I mean, it's the perfect solution: an all-night, 24 hour, All-You-Can-Eat buffet of--" "--rancid potato salad and moldy--" but thankfully Tara interrupts, running up to them excitedly with a can of gasoline and a length of rubber hose. "I'm telling you," Tara says somewhat breathlessly, "we need to automate this shit. You!" she says, shoving the gas can at Eric, "Mr. Speedy Guy! Go drench those crazy motherfuckers," and Eric considers this for a moment, eyebrow lifted, before jerking a nod and zipping out the door. "A-WAY FROM THE BAR!" Tara booms after him, both hands raised to her mouth. "SPRAY THAT SHIT A-WAY FROM THE BAR or you're gonna light the WHOLE FUCKING PLACE up!" she says, and then, to Sookie, "Does that asshole listen? That asshole had better be listening to me. Because if all vampires listen like Bill listens I'll make sure to have a bucket ready for when my ass catches fire." She crosses her arms and taps her foot impatiently, and Sookie's peering out the broken window into the darkness, looking for movement or flames or-- Eric blurs back into Merlotte's, and Tara's on him before Sookie can even open her mouth. "Where's the fire?" she demands. "I don't see a fucking fire out there, do you?" "Do you have a light?" Eric asks, and while Tara's standing on tip-toes, yelling up at Eric's implacable face, Sookie hurries to the bar and grabs a pack of matches out of an ashtray. She hands them to Eric. "Thank you," Eric says and ducks out just as another zombie comes crashing through the window and makes a grab for Tara's face. Sookie raises her gun and fires--and with a whoosh, the entire parking lot goes up. 14 "Damn!" Tara says, impressed, and then: "Oh, shit, my car! I forgot to tell him to watch out for my fucking--" but then Eric is grinning at her, his face grimy with ash and smoke. Behind him, a zombie lit up like a Roman candle bats at the flames in its hair. It staggers past the bar and crashes onto the pool table. And then Sookie's jumping up and down and hugging Tara and Sam and throwing her arms around Eric and tasting soot as she kisses his cold cheek. She's hard up against him. She can't feel the floor. "Um. Let me go." Sookie wiggles a little but immediately stops, because that's--oh. But Eric's come to his senses and he lowers her back to the ground. She slides down and down, and down, and oh my God. She leaps back from him the moment she finds her feet, so fast she nearly loses her balance. "Well--yay!" she says, trying to put this all on saner footing. "We did it! Good work everybody!" Eric shifts in his clothes and turns down his collar. Sam looks distracted and unhappy. Tara just stares at her, black eyes boring in. They all jump at the burst of machine gun fire from overhead, and Tara says, "Someone ought to get that fool off the roof." Sookie's about to volunteer, but then Tara looks defiantly at Eric and says, "How 'bout you, Sparky?" and Eric lunges at her and snaps, fangs out. Tara shrieks a little but stands her ground. "You'd better watch it." Eric's voice is terrifying. "My patience for this sort of thing is limited," and then he's gone, without even a goodbye or a second look. "That isn't a person," Tara says angrily, voice shaking. "That's a--beast." "Nah," Sookie sighs, "he's just a garden-variety a-hole," and then the fire department finally shows up. 15 A couple of weeks later, near to 4 am, she's wiping down the bar one last time while Lafayette sweeps up. Sam's in the back counting the cash. Behind her, the radio's playing softly, and she doesn't realize she's listening until DJ Danny says, "Next caller?" and a voice answers, "Play 'Dead and Gone.'" Sookie glances at Lafayette to see if he's paying attention. But Lafayette's focused on the floor, on his broom. Danny Breaux's voice goes gentle, the way it does when someone requests, "Here Comes The Sun." "Sure thing, caller. Do you want to make a dedication?" There's an unbearable stretch of dead air. "No," Eric replies finally, and Sookie has the crazy impulse to get into the car and drive to Shreveport right now. But DJ Danny takes it in stride. "All righty. Here's 'Dead and Gone' for--what's your name, caller?" Another too-long hesitation. "Jeff," Eric says. "Jeff from Vanceville," and then a baritone begins to sing. "Dead and gone/ And I'm so sad to be alone..." In her mind, she sees Eric crying shamelessly, pleading with Godric to come inside. She remembers how the sky changed, how it went from black to blue to grey, and how only then had Eric gone inside. Then the light went pink and gold, and Godric burned. 16 The thought drives her out the fire exit and into the parking lot, fumbling for her cell phone. She's never let herself add Eric's number to her address book, but she's pretty sure its still in her backlog of received calls. She thumbs back and back and back, and yes, there it is. She hesitates for a moment before hitting send, hangs up, hits send again. It rings six times before Eric picks up. "Yes, what?" he asks, and Sookie's flummoxed. "I, um. It's Sookie Stackhouse." She debates hanging up, but decides the truth's ultimately less embarrassing. "I just called to make sure you were all right," she says and gulps. The line's so quiet that Sookie wonders if they've been disconnected. She stares across the dark parking lot into the trees. "All right?" Eric says cautiously. "Yeah," Sookie says, then it occurs to her: "Or were you just saying that you're all right? I mean, were you just repeating what I just said or are you--" and now she feels stupid, but at the same time, she can hear the faint strains of "Dead and Gone" behind the silence on Eric's end. So she blurts, "Look, Godric asked me to keep an eye on you, okay?" Eric's answer comes swiftly this time. "Did he?" "Yes." "Well," Eric says, and now he's got something of the old arrogance back in his voice. "Well, then. I guess you'd better." "I didn't tell him I would," she retorts. "I told him you were--too much like you." "Still. It sounds halfway to a promise," Eric muses. "You could be here in 35 minutes if you--" and that's when she snaps the phone shut. 17 She's going to ask for the day shift. She's not going to truck with any more vampires: she's going to rejoin the living. What's that they say: sunlight's the best disinfectant? 18 It doesn't work out that way. 19 She's curled up in her bathrobe with The Devil Wears Prada and a mug of hot chocolate when Eric appears outside her window, scaring the bejeezus out of her. "Let me in," he says, his face blurry and distorted through the glass. "Come now, be quick--" "No way!" she replies, starting up from the rocking chair and cursing as hot cocoa sloshes over the lip of the mug and splatters brown on her nightgown. "I know it may be difficult to believe," Eric says through gritted teeth, "but this is not a social call. You've been infested." Sookie crosses her arms. "Not yet I haven't." "With spiders," Eric says. "I'll call an exterminator," Sookie replies. "Giant spiders." "A real big exterminator," Sookie says, and then: "My God, Eric Northman: I'd look outside if you told me it was raining." "Fine," Eric says, throwing up his hands and bobbing a little; he's apparently floating in mid-air. "I was just trying to help. For the record, you know, I was at a pretty good party. It had an '80s theme. A Smiths cover band and all the blow you could--" "Oh, for God's sake," Sookie says, and opens the window. 20 "So tell me about these spiders." She's trying to ignore the fact that Eric Northman's there, in her bedroom, looking....incongruous. That's the word she wants. "They are no ordinary spiders," Eric warns. Sookie rolls her eyes. "Well, I could have guessed that." "They prey on humanity. They colonize a house and use it as a base to lure in their victims. They have destroyed entire towns: have you ever heard of Wiscatoa?" "No." "Exactly." 21 "So." Eric's looking around her bedroom and pretending not to. "I brought some insecticide, and we'll need a hose, and maybe a baseball bat or a shovel--" "Wait, aren't there, like, more natural treatments? I hear that eucalyptus leaves--" Eric raises a hand. "We are obviously not communicating. I'm talking about spiders the size of dinner plates. I'm telling you that group of supernatural bloodsuckers--" She doesn't say it. Damn it to blazes, she doesn't say a thing, but he hears it anyway. He keeps talking but casually averts his eyes. Sookie debates apologizing anyway. "-- is building a nest in your house. And we have to get rid of them before they spawn." Eric still isn't looking at her. "So let's arm ourselves and go down to the basement." Sookie shakes her head. "No. " All at once he loses his patience. "For fuck's sake, I'm not here to rip your throat out. And if I was, I wouldn't come here with a cock-and-bull story about spiders: I'd be just as happy doing you on the hearth rug in front of that picture of your grandmother as--" "We don't have a basement," Sookie interrupts. "Oh. I see," Eric says. 22 "Though there is a root cellar," Sookie adds, after a moment. The way Eric snarls at her makes her gasp. 23 When they reach the kitchen, Sookie screams, because holy crap: spiders the size of dinner plates! They immediately scuttle off in different directions: too big to vanish into the holes in the baseboards, but just able somehow to squeeze under doors. She does a rapid about-face, but Eric seizes her by the arm. "Where are you going?" "Out of here! They can have it--the whole house! I'm leaving!" For a moment, Eric looks like he's going to argue. Then he lets her arm drop. "Fine," he says, and begins searching the kitchen for supplies. He puts on Sookie's dishwashing gloves, tucks a huge can of insecticide into his belt, and picks up Gran's biggest spade. Sookie drifts back and forth, unable to make herself leave. When Eric finally opens the door to the root cellar, filling the kitchen with the smell of earth, Sookie groans and snatches a flashlight off the counter. 24 Eric prowls down the rickety wooden staircase. Sookie pulls on the twine hanging from the bare bulb on the side of the stairwell, but the light doesn't come on, so she aims the flashlight down, over his shoulder. The cellar is cramped and the oak shelves and roughhewn bins are empty; unlike Gran, Sookie can't be bothered to sort vegetables and can fruit. The cellar's dirt floor looks black in the dim light. And strangely shiny. And moving. Spiders the size of dinner plates, scuttling back and forth on hairy legs. It takes everything she's got not to drop the flashlight and bolt. But Eric is on the first step, and just beyond him, she can see the nest. It's huge--a tan and papery egg in the center of a funnel of white gauzy silk hanging from the far corners of the ceiling. 25. "Oh my God," Sookie says, hopping in revulsion. "Kill it, get rid of it--" but when Eric pulls out insecticide and a lighter she shrieks, "No, wait, you'll burn down my house!" "Possibly," Eric admits, considering this. "But--" "No buts! There's got to be some other way!" and with a sigh, Eric hefts the shovel and steps down onto the scuttling black floor. Somehow the spiders immediately know he's a threat, and they converge on him, cramming themselves around his boots, pushing themselves up into piles. Eric slams the spade down on them but keeps going, hauling his legs like he's trudging through swamp at Martin Lake. Sookie stuffs her hands into her mouth to stop herself from screaming: Jesus, this is so repulsive, but Eric is at the nest now and quite manfully ignoring the spiders screeching and waving their huge hairy legs at him. Sookie steels herself to creep down to the bottom step and aims her flashlight. The papery shell goes translucent and she can see black shadows moving within. "Hurry," Sookie yells, trying to fight her panic. "Destroy it before--" but Eric's already swinging the spade, lifting it high overhead and slamming it down--wham!--and: nothing. The spade hits the egg squarely but nothing happens, not a crack, though the black shadows are now moving around furiously. Undaunted, Eric swings again, brow furrowed, the tendons in his neck standing out. He hits the egg bang-on, breaking off the spade's metal head and leaving him holding the splintered wooden handle. Eric bares his fangs but adapts instantly, changing his grip on the handle and beating down on the egg savagely. Bam. Bam. Bam, bam bambambambambam and Eric's a pale blur in the beam of her flashlight and still nothing: it's like the egg's made of titanium. 26 When Eric stops, he's sweating. He looks at her and his face changes. "Sookie," he says, looking down, and when she looks down she sees it too: she's standing on the first step, but there's a semicircle of spider-free dirt at the bottom of the staircase. For whatever reason, the spiders are keeping their distance. Sookie glances up at Eric, and then, biting her lip and screwing up her courage, she steps down onto the dirt floor. The spiders scuttle back. She takes another step and the spiders back away even further, crawling over each other, opening a path of packed earth between her and the nest. But they're getting agitated, now, hopping and fearful and making an unpleasant skritching sound with their legs. Eric's wearing an expression Sookie's never seen before. "Sookie," he says, offering her the spade, and immediately the skritching grows louder, the spiders are fighting and hissing as if they know. Eric is offering her a weapon, and he seems completely confident that-- For some reason, he seems to think she can-- And she can, actually. She doesn't even need the spade. 27 Her hands blaze. The flashlight thunks onto the packed dirt floor; she doesn't need that either. The room brightens, gets warmer. She aims her light at the egg and glances at-- Eric stands there, looking almost ghostly in the bright light. He stares down at his pale hands, then pushes up his sleeves and watches her light play on his arms. He pushes his hair away from his face and opens the top two buttons of his shirt. "All I need--" He stops, clears his throat. "All I need is a pina colada. Little umbrella." He holds his thumb and forefinger two inches apart and grins. His eyes are blue and full of sun. She can't stop looking at him. She can't catch her breath. "What on--" and she has to stop and clear her throat, too. "What on earth can a Viking know about pina coladas?" "It's been a long thousand years." Eric closes his eyes and soaks up the light for another few seconds. "OK, do it," he says hoarsely. "Do it now." 28 Blood rushes in her ears. "Come on!" Eric yells, and the fireball rolls up, surges through her veins and out through her fingers. She hurls it at the nest, and it hits with a boom and a blast of light big enough to blind her. Beside her, Eric yells his lungs out in triumph. Around them, there are tiny bursts of flame: the spiders, going up like sparklers. They leave little round scorch marks in the dirt. The egg is in tatters, an exploded firework. "Sookie," and the way he says her name stops her, because nobody's ever said her name like that before, not ever: like it means wow. "Sookie," he says again, and his face is streaked with cobwebs and bits of egg, but she doesn't care: she doesn't. She launches herself at him, slinging her arms round his neck, and he lifts her up, and up, and up. 29 He swings her in a circle. His arms are strong around her, and when he begins to relax them, to let her slide down again, she guides his face to hers, and takes his mouth. It's softer than she expects, slack with surprise, because then his mouth firms up against hers, and he's kissing her: kissing the hell out of her. It takes her a moment to realize that she's the source of the noises she's hearing: she's groaning softly into his mouth, her knees sliding for purchase around his hips. She pulls away, breathless and struggling for composure, and to her surprise he doesn't fight her. Her nightgown is rucked up around her thighs, and she tugs it down with one hand as she drops back to her feet. She smoothes down her nightgown and tucks loose strands of hair behind her ears. Eric's just standing there, a monument to silence and self-control, though she can read naked longing in every line of his body, every faint twitch. She tries to make her voice sound as casual as possible. "Would," she says, tilting her head to the side, "would you like to come upstairs and take a shower?" She only sees the faintest lip-curl of a smile, and then they're moving so fast they're almost flying, up through the house like Eric's put the world on fast-forward. 30 It's so weird to have Eric Northman in the bathroom. Her pink daisy shower curtain rattles faintly and she turns away fast, drawing an arm across her bare chest as if she's cold. He steps into the tub behind her and draws the curtain. She glances over her shoulder and sees an acre of pale chest; her eyes slide up over the bump of his collarbone. He moves past her, his body sliding against hers, until he's standing under the spray of warm water. His blond hair darkens as the water hits it. He closes his eyes. She's too embarrassed to turn fully toward him--she's all twisted up with panic and desire--but Eric makes everything easy by picking up her loofah and washing her back. It feels wonderful, and she groans and lets her head fall forward. He slides his palms up her spine and digs his thumbs into the pressure points at the base of her neck. So good: the warmth of her blood coursing through her, making her fingers tingle, the hot water steaming her skin. Her head lolls, all the stress dripping out of her, so that she hardly thinks about it when Eric's hands skim up over her shoulders and down over her breasts. She just breathes in the steamy air as Eric cups her, rubbing up and circling down. Finally his sliding fingers bump her raised, hard nipples, and she gasps. He buries his face in her hair and pulls her hard against him, his erection gliding up her lower back. "Oh," she breathes, and pushes back against him, feeling his cock nudging up against her skin. "Oh. Yes--" and she's about to twist around to kiss him when his hand slides down over her belly and between her legs, pushing in and melting her spine. She almost loses her footing in the tub, but he's got her: one arm curved round her waist and his head bent so their cheeks touch. She presses back into his cool, smooth skin and turns her face to his. His lips brush her cheek. His fingers are moving over her, then in her, stroking deep. She can't help but try to open her legs more, one foot losing touch with the ground. Eric breathes a soft, guttural-sounding word into her hair. All at once she's writhing, rocking her clit against his hand and trying to force his fingers deeper inside her. He whispers soft, comforting-sounding nonsense to her in a language she doesn't understand, but there's no mistaking his meaning: her orgasm's building fast, blurring her vision, making her thighs quiver. Eric's arm tightens around her midriff, he's kissing her face, her neck, her shoulder--and then she feels his blunt teeth pressing into her, worrying her skin but not breaking it. He's moaning softly, cock moving against her as he clamps down, gnawing but not biting, rocking against her--and then she's there, shaking with it. Eric gasps right along with her as she convulses around his fingers, hard inside her. Come splashes the small of her back, and he curls around her, almost draped over her. They stand there together, panting and holding each other up. 31 She's surprised when he touches her face and kisses her. If she were maybe worried about smugness--well, now she isn't. Even though she can still smell herself on his fingers, there's nothing in this kiss that says gotcha. Just his soft mouth against hers. She has a quick, vivid fantasy of him going down on her, and tingles with aftershocks. She's a little worried about what comes next, but Eric just snags a towels off the table besides the sink and drapes one around her shoulders. He towels himself briskly, then swathes the towel around his pale, narrow hips. She watches him as he steps out of the tub and goes over to the medicine cabinet. He surveys the shelves, then looks at her. "Your choice of product is horrifying," he says. 32 He's in front of the mirror for almost 15 minutes, which might have bothered Sookie if he hadn't also decided to style her hair, rubbing some concoction made out of three or four different products into her ends and roots before grabbing the blowdryer. Even then, she might have been pissed off if he hadn't done a really good job of it. She shakes her hair: it bounces, it shines. Eric blows smugly across the muzzle of the dryer. "You know, if you ever want to stop being sheriff," Sookie says admiringly, still watching herself in the mirror, "Fangtasia would be a great name for a salon." He arches an eyebrow at her. "Nice of you to say." She's embarrassed suddenly. "I didn't mean--" Eric touches a lock of her shiny, shiny hair. "I know what you mean." 33 They end up sprawled together on her pink and white bedspread, listening to the radio and waiting for the sun to come up. "You can stay if you want." She wants to seem casual, so she doesn't show Eric the long, low cargo box she keeps under the bed for emergency sleepovers. Still, she's already thinking about redecorating the root cellar. "I can't," Eric says with what seems like genuine regret. "Not today--" and then he squeezes her fingers and murmurs, "Mm, I like this one." Sookie turns her attention to the radio, tuning in to the woman with the rough, sad voice. She sings about climbing out of the gutter / to the top of a spire and then about the first glimpse of the new-rising sun. The song isn't sad at all as it turns out. "It reminds me of--" Sookie begins, and then stops to check Eric's reaction. But Eric's relaxed, and her first, relieved, thought--he doesn't mind thinking about him--is rapidly replaced by another: he's already thinking about him. Maybe he always is. "Yes, it does," Eric muses. "Though Godric had terrible taste in music: John Denver, the Carpenters, Eric Carman." He shudders theatrically. "For such an old soul, he had very little soul in him. He liked Yanni, for fuck's sake." He rolls onto his side and grins at Sookie. "Do you know what happens when vampires play country music backwards?" She smiles and shakes her head. "You get your life back," Eric replies. 34 A few weeks later, Sookie's about to go to bed when the doorbell rings. Eric's working late, so she isn't expecting him, but she can't help hoping anyway. She flips on the porch light before opening the door; outside, there's a bored-looking vampire holding a box. Sookie recognizes him from Fangtasia. "Good evening, Ms. Stackhouse," the vampire grits out; Eric makes his minions treat her with respect, though its mostly grudging. "Mr. Northman asked me to deliver this to you personally." The handwriting on the box is clearly Eric's. She opens it and finds it contains a lethal-looking dagger made of what must be pure gold. There's an inscription on the hilt, but it's not in English or anything like it. There's a note: the dagger was made for a 12th century Spanish monk named Juan de Valaria, who left the monastery to fight evil. His dagger is reputed to have the ability to kill demons, three of the worst of which, according to Eric's sources, apparently just checked into the Shreveport Hilton. She sighs; it's a thoughtful gift, but she feels like she only just got the burnt spider bits out of Gran's carpets. She sighs and takes the dagger upstairs with her, just in case. 35 She's brushing her teeth and absently listening to KBTR when the call comes in--and then she's frantically washing foam out of her mouth. She's wiping her lips on her arm and dialing Eric's cell before the song even starts. "Hello, this is Eric Northman," his voicemail says. "I'm not available to--" She hangs up and dials Fantgasia's main number, which rings and rings. Pam's cell goes straight to voicemail. She shimmies into jeans and grabs her car keys. 36. She opens her front door and screams: Bill Compton, coming up the porch steps, scares the living crap out of her. "Sookie," he says, sounding surprised. "I was just coming to--" "What?" Sookie demands. He looks taken aback and a little hurt; or in other words, totally normal for Bill. "I just wanted to talk," he says, and Sookie rolls her eyes so hard she nearly falls over. "Oh my God: not now!" she yells, and then, twisting to call over her shoulder: "Not ever!" In the rear view mirror, she sees him standing in the little yellow circle of porch light. 37 There's only two cars in Fangtasia's parking lot when Sookie pulls in, though one of them is Eric's. The parking lot is gray and brightening fast in the encroaching dawn, and Sookie hopes to find the cleaning crew in charge and all good vampires in their beds. But there's no one behind the bar and--Sookie shrieks and reaches for her dagger as she sees the gigantic dead thing in front of the stage. It's huge--ten or eleven feet at least--and covered with coarse brown hair, like a bear. Its claws must be a foot long. Its abdomen has been cut open, pink slimy guts spilling out everywhere. Sookie backs away, hyperventilating, and only then notices something far more terrifying. The fire door is open, a gradually brightening rectangle of-- She breaks into a run. Past the crates of empties, past the payphones and the bleachy smell of the washrooms, and there's Eric: sprawled face forward on the concrete out back. She falls to her knees and shoves him, hard, rolling him over. He groans and opens his eyes. "Oh my God," she says breathlessly. Eric's singeing fast, smoke rising from his face and neck, but he manages a wry smile. The bloody gashes on his chest were obviously made by the same claws that slashed his shirt to ribbons. "You should see the other monster," he says. 38 "I have," she says, already tugging on his arm; the sky's still mostly gray, but there's orange on the horizon. "I saw him; he's horrible. Come on," she says, trying to sound normal, like she hadn't heard Eric calling into KBTR sounding fully a thousand years dead. "Come inside," she says, as if she hadn't heard him say, in a low scrape of a voice: 39 "This road is too long." "Oh, that takes me back, caller. What's your name?" "Too long..." and then, after an audible sigh: "Jeff. Jeff from Shreveport." "Well, here you go, Jeff. 'This Road Is Too Long', an oldie but goodie from--" 40 "Eric," Sookie repeats softly, her hand tightening; he's really smoking, now. "Come on inside," but when he looks away from her, she realizes that the time for softness has passed. "All right, fine," she says abruptly, and grabs him by one long, blue-jeaned leg. He yelps as she gets to her feet and begins to drag him, ineffectively, toward the door. He looks ridiculous, one cowboy-booted foot up in the air. Good. Good. Because-- "--there's nothing noble about this, you dumb-ass vampire!" Sookie shouts, and then she turns and kicks him right in his dumb ass with the toe of her sneaker. "Get your stupid Swedish ass back in that club or I'll--" She kicks him in the thigh, the side, the arm, and he looks up at her, startled. "I'll--" but she can't follow through. "I'll do something really bad!" she concludes tearfully, crossing her arms over her chest. "I'll tell people embarrassing and nasty things about you and make you seem really uncool." Eric's half-rolled over and crouching to protect his dick, and then he starts to crawl toward the door. "Right! That's it!" Sookie yells, following; she's hugging herself and bobbing up and down: literally hopping mad. "Get inside before I kick your ass inside"--and then something bursts inside of her and she runs to him, half-dragging and half-hugging him over the threshold. She awkwardly bats the door closed with her leg and sprawls on the floor with him, hugging him hard. And he's hugging her back, and he's massive and foul-smelling and shaking. His nose is nearly burnt off and he's laughing. "You crack me up," he says. "You really do." 41 "Here," she says, thrusting her wrist at him; she wants him to get better so that she can hurt him, just a little. Eric gently takes her hand in his blackened one, but he doesn't bite; instead he looks at her and says, "That's not an insult," and bends to kiss her. His lips taste like ashes, but she doesn't care. She surges into his arms and doesn't care. Finally she pushes him away and offers him her wrist...and then, upon reflection, her neck. She tugs her hair to one side and tilts her head invitingly. His pale eyes flash desperately in his blackened face. He kisses her cheek, her ear, and then bites. She sits there, gasping and shaking. She can feel her pulse everywhere. 42 When he finishes, she strokes his cheek with her fingertips. "Mmm. Like freshly dead," she says and laughs. "Please tell me you have a moisturizer called that." "I don't. But I like it: Freshly Dead: Wake Up Every Evening--" "--fresh as a daisy," Sookie finishes. "--dead as a doornail," Eric finishes and frowns. "We should open an ad agency." "A better career than fighting demons," Sookie agrees, but she's said the wrong thing. Eric's forgot about the demons, but now he looks over in the direction of the dead bear and his face hardens. "It's okay," Sookie tells him quickly. "We can handle this; we've handled much, much worse. There's just two more--" She hasn't felt this sort of coldness in Eric for a long time--not since the first time they met, in fact. She thinks maybe she's beginning to understand it. "Two more now, but more will come. There will always be more," and there's something tight and awful in this voice. "It doesn't end," he says flatly, and she thinks she understands, now, how being sheriff could drive a person to a rooftop. 43 Eric's eyes are hard, but she can feel his despondency: a thousand years, a pit of endless evil. But then whatever's real in her asserts itself. "You got something else to do?" she chides, tilting her head. "Appointment TV? Mani-pedi?" His eyebrow twitches, then the corner of his lip. "There is an Iron Chef marathon on The Food Network..." "Tivo it," she says, and draws the dagger he gave her. "We'll watch it over the weekend. Right now we've got to get to the Hilton before those demons give new meaning to 'room service.' Then," she adds, pressing the dagger into his palm, "once we've won, I'll take you home and make you a pitcher of Bloody Marys. And fresh hushpuppies," she adds, and when Eric grins fangs, she knows he's on her wavelength.

Current mood: crazy Entry tags: "a thousand touches", "a thousand whispers", rating: nc-17, sam/dean A Thousand Whispers, 01/04, [NC-17], Sam/Dean Title: A Thousand Whispers 01/04 Authors: Charlotte and Miss. Brie Pairing: Sam/Dean Rating/Warnings: NC-17, Disclaimer: Kripke's boys, not ours, even if we want them to be. Summary: Sam and Dean from "A Thousand Touches" are back in this sequel. Time has passed, the boys are still hunting together and growing impossibly closer. An accident changes things for both of them bringing about challenges and feelings they'd never thought they'd face. They call me Dean. Just Dean, no nick names or short cuts, and yeah I prefer it that way. I'm the oldest. I have a little brother named Sam. He's kind of my world. Maybe even more than that but I've always had problems when it comes to defining what we are. A few years ago my dad had this idea to send Sam to some special school because he didn't talk. But I knew my brother wasn't "special" not in that way so we left. I guess that's probably where things changed. Or began to. But if you believe my dad it's been happening for a long time. I don't believe in fate or any of that crap but if it did exist, I guess you could say Sam and I had one. A fate. Destined to lead to each and every moment we lived through. It's pretty worth it. Don't get me wrong though. As much as I love my brother and the world we call ours, it's not always easy living with a person who's just barely started talking after an entire life of silence. There's a pretty big selection of misunderstandings and moments where I wish I could just invade his mind so I knew exactly what was going through it. I've learned things over the years though. I'd say I know Sam pretty well, better than anyone else even. And he is the reason we fixed our relationship with our father, because I'm pretty sure if I had my way we'd never talk to him again. Or I'd never talk to him and Sam would never... kinda whisper and write notes to him. He's getting there though, Sam, with the talking thing. I'm pretty proud of him for trying. See, this thing between Sam and me... it keeps me going. Makes me human. Connects me to this world when all the supernatural crap we hunt threatens to pull me away. Sam's my brother, my lover, the most important person. And I don't know what I would do if I had to live without him. Something was chasing them. Or more specifically, something was chasing Sam and Dean was desperately trying to catch up. But they were too far ahead and no matter how quick Dean moved it was too late. His eyes widened as the creature leaped on Sam's back and he watched his brother go down. "Sam!" Dean yelled, sitting up in the mattress so fast he caused to entire bed to shift, chest rising and falling with heavy pants or shocked air. The image played instantly on repeat in Dean's mind and he gasped, fingers curling in the bed sheets. Sam's body shot up off the bed, arms shoving at the sheets that were holding him down. Dean. It hardly took him a moment to orient himself and have his arms wrapped around Dean's shoulders. Pressing his hand flat against his brother's chest he rubbed gently, "M'here," Sam whispered as he leaned in to rest his chin on Dean's shoulder. He hated when Dean had nightmares, nothing felt worse than the sensation of Dean tense and shivering against Sam's chest. "God," Dean panted heavily and whirled on the bed, pressing Sam hard down onto the mattress and slamming their lips together. He sucked in the comfort from Sam's heat beneath him, mouths gliding together in a familiar slide. "Sammy..." he murmured into the kiss, dragging his hands along his brother's side just to ensure he really was okay. That dream still played in his mind, haunting and whispering to him like a threat. His body was still shaking softly and he pressed harder down into Sam, knowing his lover instincts would kick in and sense his need to be comforted. Sam's heart ached for his brother as his hands moved over Dean's back, soothing, then gripping him hard. "S'okay," Sam murmured against soft, wet lips. He could feel Dean's body shaking as the fear from his dream drained slowly out of his body. Wrapping his body around Dean's, arms, legs capturing his brother's; Sam did what he loved more than anything. Lips moving against Dean's he used his body to comfort Dean, reassure him, love him. After several long moments, once his heart had returned to normal and his pulse evened out, Dean rolled off his brother. "Sorry," he sighed and pulled Sam into him, brushing soft kisses along his jaw. "I shouldn't have smashed you down like that," he dragged his hand through Sam's hair, pulling back enough to meet his brother's eyes. "You good?" Smiling, Sam pressed his palm flat against Dean's chest right over his heart. I love you. As he sank into Dean's side he could sense the tension even as it left his brother's body. "Nightmare?" His lips brushed the bottom of Dean's ear, arms tightening its hold on his brother's body. Dean's eyes fluttered slightly, small smile on his face. "Yeah," he sighed and melted his body into Sam's, lips brushing together. "The one where the creature was chasing you and I couldn't get to you in time..." Dean settled his head on Sam's shoulder and pulled in a quick long full of familiar scent. "You're always in time," Sam murmured. His brother had never, would never let him down. It was just the way things between them worked; they took care of each other, had each other's backs. Sam pressed his lips to Dean's hair, wrinkling his nose. "Crunchy," he whispered and slithered down so he could nuzzle against Dean's cheek. He could feel Dean settling back into the mattress, his muscles relaxing again. Sam sighed happily and rubbed Dean's chest slowly, small circles. "Sammy..." Dean shifted up into the touch, the lingering wisps of fear and worry all but disappearing. "I'll never let anything bad happen to you," he reached up cup Sam's cheek and let his eyes fall closed, small smile on his lips. "Go back to sleep. I'm okay now," he insisted softly and hooked his arm around Sam to press him close. The nightmares had been coming with increasing frequency and Sam found himself wondering, sometimes, if there was more to it than Dean told him. The way Dean woke up, terrified, checking Sam's body like he was searching for wounds, signs on injury - but it was more than that. There was a desperation to Dean's touch that made Sam's heart ache. His fingers curled around his brother's neck, the gentle flutter of Dean's pulse comforting in the dark room. "We need a hunt," Dean declared the moment he entered the motel room, carrying the bags of food over and spreading them out on the table. He went through the actions like second nature, pulling open the container with Sam's chicken salad and sliding it toward him, coke joining in a moment later with a plastic fork. After so many years it was almost as natural as breathing, taking care of Sam before addressing his own needs. Once Sam's meal was spread out before him Dean dropped into his seat and pulled up the styrofoam container with his burger and fries in it. "We're in a dry spell, did your search turn up anything?" Dean asked around a mouthful of burger, legs extending to rest against Sam's casually. Sam held his fork between his teeth and reach out with both hands to turn the lap top screen toward Dean. He chewed slowly while Dean read then gestured with his fork. "Five people, strange..." Sam mumbled around his food. Snatching his pen up off the table he scribbled in his notebook and slid it toward Dean. Close to here. 2 hr drive maybe? 2 people dead, other 3 strange - bite marks. Might be something big. Sam shrugged as he watched Dean's eyes get to the bottom of the page. Sniffing, Sam's eyes moved back to his salad and he stabbed at it with his fork trying to pick out the chicken. "Maybe?" He slid the fork into his mouth again rocking his leg against Dean's. "Sounds promising," Dean nodded and leaned forward to peer at the laptop screen. "Okay we'll head there after we eat," Dean wet his lips, pulling in the lingering taste of ketchup before lifting his burger once more. He lifted his eyes to Sam and smiled, shifting in his seat to hook his leg around Sam's. "That is unless you can think of any reason we should wait, maybe there's something else you'd like to do this after?" He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, smirk curving his lip up. Still chewing, Sam lifted his eyes without moving his head and locked his gaze on Dean's. His nose twitched and then his lips curved into a crooked smile. "Maybe?" There was always something he could think of doing, touching his brother, soaking up Dean like a sponge; his scene, heat, sweat, taste, everything. Dean was the cord that tethered Sam to the world. Wetting his lips Dean polished off his burger and pinched a handful of fries, bringing them to his lips and mumbling around them, "well then, maybe we'll wait to head out tomorrow. Probably better after a full night rest anyway." He grinned around the food in his mouth and reached out for his shake, pulling from the straw with a hard suck. They were quiet while they finished their individual meals, falling in the familiar comfort of each other's presence. As he finished Dean stood, hand hovering by Sam's empty food container until his brother nodded and he carried both to the trash. "Wanna watch a movie? Lay together on the bed?" Dean shrugged a shoulder behind him, gesturing to the mattress as he toed his shoes off. Nodding, Sam worried his bottom lip with his teeth. Even if Dean hadn't asked, had just moved to the bed to lie down, Sam wouldn't have been far behind. Sam was never far away from Dean by choice. When Dean asked, there was usually a reason, Sam's brow furrowed as he thought about it. The nightmares had been wearing his brother down a little. Dean's face was more drawn than usual and he looked tired. Standing, Sam crossed his arms to grab his t-shirt and tug it off as he slipped out of his boots. Opening the small fridge Sam grabbed a beer and opened it then padded over to the bed and lay down, resting the bottle on his chest. Dean pulled off his own shirt, tossing it across the room to his duffel bag before kicking out of his jeans and sending them to join his. Rolling his shoulders Dean crawled onto the bed and slid under the sheets and blanket, sliding close to Sam and reaching out to snag the beer. He chuckled softly as he popped it open and took a drink before placing it back in Sam's hand. Settling back on his pillow he extended his arm for Sam to settle against. "Probably only shit on," Dean mumbled as his free hand curled around the remote and lifting it to point at the TV. Sam moved the bottle over the bare skin of his chest; it was cool, the condensation left a trail down the center of his chest. The muscles in his abs clenched under the cold glass and Sam ran the bottle along the waistband of his jeans. He felt Dean's eyes on him. "Dean?" "You... hot?" Dean asked softly, wetting his lips as he traced the line of liquid with his eyes then reached out to trail his fingers down the path. He smiled as his eyes lifted to Sam's face, searching his expression for whatever it was that Sam would be saying if he were more accustomed to words. "What's going on in that brain of yours?" He murmured, not expecting much of an answer. It was something he asked just because, knowing Sam knew he didn't necessarily need an actual answer. Sometimes actions did speak louder than words after all. "Mhmmm," Sam murmured. Hot and hoping to distract Dean, tired him out and maybe get him to sleep peacefully through the entire night. Smiling, Sam arched his spine slightly and felt a drop of water run into his belly button. "Y'okay?" His eyebrows rose slightly as a flush crept up his neck. Letting his head fall to the side Sam blinked at Dean and blew the hair out of his eyes. "M'fine," Dean insisted and slid down the mattress enough to press his lips into Sam's side, sucking kisses up the warm flesh. A small smile curved up his features as he dipped forward to suck Sam's nipple into his mouth, worked it gently beneath his teeth. "Gonna tire me out Sammy?" He murmured against the skin, fingers flattening out over the cool liquid along his brother's abs and rubbing along the waist band. "Maybe I'll just lay back and let you do the work," Dean chuckled softly and sucked on a patch of flesh beneath Sam's nipple, bruising the skin. Their whole lives, the basis of their communication - them it was all based on touch and marks. The way Dean's lips moved on his body said what Sam needed to know. Stretching his arm out behind him Sam felt around until the bottle hit the nightstand. When he pulled his arm back he looked up at his brother's eyes. Silence Sam opened his mouth but sometimes, still nothing would come to him. Silent for so long, spoiled by Dean's unerring interpretation of his touches, his expressions - it was as though Sam had forgotten how to use his voice. Then, the one thing that Sam could always say, "Dean..." Dean popped the button on his brother's jeans, tugging the zipper down and hooking his fingers under the material. Sam lifted his hips easily to remove the fabric and in minutes they were both naked, Dean settled between his brothers legs. "I need you," Dean murmured against Sam's lips, hand extending to take the bottle from his grasp. There were moments between them that Sam needed Dean, for understanding and comfort. Then there were the times Dean needed Sam, though he could never understand what it was exactly that sparked so desperately in him. He rolled his hips forward to explain how intense that need was without words. Sam's hands slid up to Dean's cheeks then curled around the back of his brother's neck. The thing about touching Dean was that Sam could lose himself in it, the smooth skin, Sam's cock was already warm and full, the simple pleasure of lying against Dean's naked body was enough. God. Nothing ever left Sam as breathless as the look on Dean's face, and being needed. And then, they were kissing. Their lips were together, sliding, burning up and Sam couldn't help the way his hips rolled up off the bed and collided with his brother's. They both shared this pleasure, the moments when they were both silent simply by choice. Dean had long since stopped asking questions during this time, choosing to let them both simply enjoy the feel of each other. Pulling back slightly he slicked his fingers and set the bottle to the side, nudging Sam's legs further apart and slipping one finger in. Within moments he added a second and leaned forward to cover Sam's mouth with his own once more. Sam's heat was familiar and still just as intoxicating, swirling that mixture of want and need up in him until he couldn't resist and added a third finger, preparing Sam with slow thrusts and the gentle spreading of his fingers. The way Dean's fingers moved within him, keeping rhythm with the tangle of their tongues sparked up the ever-present desire in Sam's heart. They moved together fluidly, hips rolling, fingers sliding, breathing the same air. Sam's soft moans were swallowed up in Dean's mouth. It was one of the times when such peace ran over Sam, gentle love-making, peaceful touches increasing slowly as the want built in their bodies. "Please..." the only word Sam would utter, the word that teased a low moan from his brother's mouth. "Sammy," he murmured and pulled back enough to slick himself, cleaning his hand on the sheet before he shifted back over his brother. Dean's eyes fluttered as he slid inside Sam, encased by his muscles and heat. Dean hooked his arms under Sam's, fingers curling into his shoulders so their bodies lay flushed together. As his lips fell over Sam's once more, strong legs wrapped around his waist and Dean began a gentle rock, just enough to create the swirl of friction. He gasped into Sam's mouth, tongue snaking forward to swirl around the warmth inside Sam's mouth, familiar and pleasant. Shifting, spine arching up into his brother's sweat-slick body Sam sucked hard on his brother's tongue. Connected to Dean everywhere, it felt right, more right than anything else ever had in their lives. He matched Dean's rhythm, rocking up slowly against Dean's hard body, sinking Dean's cock deeper into him. Closer Kissing his way down Dean's neck Sam latched on to his brother's shoulder, sucking gently in time with their thrusts. Dean moaned low in his chest, exhaling roughly through his nose as he quickened his pace. He could spend forever rocking like this, connected so thoroughly he lost sight of what made them two different people. He slid a hand roughly between them, pressing a hand hard into Sam's heart I love you. Countless minutes of their gentle rocking finally began to drive Dean crazy and he surged back, pulling all the way out to slam roughly forward. Dean drank in the mixture of emotions playing on his brother's features, forcing his eyes to remain open as he continued one quick thrust following the next. He loved to see Dean's eyes when they moved like this together, so black and shining and so full of emotion. Sam's release was building hard and fast within him, edged closer by each thrust. His hard flesh was trapped between their bodies, the friction heating his flesh and burning into his soul. "D..Dean..." Dean knew just how to move his body against Sam's, the ways to excite all Sam's nerves, tease him to the edge and pull him back. But not tonight, tightening his legs around his brother's muscular body, Sam tensed as his orgasm moved up through his body. It started small - a flame - and caught quickly flooding through his system like liquid fire. Sam's release pulsed out between their bodies, slick and hot, his lips were locked with his brothers once more - their mouths wet and frantic. With the clench of muscles around his hard flesh, the explosion of heart between their bodies, Dean found himself loosing grips. His body stilled, mouth moving hard over Sam's as his release worked through him. Dean gasped softly into the kiss, overcome for a moment with the intensity. It happened sometimes, when Dean felt too small to take on the weight of the world, where he clung to his brother because it seemed to be the only way to tether himself to this world. He dropped his head to bury in Sam's neck, hips gently rocking with the lingering flare of his orgasm. He sucked in a sharp lung full of Sam's scent, clenching his eyes shut against the slight shake of his body. Wrapping his arms tight around his brother Sam murmured quietly against his brother's hair. It didn't matter that he wasn't actually saying words, just sounds, just letting Dean know he was there. Dean loved the sound of his voice - he would never force Sam to speak - never ask for it - but Sam knew what it meant and how it made Dean's world a little less lonely, a little less silent. "Love you," he whispered. His muscles were still twitching as his heart slowed back to a steady thud in his chest - almost the same rhythm as Dean's. "Love you," Dean returned and gently pulled out of him. Within moments he had the cooling come wiped from both their bodies and was once more curled on the bed, tugging Sam's body into him. Tomorrow their life would resume, they would head to their next hunt, would live the life they knew so well. Until then, Dean would cling to him and hold him close, drinking in his comfort and love. "Stars," Sam pointed sleepily at the space between the Motel room curtains. The dark blue sky was so clear it almost appeared to be overrun with stars. Sam didn't think that Dean took enough moments to simply look around and enjoy things. The older Winchester worried so much sometimes that Sam wished he could just take the worry away, be the one who was responsible for everything for a while. Dean shifted to look out the window and nodded slowly, "clear night. It's..." Dean shrugged and rolled back to his brother, flopping down heavily on the pillow. "They're just stars. We've seen them practically every night of our lives." He chuckled softly and closed his eyes. Clearing his throat quietly, Sam tensed a little, like he always did when he was going to try and say something that took more than a couple of words. "My eyes..." Rolling onto Dean he stared down at his closed eyes know that eventually Dean would look at him. With a soft sigh Dean peeled his eyes open and stared up at his brother. "What?" He asked softly, hands reaching up to smooth Sam's hair back along his head. "You," he poked a finger gently at Dean's chest, "see my eyes practically every night." His lips twitched into a grin. "You keep lookin," he whispered roughly, "you still like 'em." Satisfied, he grinned. He cleared his throat again and wrinkled his nose. Dean chuckled and leaned up to press a kiss to Sam's lips, dropping back and flicking Sam's nose softly with his finger. "Yeah well I'm in love with you. I'm not in love with the stars. So it stands to reason that I would spend more time staring at you. Plus you change. Whenever the stars do I don't notice," Dean nodded, grinning brightly at his logic. Rolling his eyes Sam pressed his hand to Dean's chest and snuggled in beside him. "Crazy," he murmured as he closed his eyes. Once more Dean let his eyes fall closed, small chuckle leaving his lips. "Yeah well you love me so be careful who you call crazy," he mumbled around the tug of sleep and sighed softly. Sam fucking hated Ghouls. They were nasty-assed, miserable, violent, sneaky sons of bitches and the fact that Sam and Dean were hunting one was quite distasteful to Sam. Low grumbling sounds drifted across the mausoleum floor through the gates on the door. Oh yeah. Ghouls could turn into hyenas. Sam hated Ghouls. The unmistakable sounds of flesh being torn from a freshly interned body had Sam turning to Dean in the moonlight with his mouth twisted into a silent, disgusted expression. Shaking his head he tugged on Dean's arm, screw it, let some other hunter come along and kill the damn thing. It was only eating dead people. Shuddering Sam pressed up against Dean's back. The strangest feeling was slithering down his spine; a sort of cold dread was threading it's way through his body. He tugged harder on Dean's arm hoping his eyes would show how much he wanted them to go. "Dean," he whispered, "let's go." "C'mon, you can do this," Dean insisted, turning to Sam slightly. "We'll get in, finish it off and get out. Seriously Sam, we'll be out of here in no time," he smiled reassuringly at his brother and cupped the back of his neck softly. "You wanna wait in the car? I can get this one if it would be easier." Dean's eyes shifted toward the mostly disgusting noises coming from not that far away. He could at least understand Sam's hesitation. Sam tilted his head, eyes fully of worry. There was something different about this, it didn't feel right. Then again, there was no way he was going to leave Dean alone. Sighing, he bumped his fist against Dean's chest, be careful. Sam pushed up to a crouch and pulled out the longer silver blade he was carrying. Even more awesome than the fact that these were Ghouls was that they could only be killed by removing or smashing their heads. Sam foresaw a lot more laundry in his future. Frowning he nodded at Dean to let him know he was ready. They moved forward as quietly as possible. In theory the Ghouls shouldn't be that interested in harming them, not until they became a threat at least. Then it was understandable that the creatures would fight in defence for their existence. As they slid inside the doorway Dean's face scrunched up in disgust. Nothing like two disgusting creatures feeding on dead flesh to churn your stomach. His eyes darted to Sam, making sure he had adjusted to the dim light of the mausoleum, surveyed the environment, was ready for the attack. Sam nodded shortly at him and Dean rocked back to bump their shoulders together before they broke apart and snuck around the creatures, circling in for the best angle of attack. Their eyes met once over the heads of the Ghouls and Sam and Dean both launched toward the creatures. Sam slammed into the back of the smaller of the two Ghouls, knife at-the-ready only to be flipped forward over its shoulder. All the breath shot out of Sam's body and he snapped his arm back to pull the creatures legs out from under it. In the time it took to fall against the cold marble floor Sam's eyes snapped over to Dean and saw him locked in battle with the larger Ghoul. Leaping up to a crouch Sam propelled himself forward and slammed his body down on the ghouls bringing the knife up to it's throat. One strong slash at the Ghouls disgusting flesh and it's head was partially several from its body. Foul smelling, putrid black blood splattered up over Sam's jacket, bubbling and spurting. He sliced frantically at the neck of the creature as it feebly tried to buck him off. Dean lurched against the Ghoul, stumbling slightly as a large arm connected with his chest. He caught a glimpse of his brother's blade piercing the other creatures flesh and couldn't help the swell of pride, Sam was a damn fine hunter, despite his reservations about taking this hunt. A gnarled hand curled hard against his throat and Dean's eyes widened, arm swinging out to connect the blade in his grasp into the creatures flesh. It wasn't hard enough to severe, only made the thing more pissed then it had been. His eyes darted over the Ghouls ghost as it lifted him from the ground, watching Sam for a split second before he was sent hurtling fast and hard across the room. Something connected with a sharp crack along his skull and Dean groaned before everything went black, body sagging down into a heap along cold cement. Sam's last strike severed the Ghouls head and he lurched up off its body and staggered a few steps trying to catch his breath. He saw his brother's body in a crumpled heap and yelled out "Dean!" Heading straight for the Ghoul at the exact same moment as is it lurched to its feet to resume its attack on Dean. Arm flying up, knife at the ready, Sam closed the distance to the Ghoul with lightening speed stabbing his blade straight through its neck. Adrenaline surged through his body, spurred on by his worry for his brother. Dean. Anger like he had never felt flooded through his body and he yanked the knife back out of its disgusting flesh and swung his arm wide to slash back across the wound that his brother had started. The creatures head rolled back and tore off its body and before it's body even hit the ground Sam had sunk to his knees at Dean's side. Breathing, Dean was breathing. Sam's hands moved down his brother's arms, over his chest, checked carefully for deformities along the back of Dean's neck. "Dean?" Sam's voice was rough, quite, fingers curling into Dean's firm shoulders. Dean's breathing was shallow and Sam could see a pool of dark blood creeping out from under his brother's head. God. Sam's fingers rubbed at Dean's chest trying to wake him. "Dean..." he choked on a whimper. "Wha..." Dean's eyes fluttered. Darkness. Frowning he reached out for his brother, touching his arm after a few moments of searching. "Sam? What happened? Are they dead?" The words sounded slightly slurred even to his own ears and he struggled up, body aching slightly at the movements. "Fuck, ow," he groaned and rubbed at his eyes, struggling against the darkness. "Dead.." Sam murmured, "bleeding." His hands moved over Dean's face as he shuffled on his knees behind his brother so he could check his head. Sam hissed as he parted his brother's hair gently and saw a huge gash, "need hospital. Stitches." Moving back around to meet his brother's gaze Sam frowned when Dean wouldn't look at him. "Hey, you okay?" Dean's eyes were blinking rapidly then he squeezed them shut. "Dean?" "M'okay," Dean insisted, trying desperately to stifle the panic rising up in him. His vision would return. He just got knocked in the head for fuck's sake it was just a thing and it would go away. "Help me up," he urged, reaching out for his brother. He didn't bother objecting to the hospital. Stitches would best be done by a professional, and if his sight hadn't fixed itself by then he'd ask about it. No need to unnecessarily worry his brother. "You drive," he added, as if it weren't already obvious. Something was wrong. Sam helped his brother up and tore the bottom of his t-shirt off, scrunched it up and pressed it to the wound on the back of Dean's head. "Hold," he said as he slid his arm under his brother's to steady him. "Was wrong?" Dean wasn't moving with his usual confidence and he was leaning awfully hard against Sam's side. Huffing out a frustrated breath Sam started them off toward the door. Dean swallowed hard and pressed his hand firmly against the fabric. They were moving and Dean knew where, he'd just traveled this path, but it felt like everything was tilting sideways, swirling until he couldn't grasp hold. "I can't..." he sucked in a quick breath, eyes fluttering again. Dean had suffered blurred vision before, he'd even seen big black spots once when they came across a werewolf that had slammed him into the wall. This was different. There was simply nothing. "Sam," he groaned and stopped moving, rolling slightly into his brother's frame. "I can't see." Sam didn't panic often but the thought of his brother not being able to see made it feel like his heart had exploded in his chest. Biting down on his bottom lip for a moment, Sam hiked Dean up and held him closer. "'Cause of head, will be okay." He forced himself to sound confident. The last thing that Dean needed was to feel like he was frightening Sam. It was a short walk to the car but each time Dean was unsure of his footing, stumbled or clung to Sam harder than usual, Sam's heart sank in his chest a little more. Once they were at the car Sam opened the door and settled Dean inside before running around quickly to get behind the wheel. "S'okay..." Sam murmured reaching out for Dean's hand as soon as he had put the car in drive. Riding in the car without sight was more terrifying then Dean could ever have imagined. It was one thing to be asleep, to feel the comforting shifting of the road, the familiar hum of the engine. In this new darkness Dean was all too aware that he wasn't asleep. The engine noises should have been comforting but there was still a too strong ache in his body and no matter how many times he dropped his eyelids and lifted them, it was only darkness. The doctor's would fix this, they had too. You couldn't get blinded just by hitting your head, it was a temporary thing. Dean had to believe that because there was no acceptable alternative. "We almost there?" He asked quietly, trying to shove down the fear prickling along his skin. "Yeah," Sam squeezed Dean's hand tightly, "two minutes." He could only imagine what it must be like for Dean not knowing where they were, he was so used to being in control of things. The bright lights of the hospital appeared in the distance and Sam cleared his throat, it was aching, normal he wouldn't say this many things in an entire day. "See it." He drove straight ahead until he saw the emergency entrance and found the first parking spot he could. There was no way he was walking Dean further than he had to. Glancing over at Dean he could see worry creasing his brother's face, "keep pressure." Turning off the car Sam slipped out quickly and jogged around to help Dean out and within seconds they were headed across the street toward the emergency room. "Okay, let me do most of the talking," Dean said softly, though that was pretty obvious too. There was no way Sam would be talking to complete strangers. "Hey, how do I look? If I... if I say I fell off the roof or something, is that going to pass?" Dean hated this whole thing and it was really beginning to settle unpleasantly in the pit of his stomach. He was grasp for some hold on things and if it weren't for Sam against his side, Dean wasn't sure he would be able to handle it. "'Cept for Ghoul blood," Sam's mind wasn't working like it should. Reaching around he brushed some of the dust and dirt off of Dean's jacket. "Say ... were sealing roof and fell." He couldn't think of any other damn explanation for the black ooze that was all over them. They looked like they'd been massacring oil cans. "Will be okay," Sam's voice was getting rougher and quieter, his grip on Dean tighter. The doors to the emergency room slid open with a mechanical swoosh and they were inside. Sam blinked furiously in the stark fluorescent lighting and moved them over to the admitting desk. "Here..." He rested his hand on Dean's chest, I love you. "My brother..." Sam murmured at the nurse behind the counter. "Oh my goodness," the nurse stood up, walking quickly around the desk. "Are you alright sir?" Dean tilted his head toward the voice, a little unnerved by how upset she sounded. Did he really look that bad? Sam and he were used to thinking of things in less extremes then other people saw them. "I uh... we were working on a house. Sealing the roof and I feel. Gotta pretty nasty cut on the back of my head and I... I can't see," saying the words were a second time made his heart sink heavy in his chest, especially when the nurse inhaled sharply. "Well, let's get you in back then, your brother can stay here and fill out the paperwork," the nurse said swiftly and a moment later Dean felt fingers over his arm. "I, no. No I want him to come with. Can he fill them out in back? It's... I really just can't be alone right now, please," Dean slid easily into his persuasive mood, using his good looks and charm to get his way. He supposed being so badly injured could only add to the affect. The nurse seemed to think for a minute, at least she was silent so Dean assumed she was thinking, before sighing, "oh alright, just a moment." Dean listened to her shoes click along the tile before he turned slightly to Sam, "no matter what they say or do, do not leave me side clear?" He leaned heavy against the familiar heat of his brother, wishing that every deep breath he pulled in didn't come with the added layer of hospital sterilization. "'Kay," Sam's fingers curled through Dean's belt loop and pulled him along the hallway following the bustling nurse. Her scrubs had little Garfield's on them which was almost entirely too strange for Sam. It wasn't until he was about to nudge Dean and get him to look that the full impact of him being sightless started to hit him. God. "They'll fix it," Sam whispered wanting so badly to brush his lips against Deans cheek. He settled for rubbing his thumb along the flesh above his brother's waistband. The nurse led them to a curtained area and Sam glanced over at her, wondering what to do. "On the bed?" "Yeah go ahead and get him up there, then I'll need you to fill this out including the insurance card," the nurse informed and set a clipboard on the counter. "Sir, what's your name? I'm sorry i don't believe you mentioned it before." Dean's mind fluttered, trying to remember what name they had on their insurance card. "David. David McMillan," he muttered and allowed Sam to help him up onto the bed. "This is my brother Reese, he uh, doesn't talk much. Should I be in a gown or something?" "Of course, here's one," the nurse stepped forward and Dean found himself wondering if she held it out to him for a moment before realizing she had to give it to Sam. "I'm going to get a doctor, I'll be back in a few minutes to get your vitals so go ahead and get changed." Dean listened to the curtain shift and once it had closed again he turned toward Sam, "Sam, if I... if I need surgery to fix this. We can't cover that. The insurance, it was never for something so major. Surgery costs a lot." Dean pulled in a deep breath, lifting his arms slightly to let Sam pull his shirt up. Sam tugged his brother's shirt up over his head, folded it then set it on the chair. "I'll get money. Don't ..." Sam's voice was strained, he knew it. He would do whatever he had to do to take care of his brother. No question. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to Dean's while they were alone, brow furrowing when Dean started at the touch. "I'll take care of it," he whispered into the kiss. Squeezing the back of dean's neck Sam pressed their foreheads together for a few moments then moved to unbutton his brother's jeans. He knew Dean could have done it himself, but he felt like they were both needing to be touching, close, and this was as good a way as any. Dean's fingers curled over Sam's shoulder as he stepped out of his jeans. Reaching behind him Sam grabbed the gown and held it up. "Arms to me," he said and when Dean lifted his arms Sam slid the gown on then moved behind Dean to do up the tie. "Sexy," he murmured and pressed a kiss to the back of his brother's neck. Helping his brother into the bed felt horrible. Sam had never seen Dean looking so lost -or- trying so hard not to look lost. Once Dean was settled on the hospital bed Sam filled out the forms quickly, using their fake insurance cards. "Okay Mr. McMillan, let's get you looked over," the nurse said upon re-entering the room, crossing the room to stand by him. Dean listened to her moving around, trying to figure out what she was going. Moments later he felt the cuff of the blood pressure machine sliding around him, followed by the whirring of the machine as it tightened. "It looks like this wound on the back of your head is definitely going to need stitches, then the doctor can address the eyesight issue. Are you having pain anywhere else?" Dean swallowed and did a cursory over his body, searching for areas that ached more intensely than other spots. "I... no. I'm sore but I don't think there's anything else major. Nothing a few Advil's can't cure." "Well I'll hook you up to the IV and we can give you some pain meds that way. The doctor will also use an anaesthetic for the stitches," she informed and the hands on Dean's body that had been checking his vitals disappeared. There was shuffling, things opening and closing, and Dean couldn't help turning his head as if to look. He wondered where exactly Sam was standing, if his face was etched with worry and concern. "Okay, I'm just going to put the needle in now," the nurse said softly and moments later Dean felt the sharp prick in the crook of his arm. "All set. The doctor should be in within a few minutes. Have you finished with the papers?" the nurse had obviously turned toward Sam now and Dean sighed softly settling back on the pillow. Sam handed the nurse the paperwork and shifted closer quickly, sitting down on the edge of Dean's bed. Slipping his fingers into Dean's hand, Sam whispered, "need to touch you." He swallowed. The weight of the entire situation was starting to press into Sam. All those questions, next of kin, allergies and previous illnesses, consent for medical procedures. Sam sucked in a shaky breath, "you okay?" "I..." Dean wet his lips and turned his head toward his brother. "No. Not really." He worried his voice shook too much but at this point it didn't really matter. Sam had to know how freaked out he was and Dean was fairly certain Sam was probably just as freaked. "It'll be okay. I'm gonna be okay. They'll fix it," he insisted, squeezing Sam's hand tightly. Nodding, Sam pressed his lips together then realized Dean couldn't hear him. "Yeah, you're right," his throat was aching, dry and rough. A drink of water or something would be perfect but he wasn't going to let go of Dean's hand. His fingers slid up Dean's forearm, skirting around the site of the I.V.; Sam was starting to realized how much he depended on Dean, on Dean being able to see him and judge what he was thinking and feeling. "Sore?" "Yeah," Dean nodded slowly, focusing in on Sam's touch. His words had sounded rough, raw, and Dean couldn't help frowning. Though Sam was getting better with talking it still wasn't something he did constantly and if Dean couldn't see than that would alter everything between them. Dean wouldn't be able to read his notes, wouldn't be able to glance over at him and know exactly what was going on in his mind just by the way he stood. Dean's heart lurched unpleasant and he covered his mouth with his free hand. "Fuck I think I'm going to be sick." He grunted the words, clenching his useless eyes shut more out of habit than anything else. Moving quickly Sam grabbed the bed pan of the night table and swung it into Dean's lap. He shifted so he was sitting right beside Dean and tucked his brother under his arm. "S'okay, I gotcha," his hand moved in slow circles on Dean's back. His brother's face had gone pale, his freckles standing out as sweat beaded on his forehead. Sam looked around frantically for a nurse wondering if the pain meds were making Dean nauseous. Dean threw up whatever it was they'd had for dinner, sucking in deep breaths to try and get himself under control. He couldn't live without his eye sight, what would he do? You can't hunt blind. And Sam... "Hey there," an overly cheery voice came with the dragging back of the curtain and Dean listened to his slight hesitation before the man approached. "Feeling a little sick to your stomach? Let me have the nurse get you some water." "Was that the doctor?" Dean asked quietly, sitting back once he was certain he wasn't going to do a repeat performance of throwing up. "Yeah, white coat, expensive shoes..." Sam huffed quietly and slid the bed pan back onto the nightstand. His arm moved up to Dean's shoulder pulling his brother close to him. Screw appearances. Sam's lips brushed quickly across Dean's temple and he whispered, "think he'll be right back." "Good, I just want to get this over with," Dean mumbled. "Okay sorry about that, she'll be right in with some water. Now, David is it?" The doctor crossed the room and Dean listened to the rustle of paper as he moved. "My name is Dr. Ward, I'm going to take a look at you, see what we can do to get you seeing again okay? But first take a look at that cut." Dean leaned forward, turning toward Sam and dropping his legs off the side of the bed when the doctor guided him around. His fingers extended, dragging along the denim covering Sam's thigh before hooking in his belt loop. Who cared at this point if the doctor could see, they didn't owe anyone an explanation. "Alright you're going to feel a slight pinch, that's the anaesthetic, then you won't feel the stitches part at all okay?" The doctor informed and tore open a package. "And the best part is these will dissolve so you won't have to come back in to get them removed. Ready?" Dean tugged gently on Sam's belt loop, pulling him closer. "Yeah. I'm ready." He flinched slightly at the pinch before the doctor withdrew the needle. Sam stepped a little closer and Dean sucked in a quick breath to gather his scent, seeking the comfort from familiarity. "Okay," the doctor cleared his throat sometime later, pushing back from the bed, "why don't you go ahead and lay back and we'll take a look at your eyes. It says you fell off the roof, did you hit your head?" "Yeah, pretty damn hard," Dean murmured as Sam helped him turn back in the bed. He was getting sleepy, the pain medicine working its way through him. "This will clear up right? I mean, it's just a temporary thing." "Well, depends on what it is," the doctor said softly and Dean felt fingers on his cheeks, lifting his eye lids. "We're going to need to run a few tests. I'll put the order in for them right away and hopefully we can give you a better idea what we're dealing with here. Until then, why don't you just try and get some rest." A large hand clamped down on his shoulder for a moment before he turned away and a moment later Dean heard the curtain draw back. "Well that was all sorts of helpful," Dean muttered and turned toward Sam, reaching out for him. "Dean..." Sam chastised gently but he knew his brother, he was worried. Glancing around nervously Sam worried his bottom lip then leaned back on the bed and pulled Dean into his arms. "They need to do tests," he whispered against his brother's temple, "you know that." Sam's wide hand cupped his brother's injured skull, fingers framing the wound as his thumb rubbed gently at Dean's neck. Sam started rocking slightly, unconsciously trying to soothe his brother. "Yeah I know," Dean nodded and sighed softly, settling back on the bed. Part 02 Master Post is here

Entry tags: "a thousand touches", "a thousand whispers", "brie and char", rating: nc-17 A Thousand Whispers, 03/04, [NC-17], Sam/Dean Title: A Thousand Whispers 03/04 Authors: Charlotte and Miss. Brie Pairing: Sam/Dean Rating/Warnings: NC-17, Disclaimer: Kripke's boys, not ours, even if we want them to be. Summary: Sam and Dean from "A Thousand Touches" are back in this sequel. Time has passed, the boys are still hunting together and growing impossibly closer. An accident changes things for both of them bringing about challenges and feelings they'd never thought they'd face. Over the course of their time waiting for the dad, Dean learned more things about himself that he'd never known he didn't know. Like the occasional feeling of helplessness when Sam went out to get dinner after they'd woken from their... research... and Dean had decided to take a shower. It hadn't been that hard to figure things out but the moment he stepped from the shower and into the motel room he could feel that anxiety creeping in on him. Suddenly it was like he didn't know where the bed was, or the table, or even his duffel bag. So he stood against the wall and pulled in shaky deep breaths until Sam returned. His brother didn't mention it, simply provided him with boxers and led him to the table to eat, but he could tell it shook him. Sam was about as accustomed to seeing Dean helpless as Dean was to feeling that way. Sam was wise enough to bring home pizza so Dean began to sink back into something he could handle. And they passed the night together on the bed, more research, to heighten Dean's senses. It made the ground beneath him feel more solid and Dean could tell it soothed his brother just as much. The next day they didn't venture out, or Dean didn't, Sam went to get food and Dean stayed planted in bed. It just seemed safer. They received a call from their dad when he was an hour out and took a quick shower before Sam threw open the windows to air out the room. There was some smells that all men knew, sex was definitely one of them and both boys tried their best to spare their father in all situations involving them as a couple. This was around the time Dean learned that he was actually excited to see his dad. Well, not actually see, but there was a certain level of comfort to be gained from the older man's presence. In front of him Dean might not feel so guilty to let his need to be reassured show. He hated that Sam had to carry so much of this burden on his shoulders alone and he tried his best to stay positive but every time his eyes opened to darkness it was like a weight sinking in his gut. Sam went to wait outside for their dad minutes before his estimated arrival time and Dean sat on the edge of the bed. He knew his dad didn't need Sam to wait for him but he accepted that his brother needed some time to let the heavy weight of their situation lift. Sam was likely just as excited to see their dad as Dean was. Relief washed over Sam when his Father's truck pulled into the parking lot. He pushed up from the wall he was sitting on and stood by the truck waiting. John turned off the truck and pushed the door open, smiling warmly at Sam. "Sam, how's everything?" Drawing in a deep breath Sam stepped closer and grabbed his Dad in a hug. The smell of his Dad's jacket reminded Sam of when he was a kid, sleeping in the back seat of the car and the jacket would fly through the air and settle over Sam's small body. "Dean's scared... Dad...." he said, closing his eyes. "Figured as much," John's voice rumbled against Sam's chest, "let's go see him." Sam pulled back, smiling as his father squeezed his shoulder and led him to the room. Pushing the door open, Sam let his Dad walk through first, "Dean?" John strode over to his oldest son, dropping his bag by the desk on the way, "Dean..." It was obvious to Sam that their Father didn't know what to say to Dean, but Sam also knew it wouldn't matter. It wasn't lost on Dean that his father had dropped everything to drive for two days just to be here. Pushing off the bed Dean turned toward the door and his family, swallowing thickly before crossing the room only slightly shaky. His dad's scent was strong, familiar, and Dean reached out toward it until he was brushing against the warm leather of his coat. Dean sighed heavily for a moment before stepping in and wrapping his arms around his dad, hugging him like he hadn't since... well Dean couldn't even think of the last time he'd hugged the man with such force. It had to be a good dozen years, maybe more. "Dad," he said softly, tightening his hold almost unconsciously. Sam's throat tightened a little watching the two older Winchesters. He'd never pushed Dean to reconcile with their father, and their relationship had been slow to improve. Sam rubbed at his forehead, smiled and settled into the chair by the window. "S'okay Dean," John held onto Dean tightly, staggering back slightly when Dean had launched at him. "We're gonna get this all worked out," John's voice was deeper than usual and he glanced up at Sam with watery eyes over Dean's shoulder. "I-I know," Dean nodded and held onto his dad for a moment longer before stepping back, keeping a hand on the man's arm to hold himself steady. He turned his head to the side, seeking his brother and sighing softly at the impossibility of pinpointing him in the darkness. "So what now? You gotta be tired, wanna rest for awhile? Get some food?" Dean hesitated a moment longer before dropping his hand and half stepping back, wondering if he'd over pushed his limits with his dad and their lack of closeness. "I could eat a horse," John smiled and slung his arm back around Dean's shoulder, "but, I'll settle for a good cheeseburger and fries." He winked at Sam and squeezed Dean's shoulder once more before letting go. "Bathroom - then you boys wanna take your old man out?" As soon as the bathroom door closed behind John, Sam was across the room and at Dean's side. "You'll be okay now?" He knew that Dean needed their father there and tried not to be a little sad that he wasn't able to do everything... Sam reached out with his fingers and hooked them gently through Dean's. "I was okay before," Dean said softly and stepped into his brother, hand finding the groove of his hip. "Just seems like I'll be fixed now. But I couldn't have made it through this without you, you know?" He smiled softly and leaned forward to rest his face along Sam's, brushing a kiss to his skin. "You okay?" He asked quietly; hand on Sam's hip tightening. Sam could barely swallow; the lump in his throat was huge. "Is it okay, now... if I tell you I'm terrified?" Sam threw his arms around Dean's neck and clung to his brother like his life depended on it. Squeezing his eyes shut he just breathed slowly, concentrating on the way Dean's hands moved on his back. Dean had kind of always known Sam felt this way but his heart ached at hearing it put into words. He wrapped his arms tighter around Sam and dropped his head to bury in his neck. God it shouldn't be like this. Dean should be there to comfort Sam, should never be the thing that makes him terrified. It was almost enough to have him considering stopping this nonsense. Stop hunting. Stop putting their lives at risk. Dean had no idea what he'd do outside of it but anything would be better then hurting Sam like this, in anyway. "It's okay Sammy," he said softly, turning his head to press a kiss into Sam's neck. "It's all gonna be better soon." John cleared his throat as he came out of the bathroom, "Okay, break it up, let's go feed me before I pass out." John chuckled nervously and walked toward the door. "Sam...you drive - let's take the Impala, it's been a while." He grinned. Chuckling softly Dean slid back from his brother, catching his shirt to hold him steady. "You're riding in back dad," Dean informed him with a smirk. "Don't think you've ever had the privilege." He couldn't help laughing at the change, and the oddity of it all. He'd never imagined a time when all three of them would ride in the Impala together again. "Oh come on... Sammy'll let me drive," John nudged Sam's shoulder with his fist. "No way," Sam said, nose wrinkling as he tried not to laugh. They filed out the door, John first, checking out his car to see how the boys were treating her. Sam threaded his fingers through Dean's and tugged him out the door and over to the driver's side to make sure he could get in before their father stole the prime seat. There was a lot of laughter in the car as they pulled out of the parking lot. It seemed lots of things had changed for all of them in the time since they'd last met up. Gloria was, in fact, John's girlfriend. Sam teased him for a while. Sam with his elephant-like memory had not forgotten than John made a point of telling them before that he wasn't interested in a relationship. Over burgers and fries, John filled his sons in on what they'd managed to work out. Gloria had spent two days on the phone with John's work insurance company and managed to find out all the right information for getting Dean registered with them. Approval for Dean's surgery had arrived just before John had made it to the Motel. Sam and Dean looked noticeably relieved when John passed on the good news. One difficult hurdle was now behind them. Sam remained silent for most of the lunch. It was nice for him to be able to rest his voice, settled back into his role as observer. Fingers curled over Dean's thigh Sam munched away on his burger as his brother filled his Dad in on the Ghoul hunt. Their Dad was gracious, telling Dean that they'd handled it well and it could have happened to anyone. Sam choked on a French fry when their father added that it was a good thing Dean had Sam to keep an eye on his ass. Eyes wide, Sam grinned rather than commenting. Soon, they were on their way back to the Motel, their father driving and Sam in the backseat. Naturally, he made good use of his vantage point to hang over the front seat and let his arms rest over Dean's shoulders. The more time they'd spent together - the more their father had relaxed and the happier Dean looked. Grinning like a Cheshire cat Sam all but bounced out of the car once they were back at the room. It had been a long time since they'd been a family. Dean stood just outside the car, smiling at the feel of his brother's hand around his arm. He turned toward him slightly, dipping down to pressed a small kiss to his neck - which ended up being more along his jaw - before stepping back. "Can you give dad and me a moment to talk about some stuff?" He asked softly, already knowing his brother wouldn't be overly thrilled with the idea. "I just... I'll talk to you about it later when it's just us okay? I need to sort through things first." He tried to smile reassuringly, wishing he could see the look on his brother's face. Pressing his lips together, Sam scratched at the side of his nose. There were a lot of ways a conversation between their father and Dean could go. More often than not Sam found himself stepping in, but, this seemed different. "Okay," Sam shifted back a little, "I can ..." he looked around, "walk?" "Not far," Dean murmured and rubbed along the back of his neck. "Be safe," he smiled softly and reached out for his brother. Squeezing Dean's hand Sam took a few steps back, waited until their father was standing with his brother and turned to walk off. It was always a strange feeling, leaving Dean's side. Jamming his hands into his jacket pockets Sam dropped his head and walked off down the street. "Sam okay?" John watched his youngest leaving, his tall frame bowed slightly against the wind. "He's scared, understandably," Dean shrugged and turned his head toward his dad. "I guess... I've always been the one looking after him. Now I can't even see. Can't do much as far as looking after him. So... it's an adjustment," he sighed and wet his lips, feeling uncomfortable just by admitting those things aloud. "It's making me rethink things." John took his sons arm and led him toward the Motel room, "rethink things?" "This life," Dean shrugged and trailed along behind his dad. "I mean, I've always known that something could happen but this just makes it so much more real. If something more serious were to happen to me... Sam would be... or if anything happened to him I couldn't live..." Dean blew out a long breath and shook his head, not able to form the words but knowing his dad would get them. "I guess that's what you were always trying to tell me huh?" John's voice was soft when he spoke, unlocking the door to their room and stepping in. "You boys are good at what you do. I can't ..." He shook his head, "I can't say that I completely understand the way..." he sighed. A few moments of silence passed and John sat down in the chair by the window as soon as Dean had his bearings. "I can't say that I've always understood the connection between you two, but it seems like ... you're right. I can't imagine one without the other sometimes." "No, I'm not saying... I can't give Sam up. That's not even close to what I'm thinking about," Dean dragged his teeth along his lower lip and shrugged once more. "I don't know. It's probably just this lack of eyesight thing. Makes me wonder if this is really the best life for us. I'm sure we'll be fine, once I can see again. I just think sometimes Sam wouldn't mind living a normal life. Like you, getting out of the biz." Dean moved slowly across the room until his legs bumped into the chair, curling his fingers around it to pull out and drop down. "Sometimes I think I wouldn't mind it." "Sometimes," John shrugged out of his jacket and let it fall behind him onto the chair, "and the rest of the time? It's the rest of the time that's the problem, Son." "Yeah, I guess you're right," Dean leaned forward against the table. "Suppose it's just something I'll have to talk to Sam about it. I didn't expect you..." Dean shook his head and pursed his lips. Dean had known for years that there was hardly ever an easy answer for things, no quick solution, but it didn't stop him from holding out some childish hope that their dad would have some quick fix it solution to make everything better. He did what he could and Dean was grateful for that, it had to be enough to keep him going. "Dean?" John shifted in his chair, watching his son's face. "When are you ... what makes you the happiest? What times? What are you doing? I mean..." He looked down, "for the longest times I only wanted to hunt because I couldn't be with your... with Mary. She was the one thing for me and when she was gone ..." He sat back hard in the chair, "and now, all these years later, I want to be at home... my home, working with my hands, hearing Gloria call to me from the front porch when she's made some coffee." He rubbed the back of his neck nervously, "you just gotta figure out what those moments are...." "That's easy," Dean smiled softly, "whenever I'm with Sam. That's when I'm happiest." He fell into silence for a few moments before turning toward his dad. "Guess it doesn't really matter what we're doing. Though I'll admit to liking some moments more than others. So what do we do? Keep hunting? Taking the risks?" Dean shrugged wondering if he was asking his dad to tell him to stop hunting or insist that he continue for the good of mankind. Either way, it felt oddly nice to have someone to help pick his brain without feeling like he was loading too much on Sam's shoulders. Laughing softly John arched his eyebrows, "only you two can answer those questions. Does Sam know what you think? What does he think?" He pushed up off the chair and moved over to the small fridge, pleased to find some beer when he opened the door. Grabbing two John returned to the chair and slid one of them on to the table in front of his son, "beer." "Thanks," Dean reached out for it and twisted the cap. "We haven't really discussed this. I didn't want to just spout all this stuff at him without having some grasp on it. I think we both know I can be a little impulsive sometimes. Which is why I'm in this position anyway," Dean pulled long from the bottle before settling back on the table. "This must... god I must be sounding insane huh? It's weird, spending all this time in darkness. It makes you think strange things." "It's gonna be okay ... and you know Dean, I think... you need to ..." John closed his eyes for a few moments. "Sam is a man," he shrugged, "I know you know him better than anyone else ... but sometimes, I think you protect him too much. Remember all those times you got so mad at me for treating him like he was different? Maybe ... you need to think about that." "I'm not treating him like he's different," Dean bristled, eyebrows drawing together. "I'm treating him like I love him more than anything else in the world, which I do. And it's not like I'm not going to talk to him about this stuff. I just want to make a little bit of sense when I do." He brought his beer to his lips once more, pulling hard from the bottle. "And, believe it or not, Dean - I'm trying to help. I know how much you love him... I do. I see it - when you're together. But ... you should be talkin' to Sam about this stuff- he doesn't need you to know everything, have all the answers. Your brother has never expected you to be perfect Dean, only you have expected that." John smiled sadly. Dean frowned and rolled his shoulders against the tension, drumming his fingers along the bottle. "Yeah. You're right. I guess I need to accept that Sam doesn't necessarily need me to control things anymore." His lips twitched in a smile and he sighed softly. "So what's the plan? You gonna stick around for the surgery or...?" "You're stuck with me," John laughed, "be the longest we all spent together in a long time." "Yeah," Dean nodded, small chuckle in return. "Should be interesting. I think it'll be good for Sam. He... he gets really happy when we're all together." Dean smiled around his beer bottle before tipping the bottle back to finish off the contents. "Can you see him? He... I guess it doesn't matter if he comes back now." "Sent him off did ya? In case I said something stupid?" John was grinning and took a swig of beer as he pulled the curtain back to peer out. "He's uh ... sitting on the hood of the car looking a bit like a lost puppy." "It was more in case I said something stupid," Dean chuckled and shook his head. "Bring him on in." Pushing up from his chair John yanked the door open, "Sam!!" Sam looked up, hopped off the hood of the car and wandered back over to the room. It felt so strange to be sitting on the other side of the door, a little disconcerting. After all - normally - Dean only spoke to him; Sam wasn't naive enough to think Dean told him everything, in fact, he knew that his brother didn't tell him a lot of things. Sam was still the baby brother, the one who needed protecting. Slipping back into the room Sam shucked off his jacket, "bathroom," he mumbled and headed for the other room, closing the door behind him. Dean sighed softly and rubbed at his forehead, "I think we're gonna need a few minutes. I... he may be a little upset with me." Dean shrugged and nudged at his beer bottle with the tip of his finger. John scratched at the stubble on his face, "gotta get a room, shower and shave anyway... I'll call later? For dinner?" John headed toward the door once more. "Yeah, for dinner," Dean nodded and listened to his dad leaving before pushing up and walking slowly toward the bathroom door. He laid his hand on the wood surface and said softly, "Sammy? You okay?" Dean hated the idea that he'd upset his brother but he'd explain it to him, make it better. Sam pulled the door open, "m'fine, tired..." Sam brushed past Dean, dropping a hand to his shoulder for a moment before kicking his shoes off and sitting on the edge of the bed. "You're upset with me," Dean said softly and turned toward the squeak of the bed, stepping forward slightly. "Sam... I don't... I wasn't trying to shut you out. I wanted to sort some things out in my mind before I loaded them all on you. I guess... I was kind of hoping dad would give me something to go on. Like... insisting we stop hunting or something and... Damnit I hate not being able to see how. How am I supposed to know how you're feeling?" "M'fine, just need sleep," Sam let himself fall down onto the bed. It was new, Dean not being able to tell what he was feeling. Normally, Dean just had to glance at him - said he could tell by the way Sam held his body, how his fingers fidgeted, the emotion in his eyes. He curled on to his side. Lonely. He couldn't understand why but he felt strangely - lonely - his whole life, Sam had used notes, looks, and touches to communicate with Dean and now half of that language was gone. "Right, well then... I'll just let you sleep," Dean said softly and walked slowly across the room. That nagging feeling that had been growing in him since this whole thing began was reaching a breaking point. All at once Dean felt like he was losing his brother. Even if he got his eyesight fixed, it would take a good two to three weeks to start seeing clearing and up to a year for him to be back to normal. The damage would be done. Sam and he would never be the same again. Dean blew out a shaky breath and held his hand out until it bumped into the chair once more. "Dean?" Sam's voice was raspy, his throat tired. "Could you, I want... I miss ..." he gave up and flopped his head back down on the mattress groaning. Turning slowly, Dean crossed to the mattress and kicked off his boots. He did get some things, even without seeing Sam's expressions. "Sammy," he whispered, sliding up the bed until he could curve along his brother's body. "I don't wanna lose you," he murmured into Sam's hair. "Lose me?" the shock was more than apparent in Sam's voice, "never..." He shifted, "it's just," he whispered, "I feel ... cut off, like..." he squeezed his eyes shut, frustrated. "Can't talk enough, you can't see... my words... and I ..." Sam buried his face in Dean's shoulder feeling the ever-lurking tears bubble up out of him. "Just miss you... us... and what if..." Sam couldn't even get himself to speak out loud the possibility that something might happen to Dean during the surgery. He knew it was only a slight possibility, but, if the last few days had been any indication of what it would be like to not have Dean... Sam was falling apart inside and all he had to deal with currently was struggling a little harder to communicate. Curling his fingers into Dean's shirt, he let his tears come, "sorry, just tired." "I know," Dean said softly and wrapped his arms tight around Sam. "I miss us... I miss knowing you." Dean sighed shakily and pressed a hard kiss to the side of Sam's head. "We'll be okay. I'm gonna get better and we'll... we can make it through this. I know it. You sleep, I'll be here," he tightened his hold on Sam, stroking a hand through his hair slowly. Sam pressed his eyes closed, not letting go of Dean's shirt. "'kay," he knew their Dad would be back soon but he wasn't going to waste a moment of being like this with Dean, not a moment. Sam and Dean woke from their nap in the late afternoon and enjoyed a long stretch of kisses without exchanging a word. They broke what could have been hours later when John called and Dean smiled softly as Sam pressed the phone into his palm. Dean made plans for them to meet up and get dinner, insisting they go out because it was too depressing to stay inside. John suggested going to a nice place but Dean shook his head. He didn't want to make things harder than they had to be and it was safer to go somewhere he could eat with his hands without an issue. They talked quietly over the meal, Dean insisting Sam say as little as possible. It would be just their luck for Sam to overuse his voice and lose it completely. After they ate they headed back home and Dean and Sam teamed up to play poker against their dad. Sam whispered the cards into his ear and they managed to win a good one hundred dollars before John caved and called in a night, mumbling about being beaten by his sons and needing to call Gloria before bed anyway. Dean couldn't resist teasing the man and how well trained he was. The moment the door was closed Sam held out his hand for his brother. He could hear Sam inhale, preparing himself to speak, but Dean laid his fingers over his lover's lips and backed him slowly to the bed. He spent the rest of the night reassuring Sam in the ways he knew best. Dean didn't need to see to know where to touch his brother to have the best affect on him. As the days passed Sam's fear dripped off of him slowly. Hours passed and he learned that Dean did still know him, knew him maybe better than Sam had even realized. Sam started to wonder if he had ever expressed himself as well as he could have - had he grown up speaking. He'd made it such hard work for Dean to get to him, reach him through the wall of silence. It stayed in his mind as the hours ticked by, and he wondered how he could change things around and make things... better. Having their Father around was good. Good. They hadn't been a family for years and Sam thrived. The three Winchester's spent a lot of time together. John and Sam, although they never spoke of it, came up with things for them all to do that didn't require Dean's sight. It was a challenge. One afternoon the three men gathered in the Motel room and John insisted that Sam blindfold himself while his two sons competed to see who could disassemble a handgun and fit it back together fastest. Dean won. Sam insisted Dean had an unfair advantage because he'd been practicing, fine-tuning his senses. Dean launched across the table with his finely tuned senses and wrestled Sam to the floor. Soon enough the room was filled with laughter and Sam remembered the days of his youth. More than halfway through the week their father turned up at the door at half past six and insisted they were going fishing. Dean was a little less than thrilled with the idea, especially since he and Sam had spent a late night continuing their researching, but Sam was up and ready to go within minutes, seemingly thrilled. Fishing was something Dean didn't have to put much energy into so he let himself be dragged along, especially since the promise of coffee was just a short car ride away. During the day they only shared quiet, occasional conversation but it was more comfortable than anything they had done up to that point. It was as though, finally all the pieces were exactly where they were supposed to be. It got Dean's mind churning. Over a week of no sight and Dean was adjusting. It no longer seemed like such a daunting thing to shower alone - though Sam joined him more often than not, and he would have even if Dean could see - and crossing the room was something he could do at a normal pace. He still had his moments, when things were just a little too much, but the closer they got to the surgery date the more hope he felt. The day before the surgery they spent the morning discussing plans. It would be too much to try and stay at this motel for the two to three weeks after surgery so John insisted they follow him home and stay there for awhile. Dean could practically feel Sam's eyes on him, waiting for an objection, but Dean didn't have one and from the way Sam's leg bumped against his, it pleased his brother. After lunch John excused himself, which had a lot to do with Dean pulling him aside and asking if they could have the rest of the day before the surgery tomorrow. Their dad seemed to understand without needing more information and Dean was pretty damn grateful for that. Nerves were beginning to work their way through his system and when they arrived back at the motel Dean didn't even wait for his brother before heading to the motel door, pressing his fingers into the wood and sighing softly. Of course it was locked and Sam had the key but at least his speed properly conveyed his urgency to be out of the public and alone with his brother. Sam unlocked the door quickly, pushed it open and let Dean walk in. Blinking at the change in the light, Sam started at the hard line of Dean's shoulders. "Almost made it ... y'okay?" "Yes," Dean insisted and walked into the room, toeing off his shoes and kicking them across the room. After a moment he turned toward his brother, listening for his breathing. "No. No Sam I'm really not," he said softly and half stepped forward. "Jesus I'm so fucking scared," the worse came out strained and shaky, and Dean was honestly a little surprised that he'd voiced them at all, but he needed Sam more than he ever had before even if that meant revealing the deep, dark truth. For the briefest moment, Sam was taken aback - Dean ... scared... his whole life he had never heard those words. Maybe things were changing all on their own. Stepping forward quickly Sam pulled Dean into his arms. "Me too, but you know... " Sam whispered against his brothers cheek, "we're... it's gonna be okay... " Sam figured there probably weren't any words that would bring Dean any comfort, after all, there were no certainties. Leaning into his brother's body Dean pulled in a deep lung full of air, preparing himself to continue, "You know I love you right? If... if anything should happen... you're strong. You can handle it. Go with dad, figure some things out. Stop hunting if you want, move on. But I'll always love you. You never forget that okay?" He whispered and leaned forward to rest his face alongside Sam's, breathing deeply to soothe the swell of nerves. "Don't." Sam grasped his brother's shoulders and pushed him back so he could see Dean's face. "Don't. I don't ... I won't even think that. It's... you're mine." Sam's voice broke, "you're mine." He squeezed his eyes shut, listening to his brother struggling to breathe through his anxiety. He couldn't be without Dean. He couldn't. "Okay, okay," Dean swallowed hard and reached out for Sam once more. "I just, it had to be said okay. I won't talk like that again. It's going to be fine and I'll be seeing again in no time, thank god," he forced himself to smile and tugged Sam back to him. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that." "Yeah, you should have ... if it's what you're thinking..." Sam pressed his lips to Dean's forehead; nose tickled by his brother's half spiked hair. "It is going to be okay... if it's not... if something." Sam took a few moments, blinking as he looked down into his brother's sightless eyes. "If something happens to you..." Sam's voice dropped to a whisper, "my heart will be destroyed. I won't want to live... but I will. Dad... I'll stay with Dad... and you need to know that I will never love anyone the way I love you." He let his forehead rest against Dean's. Dean smiled softly and brushed their noses together, "you better not." His hands slid up into twine through Sam's hair. "Luckily, you're not gonna have to worry about that. I'm going to be just fine," Dean knew he was trying to convince both himself and Sam but he expected that was pretty normal for anyone going into surgery. "Do you want to discuss what happens after or would you rather wait until... you know, until we know the surgery went okay." Dean tilted his head forward, brushing his lips along Sam's cheeks. "Hmmm, after..." Sam sighed, "when I get to take care of you? Sponge baths? Lots of snuggling?" He smiled, loving the feel of Dean's smooth lips. Dean chuckled softly and hummed, "sounds very good. Sponge baths and snuggling... and... research?" He asked with a slight smirk, stepping into Sam's warmth and wrapping arms tightly around him. "Research, definitely." Sam slid his hands into Dean's back pockets. "Can I ask you something?" "Duh," Dean laughed softly and dropped his head into the curve of Sam's neck, sucking softly along the flesh. A small noise escaped Sam's lips and he stretched his neck to the side, "do you like it better now? Now I ... speak more?" "Well..." Dean kissed softly along the skin, massaging his fingers in Sam's back. "I like the sound of your voice... and in this situation you didn't have much choice... but you know I'll never pressure you. Whether you want to speak or not..." Dean sucked on Sam's collarbone, hands sliding down to work under his shirt and up along his sides. "But..." Sam licked his lips and shivered slightly, God Dean always knew just how to touch him. "Is it easier f..for you?" Sam's knees dipped as his brother's teeth clamped down on his shoulder. "When I can't see..." Dean mumbled into his flesh and pulled back enough to tug Sam's shirt over his head, tossing it to the side before wrapping his arms low around Sam's back, dipping him back so his lips could slide down his skin. "I... I'll never complain about hearing you talk. But you know I can read you, when I can see, I know you. So I want you to do... is it getting more comfortable for you?" Dean couldn't help grinning against Sam's skin, feeling only slightly guilty that he was distracting from Sam's serious conversation. "Comfortable?" Good luck trying to focus on words when Dean's mouth was everywhere on him. "Mhmmm," he murmured, "c..comfortable." His hands dragged up Dean's back fingers hooking under the bottom of his brother's shirt and dragging it up. "Comfortable..." he mumbled again. Dean grinned against Sam's flesh and backed him in the direction of the bed. "Yes, comfortable," he chuckled and stepped back enough to allow Sam to pull his shirt off his body. "Seems like you're getting there," he said softly and dropped his hands down to Sam's waist line, tracing along the fabric before he worked the button free and slowly dragged the zipper down. "If you decide this talking all the time thing is something you want to do... I won't complain," he chuckled once more and leaned in to run his lips over Sam's chest again, "but I won't complain if you have days when you don't talk too. Okay?" Dean hummed softly and slipped his hands under Sam's boxers and jeans, pressing hard into his hipbones. Eyelids fluttering closed Sam moaned softly, "'kay, but..." Sam swallowed as his fingers slid along Dean's waist to unfasten his jeans, "right now? I would agree to anything." Fumbling with the zipper for a few moments Sam slid his hand down over the bulge in Dean's boxers. It always sent little shock waves through his body, feeling the heat radiating off Dean - how much his brother wanted him. "Sam..." he moaned softly, rolling up into the touch. His fingers shifted up to curl around the material and push down. Dean found that he actually didn't mind being blind in these times. It was just like doing everything in the dark, which wasn't unheard for them. His fingers curled around Sam's hips, pushing him down on the bed as he slid to his knees. Dean dragged his hands down Sam's legs until he felt the jeans at his ankles, pulling them off, slightly relieved that Sam had taken his shoes off sometime when they'd entered. He used his hands as a guide to spread Sam's legs wider, trailing up along smooth flesh until he caressed the soft curls along the base of his cock, heat radiating off Sam strong enough to feel without touching. Dean leaned forward until his head touched Sam's chest, tilting up to kiss along flesh and nudge him back slightly. A small smile worked along his lips as his fingers curled around Sam's hard flesh and stroked up slowly, holding along the top until his lips connected with his flesh. As his mouth opened to slide down over the crown his fingers stroked slowly, guiding his way. Dean moaned softly along the warmth, Sam's familiar taste sparking along his tongue. Sam fell back on one hand, holding himself up as his other hand moved over Dean's cheek and slid back through his brother's hair. Hips moving slowly, circling under his brother's touch Sam leaned back, arching up. "Dean..." Sam sucked hard on his bottom lip, God he always wanted more. There was never enough time, enough touching, enough. His heart was thudding already, shoving his blood through his veins at break-neck speed. Pressing his legs against Dean's shoulders Sam looked back down, watching his brother's lips stretch over the head of his cock. "Fuck..." Dean's lips curved around the hard flesh in his mouth. He always enjoyed hearing how he affected Sam, the catch in his breath, the gasped words. Dean relaxed his jaw and sank lower down over Sam, hollowing his cheeks to apply the right type of pressure that always made Sam react. The skin beneath Dean's free hand burned into his palm as he slid his fingers down, massaging into his lover's balls slowly. Dean pulled back, blew over the wet flesh before dragging his tongue up along the underside and swirling slowly over the crown. "Mm Sam... you always taste so good," he blew out the words over the skin before opening his mouth over Sam once more, sucking a finger alongside the hard flesh to slick the digit before pulling it back and prodding gently down below. Dean moaned once more along Sam's flesh and released his hold on Sam to push down on his chest more, finger below circling around puckered flesh. Sam fell back onto the bed, legs scrambling at the floor, "Jesus Christ Dean..." Sam's fingers curled into Dean's shoulders, his nails digging in as he arched forward to reach him. "Ooh..." maybe it was the nerves, the anticipation of things tomorrow, Dean's words -but Sam was on fire. Every touch of Dean's fingers, lips, body... anything ... and Sam's nerves lit up like a Christmas tree. "More..." he rumbled deep in his chest as he slithered his ass forward, sinking Dean's finger further into him. A low growl worked through Dean chest and he pulled back completely, head lifting, finger slipping out, to curl his fingers around Sam's hips and shove him further up the bed. "Lube," he grunted and shoved down at his jeans and boxers, kicking them off as he crawled up the bed. He crawled up onto the mattress, reaching out to trail his fingers along Sam's legs as his brother shifted back on the bed. Dean covered his body, kissing along his chest and rubbing their hips together. "Need you," he moaned. Sam reached under the pillow and snatched at the bottle of lube, missed, then pulled it out. He swore under his breath, hands clumsy and God he could barely see - his body was on overload... Dean's words shot through him and cranked up his want. Finally managing to stop his hands shaking enough to open the bottle Sam poured some lube in the palm of his hand and stretched his arm down to slide his hand around Dean's cock, covering his brother's hot flesh with the cool liquid. Sam was pretty sure he made a sound that was a whimper but he'd deny it later and then Dean's lips were on his again and he found it hard to care what noises he made. It was a very good thing they found themselves in this position so often because Dean really didn't want to waste time with preparing him. "Fuck Sam I gotta..." he murmured, listening to Sam's quick inhale as he released his hold on his lube slicked flesh. He shifted Sam beneath him, hooking his legs up around his shoulders and lining himself up. Dean's head dropped back with a loud groan as he slid forward into tight heat, sucking in a deep breath. "God... love you..." he moaned, a long shudder coursing down his spine. Sam's breath hitched in his chest as Dean plunged into him. It burned slightly, but Sam's body was used to Dean's - fitted to him perfectly just like they belonged together. Forcing breath into his lungs Sam panted through the slight pain, letting his muscles relax, focusing on the heat of Dean's body. Slipping his hands under his own body, Sam pushed his hips up higher off the bed and drawing Dean deeper. A moment of sadness washed over Sam as he gazed up at Dean's eyes. God he missed that, the way Dean's eyes held his as he fucked down into him. Brow furrowed Sam reached for Dean's neck, "kiss me..." Dean hummed slightly and dropped down to his hands, pulling slightly out of Sam and rocking forward as he rubbed the side of his face along Sam's chest, up to his neck. He continued his gentle rocking thrusts as his lips tilted toward his brother's, brushing along skin before settling over Sam's mouth. Dean sucked in a quick breath through his nose, nostrils flaring as Sam clenched tightly around him. The gentle, shallow pace of his thrusts was a little mind bending but so fucking good Dean felt like he could just keep it up like this forever. There was nothing better than the way Sam's body curved into him, the quick rush of his breath. Dean slipped his tongue forward in gentle strokes to match his slow thrusts. Rocking up into his brother, taking as much as Dean could thrust - Sam's body took over. His skin was tingling and flushed, tongue battling with Dean's. Dean's mouth was wet and hot, each thrust of his tongue sending little shivers down Sam's neck. Curling up off the bed he clung to Dean's shoulders body aching, leg straining as their bodies rocked together. The angle of Dean's cock hit just the right spot deep inside Sam and his body jolted off the mattress. Spine arching he moaned into his brother's mouth then tore his lips away to suck in a long deep breath of air. "Love..." Sam sighed out, the you lost somewhere between breaths. Sucking in another deep breath Dean pushed up enough to quicken his thrusts down into Sam. He grunted heavily as he increased his pace, catching his bottom lip between his teeth. It soothed his mind, calmed her nerves, making everything shift and focus in on just Sam. With a long moan he dipped his head down, driving in deep with the pressure of Sam's legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him down hard. "Sammy..." he murmured, leaning down until his lips grazed flesh, sucking softly. Their bodies touched everywhere Sam needed them to touch, perfectly fitted. Thighs quivering Sam gripped his brother with his legs, hips rolling up each time Dean pounded into him. Rock hard body, rigid cock, God Sam loved this, loved Dean. "Love..." Sam moaned and sucked in a breath, "love when you fuck me...." Dean's cock swept past his prostate again and Sam's spine twisted as his eyelids fluttered closed and heat flared once more in his body. Sliding his hand down his body Sam curled his fingers around the base of his cock and stroked in time with Dean's thrusts. "Harder..." he pleaded softly. The only thing that made being buried in Sam better was when Sam chose to use words like fuck and harder. Dean made a mental note to mention that to Sam when they resumed their 'if he should talk more' conversation before he zeroed in on the task at hand once more. His fingers curled around Sam's flesh as he pulled completely out and slammed down hard enough to shift Sam up the mattress. He repeated the motion immediately, fucking hard into him, body rippling from the shock waves. "Fuck... not gonna..." he moaned out, giving his usual half warning to let Sam know just how close he was too losing control completely. He slammed forcefully down into Sam, headboard bumping up against the wall. Sam planted one hand against the head board the other gripping Dean's neck. Wave after wave of desire washed through Sam's body; Dean's body slammed bruisingly hard into Sam's and he could feel his orgasm bursting through him, radiating out until his cock was pumping out come onto his belly. Nails scrapping down Dean's chest Sam growled out his brother's name as his body jolted and twitched, hips still rolling up into Dean's. Dean came in long, shallow thrusts, barely making a noise as his release rocked through him. A soft, blissful sigh fell from him as he worked through the edges of his orgasm, body shaking slightly. "Mmm," he hummed as he dropped down over Sam's body, burrowing into his neck and panting softly. Dean could feel his heart racing, blood pumping loudly in his ears. His nerves about the surgery still lingered around his system but Sam had definitely calmed him, like he always would. Dean smiled against Sam's flesh and curled his arms into his side. "That was," Sam panted, "l..loved that." He locked his arm around Dean's neck, keeping him close wanting them to stay locked together. He could feel Dean's heart beating, strong and hard against his chest and smiled lazily against his brother's hair. "Love you," he whispered, kissing Dean's ear softly. His free hand slid down Dean's back, damp with sweat and settled on the small of his back. Dean's muscles were still relaxing, Sam could feel them twitching under his palm. Still smiling Dean pressed a kiss to Sam's neck. "Love you too." He sighed softly around the words and imagined the look of post orgasm bliss Sam usually had. God he couldn't wait to see that again. Soon he told himself, squeezing Sam softly before gently withdrawing with only the slightest gasp. Huffing Sam kept hold of his brother, "Stay... for a minute." He just wanted to feel the weight of his brother, Dean's presence. "Please," he whispered, committing to memory how it felt to be covered by his brother's flesh. "God, I love you so much..." Sam moaned and hooked a leg over Dean's so he couldn't roll away. "It almost hurts," he murmured. Dean settled gently back over his brother and buried back into his neck, pulling in deep lung fulls of his familiar scent. "You're my everything..." he mumbled against the skin, not caring how cheesy it made him sound. Dean couldn't imagine a life without Sam, no matter how that life ended up. When it boiled down to it, he'd give up everything - even his car - as long as Sam was by his side. A small smile tugged on his lips as he rose and fell gently with Sam's breathing. "Wow," Sam laughed softly, "everything ... I'm awesome." But he knew that Dean was well aware of how serious Sam was, the weight of the upcoming surgery was still there with them... just further away ... pushed aside for the moment. He lost track of time, feeling his brother's heart, breathing in the scent of them, hands moving over Dean's skin as it cooled. "Okay," he pushed gently on Dean's shoulder, "roll over..." Dean rolled to his back and Sam shifted to the edge of the bed and stood, padded over to the bathroom and returned quickly with a warm damp cloth. Smiling, eyes roaming over Dean's relaxed body Sam leaned down and wiped his brother's chest, stomach, cock and thighs. Maybe he didn't need to, maybe, maybe he just wanted to touch all of him. "Be right back." He slipped back into the bathroom, rinsed the cloth and used it to wipe himself clean. Thoughts of the next day started to creep back into Sam's mind and he hurried back to the bed, crawling over Dean and collapsing beside his brother in an exhausted heap. Instantly, Dean's arms wrapped around Sam, holding him close even as he felt sleep pulling at his senses. They still had some time to kill and Dean wasn't too sure he wanted to sleep. It would only bring the surgery closer. He was glad their dad had stuck around, this way Sam wouldn't be alone during the wait time. There was nothing worse than sitting alone in the waiting room and hoping whatever news came wouldn't be bad. Dean blew out a shaky breath and squeezed Sam softly. "I'm gonna be okay..." he whispered, reassuring himself more than his brother. It reminded Sam of when they were kids, when Sam would wake from a nightmare and slip into bed beside his brother. Dean would pull him close and would whisper to Sam, telling him dreams, fears and wishes. Sam smiled, eyebrows pulling together slightly, "you're going to be fine," he echoed, voice barely audible. "I'll be right with you as long as they let me," he kissed Dean's cheek, his chin, the corner of his mouth, "and I'll be right there when you're all fixed up." "Good," Dean smiled and turned his head enough to catch Sam's lips in a soft kiss. Dean made himself think about seeing again, about how things would be better sooner rather than later. He knew he was strong enough for this, after everything they'd been through. "Nap time," he informed with a soft chuckle, not loosening his grip from Sam's body. "Old man," Sam teased, but his eyes were already closed. part 04 is now here Master Post

Entry tags: a thousand whispers, char and brie, sam/dean, slash [Slash] A Thousand Whispers 02/04 - Sam/Dean Title: A Thousand Whispers 02/04 Authors: Charlotte and Miss. Brie Pairing: Sam/Dean Rating/Warnings: NC-17, Disclaimer: Kripke's boys, not ours, even if we want them to be. Summary: Sam and Dean from "A Thousand Touches" are back in this sequel. Time has passed, the boys are still hunting together and growing impossibly closer. An accident changes things for both of them bringing about challenges and feelings they'd never thought they'd face.</p> Master Post "Mr. McMillan?" A large hand was shaking his shoulder slightly and Dean turned to toward the voice, eyes fluttering for several moments before he remembered that it was no use. "Sorry to wake you but we've gotten your tests results back." Dean straightened slightly, hand going to Sam's head where his brother was asleep against the side of the bed. "Okay so what is it? When will it go away?" Sam stirred in time to hear his brother's voice; his body ached as he sat up and rubbed at his eyes. The Doctor smiled at him politely and Sam's fingers threaded through Dean's. "Well," the doctor sighed softly and Dean felt his shoulders tense. It was never a good thing if the doctor sounded hesitant. "It looks like your retinas have detached, from the force of your head hitting the ground I'm sure. Now this isn't nearly as bad as I'm sure it sounds to you. We can take you into surgery and repair them and you'll get your vision back with time. But like most surgeries you always run a risk going in." Dean felt his heart sink, eyes turning around the room pointlessly. "I... we can't..." He swallowed thickly and rubbed at his forehead. "I need a minute to talk to my brother. Can you just... go away." The doctor was silent for a moment, in which Dean suspected he nodded, before he cleared his throat and said, "of course I'll come back in a few minutes to go over options." When Dean was certain the doctor was gone he shifted toward his brother, "Sam..." he whispered, reaching out with his free hand for him. "What are we going to do?" Watching Dean's hand reach out tentatively for Sam, not knowing where he was nearly busted Sam's heart in half. He grabbed his brother's hand firmly. "I'll fix it," Sam hoped he sounded more certain than he was. "I'll get money." Pressing his lips together firmly, Sam's brow furrowed and he looked down at Dean's still dirty hands. "I can..." Sam swallowed, "hustle pool... or something." "I can panhandle, get a sign or something," Dean huffed and tightened his fingers around Sam's. "How do we get out of here now? I just want to go back to the motel. I don't want to be here anymore. I need..." he swallowed around the panic pulsing through him, tilting his head up toward his brother's voice. "Can we just go?" Blinking a few times Sam shifted on the bed. "Listen to me, Dean." He leaned closer, forehead pressing against Dean's temple, lips grazing his brother's cheek. "This will be okay." Sam swallowed, wincing slightly. "I will go and get the Doctor back and we'll listen to options." Sam's voice faded to barely above a whisper, "it will be okay... s'my turn to take care of you okay?" He brushed his lips along Dean's cheek squeezing his eyes shut. "Took care of me my whole life." "I..." Dean sighed and forced himself to nod. He wanted to just go but he supposed it made sense to listen to what the doctor had to say as far as options. They needed to have some idea of how much the surgery cost anyway."But we'll leave after we talk to him right?" Shaking his head and huffing out a small laugh, Sam kissed the corner of Dean's mouth. "If we can, yeah." He slipped off the bed and disappeared through the curtain returning moments later with the doctor then quickly returned to his spot at Dean's side. He didn't like the way Dean looked when he was sitting there alone on the bed. Didn't like it at all. "Okay Mr. McMillan have you thought a little more about the surgery?" Dr. Ward asked as he settled onto the chair beside Dean's bed. "It's about a two, three hour procedure. You'll have bandages over your eyes for a few days after then within a couple of weeks things should start to go back to normal. Though it could take up to a year for things to be one hundred percent okay? So if that all sounds okay we can get you set up and you'll be on your way home by the end of the day." Dean would have stared wide eyed at the doctor if he could have. Talk about mind overload. "We can't afford that. Our insurance doesn't cover big procedures like that." "Oh, I see," the doctor hummed in thought before falling silent. "Schedule the surgery," Sam said quietly, "I can get this sorted out by then." Sam took a deep breath and smiled at the doctor. God, how could Dean even suggest that they not do this. Sitting up a little straighter Sam glanced at Dean's face then back at the doctor, "can I take him home? Phone me?" "Well," the doctor said hesitant and Dean's heart clenched slightly, terrified the man would suggest Dean continue to stay until the surgery. "I can schedule the surgery for next week right now or you could call and make an appointment for later. Let me go and get the check out sheets, the nurse will be in to take out the IV and give you a prescription for pain meds. If you have any questions you can give me a call any time." Dean listened to the doctor moving and turned slightly toward Sam, pursing his lips. "Where are my clothes?" Sam was getting frustrated, "just a sec." He moved quickly, rubbing at his throat as he moved across the room to retrieve his brother's clothes. Untying the gown Sam whispered, "get dressed I'll be back. Leave shirt for IV...for nurse" Without waiting for Dean to speak Sam slipped through the curtain to catch the Doctor before he moved away and asked him to schedule the surgery and call his cell with the information. Following a nurse back into the room he watched as Dean sat impatiently, waiting to get then IV site bandaged. "Thanks," he murmured in the nurse's general direction as he held out Dean's shirt. "Shirt... arms..." he whispered. Holding up his arms Dean let his brother slide the material on, sighing softly as he pushed up off the bed. He just wanted to be out of the hospital now, just wanted to curl against Sam's side on the bed and go to sleep. Then maybe he'd wake up and this whole thing would be just some horrible nightmare. "How long did you give us to get the money?" He asked softly, reaching out to graze his fingers along Sam's side. Sighing Sam tugged Dean's t-shirt all the way down and reached back for his brother's jacket. "Almost two weeks," it was a slight exaggeration. It was closer to one week than two but Sam didn't want to worry about that. There was simply no alternative and Sam seriously started to consider the possibility he would lose it. Helping Dean into his jacket he smoothed his brother's hair back from his forehead and whispered, "let's go." Sam moved them through the curtain and stopped briefly at the nurse's station to pick up the prescription then tugged Dean close against his side and they passed once more through the sliding door out into the night air. Dean tried not to cling to Sam too hard as they moved to the car. He knew his brother had to be worried, probably exhausted from the weight of it all. "Sam, are you okay?" He asked softly as they stopped the car, Dean leaning against the cool metal of his car as Sam unlocked the door. Feeling tears prickling in his eyes Sam shook his head silently as he reached up to stroke his brother's cheek. If anything happened to Dean.... "M'fine," he murmured and opened the door for his brother. "get in..." Clearing his throat Sam swiped at a tear on his cheek and helped Dean into the passenger seat. He walked slowly around to the driver's side of the car, taking a few extra moments to pull himself together before slipping behind the wheel. "Drugstore? Then motel?" "I'm not in pain, we can just go to the motel," Dean insisted and slid across the seat and rest against his brother's side. It seemed to be taking all his remaining energy to not break down completely. He tried to tell himself that they'd figure this out, they'd find a way to pay for it and he'd be okay. He had to be. "You know Sam, maybe... maybe we should call dad. Maybe he'll have... some advice or something," he said softly, reaching out to touch his arm. His fingers settled on Sam's thigh instead but it worked just as well. Sam was surprised at the relief he felt at Dean's suggestion. "Maybe," he said, "he'd want to know." His fingers threaded through Dean's. They drove in silence for a while, lost in thought, Sam resting his aching throat. By the time they pulled up at the Motel Sam felt like he'd been awake for days. "Okay... let's go." Pushing his door open he hauled himself around the car to find Dean already half way out. Taking his brother's hand he led him over to the door and unlocked it, guiding Dean inside. "Shower or - want me to wash you up." Sam's shoulders sagged a little and he rubbed at his eyes. "I... I'll shower," Dean insisted and took a few steps into the room, toeing off his shoes and kicking them across the room. Dean couldn't resist blinking a few times, leaning forward as if his sight would magically return. He rubbed his palm hard into his eye, taking a few little steps toward the bathroom. He had to show Sam he could do this, he was still the older brother, still in control of himself. "You should drink some water, don't talk for awhile, rest up." Sam's heart clenched as he watched Dean and he reached out, "Dean, can I ... come with? Need you..." he murmured. That wasn't a lie, or an exaggeration. Stepping closer he slid his hands under his brother's jacket and pressed up close against his chest. "Yeah," Dean nodded and wet his lips, needing that more than he would admit out loud. His heart felt so heavy, too much for him to handle. He allowed Sam to pull his coat off before turning to him, laying a hand on Sam's chest and sliding up until he could curl his fingers around his brother's neck. "Sammy..." he murmured, blowing out a nervous breathe as he stepped into the familiar heat. "I'm sorry... I wish... god Sam..." "S'gonna be okay," Sam murmured even as he pressed his lips to Dean's. His brother smelled like the hospital and Sam hated it, wanted that scent off him. Sam's hands moved frantically against his brother's jeans, tugging on the button and zipper as he sucked Dean's bottom lip. Pushing his brother's jeans down over his hips Sam tugged, starting them moving toward the bathroom. "Dean..." Sam fought back tears again, he just wanted to make everything right, fix Dean. "I know," Dean dragged his hands hard along Sam's body, working at the fabric until he could pull Sam's shirt off. He listened to his brother's quiet movements, the soft inhale, the swoosh of fabric as he dropped the shirt to the ground. A moment later he could feel the cool tile of the bathroom under his feet, hand reaching out to touch the wall and steady himself so Sam could turn on the shower. He sighed softly and pushed off his jeans and boxers, kicking them to the side. Sam wrenched the taps open and started a flood of hot water. Standing he shrugged out of his jeans and slipped his fingers back in Dean's hand, tugging him toward the shower. "Here," he said as he stepped under the downpour of water. Dipping his head back into the hard spray, Sam felt his shoulders relax. "M'bruised up..." he mumbled as he leaned forward again, checking out his arms. Snatching the soap out of the soap dish he lathered it up in his hands and started rubbing Dean's shoulders and chest. "Oh," Dean murmured and trailed his fingers along Sam's skin. "I'm sorry I didn't even ask how you are, shit," he sighed softly and dragged his hand through the soap on his body, reaching out to rub along his brother's chest. He would always know the familiar lines and curves of his brother's body and here he could close his eyes and pretend like he was simply enjoying the moment. It was easier to force himself not to think about the darkness, someone had to be the stronger of the two of them and Dean felt like those lines were blurring together. "No, m'fine just bruised." Sam slid in front of Dean, bodies gliding together. "Keep cut out of water." Sam's fingers moved over Dean's face washing away what was left of the creature's blood. He couldn't stop his mind from going to all the darker places in his head. What happened if Sam couldn't find the money? What if something went wrong with the surgery and Dean's vision didn't come back completely ... or worse? Brow furrowed, Sam moved slick with soap into Dean's arms and buried his face in his brother's neck. "Throat aches," he mumbled before locking his mouth onto his brother's damp skin. "I know, you don't have to talk anymore," Dean insisted, head dipping back as his body pressed forward into Sam's. "I know you're here with me. I don't need the words," he whispered and wrapped his arms around Sam's body, clinging to him. He backed Sam up slightly so they both could feel the spray of the water. Dean had no idea how things would work with Sam and him if he could never see again. It was basically going to force Sam to talk and Dean had spent his whole life not forcing Sam. "God this sucks," he murmured and tightened his arms around Sam. Eye lids fluttering closed Sam nodded against Dean's neck. He didn't want to speak again just because he was too upset to even come up with the right things to say. Part of him couldn't help hoping that they would go to bed and when Dean opened his eyes in the morning - everything would be fine, back to normal. If Sam had just moved a little faster on the hunt, argued harder with Dean about how his older brother always took the more dangerous tasks. "M'sorry..." "Don't be, it's not your fault and you know it," Dean reasoned and tightened his arms around Sam. In fact Dean was pretty certain Sam had to know it was really all Dean's fault. Too head strong, too over confident. If Dean hadn't just assumed that taking down the Ghoul would be a piece of cake than he wouldn't even be in this place. They lingered in the shower until the water grew less hot and more lukewarm and Dean slid back. "C'mon, I'm exhausted and I know you are too." He hesitated inside the shower, surprised by how scared he felt to even take a step forward. But Sam was there, reassuring and leading him out of the shower, pressing a towel to his chest. Dean didn't know what time it was but knew for sure it was late at night and definitely too late to call their dad. That was a good thing because even though Dean had suggested the idea he wasn't exactly eager to go through with it. He would, if only because this was one of those times they really did need help and if Dean was completely honest with himself, he needed his dad right now. Sam guided him over to the bed and Dean backed up until his calves touched the mattress, slowly dropping down. He couldn't believe that just hours ago they'd been sitting in the room trying to find where the Ghouls were. Dean felt like he'd been in darkness for days, weeks, like someone had blindfolded him and was offering him everything if he could just see. Sam rubbed at Dean's hair gently with the towel, making sure he stayed far away from the bandages then stood there staring down at his brother's strained expression. "You need anything?" His fingers moved to a faint bruise on Dean's cheek. "Just you," Dean whispered and sighed shakily, sliding back on the bed with a hand extended so he knew where the mattress ended. Once he was settled under the blankets he rolled toward where his brother had last been, holding out a hand for him. Dean could feel his strength wavering, could feel the weight of everything beginning to press down into him, and he was certain his hand was shaking. "Sammy?" He breathed, wetting his lips nervously. "Right here," Sam's lips were a thin line, his eyes squeezed shut for a moment then he grabbed his brother's hand and sank into the bed. They fit together easily, automatically knowing where to put arms and legs only this time Sam curved his hands gently around Dean's head and brought it to his chest so he could hear Sam's heart beat. His arms tightened around Dean's shoulders as his mouth brushed his brother's damp hair, "love you." "Love you too," Dean mumbled into Sam's chest and inhaled deeply. They could do this, they could make it work and Dean had to cling to that. "Night," he mumbled once more and squeezed his eyes closed, even if it didn't really matter in the long run whether his eyes were open or closed. It was hard to accept even as the thought filtered across his mind. It was dark when Dean woke and it took him several minutes to realize it would continue to be dark no matter how many times he opened and closed his eyes. Sam's chest moved beneath his head, slowly up and down, and Dean listened to the gentle inhale then exhale. There was the slightest wheeze that Dean had never noticed before. Laying there on Sam was warm and comforting and Dean considered closing his eyes and willing away consciousness. But there was that pressing need to empty his bladder so he slid back pushing slowly along the mattress until his feet dropped over the edge and landed on slightly stiff carpet. Dean swallowed thickly and curved his fingers along the mattress edge, breathing deeply. I can do this. It took more strength then Dean anticipated to push up off the bed and take a step away from the bed. His hands extended automatically, searching for purchase in thin air. Dean moved forward, one foot in front of another, slowly. It shouldn't have been a scary thing, the room was basic and so very like all the other ones they seemed to be blurring together in his mind. Was there a table there? Was the bathroom further down the wall or closer? A slow sigh fell from his lips as his fingers finally connected with the cool wall, spreading out and gaining comfort from something solid. Without something to hold onto he felt a little like he was floating in clouds, set adrift to find his own way. Dean slid his hand over the surface until the tips of his fingers brushed along hard wood, the door frame of the bathroom. He practically rolled into the room, hand lingering over the door, sliding down to curl around the knob as he closed it quietly to keep from waking his brother. Peeing was something he didn't ever consider difficult. Turned out doing it blind definitely wasn't easy. Mostly it was made of awkward moments, trying to guide himself to a place he couldn't even see. Dean was fairly certain there were some things about this blind thing that were going to be much worse than others. After he flushed and slid over to the sink, Dean stared at the place he knew the mirror was. "Holy fuck," he whispered, heart clenching tightly. Dean wondered if his face was bruised, if his skin was paler than usual like it sometimes was at night or if the imprint of Sam's chest still lingered on his cheek. His hands lifted slowly to his hair, smoothing over hair that had still been wet when he went to sleep. If this were any other day he'd be brushing his teeth, his hair, styling it casually. Now Dean didn't even know where those things were, in his bag he supposed and he knew he could go find them but how could he style his hair without seeing it? How did he put toothpaste on his toothbrush without making a mess? What if he'd missed the toilet when he peed? The cool liquid of a tear dragged down his cheek and Dean dropped his hand from his hair to his cheek, touching the liquid slowly. Cruel irony that he could still cry though he could no longer see. Dean thought if his eyes were going to be useless for sight then they might as well be completely useless. His hand fumbled in thin air for a few moments before connecting with the faucet, turning slowly. He let his hands soak under the spray before bringing a cup full up to swirl around his mouth, to splash across his face to hide the steady flow of tears that didn't seem to want to stop. A few moments later he was slowly pulling the door open once more, heart sinking unpleasantly again. He took a small step into the room, toward where he thought the bed was. There was a strange mixture of fear and unease curling in him. It was just a walk across the room and he'd done it minutes before but letting go of the wall took actual force. Dean bent over slightly, arms extending low and out in front of him. God he hoped Sam was still asleep, he had to look like an idiot, and he could feel the heat rising along his still damp face. It only took a few steps to feel the soft curve of bed sheets but Dean sighed in relief, turning to drop down onto his ass on the mattress. This was going to be hell. Sam had watched his brother struggle across the room, silent, knowing that Dean had to do some of these things even if it pained Sam to watch. Dean needed to know that he could do things, take care of himself. It was probably the most terrifying thing that Dean had ever been through - he was the protector, the keeper. Sitting up Sam slid his arms under Dean's and clasped them across his chest. It had been a long time since he'd seen his brother cry and it hurt, stabbing pains in his chest because he knew there was very little he could do to make any of this shitty situation any better. He propped his chin on Dean's shoulder and kissed the warm skin below his ear. "Gonna be okay...." his voice was barely there, strained from the day before and strangled by emotion. Dean sucked in a shaky breath and nodded, leaning back into Sam's chest. He should have figured his brother was awake, far too accustomed to being silent. "I know," he whispered and laid his hands over Sam's on his chest. "What time is it?" He asked quietly, not wanting to dwell on this any longer than he had too. They needed to get on with things, make a plan, call their dad, make everything better. Sam glanced over his shoulder, "Eight... why?" He tilted his head, trying to see Dean's expression. "Figured we gotta figure things out, call Dad. Eight here? So nine there. He'll be up. I... I think he might help. And you can get online, find out how much the surgery is going to cost so we know..." Dean found comfort in laying out a plan, sorting out things they could do. It was almost like a hunt, just one much more personal. "Want your phone?" Sam shifted on the bed crawling to the other side, catching the edge of Dean's jacket and tugging it off the chair. Searching through the pockets he found his brother's phone and pulled it out. He was holding it out for Dean when he realized that his brother couldn't see it nor would he be able to call up the number. Fuck, frozen for a few moments Sam moved through the contacts on his brother's phone. "You ready?" He spoke softly fighting back the swell of emotion, "to phone I mean." He dropped his eyes - staring at the phone. "Uh... ready as I'll ever be," Dean shrugged and held out his palm for the phone. God he felt so lame that he couldn't even make a phone call by himself. Couldn't pick out his own clothes. Couldn't drive his car. Dean sucked in a quick breath and shook his head slightly, they needed to fix this. Now. Sam pressed the cell phone into his brother's palm. "Just hit the midd... well, you know..." Sam moved up close to Dean's back again lying against him. Dean pulled in another steadying breath before sliding his fingers over the buttons, pressing the right one and bringing the device to his ear. He'd spoken with his dad once since they left his house a few months ago and even then it had been just a brief thing, just to check in and let him know they were okay. Dean felt just a little guilty that he was calling now in need of help, not just to say hello. "Yup," John cleared his throat and sat down hard on the kitchen chair. "Hey dad," Dean tried to keep his voice steady though he figured he probably failed at that. Sighing softly he leaned into Sam's warmth and rubbed at his forehead. "It's Dean. Obviously. How's it going?" "Goin' well, Son, you boys okay? Haven't heard from ya in a while." John sank back into the sofa and blinked in the early morning light "Well..." Dean cleared his throat and dropped his hand to lie across Sam's leg, curling softly. "We were on a hunt last night, couple of Ghouls. And I... I kind of got thrown across the place, no big deal, I'm okay obviously. Well mostly okay. I... I can't see." Dean clenched his jaw, letting his dad take in that information before adding anything more. John was silent for a few moments then sat up, leaning forward to lean his arms on his thighs. "As in... blind? Can't see?" He closed his eyes, pressing them with his thumb and forefinger. "Sam okay?" "Sam's okay," Dean swallowed and released his tight hold on his brother's thigh. "You wanna say hi to him? He's right here." If Dean were a different person he might have sounded a little bitter with that question, instead it was understanding. He knew it would have been the first thing on his mind, properly assess the situation then tackle the big problem. "Nope, that can wait, you bin to the hospital? What did the Doctor say?" John let his head fall back and stared up at the ceiling with a frown on his face. "Went last night after... got some stitches and took some tests. He called it retinal detachment. He said there's a surgery, should fix things. We just... the insurance.... it's not something we ever anticipated on you know?" Dean sighed and knew that his father would put it together. They were asking for help, something Dean hadn't done for years, long before he took Sam away. "Okay Dean, you listen son. I'm pretty sure if I know Sam - you've already got an appointment for the surgery. That kid never admits defeat." He shook his head, a slight smile passing across his face, "I've got some insurance at my job and a fair amount of money saved up. Did Sammy make you an appointment?" "Yes," Dean couldn't help smiling as he leaned even harder against his brother, turning his head to lie on his shoulder. "He said its a little less than two weeks away. Do you... should we come up there?" John pushed up off the couch, "You boys stay there, keep that appointment and I'll drive down. Gloria will sort out the work insurance for us. Where you at? What's the hospital?" He moved down the hallway to the bedroom and pulled his duffel bag out of the closet. "We're in Surprise, Arizona. Banner Boswell is the hospital," Dean rubbed at his forward once more and wet his lips. "Thanks dad. I... just... thanks. You'll call when you're close? Still wanna talk to Sam?" "I'll be there in ... well, sometime tomorrow and yeah, I'll say hi to Sam. Don't worry Dean..." "Hard not to," Dean muttered before pulling the phone back and offering it to Sam. He didn't want his dad to hear how scared and unsure he was, in case he didn't already realize that this was the most terrifying thing Dean had ever experienced. Well except for that time a few months ago when he thought he might have lost Sam forever but they were too different to properly compare. "He wants to say hi," he informed his brother, offering the phone to thin air. Sam took the phone and held it up to his ear, "Hi," he said softly. John was already zipping up his bag. "On my way Sam. You know what your brother's like - don't let him... well," John coughed and rubbed his forehead, "don't let him get too down on himself. It's gonna kill him not to be able to take care of you." It made Sam's heart ache a little to hear his Dad speak so fondly about Dean. "Yes, Sir." He caught his bottom lip between his teeth, breathing softly into the phone. "I'm on my way, be there late tomorrow and we'll sort this. You take care of your brother Sammy, you hear?" Sam smiled, "yes, Sir. Drive safe." "Bye Sam." The phone line went dead. Sam pushed end on Dean's phone and tossed it on the bed so he could slide his arms around Dean again. He was relieved that their Dad would be coming to help out, not only would John be able to help out with the details at the hospital but he'd be able to be Dean's Dad. More than any other time since they'd left their Father's home, Sam felt like Dean needed his father. "Okay? He can help..." "Yeah he said..." Dean nodded and leaned against Sam, wetting his lips slowly. "So I guess we'll just kill time until he gets here. You hungry? I know you haven't eaten since yesterday..." he turned his head toward his brother's voice, eyes fluttering once more as if to clear his vision. God he missed looking at his brother. The thought stirred up memories of a conversation they'd had just a few nights ago, something about stars. Dean half smiled and lifted his hand slowly, searching for Sam's face in the darkness. Sam leaned forward into the path of his brother's hand, smiling against Dean's palm. "You want to go out? Or I'll get stuff..." he whispered then pressed a kiss to his brother's palm. "Should get your pain pills." At this point, Sam wasn't sure if Dean would even admit if he were in pain - there were probably a million things going through his mind and Sam knew Dean would be trying to keep things from him so he didn't worry. "I want to go out, though not sure about eating in a diner... shit how will I even..." he shook his head, trying not to let himself have another freak out like he did in the bathroom earlier. "I'll just stick to a breakfast burrito or something. But yeah, lets both go. I don't want to spend however long I'm blind stuck in some motel room." "Dean?" Sam grinned and leaned against his brother's warm flesh. "What?" Dean couldn't help smiling; he could practically hear his brother's amusement and didn't have the slightest idea what could possibly be funny right now. "We're naked; you wanna get dressed or streak there?" Sam laughed softly; he'd never been more pleased to see a smile on his brother's face. Dean laughed and shook his head. He hadn't even realized it. He could just imagine the look on their dad's face if he knew they'd talked to him on the phone while both were naked. "We should probably get dressed," he nodded, still chuckling softly. "Guess it is a little cold in here huh?" Still laughing, Sam kissed the back of Dean's neck and rolled off the side of the bed and started rustling around in Dean's duffel. Pulling out his favourite of Dean's t-shirt, extra soft, baby blue because it was faded and a little tight he tossed it in Dean's lap. Returning to the bag and yanked out Dean's newest jeans and some clean socks and underwear. He piled it all on the bed at Dean's side, just touching his leg so he would know it was there and headed over to his own bag. "Like taking care of you," he murmured. With a small smile on his face Dean sorted through the clothes, feeling for the tag on the shirt before tugging it on, "it definitely is a role reversal." He curled his fingers around his boxers and jeans before standing. For a moment he hesitated before tucking his jeans under his arm and bending to step into his boxers, dropping his jeans to his hands a moment later before stepping into them. It was easier than he thought and not so bad so Dean told himself he could definitely handle this. As long as Sam was there. He dropped back down on the bed and reached out for his socks, fingers grazing along the fabric until he found them. "Shoes?" He asked a moment later, head tilting up to look at his brother then stopping short. That was definitely going to be a hard habit that he hopefully would never have to break. Still hopping around trying to get into his jeans, Sam reached down and snagged his brother shoes. Once he regained his balance he padded over and put them by Dean's feet. He watched Dean for a few moments as he tugged his own t-shirt on. Dean's eyes still moved automatically to what he was doing, down toward his shoes, onto his fingers, in Sam's general direction when he wanted something. This was going to be fixed. Sam wouldn't accept any alternatives. Suddenly feeling a swell of determination he stepped forward and dipped down to catch Dean's lips in a rather forceful kiss. He pulled back just a little and whispered, "drive by kissing." "Uh huh," Dean muttered softly, leaning up into Sam's heat. He reached up slowly until his hand pressed into Sam's chest. Fabric curled under his fingers for a moment before he slid them up to Sam's shoulder, across to cup his neck and tug him in for another kiss. Dean kept his eyes open because it was a little pointless to close them, and let his tongue slip out to trace the path of silky flesh. Humming softly, Sam sank down to his knees without breaking the kiss. He pushed in between Dean's legs, hands resting on his brother's thighs and tilted his head slightly to deepen the kiss. It was a problem they had some mornings - trying to leave the motel room. He let Dean take control, moving his head gently as Dean guided him, marvelling at how quickly his heart started to race. A small moan fell from Dean's lips as he shifted into the warmth of his brother, withdrawing his tongue so Sam's slipped forward. He sucked hard on it for a moment before pulling back with a small groan. "Okay. We... we can pick this up later," he chuckled softly and slid his hand forward to trace the lines of his brother's face, fingers dancing across kiss swollen lips. "Or we could just skip the food thing, definitely wouldn't complain about that decision." Smiling against his brother's fingers, Sam pulled back, "you need to eat, get better..." he murmured and grabbed Dean's hands to haul him up off the bed. "Let's go..." Dean sighed and nodded, "yes, let's do that and hurry back." He smiled softly as his brother led him out of the motel room and to the car. Dean still experienced that surreal feeling riding in the car without being able to see. It was a good thing he trusted Sam with his life otherwise he might have had a harder time handling it all. Dean chose to wear his sunglasses inside the diner, this way it wouldn't be quite so obvious that he was looking at nothing. It came from a life of hunting, never show people your weaknesses. They settled into a booth, Sam going out of his way to help Dean as little as possible. Dean couldn't help smiling at his brother's sense of awareness. They did know each other better than anyone else after all. Sam informed him there was a breakfast burrito on the menu before telling Dean what he wanted to order. Dean was used to ordering for Sam and he appreciated his brother not taking that role from him. There was always comfort to be found in looking after his brother; Dean knew it would always be that way. When the waitress arrived Dean only slightly tilted his head toward her while giving their order, legs extending to rest along Sam's under the table. While they waited for their food they fell into comfortable silence, though Dean was pretty sure Sam was watching him shift uncomfortably. Dean really didn't like being somewhere he had no grasp of, no way to observe those around them, monitor for any threats. It was just a little worse for him when their food arrived. Dean's head was turned down to the plate as his fingers slid along the table top. He could feel Sam's shift on the seat, likely itching to help but giving Dean the chance to figure it out himself. Eventually Dean managed to curl his fingers around the food and bring it to his mouth. Just around the time he was getting thirsty Sam was nudging his coffee toward him, likely already made up the way he preferred. Dean smiled gratefully at him before carefully curling his fingers along the handle and bringing it to his lips. Sam paid for the meal once they'd finished and waited just beside Dean's bench as he slid out. Dean sank into the warm hand placed on his back to guide him out, Sam applying just enough pressure to guide him along without making it obvious. Once they were back in the car he blew out a small breath. They'd tackled one outing, that was something, and Dean felt just the slightest wave of relief. He wasn't completely hopeless. On the drive to the drug store Sam played music that Dean knew well, not even trying to change it to something he'd enjoy more. Dean smiled softly, enjoying the little things his brother was doing to make this easy for him. They pulled to a stop and Dean moved to get out but Sam laid a hand on his arm, ensuring him it would only take a few minutes. Dean nodded and fell back against the seat, tracing his fingers over the cool leather of the seat. Within minutes Sam was back, opening the door quietly so Dean wouldn't be startled. Dean slid against his side the moment the car was in motion, not admitting out loud how much he'd missed his brother. Clearly being alone in this condition wasn't an idea that appealed to him. He could hear Sam's soft chuckle as they headed back to the motel, looping an arm casually around him. Sam held out his hand, grabbing Dean's from where it hovered in midair as they arrived at the motel. "Okay lets order food next time," Dean muttered as they headed inside. "I'm not really a big fan of the being blind in public thing. It's safe to say I'm officially over it," he sighed and stopped just inside the room, turning to the sound of the door closing. "How should we spend the rest of our day?" "I have a plan," Sam was quiet, trying to pull things out of the grocery bag as quietly as possibly. "We're," he coughed, throat still raw, "gonna work on your other senses. Take advantage." He scratched his head as he tried to figure out the best way to set everything up. Gathering some items in his arms he moved over to the night stand, keeping his back to Dean so he couldn't reach out and feel anything. Setting things quietly on the night stand he crossed his arms and looked down at Dean with a smirk on his face. "Get naked." "Okay," Dean nodded quickly, hands going to his clothing. He definitely had no objection to getting naked. Though he was admittedly curious about other senses. Sam clearly had something sneaky up his sleeves and Dean couldn't help grinning. Within minutes he was naked and shifting toward the bed, reaching out to touch the mattress before dropping down. "Now what?" He asked, looking toward where he imagined Sam was. "Middle of the bed on your back." Sam moved quietly, watching with a proud smile on his face as Dean tracked him around the room. Dean was in hunter mode, Sam could see it underneath the suspicious grin on his brother's face. "Alright..." Dean murmured and crawled up on the bed, reaching out to touch the headboard before dropping down and rolling onto his back. He was half hard already, excitement building in the pit of his stomach, tongue dragging along his lips in anticipation. Kneeling on the edge of the bed Sam ran his hands up his brother's left arm until he reached his wrist and he slipped a dish towel around Dean's wrist and tied it to the corner of the head board. Watching Dean's face, seeing the flush slowly easing up his cheeks, Sam smiled. He slipped off the bed and moved around to tied his brother's other hand the same way. Checking that Dean was well bound Sam stepped away again, rustling in the grocery bag. "Okay..." Dean said slowly and tugged on the ties, testing their strength. Sam knew how to tie a knot, he'd give him that. "So uh..." he wet his lips once more and shifted slightly, wondering what Sam was up too. "Whatcha got planned Sammy boy?" He asked casually, smirk growing on his lips. "Research," Sam said, kneeling on the edge of the bed, careful not to touch Dean. Reaching behind him Sam picked up a feather duster and pulled out one of the long feathers. He couldn't help the smile that was on his face. "Looked it up. People who have an impaired sense," he leaned down to whisper in Dean's ear, "compensate with other senses." He pulled back quickly before Dean could turn into his voice. Sucking his bottom lip into his mouth, Sam dragged the feather lightly down the middle of Dean's chest then dragged it back up his side. "Tell me when you know... what it is," he whispered. Tilting his head, watching his brother's face - Sam twirled the feather around Dean's nipple, watching as the coppery flesh hardened. Dean pulled in a quick breath, head tilting back into the pillow as he squirmed underneath the touch. "I uh..." he cleared his throat and tried to focus in on the item. Little wisps of touch slid around his flesh, tickling slightly but mostly just serving to make his skin feel over sensitive. "A... a cloth? No..." Dean shook his head immediately, knowing a cloth would feel a little more solid. This just barely ghosted along the skin. As it clicked in his mind he swallowed, suddenly more aroused by the entirely unexpected situation he found himself in. "A feather," he murmured. "Mmmhmm," Sam pulled the feather straight down Dean's body barely ghosting it over his hardening length before putting it back on the night stand. Reaching into the bag he pulled out a cherry and bit into it, spit out the pit quietly and chewed it, letting the juice sit in his mouth for a few moments. Leaning down Sam hovered his lips over Dean's and breathed out gently, "smell," he murmured. "Jesus," Dean gasped softly, head tilting up toward Sam's face. "I... cherries," he murmured, wetting his lips and breathing in deep. He could smell Sam just under the sweetness, familiar and unique. Sam licked his lips and let the very tip of his tongue trace along Dean's bottom lip. Slowly, he barely moved, pulling back only when Dean moved forward. As soon as Dean settled back on the mattress Sam slipped his tongue past Dean's lips quickly, swept it across the roof of his brother's mouth and pulled back. Moving back again he laughed softly and brushed the backs of his fingers across Dean's cheek briefly. "Okay?" He could tell Dean was okay, but he loved the sound of his brother's voice when he was turned on. "I... yeah. Yes. Okay," he insisted and swallowed deeply. He'd never experienced his brother like this and it was turning him on more than he thought it would. Being tied to the bed, Sam teasing him, it was enough to cause his blood to boil. "So that's touch... and smell..." he murmured and shifted on the mattress. Chuckling Sam rustled around in the bad once more and pulled out a container of honey. He stood there, holding it looking at his brother's body, considering the options. Stepping away from Dean slowly, as quietly as he could Sam moved to the bottom of the bed and tugged his t-shirt up over his head, smirking he tossed it onto the right side of the bed and watched Dean's face turned slightly in that direction. Padding quietly up to where Dean was facing, Sam got hold of his zipper and dragged it down slowly, each click of the teeth loud in the quiet room. Some noises Dean would always recognize, this one, the sound of Sam undressing, was familiar enough to have him sucking his bottom lip into his mouth and working it between his teeth. His eyes fluttered out of habit, fixed on the noise, heart fluttering in anticipation for whatever was next. "Sammy..." he breathed, twisting his wrists in the ties slightly. "Guess you know what that sound was," Sam grinned and wriggled out of his jeans, kicking them off. There were a couple of ways he could do this, and Sam decided he had earned a little fun himself. Crawling on to the bed he straddled his brother's thighs. Sam poured some honey onto the tip of his finger and grinned, hesitated, then rubbed it on his hard nipple. He couldn't help moaning, God Dean was radiating sex, lying there, cock hard - skin flushed as his lips glistened in the dim light slipping through the curtains. Letting himself fall forward Sam held himself up, hands planted above Dean's shoulders and lowered himself down until his honey covered nipple brushed Dean's lips. A soft gasp fell from Dean's lips as he shifted up into the warmth. His tongue flicked out as his mouth opened, sucking on the skin. His moan grew deeper as the sweet substance exploded along his taste buds, hips jerking up slightly at the sudden spark of pleasure. "Fuck," he mumbled against the skin and sucked the hardened flesh in again, dragging his teeth along it. He tilted his head to smooth his lips over every inch of skin he could reach, panting softly. "I... not sure... might have to taste more..." he said softly, even though he was pretty sure he knew exactly what the sugary substance was. Laughing softly, Sam picked up the honey and squeezed more out onto his finger, "M'not complaining. Research," he murmured as he dropped the bottle and rubbed the honey on to his other nipple and leaned down. This time, Sam hovered just out of Dean's reach, rolling his hips slightly, sliding their rigid flesh together then dropped down to let Dean taste the honey again. Dean worked his lips along the flesh, moaning as the taste once more burst along his tongue. He wanted to run his hands along Sam's body, to feel his heat, but somehow being denied that was heightening everything. He lapped at the skin until there was only Sam's salty taste. "Hmm I think I know..." Dean said softly, pressing small kisses along inch of skin he could. "Honey?" He murmured, hips lifting up almost out of his control. "Uh huh..." Sam sat back, trying to get control of himself again. "Wow..." he mumbled, "we should... uh... research more often." Pushing his hair back off his forehead Sam let himself fall to the side, one leg draped over Dean's thighs. "What you want...?" He whispered right against his brother's ear, lips brushing the warm flesh as his breath danced along Dean's skin. "I... you. Always want you," he murmured, turning toward the heat of Sam's breath. "Wanna... research more?" Dean suggested, small smile on his lips. "Tap my other senses? See what all I can learn?" He chuckled softly, shifting forward. Humming softly Sam leaned forward and kissed a trail down Dean's neck, stopping briefly to suck on Dean's Adam's apple then continuing. His hand slid over Dean's hip and rubbed along his brother's inner thigh softly, teasingly, carefully not to touch Dean's cock. Finally reaching Dean's nipple Sam teased it, flicked the very tip with his tongue then blew on it. Watching Dean's body arch up, Sam smiled and took in a shuddering breath. He was beginning to wonder how long he was going to last himself. He let his fingers brush against Dean's sac, twisting his wrist slowly to roll his brother's balls gently between his fingers. "Jesus Sammy," Dean moaned and shifted into the touch, wetting his lips. "You're... so..." he sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm himself so he didn't come before Sam even touched him where it mattered most. Dean was starting to learn that not being able to see did heighten his other senses. He never knew where Sam's lips would be next, where flesh would connect; it made everything burn a little sharper, hotter. "What... what do you want?" He asked quietly, body lifting up into Sam's touch. "I think," Sam's lips moved down his brother's ribs, tongue running along the dip between them, "I'll just do what I want." His fingers tightened on his brother's balls, squeezing then rolling and releasing before his hand pulled back across Dean's thigh. He could feel the small hairs on his brother's leg standing up and smiled then sucked hard at a patch of skin on Dean's side. Sucking long and hard, Sam worked the flesh with his tongue then nipped gently at the skin heated with blood. Walking his fingers up over Dean's abs, across his chest he caught his brother's nipple, pinching it hard as his mouth began to move again. Sliding down his brother's body Sam moaned softly. As soon as he reached the tender flesh just below Dean's hip he latched on again, tightening his grip on Dean's nipple. Unable to resist it a moment longer, Sam rutted up against Dean's leg, desperate for friction. Hands sliding all over Dean's body, mouthing his way back up Dean's side, Sam didn't stop moving for a single moment. Dean felt like a writhing mess beneath Sam. His wrists twisted and pulled at the cloths keeping him bond, fingers shifting until they could tighten over the material. He moaned his brother's name and arched up into the endless touches, panting softy. Dean had never been so turned on before, body humming and sparking with each graze of his brother's lips and hands. "Driving me crazy..." he mumbled, head turning from side to side on the pillow with each harsh pant. Growling softly Sam crawled down the bed beside his brother and nudge in between his legs with one knee. Bending to Dean's body Sam inhaled the heady scent of his brother's arousal, salty, sweat, spicy. Heart quickening once more Sam panted along Dean's cock, hair trailing along his brother's over-stimulated flesh. Pursing his lips slightly he blew on the head of Dean's cock. "Fuck," Dean groaned, rolling his hips up to try and get Sam's mouth to connect with his flesh. It didn't work, Sam just moved away, and Dean marvelled at the fact that Sam really was driving him crazy. His heart seemed to lurch with the heat of Sam's breath, the whisper of suggestion. Dean wanted to look, to see the bright flush on Sam's cheek, the lust blown darkness of his eyes. He swore the moment his eyesight was returned he was going to stare at Sam until his eyes were too heavy to keep open. Sighing, Sam shifted until he was settled between Dean's legs. "Love... you," he whispered and darted down to drag his tongue up the length of his brother's swollen shaft. His lips kissed the tip softly, tongue lapping up the precome before he moved forward again, shifting his legs to straddle his brother's thighs once more. Hands falling to Dean's chest, fingers curling hard into his brother's flesh Sam pulled himself up Dean's body. As he slid over Dean's hard cock he moaned and stilled, settled his ass on his brother's heated flesh. Dean's hips moved instinctively up against Sam's body and he moaned out, "love you," in return. It always made his heart clench, hearing the words, and now it sent everything vibrating through him, over sensitive and hyper aware. Dean tugged on the cloths around his wrists, body curling up slightly off the bed. "Sammy..." he murmured, head tilted back. "Kiss me." Falling forward, catching himself at the last moment with his hands Sam slanted his mouth over Dean's, tongue gliding forward, wet and warm. Moaning softly Sam's lips moved on his brother's, Jesus Dean's lips were always so soft, so smooth, Sam bit down on Dean's tongue as it snaked forward in to his mouth and growled pulling away before Dean could react. His hips rolled up and he leaned down, sliding his hand under the pillow for the lube they kept there, "want you," he whispered before sucking Dean's ear lobe into his mouth. Sitting back, circling his hips to rub against his brother's solid cock, Sam squirted some lube on to his hand. Reaching behind him he smoothed the cool liquid over Dean's shaft, stroked once and guided the head toward his tight ring of muscle. The feeling of Dean's cock nudging against him sent shivers down Sam's body and he braced himself by curling his fingers over Dean's hip. Sitting back he let his head fall back as Dean's cock slid slowly into him; Sam moaned and hissed in a sharp breath when the head slid inside and his body drew Dean's heat further in. Dean's whole body sparked with pleasure and heat, humming as the thrill of Sam's tight muscles coursed along his hard flesh. "Shit," he gasped, almost completely unprepared for just how very good it felt. It was more intense, not seeing, and in his mind's eye he could picture perfectly the way Sam's body would look, arched back, sliding down onto him. Dean tugged hard on the cloths once more, groaning at the strain of his muscles before his hips jerked up, pushing him further into his brother. "God Sam... so good..." he moaned, wetting his lips slowly. Squeezing his eyes shut Sam shuddered as he slid down slowly, Dean's slick cock working into him easily. "Dean..." Sam rocked forward on his knees - almost pulling off his brother's shaft - then rocked back reclaiming the heated flesh. God, it was so good. Reaching out a shaking hand Sam let his fingers dance across Dean's swollen lips. The next time he rolled forward he slipped his finger inside his brother's mouth shuddering as he sank back again. Just about at his wits end Sam's free hand moved to his weeping shaft and began stroking slowly. "M'gonna... come soon.." His voice was deep, gravely and soft; Dean's moans were louder, his brother's hips bucking up into him, sinking his cock harder and deeper every time. Dean couldn't work enough air into his lungs to tell Sam he was right there with him. His body thrust as much it could up into Sam's heat, moaning as his brother met each thrust and clenched around him. Sam's voice was like fire added to the pleasure, so rich and deep, stirring up heat strong enough to make his mind spin. As Sam's finger shifted deeper into his mouth he sucked hard, dragging his teeth lightly over the skin and digging his heels into the mattress. Not even half a dozen thrusts later and his arms pulled hard on the cloth, body tensing with the force of his release slamming through him. Dean let Sam's finger fall from his mouth with a loud moan, head pressing down into the pillow as wave after wave of heat crashed over him. His brother's cock was throbbing within him and Sam stroked once and came, he worked his shaft as his body arched and throbbed - ropes of come shot up his brother's belly and chest. Collapsing forward Sam shuddered, his body twitched as the last of his release worked through him. Groaning he reached up and fumbled with his knots, swearing under his breath as he struggled with them. Finally, he managed to get the first binding undone then started on the second one. "Hands... are shaking," he whispered and laughed softly, still panting. Dean's second hand was freed and Sam fell down beside his brother kissing Dean's neck softly. A soft groan fell from Dean's lips as he slowly stretched his arms down, flexing the muscles gently. "Fuck that was..." he blew out a long breath and shifted into his brother, reaching out to touch him slowly. "That was the hottest fucking thing you've ever done," he murmured, small smile on his face. Chuckling Sam grabbed the dishtowel and used it to wipe his brother's body clean, then his own. He threw it across the room and looked up at Dean's face. Finally the lines of tension were eased and Dean's eyes were softer, he looked relaxed. Threading his fingers through Dean's Sam nuzzled into his brother's neck. "Might ... need to do ..." he yawned, "more research sometime." "Very soon," Dean agreed with a slight nod, curling into Sam's body. If this was how they spent the rest of his time being blind, well he could definitely adjust to that. But they were definitely doing this again when he could see the expressions on Sam's face. "Nap time?" He murmured, lifting a hand to his forehead to rub slightly. The stitches along the back of his head were tingling with pain from being rubbed to hard against the pillow and he groaned softly. "Fuck... sorry," Sam shifted a little and tugged on Dean's chin turning his head so the weight wasn't on his stitches. "Sleep..." he murmured. Part Three Master Post

Entry tags: a thousand touches, a thousand whispers, char and brie, sam/dean, slash [Slash] A Thousand Whispers 04/04 - Sam/Dean Title: A Thousand Whispers 04 Authors: Charlotte and Miss. Brie Pairing: Sam/Dean Rating/Warnings: NC-17, Disclaimer: Kripke's boys, not ours, even if we want them to be. Summary: Sam and Dean from "A Thousand Touches" are back in this sequel. Time has passed; the boys are still hunting together and growing impossibly closer. An accident changes things for both of them bringing about challenges and feelings they'd never thought they'd face. Master Post Waking up was great until Sam and Dean were slammed with the reality of an early surgery. There were several problems with the early morning appointment not the least of which was the fact that Dean couldn't have any coffee or breakfast. Sam moved quickly, trying to stay close to his brother and out of Dean's way at the same time; it was a technique he'd mastered over the years. John knocked at their door just as Dean was coming out of the shower and Sam shot him a be careful look from under raised eyebrows. They made it to the hospital right on time and Dean was ushered to a bay in a pre-surgical ward. Sam was by his side, the Doctors words jumbling around in his head as the procedure was explained to them one final time. All Sam focused on was the fact that Dean's fingers had searched about on the edge of the bed until Sam had grabbed them. Still here. Sam managed to tease Dean about his blue hospital cap and the blue booties they put on his feet but he made sure that his brother's ass wasn't visible through the back of the gown. After all, he assured Dean, there were a lot of hot orderlies and nurses. When the E.R. nurse arrived to escort Dean to the operating room she commented that she'd never seen so much smiling in pre-op before. Sam's smile faded a little now the time had come for Dean to leave. He glanced up at the nurse shyly and leaned down to press his lips to Dean's. Their mouths moved together for a few slow, delicious moments then Sam pressed his forehead to his brother's, hand pressed over Dean's heart I love you and whispered, "see you soon." Dean's heart was hammering so hard he was just glad he hadn't been hooked up to a machine yet, otherwise he might break the thing or something. And he felt a little like he was going to be sick. "Sammy," he swallowed hard and laid his hand over Sam's on his chest. "Love you 'kay?" He whispered, wetting his lips nervously. "I know." Sam kissed him once more and stepped back, running a hand nervously through his hair. Dean wished he could turn around and look at his brother as the nurse led him in back, small hand on his arm. "You're boyfriend is really cute," she said with a soft giggle that had Dean grinning despite his nerves. If he wasn't about to go into surgery - and if he could fucking see the look on her face - he might have responded with something like, actually he's my brother. Instead he simply nodded and murmured, "yeah. I can't wait to see him again." "Soon enough," she ensured quietly and helped him down onto a bed, guiding him with a hand until he lay flat on the stiff operating bed. "So as we've explained, you have to be awake for the surgery but we'll use clamps to keep your eyes open and we'll be putting a heavy pain medicine in your IV. It's probably going to make you feel a little... well... crazy, but in a pleasant, everything is feeling good way." Dean clenched his jaw around a smile and nodded. He appreciated the nurse's attempts at calming him and wondered if his stiff body was giving away his nerves. People moved around him, hooking him up to machines, needle sliding into his arm, oxygen mask placed over his mouth and nose. Dean's panic began to rise again, thoughts exploding in his mind one right after another. What if something goes wrong? What if I never see again? What if I die? Then the medicine kicked in and the doctor was talking to him but Dean couldn't make much sense of the words. Even when he was certain the surgery was beginning, he couldn't feel a thing, and that was at least one minor relief. Not that he cared much about anything by that point. Sam paced. John tried to read a newspaper but ended up tossing it on the seat beside him. After about twenty minutes Sam sank to the edge of the seat in the chair beside his father and asked if the clock on the wall was working. He had never felt time go so slowly before in his entire life. After the first ten minutes Sam gave up trying to figure out what would be happening to Dean because it just made him feel like he needed to throw up or run. Run? Run where - there was no way he was going to leave the hospital. After half an hour of watching Sam fidget and fuss John went to get them coffee and something to eat from the cafeteria. He was quite sure that coffee wasn't the best idea considering how strung out Sam was but John wasn't all that schooled in the art of comforting his adult sons. Sam took the coffee and sipped at it but didn't eat. It wasn't until John started asking about the last few years, wanting stories from Sam about his life with Dean that the time seemed to start moving again at a normal speed. Sam even smiled, telling their father about some of their funnier hunts, mishaps, little things that only Dean would know. Sam paced some more. After about two hours Sam blurted out his frustration at a procedure that could take as long as four hours. John nodded and went to check with the nurse's station. There was no news yet, John had known there wouldn't be but it wasn't a Winchester trait to be able to sit around indefinitely doing nothing. When the doctor finally came through the hallway doors John and Sam were on their feet instantly. "So, everything went really well," the doctor smiled at them both, leafing through the file in his hand. "David did fantastic though it went a little longer than we'd expected. But, everything is back in its place. He has bandages on now and he'll have to keep those on for at least forty eight hours but after that he can go back to things as usual. Just make sure he takes it easy, doesn't try to strain himself with seeing things as his vision returns. And he should be wearing sunglasses out in the daylight just to be safe. No more sealing roof tops at night time," the doctor's smile widened and he flipped the file closed, looking at both John and Sam in turn. "Any questions for me?" "Can he see?" Sam glanced at his father, "I mean ... when will we know?" Rolling his bottom lip into his mouth Sam looked down into the Doctor's eyes. "Well everything has been reattached so his vision should be returning in the next two to three weeks. I'd say if he can't see anything by week three you probably want to come back in, let me take a look and see what's going on," the doctor stepped forward and laid a hand on Sam's shoulder. "But I don't see any reason why that should happen. He'll be back to normal before you know it." "I wanna see him," Sam glanced at John again when the oldest Winchester squeezed his arm, "I mean, when... can I?" He wouldn't believe completely that Dean was okay until he could see him with his own eyes, touch him. "They're just moving him into recovery; I'll send a nurse out to get you as soon as he's ready." The doctor nodded and gave them another smile, stepping back. "Just to warn you, we had him on a different sort of pain medicine for the surgery, so he may be a little out of it. As I spoke with him earlier he was going on about Ghouls, so..." the doctor chuckled softly and held out his hand to John to shake and then Sam. "You still have my card if you have any questions or concerns." Smirking, Sam glanced over at his father and then back to the Doctor, "Thank you." By the time the nurse came to get them, John had managed to convince his youngest to actually eat one of the sandwiches that he'd bought. The nurse had a bit of trouble keeping Sam behind her as she tried to lead them down the hall to the recovery room. Sam moved quickly into the room and slid to a halt by Dean's side. There was oxygen hooked under Dean's nose, an IV in his arm and his eyes were bandaged. Sam reached out and touched Dean's cheek lightly, "hey you," he murmured. John moved to the other side of the gurney and watched Dean's face for signs that he was awake. "Sammmmy," Dean murmured, turning into the touch and nuzzling softly. "There's something... on my... face..." he said slowly and lifted a hand up to touch the bandages over his eyes. Everything felt oddly fuzzy, and lifting his arm took actual effort. But Sam was there, which was really good. Laughing softly Sam caught his brother's hand and pressed it back down on his chest. "Bandages, Dean. Surgery remember?" Sam reached back with his foot, hooked it round the leg of a chair and pulled it over so he could sit down. He rested his chin on Dean's hand and smiled up at his brother. "How you feeling?" Dean swallowed a few times and rolled slightly on the mattress. The sheets were cool against his skin and he sighed softly, tilting his head to the side, "mm I think someone... poisoned my coffee. Hey! Is dad... dad is..." Dean trailed off, losing his train of thought as the medicines pumping through his system intensified. John reached and gripped Dean's shoulder, "I'm right here, son." John stifled a laugh, "no one poisoned you, it's the drugs from surgery." "Hey Dean, I'm the most awesome little brother right?" Sam kissed the back of Dean's hand. He grinned; feeling like a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Dean's hand tingled pleasantly under Sam's lips and he smiled sleepily, humming once more. "S'true Sammy. You're super. Awesome. Mm I want pie, can I eat something... hungry..." his free hand slid to the side where he knew his dad was. John laughed and grabbed Dean's hand, "as much pie as you want, soon as we're allowed to take you out of here." His eyes crinkled as he glanced over at Sam. "Cherry pie," Sam whispered. "Cherry pie," Dean repeated and nodded slowly, squeezing the two hands held in his. "Then... to Kansas... hey Sammy," Dean's head fell to the side, hand tugging against his for a minute. "I totally love you man," he mumbled, wetting his lips and breaking off halfway through as a yawn stretched his mouth open. "Gonna check with the nurse, or," John looked around, "someone. Find out when we can bust you outta here, son." He nodded at Sam and disappeared around the corner. Sam sat up closer to the bed so he could press his lips to the corner of Dean's mouth. "Missed you," he whispered and grinned. One hurdle passed. "Gonna take you back to the Motel soon, 'kay?" He just wanted to get Dean comfortable, settled, and curl up next to him and finally sleep properly. "Mmkay," Dean mumbled, turning into the kiss. "Research?" He asked with a faint grin free hand lifting to graze along the bandages covering his eyes. Sam grabbed Dean's hand again, stopped him from fussing with the bandages. "I think, maybe no research tonight," Sam actually blushed which made the grin spread wider across his face. "You need to rest. Gotta get you better." "Okay, son. When you're acting a little more normal we can take you outta here." John lifted his eyebrows at Sam and shrugged. "M'plenty normal actin'," Dean pushed up from the bed slightly. "Less go now kay? Not gonna rest here," he leaned toward his brother, trying to get him to help him out of the bed. "Please? Ya know how... hospitals suck." "I know, just a few more minutes." Sam pressed his brother gently back down onto the bed and glanced over at John. Glancing around, John made sure no one was near enough to hear him use his son's real name. "Dean, you settle down a bit longer, you hear me?" Looking over at Sam he nodded, "M'gonna go see how to sign him out." Dean sighed and shifted back on the bed. He still felt pleasantly tingly and fuzzy but Dean felt pretty damn aware of things. Like the knowledge that he'd just had doctors prodding around inside his eyeballs. "Hey," he reached out for his brother again, head tilting his way. "How'd it... I... when can I see again?" Dean slid his lips together slowly, working the small amount of saliva in his mouth over the flesh. Reaching for the glass of ice chips Sam picked some out with his fingers and rubbed the ice along Dean's lips then slid the ice into his brother's mouth. "We gotta keep the bandages on for forty-eight hours, then... we'll have to wait...your eyes need time to heal." Sam frowned rubbing his arm down Dean's chest. It smelled all wrong, iodine, cleaners - he just wanted to get his brother out of there. "'Kay," Dean mumbled around the ice before sealing his lips closed to suck on the cube. A wave of exhaustion coursed through Dean but he didn't want to sleep here, he wanted to lie in Sam's arms. "Wanna... sleep with you..." he whispered, scooting along the bed slightly. "Oh don't worry, m'not leavin' here without you." Sam slid his arm over Dean's chest and rested his chin back on Dean's arm. "Besides, they won't wanna keep you 'cause they'd have to keep me and Dad too." Sam smiled, tilting his head down to kiss Dean's arm. It took about three hours for them to get Dean out of the hospital, the nurse insisting on have a few hours of good vitals before releasing his papers. Dean mostly slept and babbled on about whatever random subject sparked up in his mind. Sam stuck dutifully beside him, as did John though he chose to sit in the seat across the far side of the room, there if he was needed. It was a true sign how comfortable they'd all become with each other when John didn't so much as bat an eye at the way Sam's lips rested against Dean's hand for most of the time. When they were allowed to go Dean was pushed out in a wheel chair, even though he insisted he was more than capable of walking. Sam let their dad drive in favour of sitting in back with Dean, letting his brother lay heavily against his side, smiling at the way he hummed his way through half an ACDC CD. Dean was mostly passed out by the time they arrived at the motel so Sam needed their dad's help in pull him out from the back seat and guide him inside. Dean sighed heavily as they gently laid him down on the bed, flopping onto his back and lifting his arm to lay over his bandages. "Pie now?" He mumbled, feeling as if he deserved some sort of reward for this whole ordeal. "And medicine," he added and swallowed thickly. "And beer," a small smile worked on his lips, wondering how many of his request he'd actually be allowed to have. Shaking his head John moved back toward the door, "I'll go fill the prescription and get pie. There will be no beer, Dean." He used his command voice but it only made Sam laugh because Dean waved his hand dismissively in the general direction of his Dad's voice. Once the door clicked shut behind their father Sam kneeled beside his brother on the bed, "you okay in your clothes?" He smoothed Dean's hair back from the bandages. It was so strange to see his brother's face half covered with bandages, his freckles stood out against the white of the gauze and it was hard to tell what Dean was thinking. "Shoes," Dean kicked his legs up, too lazy to try and pull them up. Chuckling softly, Sam moved to the bottom of the bed and tugged his brother's shoes off then slipped them under the bed ... just in case Dean decided to try and make a break for it at any point. "Okay Princess, you need anything other than me?" Sam's fingers rested on Dean's shoulder. "Mm no, just you," Dean murmured and stretched his arms up to slide around Sam's body, pulling him down. He shifted his body up the bed slightly until his head settled on the pillow, soft sigh falling from his lips. "Nap. I need that," he added softly and tugged on Sam to pull him close. Sam was quite happy to just lie there, curled up against Dean, running his fingers over Dean's hair. Quite happy. Dean slept mostly through the first day, post hospital, and was only vaguely aware when Sam and John gathered up the stuff and packed up their vehicles. They helped him into the passenger seat at some point and the moment Sam was revving the engine Dean was slumping over onto his side. He knew Sam didn't mind and he couldn't help smiling softly, curling an arm around his leg. They hadn't said much to each other since he'd returned from the hospital but there was a comfortable sort of peace blanketing over them. Dean felt relaxed, hopeful, he knew the surgery was over and that calmed him almost as much as his brother's presence. The pain medicine pretty much drained Dean of all energy to do much outside of sleep which was fine because they were driving. They stopped only when necessary, not bothering with a motel for the night. So by the time they arrived at John's place a good seventeen hours later, Sam was just as tired as Dean seemed to constantly be. The moment they stepped inside their dad's place they headed for the bedroom, both ready to spread out on the mattress in the guest room. When Dean woke the next day he sat on the edge of the mattress, waiting for Sam to wake up, desperate to know if he could take the bandages off. He had no concept of time, hadn't really now for almost two weeks, and he was more than ready to be past this. Some part of him knew he wouldn't just magically be able to see after his bandages were removed but they were starting to irritate his skin. And every little step forward counted. Groaning, Sam's arm reached out to pat the bed beside him, "Dean?" His fingers finally found his brother's back and he hooked them over the top of Dean's boxers. "Git back here, sleep more." Tugging gently he scooted closer to his brother's warmth. "I wanna take the bandages off," Dean murmured, turning on the bed to reach out for his brother. "Can you... is it time? Can you do that?" His fingers lifted up to graze along the bandages. "Okay," Sam shifted back a little, "lie down again, gimme a minute to wake up, you want me to do it here? Just you and me?" Sam smiled - a gentle expression of hope on his face. "Yeah, just you and me," Dean said softly, settling back down on the bed. "Is it... what time is it? I mean, I think it probably shouldn't be too bright in here, to be safe," he blew out a long exhale, telling himself to not get too over hyped. It would be easy to get his hopes up and that couldn't happen, especially since he wasn't likely to be seeing anything real well any time soon. "Dean, relax, the curtains are pulled. It's still quite dim in here." Sam's hands moved over his brother's face gently as though he could smooth away the worry. Rolling so he was lying partially across Dean's chest Sam smiled. "You ready?" His fingers settled at the edge of the bandages. "Yeah," Dean pursed his lips and reached out to lay his hand on Sam's arm. "You know I... I won't be able to see right away right?" He sucked in a quick breath, heart fluttering nervously. "I know ... it's gonna take a while. The doctor said you might be able to see a bit of light, something like that." Sam's fingers started to pull up the surgical tape at the sides of the bandages, "it's not a big deal if there's nothing." He took a deep breath trying to steady his hands. The bandages weren't too difficult to remove, they'd been on for a couple of days and the tape wasn't as sticky as when Dean first got them. "Okay..." Sam hesitated for a moment then lifted the bandages. Dean's eyes were swollen, a little crusty, red where the bandages had been and he looked more like he'd been in a bar brawl than surgery. "Do I look like shit?" Dean mumbled, hand lifting to touched the tender flesh. He wouldn't admit it to Sam out loud but he was a little bit scared to open his eyes. "Should I... maybe you could get me a wet rag or something?" He dragged his tongue across his lips, biting down after moment. "You just look like I punched you in the nose," Sam tried to sound like he was smiling even though his nerves were getting the better of him. "Just hang on." He slipped out of bed and darted across the hall into the bathroom, returning quickly with a damp wash cloth and Gloria's mirror Sam settled back on the bed. Without waiting for Dean to ask he wiped at Dean's eyes, cleaning them as gently as he could. "Nice to see your face again," he murmured in between strokes. Once he thought he had Dean looking as fresh-faced as possible he tossed the washcloth on the floor and lay back across his brother's chest. "Okay, no more excuses." Dean swallowed once more and nodded, breathing deeply before slowly lifting his eye lids. There really wasn't anything, just that familiar darkness he'd gotten kind of used to in the past couple of weeks. Dean sighed softly and blinked a few times, turning toward the weight of his brother. As his eyes moved something seemed to blur along the edges, the vaguest whisper of light, "I... I think I saw some light but it's gone now," he said softly, eyes drifting in circles in attempts to bring the flash of light back. "It's okay, don't strain." Sam's hands continued to move over his brother's cheeks softly. "You've had your eyes closed for days; you remember how it feels when you first wake up in the morning? How hard it is to see? This is the same." He pressed his lips to Dean's, gazing into his brother's eyes, "it's really dark in here too." Of course, Sam had hoped for Dean being able to see him, that's what had been in his heart but the rational part of his mind, knew that wasn't going to happen. Dean sighed and leaned into Sam's touch. "No miracle fixes..." he said softly and sat up, rubbing at the sensitive skin along his eyes, pushing toward the edge of the mattress. "I think I'm gonna go shower..." Dean tried to push back the swirl of sadness that swept up in him. Time he knew it wasn't going to be an instant thing but Jesus he missed his brothers face. Dean stood slowly, heart sinking as he realized he had to completely learn a whole new room and there was only a vague whisper of an idea of how the room looked. "Do you mind if I come with?" Sam's voice was a little strained. There was no doubt that Dean was a little rattled by not seeing anything. Sam could see it - see the tension in his brother's back. "Please?" If Dean where in just a slightly worse state of mind he probably would have said no. But, as usual, he needed Sam. And the idea of trying to figure everything out alone and still in the dark was too overwhelming. He couldn't get himself to say those things though. Instead he just held out his hand, a silent invitation, head dropping down. Slipping his palm across his brother's Sam let Dean pull him up and then paced slightly ahead of him across the hall to the bathroom. Closing and locking the door Sam brushed past Dean and turned the tap on; making sure the water was nice and hot. "You know, Dean..." Sam stepped closer, fingers sliding under the waistband of his brother's boxers, "you're going to see again." He pushed Dean's boxers down until he could step out of them. "I know," Dean said softly, resting his hands on Sam's shoulders softly. "It's just... tiring. All this darkness... not seeing you... remember when you mentioned the stars the other night? I swear to god when I get my eyesight back we're going to sleep under the stars just so I can stare at them," he smiled softly and blinked his eyes a few times, chasing another flicker of almost light just out of his line of sight. "Did you see something?" Sam watched Dean's eyes move as though they had purpose and felt a little flare of hope. "Just another flicker of light," Dean shrugged and stepped forward to lean against Sam's chest. "It's gonna be a long couple of weeks." "Shower," Sam shifted the curtain back and stepped in to the tub. He grabbed Dean's hand and waited for his brother to climb in too. Showers were great, showers with Dean were one of Sam's favourite things. Soaping up his hands he started washing his brother's shoulders and chest. "I think I'm gonna like staying here for a bit. Been looking forward to seeing Dad. Gloria seems nice." Sam's eyes widened a little and he blinked a few times when he realized that, for him that had amounted to babbling. Dean's eyebrow arched slightly, slight smile on his face. "Yeah, it'll be nice to meet her, see what they're like together. It's weird... thinking about him with a girlfriend," Dean leaned slightly back into Sam's touch with a faint chuckle. "Do you... ever think about having a home like this? With a real job?" Dean had been thinking about the idea for awhile no, just waiting for the right time to talk to Sam about, to make sure he was happy where he was. "Well," Sam took a moment to lather up his own chest so that he could slide his body back and forth against his brother's back. "My home ... is anywhere you are. I like our life but... sometimes... I mean." Sam leaned his chin on Dean's shoulder as he thought, hands moving over Dean's belly. "I'd like a dog. I want a dog. Can't have a dog in the car. Well, not in motels all the time." He huffed out a breath and tapped Dean's arm, "turn around." Turning toward Sam, Dean tilted his head back and wet his lips, enjoying the feel of Sam's hands over him. His own hands rose to lie on Sam's body, massaging softly. "You know... if you wanted... I'd be okay with that. Getting a place, around here or something. We could still hunt; maybe we'd go once every few months or something... I just..." Dean frowned and scratched the side of his neck. "Getting hurt like this really got me thinking about things. If it had been you in this place, I'd... it wouldn't even be a question. I wouldn't want your life at risk like that again. But your life is at risk, and this could have happened to you, just as easily. I'm not so sure anymore if I can just be okay with taking those changes again." "Both of us... worth the same." Sam slipped down to kneel in the tub and rubbed the bar of soap on Dean's thigh and worked his way down his leg. "So - you'd like to settle a bit?" He looked up, blinking as the water sprayed across his face. There were times when Sam would love a home, a place to have things. All those things that other people take for granted, their own TV and a couch - God a couch that no one else had sat on. Sam thought about a nice big bed with crisp white sheets and a big fluffy down comforter. "And I'd like a big fluffy quilt," he mumbled. Dean blinked, caught a flicker of light and blinked again. It was gone just as quick but it was the third something after so much darkness so that was progress he supposed. "A big fluffy quilt huh?" Dean smiled softly and reached out until he could touch Sam's hair. If he were honest, the last couple weeks hadn't been so bad - minus the no eyesight thing. Just hanging out with the dad, not worrying about supernatural creatures, enjoying things like fishing and beating their dad at poker. "So... maybe we can try it. I... I'm sure we could find jobs. Dad did it, gave up hunting..." he moved slightly up into Sam's thighs, feeling the strangest sort of relief floating through him. It would be nice to not have to worry all the time that something bad might happen and the more he considered the possibility, the better it sounded. Sam stood up again, groaning, "I'm gettin' old." His nose wrinkled as he laughed quietly, "so can I get a dog?" He pressed his lips to Dean's, slipping his tongue forward to sweep across his brother's lips. When Dean started to answer, Sam parted his lips and pressed into Dean's mouth. Slow movements, tongues pushing then retreating, they kissed until Sam was panting softly under the sound of the rushing water. "So... can I?" "Yeah and a big fluffy quilt," Dean chuckled and pressed back into Sam, using his hands on Sam's jaw to hold him firmly in place and kiss him hard. His hands slid down Sam's neck, shoulders, arms until he could grasp the soap in Sam's hands. Dean slid his tongue forward to sweep along the inside of Sam's mouth as he rubbed the soap in small circles along his brother's chest, covering every inch of him. He moaned into the kiss and pressed forward to rub their soapy bodies together as his hands slid around to Sam's back, continuing the circles. A small noise of encouragement fell from Sam's lips as his hands dipped down to ass, massaging the soap into the firm flesh, squeezing roughly, fingers trailing along the crack. Dean dropped the soap so he had both hands free to slide around to Sam's hips, working through the curls and dipping low to massage low between his legs. It always felt so different, sliding together, soapy and slick. Sometimes, it felt as though they simply had to keep moving because they couldn't hold on to each other. Sam twisted his hips from side to side, loving the way their bodies moved. Sam's lips broke from Dean's as he dipped his head down to drag his tongue down his brother's neck; sun-kissed skin, rough then smooth, scarred then perfect, Dean. Running his parted lips along Dean's collar bone, Sam pressed up hard against his brother's body. "Can I..." teeth caught the flesh on Dean's neck, "have two dogs?" Straightening, Sam let his tongue trace the edge of Dean's ear. "We'll... see..." Dean said through a soft moan, body pushing forward into Sam then pulling him back so they could both step under the spray. "Maybe... I'll get a dog. Then we'll have two..." he grinned and pushed Sam against the wall, hands dragging along his skin. "I'm gonna get a toy poodle. Name it Fluff Ball or something," he laughed at this, trailing off into a soft moan as their cocks brushed together, soapy and slick. "Hmmm," Sam's hand squeezed in between them, long fingers curling around both their cocks, "Fluff ball... gay" he whispered as his hand stroked up slowly. Letting his head fall back against the tiled wall he hummed happily and curved his free hand over his brother's hip. Sam wondered briefly if they were using up all the hot water then quickly decided as his hand stroked down - that it would be worth getting grief from their Dad. "And I..." Dean moaned softly and rocked up into Sam's hand. "Am totally not gay." He grinned as his head dipped forward to rest in the crook of Sam's neck, breathing in the smell of water and his brother, mixed together in his senses. His hand dropped down to massage along Sam's balls, working the flesh slowly between his fingers. He couldn't get his hips to stop moving up into Sam's touch, another moan falling from his mouth. "Don't care ..." Sam sucked a bruise onto Dean's neck then worked his way back up to his brother's mouth, "what you are..." He licked Dean's mouth open, pushing, wanting - hand stroking harder and faster as Dean's hips rocked up into him. His hand sneaked around to Dean's ass, squeezing, rubbing, massaging then running down the cleft of his ass. "Could we..." panting, Sam rested his cheek against Dean's, hand working both their swollen shafts. "Bed... bed with a headboard... maybe you could..." Sam could feel himself blushing, heat creeping up his body. Dean moaned low in his throat, trying to keep his voice quiet so their dad wouldn't hear in case he was awake and home. Dean still had no idea what time it was. "Y-yeah..." he murmured, pressing hard into Sam's body, hips jerking steadily. "So I can... tie you up," he grinned into Sam's neck and sucked hard on the skin, bringing blood to the surface. He nudged Sam's legs apart gently and prodded his finger down lower, massaging the puckered flesh with a still soap covered finger. "Handcuffs? Blindfold? Train your senses?" he murmured as his lips shifted up to press against Sam's ear. Sam's entire body shuddered at the thought of being tied up by his brother, fingers stroking their cocks faster. "Fuck, I can't even..." his mind just stopped working, images of his brother controlling him pushing everything else out of his mind. "Hot..." Sam arched off the wall, shoving his hips forward against Dean's as he stroked harder, faster, "Dean..." He sucked his way down his brother's neck, leaving dots of bruising all the way down. The heat radiating out from his cock spread through his body quickly and Sam could feel his swollen balls drawing up as his body launched toward release. "God Sam," Dean groaned as his body rolled into Sam's, trying to get as close as possible. Everything in him was tingling pleasantly and his knees threatened to give out a moment before everything in him tightened. His hands lifted to wrap around Sam's neck and slam their lips together, moaning into the kiss loudly as his orgasm tore through him. He could feel the heat splash up against his body, tongue sliding forward to circle swiftly along his brother's. Dean's cry was muffled by Dean's mouth, he came long and hard sliding down the wall slightly until Dean caught him. Cocks throbbing and pulsing together, Sam moaned again, hands suddenly needing to be everywhere on Dean's body. "How... " Sam's eyes fluttered closed as he tried to breath, "how do you still make me feel..." words failed him and he simply fell against his brother's body. With a soft hum Dean smiled and brushed his forehead along Sam's. "Well... you pretty much always blow my mind..." he chuckled and stepped back, pulling Sam under the spray with him. "I think it's always gonna be that way, no one could ever compare," he said softly as he ducked his head under the spray. Tipping his face up into the water Sam shook his head, letting his hair stick to his cheeks and forehead. "Dad's gonna kill us," he grinned, "hot water." "Maybe we should get out," Dean nodded and laughed softly. "Maybe he's not up yet and we can pretend like we have no idea why there's no hot water." He stepped back, letting Sam turn off the shower and help him out. They towelled off quickly and tucked individual towels around their waists. Sam checked the hallway before they darted across to the room, giggling like they were little kids all over again. The hardest thing about the days following their arrival at their dad's was the little flickers of light that occasionally penetrated Dean's vision. They'd arrive so quickly and be gone in a blink and that spark of hope in Dean always flared only to be snuffed out. It made him a little more irritable then usual and there were several occasions where he almost lost his temper with both their dad and Sam. The men were remarkably patient though, knowing him well enough to sense when his mood was taking a turn for the worse. Sam did his best to reassure him, using gentle touches and quiet words. Sometimes Dean hovered right by his side to feel reassured, other times he sat on the front step and listened to the wind and quiet noises of the neighbourhood, wearing sunglasses at Sam's insistence. They talked to their dad about their plans to stay around for awhile, settle down for a bit, five days post surgery. Even though Dean couldn't see his face, he could tell the man was pleased with the decision. He'd never press them into anything, he'd learned his mistake there, but Dean knew the man had to feel comforted by the idea. Sam was so outrageously excited about the whole thing he took to dragging Dean to the library so they could sit by the newspapers and computers and Sam could read off information about job openings and places for rent. Dean couldn't help chuckling whenever Sam would spot something and lean over to whisper excitedly toward him. Like when he learned the library they were so often at was hiring. It seemed like the perfect position for Sam, who still wasn't one hundred percent comfortable talking to random strangers. One week post surgery Dean's vision shifted. There was still a large circle of black but he could see things just along the edges. It was almost more irritating then the flashes of light because he couldn't focus in on things no matter how hard he tried. But every now and then he'd get just the glimpse of his brother's face and it made everything okay for awhile. John joined Dean outside after dinner one night while Sam was doing the dishes, pressing a beer into his palm and sitting close enough to feel the slight heat of his presence. Dean thought they might just sit in silence, enjoy the fact that they could be around each other without snapping, but then his dad mentioned a guy at his work that was moving in the next month and the fact that they'd need an extra pair of hands. It took Dean a few minutes to get his throat to work enough to grunt out a quiet, "that'd be good," and even then he had to push up from the step and head inside, hand clapping down on his dad's shoulder in passing. Sam was a little surprised by the tears in his eyes until Dean explained the reasoning softly and strong arms wrapped around him. He'd never be able to explain why it affected him so much but it did and he'd probably never be able to thank his father enough for everything he'd done for them. Despite the fact that Dean still couldn't see he was happier now than he had ever been, which was saying quite a bit. Dean woke halfway through the second week post surgery and knew everything was different, before even opening his eyes. When he did, slowly, he could see the soft sunlight coming from the thick blinds covering the window. The room was slightly fuzzy, even when he rubbed curled fingers into his eyes, but it was there. Dean's heart lurched in his chest and he rolled along the mattress, nudging the still sleeping Sam until he fell onto his back. "Oh..." he breathed softly, eyes sliding along Sam's face slowly. He hadn't changed at all, of course, but Dean found himself memorizing every little detail all over again. He shifted on the mattress to get comfortable, eyes never leaving Sam's features. Dean smiled gently as he extended his arm, fingers lying over Sam's heart, moving with the rise and fall of air leaving his lungs. Yawning, Sam cracked an eye open, "hey," he murmured as he closed his eye again. Then something twigged in Sam's mind, the way those green eyes were looking at him. Looking at him. Afraid to open his eyes again, Sam took a deep breath. "Are you ...?" Voice cracking slightly Sam turned his face toward his brother's. "You looking at me?" His eyes open and he saw - clear as day - that Dean was looking at his face. "You're looking at me," he said again, lips twitching into a smile. Dean matched Sam's smile easily and he reached out to touch his face softly. "Yeah. Still a little fuzzy but... yeah," he chuckled, heart fluttering once more at the happiness radiating off his brother. "This is going to sound lame but god I've missed you," he murmured and slid up so he was sitting, tugging Sam up into his lap even if his brother was all limbs and could barely fit. Throwing his head back in laughter Sam grabbed Dean's cheeks and stared into his eyes. "God, that's..." He leaned forward and wrapped himself around his brother's body. "I ... this ... is the best news." Sighing into Dean's hair he sat back a little, hands clasped behind Dean's neck. "Can I stop talking now?" He winked, not even sure if Dean could see it. "Hmm no I don't think you can, not if you're gonna be a workin' boy," Dean chuckled and slid his hands down Sam's body. His head turned slightly at the sound of a dish clattering in the kitchen. "I wanna go see dad before he leaves for work, let him know the good news, then I'm gonna come back and reacquaint myself with you," Dean grinned bright before dipping forward to brush their lips together. "Okay," Sam flopped back onto the bed off his brother's lap. "M'not going anywhere." Sighing happily he watched Dean as he picked his jeans up and pulled them on then padded quietly over to the door. By himself. Tucking his hands under his head, Sam grinned. Dean stood just inside the kitchen, small smile curling his lips up as he watched his dad move around the kitchen. He blinked a few times, instinctively trying to clear away the fuzz, before clearing his throat softly, "mornin'." He really was just as excited for his dad to know about his sight, in a lot different ways from Sam, because it meant they could finally get started living this new life they'd been talking about. "Hey Dean," John rubbed at his eyes sleepily, "coffee's made -want some?" He glanced over his shoulder, frowned, did a double take then turned. "Where's Sam?" "Still in bed, I... we're not getting up yet, just wanted to come say hi before you left for work," his smile grew, confirming the suspicion on his father's face by saying, "hey maybe you can invite Gloria to dinner tonight." Dean had put off meeting her, explaining that he didn't really want to feel uncomfortable the first time he met his dad's girlfriend. "You..." John put his coffee cup down on the counter, "I'll be damned. Can you see?" He stepped closer to Dean and reached out his hand. Dean grinned and stepped forward, catching his dad's hand in his and tugging him in for a tight hug. He didn't even care that he was still shirtless and it might otherwise be awkward and he had a pretty good hunch his dad didn't care either. "Yeah it's still fuzzy but no more black. It's fucking fantastic." He chuckled as he squeezed his dad once more before stepping back. Tousling Dean's hair John laughed warmly against his son's neck. "That is the best news ...man..." he stood back shaking his head slowly with a huge smile on his face. "Gloria will love to come and meet you two. God..." He whacked Dean in the shoulder, "this is... this is great." Dean couldn't recall ever seeing his father so happy and it made his grin only wider. "It is. It's really great. So you invite her, and Sam and I will have something cooking by the time you get home tonight," he nodded swiftly, stepping back toward the door. "Hey dad? Thanks for... you know... everything..." his smile softened slightly, eyes dropping to the ground for a moment before lifting back up. "You're my son." John leaned back against the kitchen counter, "you're my oldest. Always a special place for you." He cleared his throat, "God... uh ... I should get to work. Good." He pushed off the counter. "Great... I'll - we'll see you tonight." He was still grinning as he walked out through the living room. Dean swallowed a few times to gain some control over the swirl of emotions working through him before he turned and headed back to the hall to their bedroom. Sam was dozing off again and Dean grinned, shutting the door silently before slipping out of his jeans and boxers. He considered the long line of his brother body for a few minutes; head tilted to the side, heat swirling up in him, before he darted across the floor and nearly jumped on top of him. "Guess I'm gonna have to take it upon myself to wake you up properly," he chuckled, lifting up on his hands to stare down at Sam's face. So, my name is Dean Winchester and I live in Kansas with my brother Sam. And technically my dad too but he lives ten minutes from us, gotta have some privacy after all, and trust me he's learned his lesson about coming over without calling first. We won't get into that though. Awhile ago I got hit on the head, some crazy fucked up thing and suddenly I was blind for more than a month. I learned a lot about myself during that time, which is probably why I'm writing this now. I meant to get around to it earlier but things have been pretty busy since we settled down here. Weird how a life that's not constantly spent on the road moving from place to place can be so busy. Sam, my brother, lover, most important person ever, works at the library. He's kind of geek so it works for him. I make my living alongside my dad in the auto body shop. It's kind of fitting because my entire life my dad trained me to work the "family business" and here I am, working with him. Just not in the way I always thought I would be. I miss hunting sometimes, and I think I might have Sam look for a case, but it's kind of nice to be selfish. And it's more than nice to not be watching my back constantly, to go about my day and know I have something real and solid to come home too. Home. Yeah, that's pretty nice too. We have a couple puppies, which we got literally two days after we moved into our new place, before we even had a couch. Sam was pretty eager about the whole thing. Sam's dog is Magneto - yeah, lame I know - and he's a German Sheppard - who struts around the place like he owns it. I picked out a mutt who'd been stuck in a cage with a bunch of yapping Chihuahua's, I felt too bad for the guy not too. He came with the name John but that was too weird so I renamed him Zeppelin. I call him Zepp but Sam calls him fluff ball. Which isn't funny. At. All. Not that long ago Gloria moved in with my dad. She's sweet and funny and pretty perfect for him, as close as he'll get to it anyway. I don't think they'll ever get married because she could never be what my mom was to my dad but she doesn't seem to mind that much. She's even okay with the few pictures of my mom my dad has up, which gets her my approval even if she wasn't awesome. Life is so much different than it was even six months ago. And mostly it's all awesome. Sam talks a lot more, and I think that had to do with my time spent without sight. He still has his moments where he just can't and I get that. And I don't mind either. I get Sam. I always have. And he gets me. We work that way, constantly move around each other in a familiar flow. I don't know if we'll stay in this place forever, but that doesn't bother me. Because I know I'll be with Sam. And really? That's all that matters. Master Post

"I'm going to die," Eames tells him, sprawled on his living room sofa like a Victorian maiden with the vapors, complete with one arm flung over his eyes. His laptop is sitting on the coffee table, and the cursor does not appear to have moved in Arthur's absence. "You can die after you finish this draft," Arthur says, and places a cup of coffee on the table that he picked up from the shop down the street. "Have mercy, darling," Eames moans, and then cracks open an eye. "You brought me coffee?" "Drink it, stop whining, and finish that draft, or I swear to god, Mr. Eames, I will strangle you and enjoy it thoroughly." Eames sits up and sips obediently at the coffee, and then smiles at Arthur. "You remembered the sugar," he says happily. "Of course I remembered," Arthur bites out. "It is, in fact, my job to pay attention to details." "It's why you're the best," Eames says with casual confidence. Arthur sets down his own cup of coffee (cream, no sugar). "Mr. Eames, I cannot do my job unless you do yours. What, precisely, is your problem?" "I would let you strangle me in a sexy kind of way if that's what you're into," Eames says. Arthur grits his teeth. "Mr. Eames." Eames goes serious then, in the blink of an eye, and it still startles Arthur after all this time. "The middle doesn't seem to be sitting right," he says. Arthur has a photographic memory, and scans through the text in his head. "Well, think about this..." *** Arthur has, on occasion, described Eames to other people as Mr. Super Genius Novelist. They invariably laugh, assuming Arthur is being sarcastic. He isn't. Eames, in fact, is the kind of person that should only exist in a story -- an extremely ridiculous, self-indulgent story. Eames is an unquestionably brilliant writer, who has managed the impossible tasks of making literary critics salivate over each successive work and charming the general public into handing over a lot of money to buy many copies. He grew up stupidly wealthy, and has only become more so since his debut. Arthur has been his editor from the beginning. Eames says he won't work with anyone else, and what Arthur will never tell him is that he would cut anyone who tried. *** "What is this?' Arthur says a few weeks later. Eames taps his cigarette in the ashtray. "I understand, of course, that I'd have to publish it under a nom de plume." "Of course you would. That's not the issue," Arthur says faintly, paging down through the document file and feeling his eyes widen. "Mr. Eames, this is pornography. This is unbridled, unapologetic, filthy smut." Eames waggles his eyebrows. "You have a problem with that, darling?" "I have a problem with my name being in this!" Arthur bursts out. Eames just drinks his coffee calmly. "Well, once I decided on the character's name, it practically wrote itself." Arthur takes a deep breath. "If you intend on publishing this, you are changing the damn name. And the whole scene with the buttplug needs to be rewritten." Eames frowns at that. "What's wrong with it?" "The dialogue makes me want to retch," Arthur says flatly. "For instance -- Arthur looked up at him, eyes glazed and desperate. 'Give it to me, I need it so bad, put your enormous prick in me right now--'" "You'd prefer 'cock'?" Eames asks seriously. "I'm going to publish this, and then I'm going to kill you," Arthur informs him. Eames claps his hands together in delight. "I knew I could depend on you, pet." *** The porn sells terribly well. Arthur doesn't know why he's remotely surprised -- it's not like Eames hasn't already demonstrated a remarkable ability to tap into the mentality of this generation. Tapping into their id apparently isn't much of a stretch. Arthur keeps himself buttoned up and thoroughly professional, even while editing a manuscript that is basically sex every ten pages. Still, there is some plot, and Eames has structured it like a romance -- and Arthur will admit (but only to himself) that the relationship between fake Arthur and Stephen is rather moving. The only moment of danger is when he's going over final edits with Eames, and Eames is leaning over the coffee table, chin in his hand and face covered with three-day old stubble, and Arthur knows that he's barely slept. His voice is a low rasp when he says, "Do you think it's too much?" The roughness of his voice, combined with the scene they're looking at, almost threatens to make Arthur betray himself, but instead he says, "What, exactly?" "The end bit, with all the love confessions." "Stephen has spent this entire book making Arthur have an improbable number of orgasms. I don't think an 'I love you' or two is out of the question," Arthur says. "Is that your personal opinion, or professional one?" Eames asks. "My professional opinion is the only one that matters," Arthur says firmly, and then, more coaxingly, "The sooner we finish, the sooner you can sleep." "The things I do for your deadlines, Arthur darling," Eames says, and musters an exhausted smile for him. "I didn't twist your arm and make you write porn, if you'll recall," Arthur says. "Come on, just a little more." Eames yawns then, a jaw-cracking affair that nearly makes Arthur yawn in sympathy. "All right, then," he says, and they turn to the last of the edits. *** Before Arthur had met Eames, someone had broken Eames' heart. Eames has never spoken of it, and Arthur has never asked. Their relationship is a professional one, and it's one that Arthur intends to protect, no matter what. The first meeting he had with Eames in his penthouse apartment, Eames had grabbed a single key off his kitchen counter, and pressed it in Arthur's hand. "What's this for?" Arthur had asked. Eames' face is quiet and still, and he says casually, "It's for the front door. I write when I can and sleep when I'm not, so it'll be more convenient for you if you just take it." Arthur had placed it carefully in his jacket pocket -- it was by no means normal, but he was prepared to put up with quite a lot for the brilliance he saw in Eames' first novel. He had been about to leave, when he said, "The novel's dedication -- you left it blank. Who did you want to dedicate it to?" Eames had smiled then, without joy. "I had someone in mind, but circumstances have made that quite impossible, I'm afraid." When Arthur had looked at the proofs and seen his name there, he'd thought it was a joke. A joke that left him with a heavy feeling in his throat, but a joke nonetheless. "You have an odd sense of humor," he'd told Eames, afterward. "I assure you, darling, it was sincerely meant. You did take a chance on me, after all." Arthur scoffed. "Only an idiot would have passed you up." Eames' eyes were warm and rueful. "You'd be surprised." *** Arthur uses his key to open the front door to Eames' penthouse, and juggles the coffee carrier in his hands with the bakery box and a bag of reference books before hip-checking the door open. Eames doesn't call out a greeting when Arthur walks over to the kitchen, which means that Eames is either gone, or he's asleep. From the lump on the couch under a truly hideous afghan, Arthur is going with "asleep." He puts coffee on the table in front of the couch, and settles down in his usual armchair. They were supposed to have a meeting now, but there is a short stack of paper on the table with a post-it that says, "DARLING," so Arthur takes it up and reads through it. Eames doesn't write outlines for his novels, per se -- he writes these stream of consciousness things that are frequently not in complete sentences, routinely abuse capslock, and contain direct questions to Arthur: i don't know, i don't want this to be some fucking space opera, not that space operas can't be good but then youre just going to start asking me questions about physics which are pretty interesting but i cant be fucked to really deal with it, so maybe it shouldnt be set in the future after all but in new york in 1880, what do you know about new york in 1880? did the metro exist then, check that will you darling It's a terrible assault on grammar and punctuation, but Arthur loves them beyond all reason. They're for an audience of one, and no one but Arthur will ever see them. It's a part of Eames that he doesn't have to share with the world, and he hoards them jealously. "You have the loveliest smile," Eames says, and Arthur jumps in his seat. "Pity I don't get to see it more often." "I'd smile more if you'd quit blowing your deadlines," Arthur says, but his heart's not really in it. "It's not my deadlines I want to blow, pet," Eames says, giving him the easy innuendo that he expects at this point in their relationship. Arthur rolls his eyes. "I'm not done reading this yet. Go back to sleep." "Mmm, if you say so," Eames says, and his eyes slide shut again. *** Arthur's boss, Dominic Cobb, gives him an astounding amount of leeway. Then again, Dom knows what side his bread is buttered on, and his mantra regarding Eames is, "Keep him happy, keep him writing." Arthur endeavors to do both, and for the most part, he is quite successful. Of course he has other authors he works with, but Eames is always his first priority, and Arthur has no compunctions about electronically bitchslapping lesser writers into doing what he wants. He saves the home visits and face time for Eames, who tends to start having crises about dialect or planning unscheduled getaway trips to Marseilles if Arthur doesn't drop by every three days or so. "What do you think of Munich?" Eames asks one day. Arthur looks up from his Blackberry. "Do you need reference materials? I can go to the library." "No, darling, I meant: what do you think about Munich? As a travel destination," Eames says, looking at Arthur intently. "As I am not going to Munich, and you are most certainly not going anywhere until this story is finished, I don't see what it matters." Eames actually pouts, and it looks disturbingly appealing on him. "Don't you ever take a break? We've known each other for years, pet, and I can't think that you've been out of reach for more than a handful of days at a time." "Not all of us have trust funds," Arthur reminds him. Eames looks upset. "But you do get holidays, surely?" Arthur sighs. "I do, I just use them here and there instead of going on big trips. I don't like coming back to find all the work that's piled up when I've been away." Eames gets a look on his face that Arthur just knows is trouble. "But darling, I'm your work, am I not? So if I wanted to go somewhere for research, and I took you with me, it'd be like a business trip, yeah?" Arthur feels his face heat at the possessive note in Eames' voice. Nothing good comes from spoiling writers, he tells himself. "I don't just edit your work, you know," he tells Eames. "I have other authors." Eames leans forward into Arthur's space. "A week," he says, nearly a croon. "We'll research locations for the novel, look at some very nice architecture, drink Riesling and maybe even relax a little." Arthur is nearly seduced by the thought of all that baroque and rococo architecture. "I can't," he makes himself say. Eames sits back, but he doesn't look any less determined. Arthur should have known that just because he shut up about it didn't mean that he'd stopped thinking about it. This is the unfortunate part about working with people born into stupid amounts of wealth -- they are really, really accustomed to getting their way, and Eames is no different. "So, Arthur," Dom says, poking his head into Arthur's office the next day. "I had an interesting phone call from Mr. Eames." "Oh god," Arthur says, and puts his head down on his desk. "What did he want?" He can practically hear Dom's obnoxious smile. "It seems Mr. Eames wants you for his very own." "What," Arthur says faintly. He turns his head to see Dom squinting at him. "He didn't actually mean -- well, maybe he did, but he was pretty explicit about wanting you to edit only his projects." "You told him no, right?" "Arthur," Dom says seriously, "How many awards did his last two novels win? How many books has he sold? You and I both know that his next novel could damn well win the Pulitzer. I told him yes." "Dom," Arthur moans, "how could you do this to me?" "Make him take you to Paris," Mal says, having slowed to a stop in the doorway. "I hate both of you," Arthur says. "If you must," Mal says, her mouth curved in a knowing smile. "But you will love Paris, Arthur." "Ugh," Arthur says feelingly. *** Arthur unlocks Eames' front door and throws it open. "Are you actually crazy?" he demands. Eames is in the kitchen, poking at a skillet and wearing -- Jesus Christ -- an eye-searing bathrobe over some thankfully inoffensive pajama pants. "I thought you said a little bit of crazy helped sell books." "Fake crazy," Arthur says. "People like eccentric authors. That's not the point. The point is, I can't believe you called Dom." Eames lifts two eggs out of the pan and puts them on a plate in front of Arthur at the counter. "Toast?" he inquires. "I -- what? I'm not eating breakfast, Mr. Eames, I'm in the middle of yelling at you." "Yell away, darling, but eat something -- and you have the temerity to complain about how I run myself ragged. Your trousers are a little loose around the bum these days." Arthu opens his mouth to complain about Eames noticing the fit of his pants, but Eames just puts two pieces of toast on his plate, and Arthur's stomach lets out an embarrassing gurgle. "Go on, then," Eames says coaxingly. "Don't worry, the eggs are over hard -- I know you've a horror of runny yolk, even though it really is delicious, darling, and the chances of salmonella poisoning aren't all that high." Arthur picks up his fork then, and takes a hesitant bite. It's perfectly fine, and he is hungry, and it's right in front of him, so he may as well. Eames cracks two more eggs into the pan, and says, "Here's the thing, darling. I've an idea, and I need you." "The not-space opera thing?" Arthur asks, confused. "No," Eames says. "I want to write a heist novel." "Okay," Arthur says slowly. "What brought this on?" "After I got off the phone with Mr. Cobb -- who was quite gracious, by the way, about surrendering you entirely to me -- I thought of something. I want to write about people stealing ideas." Arthur is about to yell at him about how he hasn't been surrendered, when his mind ticks through the rest of the sentence. "Stealing ideas? Like corporate espionage?" "A bit," Eames says, and leans forward on the counter to brush two fingers against Arthur's temple. "But from people's minds." "I need a pen. And some paper," Arthur says, and unearths both from a fruit dish not being used for its intended purpose. "Tell me everything," he says, and Eames' smile could make Arthur move mountains. *** "I don't really understand what your problem is," Dom says on the phone, and then hollers something at Yusuf. Arthur jerks his ear back from the phone at Dom's bellow, and then cautiously puts it back again. "Mr. Eames wants me to go with him to Europe." "For research, I heard you. Well, it's not like you have to babysit Takahashi and that fuckface Nash anymore -- Ariadne's got it pretty much in hand. You should have heard her yell at Nash the other day, it was pretty good for me on a spiritual level. You might as well go." "And you're not worried about Eames essentially kidnapping me for an unspecified period of time and taking me out of the country," Arthur says. "I've already basically prostituted my best editor to him, so kidnapping's not really fazing me at this point. Plus as long as he's paying for it, I say, enjoy your vacation." "It's a business trip," Arthur enunciates. "As long as you come back with a draft, you can call it whatever you want," Dom says, and then cruelly hangs up. "Well, that's sorted," Eames says cheerfully. "Pack your things, pet -- a good friend of mine has offered his private jet to us for the occasion." Arthur stares at him in horror. "You know that is absolutely not normal, right?" Eames grins at him. "Only the best for you, darling." *** "Are you telling me that this jet belongs to Saito? The Saito?" Arthur says faintly. "He's an old family friend," Eames says dismissively. "It's like you come from another planet," Arthur says in utter disbelief. Even on actual business trips, Cobb makes him fly coach, and he's only upgraded a few times. Arthur knows that the flight isn't going to last forever, and it seems impractical and rather wasteful to spend so much money on a little extra leg room. He'd much rather have a new suit or a pair of shoes -- Arthur's finances, after all, are not inexhaustive, and he has priorities. Still, he'll admit the private jet is rather nice, even if Eames is rather shamelessly trying to get him drunk. "It's going to make me fall asleep," Arthur accuses. Eames taps the cover of Arthur's laptop. "Go to sleep, then, pet. You can have a nice long nap before we land." Arthur frowns at him. "What about you?" Eames looks over the rims of his reading glasses, and the sight is so familiar and intimate that Arthur feels a dangerous rush of affection. "I'm in the middle of something," he says, fingers tapping steadily at his laptop. "Sleep well, darling, and if you can arrange to dream of me -- well, tell me about it when you wake." "Oh, please," Arthur says, and settles back in his seat and closes his eyes. *** Munich is bright and beautiful and appealingly tidy, and Arthur thinks he's a little bit in love. The cab deposits them in front of a hotel, and Eames has the gall to guide him inside with a hand hovering at the small of his back, but Arthur is too busy trying to take everything in to really care. He revises that opinion when they reach their hotel room, which only has one bed. "Right or left side?" Eames says. "Are you absolutely serious?" Arthur demands. "Please try not to be so American about it, darling," Eames says. Arthur raises an incredulous eyebrow. "What if I wake up in the middle of the night and urgently need to discuss an idea with you?" Eames tries again. "Wake me up for that and die," Arthur says, and puts his bags down on the right side of the bed. "Does that mean I can wake you up for other things, pet?" Eames asks, and his voice drops down to something sinful and warm and Arthur has to mentally shake himself. "You can wake me up if you win the Booker Prize," Arthur says, which is admittedly a little mean since Eames was shortlisted last year and is still extremely upset about it. Eames dumps his luggage on the left side of the bed. "I'm going to win it this year, darling. Fucking Salman Rushdie, must he win everything?" he mutters, and stalks off to the bathroom. *** Arthur gives Eames exactly zero choice about their destination that afternoon, and drags him off to a cafe on the Marienplatz. "Okay," Arthur says. "People stealing ideas. How?" "Mmm," Eames says, taking a sip of coffee. "What if you could share dreams?" Arthur frowns and looks off at the direction of the Neues Rathaus, with brilliant red blossoms hanging like clouds off the facade. "Intentionally? Like going into someone's head?" "Don't go all X-Files on me, darling." "You're the one who's talking about dream-sharing," Arthur huffs, because he still regrets letting it slip to Eames that he's seen the entire series, even the last season. "Anyway, how would it work?" Eames appears to be looking at Arthur's hands where they are cradling his coffee cup, but Arthur can tell from the unfocused look in his eyes that he's a million miles away. "If the mind hid secrets like people hide valuables in vaults, couldn't you break in and steal them?" "But how would you know where to find them? Couldn't anything happen in a dream?" Arthur counters, brow furrowed. His eyes are drawn back to the Mariensäule, with its golden Madonna and Child crowning the column, soaring far above the winged putti battling beasts at the base, and the thought of creating architecture like that spurs him on to say, "What if -- what if the thieves could somehow -- I don't know, what if the thieves could construct the dream?" Eames' head snaps up at that, and he says thoughtfully, "As though the thieves are the only ones with the blueprints, and the mark can only inhabit the dream they create." Arthur tries to sip his coffee calmly, but he can't deny the frisson of excitement running down his spine. It's a measure of how long and how well they've worked together, Arthur's bitching notwithstanding, that Eames feels comfortable using Arthur as a sounding board. Arthur wonders who Eames talked to before he came along, but maybe he didn't talk to anyone. His first manuscript came to Arthur as a completed draft, so Arthur didn't actually go through the genesis of a story with Eames until his second novel. Eames had been hesitant then, at least until Arthur had told him in no uncertain terms that if he was having trouble writing, then he needed to sit the hell down and walk Arthur through it. Eames fleshed out the story as he talked, and Arthur course-corrected with questions and suggestions until Eames disappeared into his office to write. He doesn't have to pry anything out of Eames now, and hasn't in years. Eames sends his not-outlines to Arthur, and emails him with an overabundance of exclamation points and truly obnoxious emoticons, and keeps Arthur in his penthouse well into the night as he wanders around, thinking aloud. "Blueprints," Arthur says thoughtfully, still looking at the Mariensäule. "An architect. Someone builds the dream, and then the others are pulled in." Eames' fingers are tapping on the table, like he needs his laptop right now. Sure enough, he says, "Stay if you like, pet, but I need to--" "Go on," Arthur says. "I'll bring dinner." Eames stands, then, and gently touches Arthur's shoulder as he leaves to cross the expanse of the Marienplatz on the way back to their hotel. Arthur goes to Peterskirche and spends some time looking at the Zimmerman ceiling fresco and the Gothic paintings by Polack, before forking over a number of Euros at a small store for bread and cheese and fruit. Eames will eat while he writes, so long as he doesn't have to spare his attention from his laptop to do it. Arthur feels very sure that Eames would have starved to death during his third novel if Arthur hadn't come by on an extremely regular basis to feed him. When he gets back to the hotel, Eames is sitting at the desk, glasses on, and his fingers are flying over the keys. Arthur has worked with a number of authors, but he is still astonished by how quickly Eames writes when he puts his mind to it. Arthur piles pillows against the headboard and settles on the bed with his own laptop to go through some proofs of an article Eames wrote a few months ago, and when he takes a break to put some food on plates for the both of them, Eames acknowledges the food at his elbow with an absent-minded, "Thank you, darling," before returning to rapid-fire typing. The typing halts, eventually, and Eames commences staring out the window. Arthur knows to leave him be, and reads part of a manuscript before sending it Yusuf's way, since Yusuf is all over this werecreature bullshit. Even if Arthur were not tied entirely to Eames, he would still rather stab himself then spend his waking hours forcing the author to at least develop an internally-consistent worldview about scent-marking, for Christ's sake. He changes into a t-shirt and worn pajama bottoms before going to bed. Eames will sleep when he sleeps, and Arthur has stayed up long enough in the attempt to reset his internal clock to local time. Eames is still staring on the window into the night when Arthur's eyes close. *** He wakes up with his face basically mashed into Eames' hip. Eames is sitting up in bed, computer on his lap, and he appears to be reading a Wikipedia article about the kakapo bird. "Morning, pet," Eames says, and the rumble of his voice makes Arthur want to do something wildly inappropriate, like nuzzle Eames' hip and close his eyes again. It's stupid and dangerous, because to the best of Arthur's knowledge, there has been no one for Eames since they started working together. Arthur sometimes catches himself fruitlessly wondering who the love of Eames' life was, and how they could burn and salt the earth of his heart and leave him behind. He wonders what kind of person could inspire the dizzying, wide-eyed wonder of Eames' first novel and the gut-wrenching heartache of the second, and though he knows he has never loved as Eames has loved, he can't imagine it's the sort of love one just gets over. Eames sinks his fingers into Arthur's hair, one thumb rubbing against his temple. "Are you truly awake, I wonder?" he asks, teasing. Arthur closes his eyes for just a moment then, luxuriating in the gentle scratch of Eames' fingernails against his scalp. Then he sighs, rolls over, and levers himself out of bed, because he really shouldn't do this to himself. *** Obviously, Arthur has been entangled in Eames' creative process before, but he's never been quite so intimately entwined. The hotel room should feel claustrophobic, since Eames seems to permeate and dominate the space, shuffling between the desk and the bed with his laptop never out of reach. But Arthur has had years of exposure to Eames, and he sincerely doubts that he's in danger of overdosing now. Arthur goes out into the city and walks around, retrieving coffee and foraging for food, drinking in the sight of extraordinary rococo architecture and the everyday newspaper stands. When he comes back, Eames has passed out on the bed, face-first. Arthur allows himself the small indulgence of flipping the half of the bedspread that Eames isn't lying on over him, but Eames doesn't stir and just sleeps on. He's going to completely fuck his sleep schedule, at this rate, but since Eames can do that while writing without the excuse of a different time zone, Arthur doesn't think it much matters. Arthur goes back to reading a not-outline of Eames' next foray into wretchedly filthy pornography, which -- how is this his life? He shifts uncomfortably in the desk chair, because Eames has put a lot of very explicit thought into this, and Arthur isn't to be blamed if his brain starts to run together all the things that Eames wants Arthur the character to do, and the things he actually asks Arthur, although the latter seems nearly as salacious as the former: the first round should be feverish and fast, they're both wound up from jealousy and fucking desperate for it, and afterward, when arthur is all fucked out and sprawled on the bed, stephen tells him there's no one else and then they should fuck again, bareback and messy and slow and hard, arthur lying on his side and gasping every time stephen bottoms out and wait back up, there should really be some quality rimming in there, maybe after round one when arthur is still quivering after having come against the wall, and stephen can push him down on the bed and eat his arse out -- if you make me write ass instead of arse, darling, i suppose i will live but i really think this is an important question of artistic integrity-- Arthur should really stop reading it because he's painfully hard, and the only place he can jack off is the bathroom and he's pretty sure Eames would hear. As if on cue, Eames makes a soft sound and surfaces from sleep. He cranes his neck around to find Arthur, and then, apparently satisfied that Arthur's been accounted for, wrestles himself out of the bedspread and staggers off to use the bathroom. Arthur hears the shower start running and has a very serious conversation with himself about how he is a professional and therefore is absolutely not going to furtively get himself off while Eames is busy being naked and wet in the next room. He's not. "I am so fucked," he mutters to himself, and pulls his cock out of his pants and comes in a few short strokes, biting his lip as he spills into a tissue. By the time Eames emerges from the shower in his hideous bathrobe, Arthur is perfectly put together again. If Eames notices his flushed face, he doesn't say anything about it. *** He is literally wrapped up in Eames' work now, and he's not sure how the actual fuck this happened. "You have your own computer," Arthur reminds Eames. Eames is a heavy weight against his back, his chin tucked over Arthur's shoulder as he reads Arthur's laptop screen. "Shush, pet, I'm researching." "Which, again, you could do on your own computer," Arthur says, and he's surprised his voice sounds that firm when Eames' breath is tickling his ear, and god, he can smell him, if he just turned his head he could bury his nose behind Eames' ear and just breathe him in. "We both need to know about this," Eames says reasonably. "I would just have to make you read it anyway so we could talk about it, so we may as well do it together. Click on that link for delta sleep, there's a love." Arthur clicks on it and tries mightily not to grind his teeth. "You're very tense," Eames says, and one of his hands comes up to grip the nape of Arthur's neck. That's it. Arthur abruptly shuts the laptop. "Let's go have dinner. I passed a restaurant earlier -- you can't stay cooped up in here the whole time." "Oh," Eames says, sounding pleasantly surprised. "Well. My legs could do with a stretch, I suppose. You have the best ideas, darling." Of course, Eames totally disregards Arthur's choice of restaurant and instead bothers the old man at the front desk, who speaks perfectly passable English and calls a taxi to take them someplace unpronounceable but apparently without peer. Arthur would be annoyed except that it is excellent and Eames keeps the promise he made before their trip, and they drinks a lot of Riesling. Or rather, Arthur drinks a lot of Riesling. He doesn't mean to, but Eames is sneaky and keeps filling up his glass when Arthur turns his head or gets distracted while trying to tell Eames about what he's seen on his walks around the city. At the end of dinner, when Arthur is comfortably drunk and Eames is watching him with an expression that Arthur would be tempted to call fond, Arthur's brain does that thing it does sometimes, and he says, "So they steal information from people's minds. Okay. I mean, that's good, but -- what if instead of stealing an idea, you could plant one there instead?" Eames stares at him for one long moment, and Arthur says uncertainly, "Is that stupid? I mean, you don't have to--" "Arthur," Eames interrupts him. "Arthur darling, you are so transcendentally brilliant sometimes that it's all I can do not to ravish you on the spot." It's a joke, Arthur knows it is, Eames has made it a dozen times over, but he blurts out, "I'm okay with that." Eames actually laughs, and says, "You are brilliant, and also thoroughly drunk. Up we go, darling, I need to get back to work." He leaves some money on the table and helps Arthur outside, keeping a firm hand on his elbow. They wait for what feels like forever for a taxi, and then a very pregnant woman and her friend exit the restaurant just as one pulls up. Eames lets go of Arthur to carefully help the pregnant woman inside, all perfect gentlemanly courtesy, and she smiles in thanks as he gently shuts the door. When he comes back to Arthur, he says, "Next one, love, I promise." Arthur's heart clenches then and he says, "It's fine," but he thinks he'd wait for a thousand cabs just for the pleasure of seeing Eames be a good person. Eames does indeed pour Arthur into the next cab that comes, and when they're back at their hotel room, Arthur falls back on the bed. "I think I've had too much to drink," he marvels. "I never have too much to drink." "It explains the stick up your exceptional arse, darling," Eames says, but his tone is affectionate so Arthur doesn't feel the need to protest. His hand touches Arthur's knee, and he says, "Let's get your shoes off and make you a bit more comfortable." Arthur leans up on his elbows to watch Eames, who is unlacing his shoes with such a gentle expression that Arthur doesn't know what to do except to say, "I hate whoever broke your heart." Eames looks up him quickly, surprise and confusion writ large on his face. "What was that?" "You know what I mean," Arthur insists. "I read your second novel -- oh my god, I begged Dom and I practically climbed over Yusuf and Mal's shoulders to get the manuscript first. And I read it and I knew, and I wish they hadn't hurt you like that, because then maybe you would--" Eames pulls off one shoe. "Maybe I would what?" Arthur looks at him mutely, unhappily. Eames' brow furrows, and then clears. "Darling. You are aware that I write fiction, aren't you?" Arthur frowns at him. "But it happened to you. I know it did, you told me." "The heartache was real enough, darling, but not as bad as all that," Eames says, and the twist to his lips is self-deprecating. "Why are we talking about my second novel, anyway? Did you want me to write another love story?" Arthur wiggles his toes and tries very hard to concentrate. "Not one like that," he says. Eames pulls off his other shoe. "Wouldn't do to repeat myself," he says agreeably. "No, you should," Arthur says vehemently. Eames's hand rests gently on his ankle, his thumb brushing over the top of Arthur's foot, and he's smiling indulgently. "You're not making much sense. And this is why we don't drink and edit, darling." Arthur scowls at him. "I meant -- I want you to write one. With me." Eames hoists himself up and puts one knee on the bed while he reaches for Arthur's tie. "Oh, love, haven't I already made perfectly clear that I only want to write with you?" "No, I mean--" Arthur goes to rub his eyes in frustration and is surprised when he ends up flat on his back. Eames laughs softly. "Dear, dear Arthur, you are absolutely smashed." "I'm fucking this all up," Arthur moans. "Can we stop and go back to when we were talking about before?" Eames finishes unknotting his tie and slides it off. "This is a conversation, not a book," he says, smile still tugging at his mouth. "You can't just go around editing it however you fancy." "But I want to," Arthur says, feeling like he might break apart any minute. "All right," Eames says. "Regale me, petal. What would you say differently?" "I love you," Arthur blurts out. Eames goes absolutely still. "I love you," Arthur says again, softly. "And I know that you -- I know I'm just your editor, and I'm happy with that, I'm really happy with that, because you're brilliant, have I ever told you? You're so fucking brilliant, and I couldn't help but just -- I couldn't help wanting you to write something because of me, and I'm not talking about your porn books, because that's still really not funny, not when I feel like this and you're just, you're just--" "Arthur," Eames says sharply, and then more gently, "You're the best editor anyone could ask for, but not even your eye catches everything." "What?" Eames kisses him. He has the entire English language at his disposal and uses it magnificently, but nothing could be a more perfect answer than this soft, lingering pressure of lips against lips. And then he pulls back just a little, enough to say, "It was your professional opinion that a love confession wasn't out of the question after a prodigious number of orgasms, and while it pains me to acknowledge that I have yet to make you come even once, I hope you will believe me when I say that I love you madly and it is killing me that you're entirely too drunk for me to rectify the situation." Arthur's brain seizes up at love you madly, and then backtracks. "You have made me come once," he says. "You're pissed out of your mind, darling, because I promise you that I would remember any such thing. Vividly." "You wouldn't remember because you were in the shower," Arthur says. "I was out here, reading your notes for the next porn novel." Rather frustratingly, Eames doesn't look like he's following. Arthur sighs then, and slides his hand up Eames' shoulder to wrap around his neck. "I was reading it, all those things you wanted to do to Arthur, and I had to -- I couldn't stand it, I had to--" Eames' eyes are half-lidded and nearly glazed. "That may be the most scorching thing I've ever heard, and I am taking it out of your hide in the morning when you are not drunk." "You could do it now," Arthur suggests hopefully. "As I do not wish for you to have a change of heart in the morning, or worse yet, forget this all transpired and leave me for Salman Rushdie, I think it's safe to say that no, I cannot," Eames says, ten kinds of regret vying for a place in his tone. He actually gets up then, and retrieves a glass of water and puts it on the nightstand. "Go to sleep," he says, and crosses the room. "What are you doing?" Arthur asks, his eyes already starting to fall shut. "What I always do when there's not a chance in hell of me sleeping anytime in the near future," Eames says, and Arthur can hear the click of the laptop opening. *** He wakes once in the night to use the bathroom, drink a lot of water, and swallow two preemptive painkillers. The room is suffused with the glow from Eames' screen, and he never stops typing. It lulls Arthur back to sleep, wondering what Eames is writing but knowing that he'll see it soon enough. When he wakes again, it's morning, and he is mercifully, astonishingly not hungover, and Eames is sitting up in bed next to him and staring at his laptop, or out the window, or possibly both, but not actually typing anything. Arthur tries to think of what to say, his brain helpfully providing all sorts of reminders of what he said last night, and then Eames says suddenly, "I'm trying to come to grips with the cruel fact that I've been effectively cockblocking myself for years now. It's so perfectly tragic, I wonder that I haven't used it as a plot device before." "Um," Arthur says, and sits up in bed. "Because it's ridiculous?" "As you are so fond of telling me, I am a ridiculous person," Eames says. "Also, I wrote thirty pages last night." Arthur stumbles out of bed. "I'll be right back," he says, and shuts himself in the bathroom to use the toilet and brush his teeth. When he reemerges, he nearly flings himself back into bed. "Let me see," he says impatiently. Eames gives him a look. "Pet, are you absolutely serious?" "Of course I am," Arthur says, trying to position himself to see Eames' laptop screen. "Darling, I am dying here," Eames says. Arthur just sandwiches himself against Eames' side and says, almost absently, "Well, don't die yet. You're going to ravish me as soon as I'm done reading this." "Why can't I ravish you now?" "Because we can have sex anytime, but you wrote thirty pages and I need to read them immediately," Arthur says, already moving on to the second page. Eames huffs but lets him read. He does not, however, let him read undisturbed. Arthur is on page six when Eames curls his arm more comfortably around Arthur, on page ten when Eames' fingertips dip below the waist of his pants and stroke against his hip, and on page eighteen when Eames starts kissing Arthur's neck, sucking at his skin and doing maddening things with his tongue and teeth, and when he ducks in to bite at Arthur's earlobe, that's when Arthur loses all reading comprehension skills and lets his head fall back, giving Eames better access. And of course Eames takes it -- the laptop gets shoved a little carelessly on the nightstand, and then Eames is planting one knee between Arthur's thighs and kissing him, just as dirty and shameless and all-consuming at Arthur has imagined, if not more. "I know what you want," Eames says, and lets his thigh ride up between Arthur's leg in one slow, nerve-melting rub. "Don't get cocky," Arthur manages to retort, undoing the buttons of Eames' shirt while he leans up just enough to capture Eames' lower lip between his teeth, sucking on it and tracing it gently with his tongue. When he lets go, Eames just dives back in for another kiss and presses Arthur more firmly into the mattress. "I don't think I am, at all," Eames says. "I just rewrote that sex scene twelve times until I knew exactly what you wanted." It takes Arthur a second to place what Eames is talking about, probably because Eames has Arthur's wrists pinned to be the bed as he moves down Arthur's body, breathing warm air across his navel. "I---what? I thought you were just being indecisive--" Eames takes that moment to nose around Arthur's erection through his pants -- "and, and making me crazy." "I dearly hope so," Eames says, and strips off Arthur's pants and underwear all in one go. "Otherwise, this next bit where I roll you over, hold you down, and put my tongue in your arse until you shake is liable to be somewhat awkward." "What?" Arthur says just as Eames flips him over. "Oh god," he moans as Eames slides his fingers down his ass to stroke his balls for a few moments, light and teasing before he holds Arthur open, breathes warm air across his skin and then licks him so delicately that Arthur makes a noise high in his throat. "Aren't you -- going a little fast? Shouldn't we--" Eames drags the flat of his tongue against Arthur's hole, and then -- oh fuck -- flutters it for one long, shudder-inducing moment before sticking it in, and it's like Arthur's spine just liquefies. He fucks Arthur with his tongue until Arthur's shaking, just as Eames had promised, and when Arthur's moaning and in terrible danger of rubbing off against the bedsheets under him, Eames says in a roughened voice, "Darling, would you mind if we shelve you coming on my face for later? Because I really have to fuck you right now." "Then stop talking and do it," Arthur groans. Eames reaches under his pillow and pulls out lube and condoms, which was either a mark of foresight or confidence or both, but Arthur doesn't care as long as it gets Eames inside him. He can hear the noise of the condom wrapper and then Eames is sliding fingers with lube into him, and he was already wet and now he's nearly sloppy with it, and Eames' fingers are long and so goddamn good. "You don't want me to stop talking," Eames says, twisting his fingers in Arthur's ass even as he bears down with one hand gripping Arthur's shoulder, holding him in place. "You want me to tell you that I'm going to shove my prick inside you and you're going to take it, and you're going to ask for harder and more and I'm going to give it to you, darling, I'm going to give it to you so good--" Arthur gasps when Eames pulls his hips up then, tracing wet fingers down Arthur's spine before pushing his cock inside Arthur, slow and steady and perfect. He can't think after that -- everything is a jumble of sensation and Eames' filthy, filthy words, and Arthur swears and tries to push back into it, and he does ask for harder, for more, and Eames is as good as his word and gives it to him. Toward the end, he thinks he's honest-to-god whimpering and then Eames closes his hand around Arthur's cock for several short strokes, and he comes so hard that he nearly misses the moment when Eames groans and tightens his hands painfully on Arthur's hips. They collapse on the bed then, and Eames pets him vaguely, and whispers terribly sentimental things to him, says, "Dear, dear Arthur," and "My god, love," and, most egregiously, "I hope it was good for you, darling boy." Arthur can't really find it in him to yell at Eames for that last part, which Eames will, of course, take it to mean that he should call Arthur "darling boy" more often. And the thing is -- Arthur's not sure he would be wrong to do so. There's a little rearranging, an extremely lazy clean-up, and then Arthur is settling his head against Eames' shoulder. He presses a kiss against a swirl of ink there, and it gets him a surprised, pleased noise from Eames before he dozes off. *** Eames is actually sleeping when Arthur wakes up again, which stands to reason, since he'd been up for almost twenty-four hours before he fucked Arthur's brains out. Arthur lets him sleep, and carefully retrieves his laptop from the nightstand, and opens up the draft again. It's smart, and engrossing, and so tightly paced that Arthur gets to the end and wants the next part so badly that he very nearly pokes Eames in the side to demand that he wake up and write more, this very instant. But he doesn't, because a few spaces under the last paragraph is a sentence: i wrote them for you. i wrote them all for you *** "I have three-quarters of a draft," Arthur says dreamily on the phone to Dom. "I'm going to assume it's good, because you're sounding pretty post-coital, there," Dom says. "He is post-coital, and how," Eames says, all wrapped around Arthur and therefore close enough to the phone to contribute to the conversation. "Oh for Christ's sake," Dom says, but he doesn't sound too upset. "I gave you my best, Mr. Eames -- you'd better return the favor." "You'll love it," Arthur says. "It's a heist novel. About stealing ideas from people's minds. Except this time, they're trying to put an idea there instead." There's silence on the other end of the line. "What." "The middle's a bit weak, and obviously it's not done yet, and there's two chapters that I basically need to rip apart, but I really think it's going to be great," Arthur says enthusiastically. "Hey," Eames objects, which he shouldn't, he knows the middle is shit because he told Arthur he would fix it later if he could just fuck Arthur against the bathroom counter right then, and that seemed like a good plan at the time. "Anyway, we're flying back tomorrow," Arthur says, and then yelps when Eames' hands start to wander. "I won't expect you in until the day after," Dom says dryly, and that's when Eames steals the Blackberry, hangs it up, and optimistically rolls Arthur over for round two. *** The most astonishing thing is that nothing really seems to change, aside from the fact that Arthur has learned to leverage sex to make Eames write, which works out pretty well for everyone involved because Eames finds the promise of doing filthy things to Arthur's all-too-willing body a really good motivational tool, and Arthur's always been a fan of delayed gratification. Also, he spends the night at Eames' apartment more often than not, and has reorganized Eames' closet space accordingly. But other than that: really, pretty much the same. Arthur goes into the office for a few hours, then comes back to Eames' apartment with coffee, using the same key he's always had to open the door. Eames is sitting on the sofa, computer on his lap. "I'm writing," he says, in response to Arthur's suspicious gaze. "Good," Arthur says, putting coffee down on the table in front of the sofa and sitting down next to Eames. "Wait. What are you writing?" "Well," Eames hedges. "You had goddamn well better be finishing Inception, or else," Arthur says dangerously, but the brief glance he catches at Eames' screen contains the following unpromising words: Arthur, beg, bareback. "You shouldn't scold me -- be sensible, darling, I was really on a roll this time, isn't it better that I write something than write nothing?" Eames pleads. "That depends on just how badly you want to know what I did while you were in the shower this morning," Arthur says coolly, and moves just enough where he sits to feel the plug shift inside him. Eames' eyes go hot, then, like he knows perfectly well even though he couldn't -- Arthur's taken pains for this to be a surprise. "You're terrible, and you take shameless advantage of the fact that I've been besotted with you for years," he accuses, but obediently closes the porn file and reopens Inception. "Only because I want you to win the Booker," Arthur says, and sips his coffee companionably. "I don't even know what I'm writing anymore, this is such shit," Eames says. Arthur heads that tantrum off at the pass by leaning in for a kiss, and Eames is more than happy to oblige him. Arthur is thinking of everything, their whole future stretched out in front of them when he says, "Trust me, this is going to be good." ***

The pair of portly, middle-aged utilities lobbyists were pole-dancing, the stripper was glad-handing the constituents, and Mercy was provoking the androgynous intern with whipcord lashes of her braid. It was, he thought, just another day in Washington. Except, of course, for the fact that Superman was flying endless figure eights between the Capitol and the Washington Monument (infinity-infinity-infinity-infinity), swooping ever faster in a purplish blur. Lex watched, enrapt, from the bulletproof, reinforced, third-story window, until he felt the floor drop out from beneath his feet. Lex hadn't changed a bit, really. On TV and at public appearances, he was always carefully powdered and penciled, but in his bed...he looked just like he always had. In sleep, his lips pressed together in a gentle bow. The scar had faded over the years. Tiny crow's feet creased his eyes, and his forehead wrinkled in a frown as his eyes darted back and forth behind closed lids. He was beautiful, as always, and he'd aged well. He didn't seem weary. It always seemed like Lex should be drained to exhaustion by his schedule and responsibilities. Not to mention the dozen criminal undertakings he continued to mastermind, despite being an elected US senator, or by his ongoing antipathy with the Justice League. All things considered, he shouldn't be allowed to look so damned relaxed. He woke with a start, slapping the mattress hard to catch his fall. There was no fall. But there was movement. It took a moment for his eyes to focus in the dim light of the bedroom, but it was definitely Clark floating in the air above his bed, wrapped in moonlight pouring through the penthouse window. Not directly above him and not as Superman, Clark was wearing jeans and a dark, long-sleeved shirt, and was hovering in the air a few feet above Lex's knees. Watching him. He should've known the silence wouldn't last. Lex was always too sensitive to movement. The slightest stir of wind would wake him. It was a small miracle that Lex hadn't woken when he'd applied the nerve strike to Mercy's jaw. He'd moved so fast that she was down before she knew what hit her, but the risk of using superspeed was that it wasn't particularly quiet. Lex came awake and was instantly alert. Was staring up at him—not speaking, just staring. The hardness in his eyes was twenty years in a nutshell, but he wasn't saying anything. It was a little unnerving. He'd half-expected Lex to hit a panic button or try to shoot him with his latest death ray. No such luck. He was only watching, waiting, probably cataloging which of Clark's hairs were out of place and postulating reasons why. They knew each other too well. Far too well. But then, that was why he was here. Clark was just floating there, watching, just like he used to. But he hadn't done this in years. Mercy's absence was telling, although it was most probable that she was merely lying unconscious in the next room. Clark had never done her any significant injury, even when she might've earned it. As the silence stretched, it drew unto itself a mantle of the old and familiar. It reminded Lex of the days when Clark had three settings: investigative curiosity, righteous indignation, and silence. (The whining and 'woe is me' settings were best left undisturbed.) But for years they'd done companionable silence rather well. Before the moralistic jousting had grown personal. Floating there, Clark (not Superman, but Clark) was still as beautiful as ever. The dark shirt suited him. It was lovely to see him (Clark) out of both the uniform and the reporter get-up. Mostly it was just lovely to see the real him. But what the fuck was he doing here now? Lex had always slept in the nude. Clark had watched him for years, years ago, and not always in secrecy. After they'd begun sleeping together, he'd spent every night he could at Lex's side, wrapped close around his smooth, lean body. Back before everything he cared about crashed into a billion pieces. Long before their relationship had dwindled to a pair of farcical public feuds. These days, Superman and Senator Luthor exchanged fresh volleys of asinine rhetoric several times a month on the evening news, while he and Lois won awards for exposing Lex's various legal and ethical transgressions in the Daily Planet. Some of their conservative critics called it the Lois and Clark Vendetta. Lois laughed and called the critics— Lois. But he wasn't. He couldn't. He swallowed hard and tried to banish her face from his mind. Clark was shaking his head. Tears were slipping from the corners of his eyes, but Clark seemed intent on ignoring them. Lex shifted, pushing himself up against the pillows, and kept watching. Waiting him out. "You didn't have to line everything with lead, you know." When Clark finally spoke, it came out low and rough, and there was no telling what Lex might be reading off his face. He didn't particularly care. "What is it you need, Clark?" Lex asked him softly, and Clark almost said the word you. It was that voice. It had been so many years since Lex had used that voice with him, on him, and Lex's eyes were...not hard—not gentle, but not cold either. Maybe this wouldn't have to turn ugly. "There's a box," Clark replied. "You know the one." "The one you've tried to steal six dozen times?" There was a subtle glint in Lex's eye along with the perpetual curiosity, but he didn't move from his languid sprawl. He lay propped against the pillows, the purple silk duvet draped low across his belly. "Like I said, you know the one." Clark's eyes were wet again, which meant— Lex's brain had already spun a hundred scenarios that would explain this moment, this completely surreal experience of waking up in the middle of the night to argue with one's former lover and current nemesis as he levitated above the bed. It didn't help that said lover/nemesis also happened to be the most powerful non-magical creature presently residing on the planet, or that something had possessed him to break in and demand the secret stash he'd entrusted to Lex over a decade before. "Tell me, what happens if I say no?" Clark flashed him a split-second glare. "Let's not find out." "What happened?" he asked in as calm a voice as he could muster. "Nothing you need to worry about," he snapped. "Clark." "Tell me where it is or I start pulling apart everything in this building that contains lead paneling." Clark was standing in midair now, arms folded across his chest. In his uniform it looked almost noble. In street clothes it looked thuggish and dark. Interesting. "Don't make me start counting." As if he were a naughty five year old. "Don't patronize me, Clark." "Five. Four. Three." It wasn't a slow count. "The library," Lex said with a sigh. "I'll get it. There's no need to break the safe." Lex slid out of bed, slipped into a robe, and led the way down the hallway to a spacious room lined floor to ceiling with books. A cabinet in the credenza behind the desk revealed a thick metal safe with a series of multi-phase locks. Lex turned dials and pressed keypads until the latch clicked open, and then he removed a gray metal box, set it on the desk, and waited. "How do you want to do this?" Lex asked. His fingertips rested on the lid. They both knew Lex couldn't stop him if he simply chose to take it and run, but if he did so, there would be repercussions. Once upon a time, there had been a magical oath of binding sworn on this ugly chunk of lead, an oath sealed by the breach of Lex's hard-science philosophy and by the exposure of Clark's other Achilles' heel. "Lex. Just give it to me." "Are you invoking terms?" "Damn it, this—" "You stay here. You will not leave with the rock. If you leave with the rock, I call Batman, the Themysciran Embassy, the League, Zatanna. Whatever it takes." "That was never part of the deal." "It is now. And there are green kryptonite bullets now, too." Clark glared, a faint reddish glow brightening his eyes. "You can fry me to a crisp if you like, Clark, but one, they'll hunt you down for murdering a United States senator, and two, your secret identity and the details of our relationship will repeat on every major news channel every fifteen minutes for weeks. You'll never see another day's peace as long as you live." Clark's eyes were plaintive. "I need it." "For how long?" Lex asked and cut off Clark's protest. "I won't do it without a timeframe." "A week." "You're turning in your cape?" "I need it." "How about a day," Lex replied with a smirk, "and then we can renegotiate?" A bitter laugh. More tears, absently wiped away on the back of his sleeve. Nothing more in the way of explanation. "Terms," Lex repeated. "Fine. Twenty-four hours. Then we'll renegotiate." "Done." Lex opened the box. The ring no longer fit Clark's third finger. It wouldn't slide over the second knuckle of his pinkie, either. "You've grown," Lex observed dryly. Clark rolled his eyes. Lex opened another lead-lined compartment of the box and removed a bracelet. A thick silver dollar-sized oblong of red stone was set on a shiny metal base and joined by a heavy chain. "It's titanium," Lex said. Clark stared. "You had that made?" "A very long time ago. Before I understood the stone's properties. And then it was never the right..." he broke off with a shrug. "It was too late." Clark extended his wrist. He hadn't felt much of anything from the touch of the ring against his pinkie. He was expecting the old shooting fire, but there was only a mild tingle. Maybe Lex saw the devastation in his face. It wasn't fair. It was good that he wasn't as vulnerable to green K as he used to be, but this—he needed this. The bracelet was gorgeous. Lex was holding it lovingly, obviously remembering even while trying not to remember. 'Too late' had been something like fifteen years ago. The end had tapered and dragged, but it was before he'd gotten serious about Lois. God, Lois. She would kill him for this. Except...she wouldn't. She knew him. She wouldn't blame him at all. Clark extended his wrist and whispered, "Fasten it." The rush was instantaneous. The veins of his left arm burned and snaked like caustic ropes. It was through him in moments, and then the haze was on him. In him. Encompassing him. He'd forgotten. How could he have forgotten? Lex was watching him closely, because that was what he did. Lex was always watching, and right now he was unabashedly half-hard under his robe. Half-hard and beautiful and never, ever embarrassed of his body. He'd been known to conduct midnight corporate takeovers in the nude, stalking around his office, shouting at the speakerphone and the six people on conference call while his secretary rushed about with stacks of dossiers and earnings reports and Mercy or Hope stood dutifully at hand. He knew Lex was waiting. Waiting to see what he was going do—if he was going to fuck the terms of the agreement and fly out the window, or take a step forward and fuck Lex through the floor. Clark closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Books. Furniture polish. Lex. Soap. A hint of musk. It could've been twenty years ago, in the castle by the pool table or the little sitting room upstairs. It could've been— Lois. Wouldn't blame him. She would even be glad of this. It was something she'd worried about—who would keep him grounded after. She never believed Bruce would be up to the task, and there, she had a point. A guy so unglued by his parents' murder that he dressed up as a bat and turned himself into an urban legend to scare off criminals? It was a joke. A sad, twisted joke. His mind came back and discovered that his arms were wrapped around Lex, and found that to be vaguely interesting. Sensory discontinuity. Odd, but not bad. The robe was a thick pile of Egyptian cotton on the floor, behind them now because they were flying back to the bedroom. He was flying them, backwards, with Lex's weight pressing against him, more and more intimate. Lex was bigger, felt different than before. Over the years, he'd put on muscle. A public relations thing, probably, to project the image of a mere mortal who could stand up to Superman. He was still smooth and lean as ever, though. Still perfect. The skin of Lex's neck tasted the same when he licked it. His ear fit between his teeth as well as it ever had, and Lex bucked slightly when he nibbled, just like it was fifteen years ago and none of this nightmare had ever happened. The kiss, though, was different. Lex's mouth was harder, less giving. Clark cupped the back of his head and pushed deeper, licking against his tongue, tracing his teeth, sucking his resistant lower lip before Lex pulled away. "Are you even going to ask me?" Lex said, eyes level, logical, watchful. "Why? You already said yes." "Ask me." Clark laughed. "Relax, Senator. I know you're only doing this for the good of the country." "Am I?" "Don't piss me off, Lex." "My mistake." Clark purred deep in his chest. "Kiss me like you mean it." Lex smirked and said, "For the good of the American people." "Fuck you," Clark growled against his lips, and kissed him again. But Lex was with him this time, tongue moving, sliding into his mouth as his body slid up against Clark's own. Then the bed was against Clark's back and Lex's weight pressed down over him. Lex eased back, straddling Clark's thighs, and unbuttoned first Clark's shirt, and then his jeans. A few seconds later, Clark was naked and pulling him back in for more. Clark's mouth was hot and needy. He hadn't seen Clark so needy since...since he'd come back from the dead and had to deal with four replacement Supermen and save the world, when all the guy wanted was to go home and screw his wife. In hindsight, Lex probably shouldn't have been such an ass about it, but things were different then. No. No they weren't. This was. This was an aberration, not a reconciliation. This was desperation. Something catastrophic had happened and Clark wasn't talking. Lex had to find out what was going on. He moved down Clark's body. Perfection. Golden, sun-warm, radiant as ever. He licked down Clark's belly, biting kisses next to his cock without touching it, watching muscles twitch and the heavy pink head bob up and down. Then Lex leaned lower, thoroughly kissing Clark's balls until Clark was shouting, "Suck me, goddammit!" and crying his name. In the mirror over the dresser, Lex caught a glimpse of Mercy's reflection, coiled tight, ready to spring. He gave a tiny shake of his head and said to Clark's writhing body, "It's all right, I've got you." Then he closed his mouth over the head of his cock and slowly, slowly, went down. When he pulled his nose out of Clark's curls and begun flicking his tongue at his slit, Mercy was gone. Clark came so hard he floated up off the bed and shot much deeper down Lex's throat than he'd been prepared for. He might be a little hoarse tomorrow. Clark might be a little.... He was already curling up on his side, pulling the duvet up to his neck, crawling inside himself and falling asleep. Maybe it was the bracelet. Or maybe Clark was simply wiped out from whatever he'd been through that brought him here. Lex watched him for a long moment. He could remove it. But that would be a violation of their terms, and he'd need a sizeable chunk of green kryptonite to disable Clark long enough for the cavalry to arrive. A more sizeable chunk than was immediately available within the confines of his bedroom...although knowing Mercy, a tactical remedy was already on standby. After he felt confident that Clark's sleep was genuine, Lex found Mercy in his office engaged in a somber telephone conversation. Three cable news channels were on, all muted, offering graphic coverage of the war in Qurac. Footage of troops was interspersed with agitated reports from haggard field journalists, while polished anchors offered grave commentary from their news desks. Things were worse. Lex watched for a moment, and then watched Mercy's face as she listened impassively, making occasional notes, and finally said, "Yes, I understand. Thank you," and hung up. "He didn't tell me anything, so give me everything you have." "Lois Lane was confirmed dead a few hours ago." She paused to let that sink in. "It hasn't hit the media yet. The Army is sitting on it while they figure out what she was doing in the combat zone. Apparently she pissed off the CO assigned to the press corps and got herself sent to a supply company fifty miles from the action. And yet, somehow she ended up with a platoon of marines in an urban war zone. She took a large caliber, armor-piercing rifle round to the heart. Bled out almost instantly. Sniper picked off everyone but a Keystone City photojournalist named Beau Wright, who was partnered to her." Lex shut his eyes and sank into a chair. He should've realized. Nothing less would've brought Clark to him like this. "Superman was there," Mercy continued, and Lex's eyes snapped open. If he'd been there— "He arrived essentially in time to see her die. He then left her body with the photographer and used his heat vision to incinerate the Umeci insurgents in the area. The entire event occurred within a few seconds. At that point, he apparently realized what he had done and flew away." Jesus. No wonder. Where else could he go? "What else?" "Her body is in the morgue at the US Command Center in Qurac. They're keeping it all classified so far. No one wants this to become an international incident." "They're certain that it was enemy fire that killed her?" "Yes." Lex let out a long breath and scrubbed his hands over his scalp. "Ok. Lois was a known friend of Superman's. He flew off the handle. It was a war zone, his 'dear friend' died in his arms—how many people did he roast?" "About a dozen." "Any civilians?" "None reported. The area had been evacced for some time." "Good." Lex frowned. "Are there witnesses? Is deniability an option?" Mercy nodded. "Wright and the wounded soldier Lois was trying to rescue were the only survivors, although the soldier was in no shape to give a firsthand account." "Get a bead on the photographer. Activate an agent and find out if the guy's a talker. If he is, create an accident. This stays classified." "I'll handle it, sir, but with all due respect, I would suggest that you be with him when he wakes up." Lex nodded. "Call and leave a sanitized message for the princess that he's safe and in seclusion. Don't let her trace it. Last thing we need is the League knocking down the damned door." "Yes, sir. Also, while you were occupied, I took the liberty of moving the green box through the panel in the sitting room and into the third bureau drawer, strictly as a security measure. With the shielding, he should remain unaware of its presence." "Thank you, Mercy. Get Hope to relieve you at dawn and get a nap in. This is going to be a long day." He dreamed of blood. Gushing blood and long dark hair, stringy with oil, dust, and soot. Her eyes were violet and sad, and tears of blood streamed down her face, joined by wet, red lines from her nose and the corner of her mouth. He was crying, too, and his tears fell onto her lips, leaving muddy streaks in the dust. "I love you. I love you, don't leave me," he cried, clutching her to him. She didn't speak. She only wept more blood tears and died. He woke up sobbing, and Lex was there, pulling him close, holding him tight. After a while, he nuzzled Lex's face, nibbled down his neck and said, "Fuck me." He wasn't numb. Not since Lex put the bracelet on him. He was a living nerve now. Everything felt amazing. Lex behind him, pushing in, rubbing against that spot on every thrust, leaning over him and wrapping his arms around his body as he fucked him, jacked him, and reminded him he was real. That all this was real. When it was over, Clark collapsed where he was, ignoring the wet spot. Enjoying the wet spot, because it was real. Lex disappeared into the bathroom to clean himself up, but was back in minutes, sprawling next to him, and waiting. More of his damned waiting. This wasn't what he wanted. The rock wasn't strong enough. Or maybe it didn't work like it used to (and really, when had it ever worked the same way twice?). Or maybe he was...different, now. When he was a teenager, it stripped his inhibitions and freed him to rebel, freed him to run. In his twenties, it seduced him with the power he had over people, when he'd otherwise felt so enslaved to the public's demands. Right now he wanted it to be a balm to his grief, his guilt, his devastation. He wanted not to care about anything. He wanted to get lost in the feel of Lex's body against his, in the scent of their sweat, in the taste of their kisses. The world could go fuck itself. It was going to hell anyway. And without Lois.... He needed more. This chunk of rock was a centimeter thick in the center and nearly four centimeters on its long side. Flipping it over to touch his skin directly didn't make any difference. He was high, he was horny, he was inclined to do things with Lex he hadn't done in over a decade. But he'd done this before. He'd run before. He knew better than this. His wife was dead, killed in the line of doing what she loved. And none of this was going to make it better. Except for one thing. Lex was giving him this. He was slipping his fingers through Clark's—squeezing once and holding on. They dozed for a while and Lex woke up with Clark's arm draped across his belly and his cock jutting into his hip. Lex kissed him without thinking about it, and then realized Clark was already awake, watching him. "How are you?" he asked, but Clark was shaking his head. "Don't talk. Just don't." Lex nodded, lay back, and kicked the covers off. Clark's hand skimmed down his chest, and Lex bent his knees up and spread himself open. Clark's fingers were wet and stretching him before his brain could process the movement, and it was—it was better than good. He rolled into it, fucking himself on Clark's fingers, getting everything he could out of it. He refused to entertain any illusions about the future. Finally, Clark slicked himself, tilted Lex's hips up, and pushed, not stopping until he was all the way in. It felt just like it used to, like being impaled in the best way possible, and it made part of Lex want to babble out everything he'd missed, everything he'd longed for, everything wrapping his legs around Clark's hips made him remember. But he didn't. He hissed the word "Yes!" when Clark pulled out, thrust in again, and began fucking him in earnest. Clark grunted, "Don't talk," so Lex bit his tongue and focused on moaning instead. Lex came bucking, spattering his belly and Clark's chest, and Clark came a moment later, pulsing deep within him. It was exactly like it used to be. And that, that made it too much. It made it hell. Lex closed his eyes and didn't open them again until he heard Clark step into the bathroom and shut the door. It wasn't cheating if your wife was dead. The thought barreled through his brain as he aimed the stream of urine into the immaculate porcelain bowl and remained on continuous repeat. He stood, staring at himself in the mirror. He looked like something out of one of his nightmares, and that made sense. More sense than cheating on a dead wife. Much more sense than having a dead wife in the first place. He'd become something out of his nightmares. He was a monster. He'd killed people before he even realized he'd done it. Blind rage. Blinding rage. And the damned bracelet wasn't doing a thing to change what was real or make him stop caring. He needed more. His chest ached, and he traced the invisible line of the old scar with his fingers. In his head he heard Jor-El's voice echo, "Haven't you learned better than this by now?" And Lara's gentle counterpoint, "All the days of your life." The first time he and Lois had had sex, he'd still technically been with Lex. Technically. And technical cheating was still cheating, even in a dead relationship. He'd cheated on his first love with his best love. Now it was the other way around. He needed a shower. It wasn't cheating if your wife was dead. It couldn't be. He lathered and rinsed in time with the thought. The strange thing was how it didn't surprise him to feel both raw and numb at the same time. Lex used the guest bathroom to clean himself up, and then went down the hall to his office. Hope was at the desk now, poring over a stack of faxed documents with a large TOP SECRET stamped across the top. The news networks were still muted and the talking heads were interviewing their usual cadre of historians and retired generals. "Good morning, sir," Hope said, beginning her briefing. "Tonight they're going to list Ms. Lane as a casualty, pending their ability to contact next of kin. Everything else remains classified, but there's no word yet from our man in the field." She paused and gestured to a clear plastic box on the corner of the desk. "I took the liberty of collecting a few items from Mr. Kent's apartment, including his sat phone. It may expedite the process." "You unbelievable bitch!" Clark yelled from the doorway. "You broke into my home!" "Mr. Kent, I brought you a change of clothes and some essentials," Hope answered in a voice of perfect calm. "I apologize for the intrusion and I'm also very sorry for your—" "Don't," Clark snarled. "Don't say another word." "Clark—" Lex began in that placating voice that drove him nuts. "You hated her! You've always hated her!" Clark shouted, wheeling on him. "There is no way in hell I'm going to let you pretend otherwise." "She made a career out of trying to ruin my life, Clark." "Don't make excuses." "I don't have to. She made it personal. You both did." Clark glared in silence, clenching his enormous fists in an effort to maintain control, until his eyes fell back on the box. He dug through it, shooting angry looks at each of them in turn. "You don't get to rifle through our things!" Lex replied in almost a whisper. "We had to get your phone, Clark." "No." It came out in a strangled sob. Lex put his arms around Clark's waist and held him. "Come on," he said a few minutes later, putting the box in Clark's hands and guiding him back to the bedroom. The fucking rock didn't work anymore. All it did was make him raw. Raw and angry and unsettled and the only thing that felt right was Lex's body against him. Lex's arms holding him. Lex's lips kissing his tears away. Lex's hands smoothing back his hair and rubbing his back through the sobs. He was hard again and he didn't want to be. He was horny as hell again and he didn't want to be. He wanted to fuck Lex through the wall, except for how he didn't. He couldn't go home. He couldn't go to the Watchtower. The last thing he wanted was a load of cloying sympathy. And J'onn would know he'd killed those men. The rebel soldiers. And facing Ma and Pa...no. It wasn't an option yet. Not yet. Maybe the rock worked fine. Maybe it was what was keeping him here...in the arms of his nemesis. Maybe Lex would do them both a favor. "When did you find out?" Clark asked quietly. They were back in bed, and he had Lex pulled over him like a blanket. "After the first time you dozed off." "How much do you know?" "All of it, but it's classified and no one can corroborate the photojournalist's account of what he saw, so you're safe." "I'm a murderer." Clark's voice was hollow. "I'd call it manslaughter, at worst. They were terrorists. They hate you, they hate everything America stands for, and they killed your wife. No one would blame you for anything if they knew, and they're not going to know." Clark didn't say anything for a couple of minutes. "Remember when you tried to hire me all those years ago? You were a real asshole." "Sorry," he answered, not even trying to sound convincing. "I hate them." "I know." "It feels good." "I know." "Suck me off again." "All right," Lex said, moving down and swallowing him in. Sometime later, after he'd fucked Clark a second time and they'd demolished breakfast, just like they'd done years ago, Lex laid Clark's phone on the table between them and said, "Please." "I'm not ready to deal with this yet." "You don't have to. Just answer the notification call, hear them out, and I'll take care of the rest." "The rest?" "The initial press release, the private service, the public memorial, no doubt the Planet will do something, as well..." "God, I can't face Perry right now." Clark was weeping again, and as before, seemed unaware of it. "You're in seclusion. You can stay in seclusion until the funeral and for as long as you want afterwards." Clark looked up at him, blinking. It was an odd look, as if he'd just realized something. A moment later, he turned on the phone, and after a few seconds it began to ring. "Kent," he answered. "Yes. No, I've been traveling. Yes. Yes. How? I see." His voice broke. "I understand. At this number. Yes, thank you." Lex sat, watching and feeling helpless. Then Clark put the phone down. "Put this back in the box," he said, placing the bracelet in Lex's hand. "Please." "You're sure?" Lex bit down hard on his disappointment. Foolish to let himself feel. Foolish. Tears were flowing openly, and now Clark seemed very aware of them. "Could you do it now? I'll wait." "You'll wait." "Yes." Lex returned the bracelet to the lead-lined box in the lead-lined safe behind the lead-lined panel in the cherry credenza. When he returned to the kitchen, he found Clark waiting, dressed in the fresh slacks and pullover Hope had brought for him. "I'm sorry," Clark said. His eyes were puffy and his voice thick. "You don't have to leave," Lex blurted. "What you said...you would take care of everything for me. And I appreciate that, but this is mine to do. I have to bring her home. I have to bury my wife." "I know." "Thank you." He was about to get up from the table when Lex's hand touched his wrist, stopping him. Clark could see the worry in Lex's eyes, the years of repressed heartache. And it was almost the voice again. The only difference was the off-note of hesitation as Lex said, "Clark, why did you come to me?" Answering that could take years. "The Fortress wouldn't unlock the samples for me. There's a failsafe if the AI thinks I'm too distressed." "Whereas in my case...." It was too much to hope that Lex would drop it. The look in his eyes, though. That was—it was complete, naked honesty for once, and it deserved the same in return. Clark took a deep breath and said, "In your case, you're a failsafe if I'm too distressed. You always have been," he added softly, "except when you're trying to kill me." Lex nodded, pursed his lips, folded his hands on the table, and said, "For the record, I didn't hate her. Just her devotion to her job. And to you." Clark swallowed and swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came forth. "And I was jealous," Lex murmured. "Probably insanely so." He wondered what it had cost Lex to admit that. And yet, in so many ways, if he had made a clean break in the first place instead of— "I'm sorry I hurt you. I know it's ancient history, but...." "Sometimes it seems like only yesterday." The tone of the whisper belied Lex's self-mocking smirk. "I'm sorry," Clark repeated, swallowing around the lump in his throat. Lex nodded. "I am, too." They sat for a long moment before Clark finally got to his feet. "I need to go. There are preparations—" "Anything you need," Lex said, rising. "Anything at all. My staff. Legal counsel. Privacy—" "Thanks—" "A place to stay—" "Lex, I have to bury my wife now." Clark stopped and put his arms around him, and then said in a nervous mumble, "I don't know if I can do this without the rock." "Do what?" Clark leaned in and kissed him, slow and deep. Lex tasted like coffee and ancient history and water under the bridge. And that—it tore at him that this interruption of fifteen years of rage and anguish was a result of Lois' death. It wasn't right, and it was probably untrue, but that was something he would have to figure out when he wasn't standing grief-stricken in Senator Luthor's kitchen, making out with the radiant, naked, first love of his life. "Thank you," Clark whispered against Lex's ear. "For last night, for all of it. A huge part of me wants to do it all again. I want to suck you. I want to do everything we used to, but I can't. I can't—" Lex felt himself getting hard again, felt his dick rubbing against the soft twill of Clark's slacks. And before it was one thing, but now it was singularly inappropriate. He took a step back. He should probably get dressed. "I'm sorry," Clark said again. "I shouldn't have used you. I have to take responsibility for my mistakes." No, Clark wasn't getting away with this. "Last night wasn't a mistake." "That isn't what I meant." His expression was clouded. Lex frowned. "What exactly are you saying, then?" "I committed an atrocity—" Clark began. "You are not turning yourself in for war crimes!" Lex was instantly livid. It was so like Clark to let his guilt drive him into endangering the entire balance of the global political system. "I killed those men." "Clark, let me lay it out for you." Clothing or no, Lex was fully back in senator-mode. "One, you know what the penalty is for revealing classified information. Two, consider the harm to the world at large if you take yourself out of commission. How many people will die? It would be even worse now than it was after you died." Lex stopped and aimed him a pointed stare. "Three, the League is sanctioned by the UN. So is the war. Ergo, you're essentially a military power unto yourself, and from a legal point of view, your actions were those of a UN-sanctioned reinforcement coming to the aid of civilians assigned to follow US troops." "I'm not sanctioned for acts of war, Lex, and we both know this had absolutely nothing to do with politics. Someone killed Lois, so I killed the first people I saw." "Stop and think about the implications," he retorted. "Leaking classified information pertaining to military action during wartime is an act of treason. No meta-containment facility on Earth will hold you. A confession will neither bring back Lois nor the people who may have killed her, nor will it do anything to assuage your guilt or grief. Moreover, if you turn yourself in, you will destroy not only your reputation, but you'll bring down Lois and destroy the public trust in every cape-wearing do-gooder by association—and while this time yesterday I might have supported that idea, circumstances have clearly changed." Lex paused for breath and watched Clark struggle to hold himself together. "This is where Lois would tell you to get over yourself and get to work on the larger problem...isn't it?" Clark slumped back against the counter and scowled at the kitchen floor. "She would say that my best plan now would be to work toward making peace in Qurac a reality." "That sounds like a worthy testament to her memory." It was politician-speak, but on the other hand, Lex had no reason to say anything nice about her at all. After a long moment, Clark swallowed hard and nodded. "I hate this." Lex closed the distance, leaning on the counter next to him. "It won't be easy, but I'll do everything in my power to help you." "Thanks," Clark whispered, and then bent to kiss him again, sliding his hands down Lex's bare back to his ass and back up to his shoulders. He knew he shouldn't, but Lex's skin felt so good under his hands. That didn't make it right, though. And in that, it was just like the beginning with Lois, all those years ago. Lex held him tightly. "Anything you need. Anytime. Anywhere." A worried look crept across Clark's face, and it was a long moment before he replied. "We'll see." "Smallville, you're being an idiot." Lois sat in the deep rectangular window seat across from the couch painting her toenails. She cut him off before he could voice his protest. "Don't give me that. I'm sick of hearing about your guilt. You were upset, they were attacking, I was dead, for pete's sake. There's a point when you have to forgive yourself." "When there's peace in Qurac." "There's never going to be peace in Qurac, Clark. Not until the entire global economy changes. It's time for you to get on the fast track to getting past this." "Sorry," he mumbled. "Stop being sorry. Isn't that what Lex keeps saying?" He groaned. "Yeah..." She finished her other foot and capped the bottle of polish. It was an odd, opalescent silver. She looked at him, eyes level. "It's been more than a year now." He shook his head. "It still seems like—" "You never stopped loving him, even when he was trying to kill us all." And what if he hadn't? What if he couldn't help it? "You and he are the two biggest influences on my life." "You're missing the point," she said, getting up and crossing the room. "No. I used him." "You were blind with grief and you needed to be held by someone who really knew you. He never blamed you." Clark shut his eyes. It wasn't that simple. Nothing with Lex was ever that simple. "It is that simple. He's working for the good guys now. He's waiting for you to be ready. I know you've forgiven him. You're always good for second chances." "Forgiven, pretty much. I haven't forgotten, though." "It's not about forgetting. You have to forgive yourself. If you can forgive him, you can forgive you." She was sitting on his lap now, kissing his lips softly. "You have to get past this." "I miss you so much," he said against her hair, and breathed in the lingering scent of her favorite shampoo. "I know, I get it. But it's not supposed to stop you from living your life." "But—" "No buts. Invite him to lunch. Tell him you want to try again. Let him make you happy. He wants you to. I want you to. And call it a miracle, but this is something he and I actually agree on." "But—" "I said no buts. I can't stand to see you let your life pass you by like this. When you see him, tell him I said thanks for the endowment to the journalism school. What I'd like even better is for him to push through the Lois Lane Memorial Freedom of the Press Act." "The Lane Act?" Clark smirked up at her, which earned him a prompt jab in the ribs. "I deserve a last by-line. So, tell him. At lunch. Today." "The League is going to throw a fit." "The League can take a pill. Let yourself be happy, Clark. I mean it." "Lois—" "I love you and I always will, but you can't keep living in the past like this. Now get ready to wake up," she said, floating to her feet. "You're going to be late for work." "Lois, wait—" Her fingers traced a cool path down his cheek. "Let yourself love again, Smallville. It's time." And then the alarm clock cut through the end of the dream, and Clark awoke.

Akihito would never have agreed to it if the circumstances hadn't been so desperate. He knew what it meant when a man bought someone else an apartment. He knew very well, and that was reason alone to refuse. To make things worse, the man who had bought the apartment was Asami—that same fucking smug, arrogant bastard who came all the time to toy with him, mindfuck him, then ravage him physically, before disappearing again without so much as a “goodbye”. That same man thanks to whom he had been at gunpoint more times in the past few months than he really cared to count. He was not about to let Asami do him any favors, much less ones that would make it seem like he was the man's lover. But the truth of the matter was that the situation didn't leave him a lot of other options. He'd taken on two other part-time jobs in addition to his photography work. He redid his budget so that he only spent minimal amounts of his income on anything but rent, including food, which meant that he learned to work with hunger pangs that were often hard to ignore. When the cost of electricity continued to rise because it was winter, he got rid of his cell phone for a while to try to make ends meet. But rent in Tokyo was just so damn expensive, and his landlord had already gotten tired of cutting him slack. As much as he worked, as little as he ate, and as many times as he was forced to forgo sleep, he was still having a hard time coming up with the money at the end of the month. It was during this time that, on one of Asami's visits—while Akihito was without a phone, the perverted bastard began to make it a habit to show up at his door every few days to fuck him and then disappear again right away—the other had commented that the 20 sq. m. apartment was really far too small. Amidst being groped generously, Akihito had mumbled that it was just fine for one person, and that he didn't feel it necessary to upgrade to a bigger space just so Asami could come and indulge in his love of playing cat-and-mouse. Asami had laughed in response, whispering that the mouse was being far too docile today for his taste. Akihito blushed, unwilling to admit that his lack of energy could be attributed to the fact that he hadn't been eating nearly as much as a young man his age should. He had come to accept the fact that Asami had ways of figuring things out about him that he wouldn't ordinarily care to admit, but his financial worries were ones that he under no circumstances was willing to share with anyone else. Whether because Asami had somehow figured out the situation with the rent after all, or whether because he truly felt the need for more space to play his mind games in—either way, it seemed Asami wasn't about to abandon the idea. The next morning, Akihito found himself alone, which was no surprise. However, early the following day, a car honked outside, and when Akihito went to take a look, he found Asami's driver waiting with the limo. Despite his misgivings about anything involving Asami, his curiosity won out, and he went to take a look. Asami himself was not in the car, but the driver said that he had received instructions to show the boy something. Akihito decided to take a chance and trust him. It was around noon on a Saturday. As long as they stayed in the city, wherever they went, there were bound to be lots of people around, minimizing the risk of anything dangerous or unwanted happening to him. Akihito got in the car. He soon found himself outside a modern high-rise apartment complex in a neighborhood not too far from his own. The driver pulled up to the curb and, without saying a word, gave him a slip of paper with a room number: 614. 6th floor, room 14, Akihito guessed. He got out of the car and went inside. The desk attendant asked his name, then gestured for him to continue on in after he gave his name. There was an elevator, but he decided to take the stairs. He was a healthy young man, after all, and he wasn't quite sure what to make of this place. He realized he could very well be walking into a trap—although he'd like to think that he could trust Asami, with his life if not with his body. But, you just never knew. If he'd learned anything in the past year, it was to never let your guard down too much. There were little children running down the stairs to go and play outside—fucking kids. Whatever was taking place upstairs, it better not be anything too dangerous. Although he wasn't by any means a very altruistic person, Akihito couldn't stand the thought of any harm befalling the youngsters. For all he knew, the fucking mafia could be upstairs poised to blow up the entire building. He wondered briefly whether he should've brought his camera. Room 614. There wasn't a sign with the name of the resident. That was probably a bad sign. Probably. Akihito braced himself as he knocked on the door. There was a flurry of footsteps on the other side—from the sound of it, only one pair of shoes, though. It sounded like high heels. That caught Akihito off-guard. The woman who opened the door was wearing a navy business skirt-suit with a white blouse, tan stockings, and old-fashioned pumps. She wore her dark brown hair tied back in a bun, and her thin, narrow face sported a pair of wire-rimmed, oval-shaped glasses. She held a small black briefcase in one hand, rather than a traditional purse. Akihito caught himself staring. He could only hope that this wasn't the new face of the Chinese mafia, because he sure as hell wasn't sure what else might be going on. “Good afternoon!” the woman greeted him politely, smiling as she bowed. “You must be Takaba-san. I am Himawari Yuiko of the Kaneshiro Realty Group. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” “N-Nice to meet you, Himawari-san,” Akihito replied as he bowed back a little stiffly, unused to such proper gestures. “Umm. Where is Asami?” “Asami-san has a meeting and cannot make it today,” Himawari answered, her smile never faltering. “I was instructed to go ahead and give you the tour anyway.” “T-tour?” Akihito stammered, scratching his head in confusion. “You mean...?” Himawari, however, completely ignored his flailing and gestured toward the living room in front of them. “Now, if you'll please step out of your shoes and follow me—” Gnashing his teeth as he took off his shoes and put on the complimentary house slippers provided generously by the Kaneshiro Realty Group, Akihito wondered how the Hell that bastard Asami got off if he truly thought that he was ever going to agree to this sort of arrangement. The arrogant son of a bitch had already proposed the idea on several occasions, and Akihito had flatly rejected his offer every single time. What was he going to have to do to get through to him and make him realize that he was never going to say 'yes'?! The woman just kept on talking, completely oblivious to his anger. “All in all, the apartment is roughly 45 sq. m. in size. Aside from the spacious living room you see before you, there is a separate kitchen in the back. Through the door to the left are the bedroom and bathroom...” So for all the bastard's complaints about the lack of space in Akihito's flat and his promises of luxury and comfort, the space was only a little over twice as big as his own. Though, considering it was to be inhabited by only one person, it was rather spacious, Akihito supposed. The living room was certainly quite large, with room for a couch and a coffee table in addition to a small dining table and a desk. The prospect of having an actual, proper kitchen with generous counter space and shelving was slightly thrilling. The bathroom, too, was generously sized; Akihito had never owned an apartment with a real bathtub before. The bedroom was huge, for a room that really only needed to hold a bed and a nightstand. Akihito wondered what Asami planned to do to him with that much space, and the thought sent shivers running up his spine. In the end, it was the darkroom that did it. Himawari explained that it had originally been designed to be a study, but that certain residents had opted to transform it for other purposes, which was allowed within the contract as long as any permanent construction received approval from the realty group. Akihito thought about asking who'd decided to turn this one into a darkroom, but he didn't really want to know the answer. He was too spellbound, anyhow. It was small, but it had a heavy door and featured everything a freelance photographer needed; the proper red lights were installed, and there was a screen separating the processing area, which had a long counter, a film-drying cabinet, and a large sink, from the printing area, which featured two enlargers and a special wash basin with room for developing trays. It was like he could smell the strong scent of photo chemicals all over his hands already, and the image was so vivid that he had to take a step back before he could regain his bearings. He'd be lying if he said that this wasn't the realization of the dream he'd sought after for years, and it was completely disorienting to think that it might be within his grasp, even if it was questionable whether he'd earned it through his own hard work or not—whether the place where he stood now was worth the sacrifices he'd made to get here. He'd been spending most of this past year wondering whether he truly liked the person he had become. “I take it you like it?” Himawari questioned cautiously as Akihito struggled to catch his breath. He found it hard to admit that he was actually considering it, but damn it, he really did need this sort of break, and he'd be stupid not to at least ask. “Do I need to give you an answer right away?” “Answer...? I'm not quite sure what you mean, Takaba-san.” She wore her smile like a mask, so that even in her professed confusion, her countenance was the same as it had been all afternoon. “You are aware that it's already been paid for, are you not?” Already paid for... Akihito's mind reeled. So the fucking smug bastard hadn't even bothered to wait for an answer, like he already knew he'd say yes. He should've walked out the door right then and never returned to this fucking place, because even breathing the air here in a way served to assert Asami's claims of ownership over him. But he was painfully aware of the pile of bills awaiting him at home, and he asked himself whether a bit of his pride was truly too high a price to pay for a worry-free night and the musical sound of photo chemicals splashing about in developing trays. “Umm. May I please see the contract?” Akihito asked tentatively. Himawari beamed as she extracted a pile of papers from her briefcase. “Certainly! I have a copy of it right here.” “Thank you.” Akihito forced himself to smile back as he took the packet from her outstretched hand. Right away, his eye went to the name of the new owner of the apartment: 'Takami Ryouhito'. Asami must've pulled some strings in order to sign for the place under a false name. Akihito couldn't help entertaining the hope-filled thought that perhaps this was one of the subtle ways that Asami revealed that he was worried about his safety. Asami's enemies had broken into Akihito's apartment on several occasions, and Asami had expressed his concern about it before in his gruff, cold manner. Having an apartment that was not registered under either of their names would be like an extra form of security, although he had to wonder if it would truly keep out the mafia bosses in the end. As he scanned over the small print enumerating the various terms of the contract, Himawari explained, “As per Asami-san's special arrangements, the contract includes a year's rent, as well as a year's worth of payments for electricity, water, and the standard cable TV package. In other words, unless you subscribe to any additional services, you will not be receiving any bills for the remainder of the year.” Say no. Say no. Say no. Goddamnit, why was it so hard to flat-out say no?! He could imagine the smug look on the perverted bastard's face when he discovered that Akihito had taken up his offer, and there was no way he wanted to give Asami that satisfaction. But the prospect of not having any bills to pay sent all his senses awhirl as effectively as a single glass of whiskey. He'd thanked Himawari courteously and blindly made his way back down the stairs, past the desk attendant—the place had a fucking desk attendant—to the limo that was still waiting patiently outside. He took a seat in the back without saying a word, and the driver took him back to his own flat equally tacitly. As he let Akihito out in front of his own apartment complex, the man rolled down the window and said, “Asami-sama will be sending over a moving van tomorrow morning. Good day.” Then, without so much as another glance, the limo drove off. “Che.” As he walked up the stairs, opened the door to his abysmally small apartment, and collapsed on his bed, Akihito told himself that nothing had been decided yet. Asami might think that he had made the decision for him, but he wasn't about to let it be that simple. He still had a whole night to think it over and weigh the pros and cons against each other. At the same time, however, he knew that a part of him had already been won over by the darkroom and the prospect of a bill-less future. It was all too good to be true, really. But he wasn't about to surrender the control of his circumstances—not to Asami or to anyone else. If anything, he could always temporarily take up Asami's offer. In the meantime, he'd just work hard and save all his money so that he could pay the sleazy drug lord back someday. That's right, he thought to himself as he drifted off to sleep, exhausted by the day's events. I'll work hard, get rich, pay him back, get even, and before you know it, I'll be the one buying apartments for that fucking bastard. As sleep took hold of him, there was a victorious smile on Akihito's face. *** That was a little more over a month ago now. His pride still hurt a bit at the memory of having been manipulated into accepting Asami's arrangement so easily, but what was done was done. In the meantime, at least he hadn't been plagued by hunger pangs, and he'd been able to quit one of his part-time jobs and finally get a reasonable amount of sleep again. Asami had given him a few days to move in and get settled before inviting himself over. Akihito grudgingly admitted to himself that he shouldn't have been too surprised that the bastard had made a duplicate of the key, but that still didn't stop him from freezing up and not knowing how to feel when Asami had just barged in one night, slung him over his shoulder, carried him to the bedroom, flung him down on the bed, and fucked him mercilessly. Akihito found himself blushing furiously, not only because of that one memory but because it had been followed by so many others. As he regarded his new, spacious living room, he couldn't find many places where Asami hadn't violated him: on the couch, up against the bookcase (he still hadn't had any luck washing some of the stains off the covers, and he hopes Murakami and Furui Yoshikichi would forgive him), on the dining table, in his desk chair (so that was Asami's idea of “working”), on the floor beside the door (freshly showered dressed in only a towel when he'd answered the door, that was the one time Asami seemed to have had so little self-control that they hadn't even been able to make it to the sofa), and well into the rest of the apartment: on the kitchen counter, up against the refrigerator (the magnets poking into his back had been especially uncomfortable), in the shower, in the bathtub (he still wasn't sure he could appreciate Asami's idea of what constitutes “clean”), and, of course, covering almost every centimeter of the bedroom. The darkroom was probably the only place where they hadn't done it yet, as though they both considered it sacred territory. Fucking pervert. Akihito felt himself growing hotter, but he'd never admit it for the world, fuck no. Nor was he ever going to admit that he'd been growing used to Asami's visits every three or four days, so much so that when, toward the ends of the second week, the bastard suddenly disappeared and hadn't returned or sent word of his whereabouts for almost three weeks now, Akihito was feeling a tad, well, frustrated. Sexually frustrated. It was hard enough, knowing that a little more of his pride and his fighting spirit was being whittled away with every one of Asami's nightly visits. The fact that he now had a hard time keeping his hand out of his own pants and stopping himself from fantasizing about Asami licking him, caressing him, thrusting deep inside of him—it was too much, just to much. He hated the way he was becoming. He could hardly stand looking at himself in the mirror anymore. It was Asami's fault. Everything was always Asami's fault. Having had enough money to reactivate his cell phone, he'd even tried calling, even though before he'd rather have died than be the one to take the initiative. But each time, no one had picked up, and he hadn't had the courage to leave a message for fear of sounding like a desperate lover. Which is essentially what he was, a small part of his conscience told him. Akihito gritted his teeth. He hated that part of his conscience the most. It was an unnecessarily cruel thing to do, though, Akihito reasoned to himself. Asami could have been shot, for all he knew. Was it really fair to not send word at all of where he was and whether he was doing all right? Not that Akihito cared, of course. Who would care about the wellbeing of that fucking perverted bastard, after all? *** When the phone call finally came, it had been so long that it took him completely by surprise. “You'll be accompanying me to an exhibition tomorrow.” “Well, hello to you too. It's good to hear you've been well these three weeks. I've been great, too, in case you were wondering.” There was undisguised anger in his voice, and Akihito knew he was being petty, but he couldn't help himself. Asami sounded exactly the same as always: cool, collected, and completely unaffected by Akihito's sentiments. “Quit being childish. The driver will come to pick you up at 5 o'clock sharp tomorrow. Be ready.” “All it would've taken was one phone call, you know. Or a post card. Or something. Anything. Fuck!” He knew he was losing his composure in an embarrassing way, but he'd still rather babble and argue than admit how truly relieved he was to hear that Asami seemed to be just fine. “It's a formal affair, so I'll send someone by with clothes in the morning. Make sure you answer the door. Click.” The line was disconnected from the other end. Goddamnit, he was not crying. *** The courier didn’t say a word when he delivered the box at Akihito’s door the next day. The boy, too, received it wordlessly, and refused to open it or take a look at its contents until it was already after 4 o’clock and he realized it was time to get ready to leave. The suit was obviously tailor-made, designed to perfectly fit every part of his body. For as far as he could recall, Asami had never had anyone come in and take all his measurements. Of course, if anyone knew his body's measurements and proportions like the back of his own hand, it was Asami. The thought made Akihito's knees weak. He'd never owned a suit so obviously expensive. He usually just shopped at cheap department stores and retail vendors. He was so slender and short enough that suits never seemed to fit right, so he'd given up trying to find the perfect fit. The pants were usually too long, the jackets too big at the shoulders and waist. Asami had once jested that Akihito looked nice in a suit, but that he'd really like to see him in a well-fitted one. Well, Akihito supposed he was getting his wish now, the sneaky bastard. He was blushing again. Fuck. He took a little effort to try and coax some style into his unruly hair, although the energy mostly went wasted. As nice as the suit looked, he just wasn’t made for this manner of dress. His thoughts were interrupted by the honk of the limo’s horn outside. Two minutes later, he was downstairs. It seemed to be the same car as always, although the driver was different. This wasn’t unusual. As he stepped inside, Akihito wondered if Asami really had that many different drivers on retainer, or if he deliberately only kept them on for short periods of time. At the thought of Asami, he found himself growing increasingly antsy in anticipation of their reunion. The drive took twenty minutes. Akihito knew because he counted every minute—every fucking second, it seemed like—from when they departed until the limo slowed to a halt in front of the art gallery. The driver got out to open the door for him, but he beat the man to it. In seconds, he was standing on the sidewalk. The driver’s expression appeared unfazed. “Asami-sama is waiting for you in the lobby.” Without another word, the man reentered the car and drove off. Akihito turned around and hurried inside the building. There, he hesitated for just a second. There were two wide corridors ahead of him. One seemed to lead deeper into the building, while the other appeared to continue along the front. He decided upon the latter. It seemed the logical direction of the lobby. As expected, the corridor gave way to a large foyer. Marble columns rose up two stories high to a gilded ceiling. Further down, a large, ornamented entryway led to what he assumed to be the gallery exhibit. There was a fucking red carpet on the floor, guiding the elegantly clad guests inside. Scanning the small crowd, Akihito did not find Asami among them. He searched the rest of the lobby and finally found a familiar tall, broad-shouldered figure leaning up against one of the columns while he waited. Asami looked completely unchanged. Akihito's heart fell at the sight. He'd hoped for some sign, something—a broken limb, a scar, a gunshot wound—anything to justify the agony he'd gone through for the past three weeks. But Asami looked calm, composed, and completely indifferent. He was smoking a fucking cigar and sipping at a glass of champagne. His suit was tuxedo-style, and Akihito caught himself wondering how quickly and deftly Asami could remove it if he tried to 'take' Akihito—the man was a fucking world record holder when it came to shedding clothes in the anticipation of sex. Had to be. ...Shit. He did not just think that. “The suit looks good on you,” Asami commented, smirking. Akihito gritted his teeth. “Fuck you.” “Later,” Asami grinned, and Akihito almost angrily walked away at sight of the smug expression on the drug lord’s face. “Come on. Let’s go inside.” Asami didn’t hold his hand, but, stepping very closely behind him as they walked, he still made it very clear whom Akihito was here with. Akihito wondered whose benefit that gesture was for. He might not be happy to be here, but he wasn’t about to make a run for it either. The exhibit was surprisingly unimpressive. Having studied photography in school, Akihito knew a little about art—enough to know that this certainly wasn’t among the top tier of modern painting. He was taken aback by the amount of discussion the pictures seemed to spark—until he took a closer look at the faces of the chatting guests around the room and realized that their conversations probably had nothing to do with art at all. Fucking mobsters in fancy suits with cigars. All of them, probably. The exhibit was probably just a front for their shady transactions and negotiations. Asami confirmed Akihito’s suspicion when the tall man wandered off to converse with a few other men in a corner. None of them paid much attention to the art around them. Akihito found himself one of the only ones lingering close to the walls and actually looking up at the paintings that hung from them. A waiter brought him a glass of champagne. Accepting it courteously and taking little sips, Akihito felt foolishly out of place. This wasn’t his world, and Asami’s leaving him to stroll about on his own only heightened his discomfort. An old, portly gentleman slithered up behind Akihito when he had made it to the far side of the gallery and tried to flirt with him for a while. Akihito tried to reject his advances without seeming rude. He felt relieved when Asami walked up and put a possessive hand on the small of his back. The elderly man understood the message and walked away. “Shall we go?” Asami whispered in his ear from behind. Akihito nodded. He’d had enough of the place. They’d been here less than an hour, but for some reason, it had worn him out. With a parting half-wave to a few of the other guests, Asami ushered him through the lobby and outside to the street. A few feet away, the limo was already waiting for them. “Are you hungry?” Asami gently rested his hand on Akihito’s shoulder. Akihito shrugged off the hand immediately. “No. I want to go home.” “You didn't eat before coming here.” It wasn't a question, but these days, Akihito no longer questioned that Asami knew everything. “You must be hungry.” He didn't answer. He was being petty, he knew, but until Asami started giving him answers, neither would he. Gesturing toward the waiting limo, Asami seemed entirely unperturbed by his attitude. “Come. I made reservations.” Akihito briefly wondered when he’d allowed himself to lose enough of his spine to give in to Asami’s every whim and desire but found himself following him into the car anyway. He survived with his dignity intact only by convincing himself that it was a practical decision—he didn’t know his way home from here, and if Asami insisted on paying for his food, so much the better. The car stopped outside an expensive French restaurant downtown. Akihito had read the rave reviews in magazines but never imagined that he’d ever be going inside as a customer. The dishes were well outside of his price range for fine dining. Ordinarily, he’d have been ashamed to let Asami treat him to anything so lavish and costly, but today, he was in the mood to take full advantage. Asami owed him, after all. Three weeks without a fucking phone call. He’d better have a good explanation. Taking one look at the couple standing in the entrance, the maitre d’ led them inside and seated them in a quiet corner of a private section. Seconds later, another waiter followed with a bottle of red wine, and the owner appeared in person to bid them welcome. So Asami knew the management—fucking figured. Mobsters in fancy suits with cigars and red wine, all of them. While Akihito continued to fume, Asami ordered after only a brief glance at the menu. It made Akihito feel even more uncomfortable, because he knew that that was what men traditionally did for their wives. But it wasn't his fault that he didn't understand anything on the fucking menu. Damn those French and their sense of cultural superiority. Right then, he would’ve traded his hand-tailored suit for a good old bowl of ramen. When the waiter brought out the food, they ate in silence. Akihito was too busy being petty, and Asami seemed bent on enjoying his meal regardless. Admittedly, it tasted great—filet mignon in a creamy wine sauce with shrimp, spinach, and fine angel hair pasta. Akihito tried very hard not to let it show how much he was enjoying it, but after three weeks of takeout, TV dinners, and instant ramen, that was aggravatingly hard to do. When they were both finished, Asami wiped his mouth with his napkin and asked, “Care for dessert?” Akihito just sat and glared at him. Answers, he wanted fucking answers. Not ice cream, or whatever the Hell the French had for dessert. Caviar, escargot... like Hell if he knew. He didn't belong in this world. “Waiter,” Asami beckoned the man to come toward him, then continued softly in perfect French, “my partner here will have a Poire Belle-Hélène, and just a glass of Cointreau for me, please.” Fucking French. He had no idea what the Hell Asami had just ordered. It just as well could be snails, or swamp water. And why didn't he even have an accent when he spoke? It wasn't fair, it just wasn't. His hands were balled into such tight fists that his knuckles were turning white with the strain. When the server reappeared promptly with a tray of liquor and the poached pear, he had to bite his lip. The ice cream, the chocolate syrup—Akihito wouldn't have been surprised if it was the sweetest dessert they served at this restaurant. That was probably the worst thing of all: the fact that Asami knew him that well. Fuck. Asami's eyes never left him as he took his first few tentative tastes of the dish. It was as amazing as it looked, if not moreso. He wanted to cry. “Will you relax now?” Asami asked in between sips of his liquor. “I was simply away on business. One of my units in Korea got itself into some legal trouble. I decided to go and clear up the mess in person. I didn't call because I didn't want to risk getting you involved just in case things got messy. That was all. Are you happy now?” Akihito nodded. It wasn't a very good excuse, and knowing Asami, it might as well have been a lie. But it was an answer, and it was enough. He was getting damned tired of fighting, especially when he'd known all along that there was no way he would win. While Akihito consumed his dessert, Asami finished his Cointreau and said, “Let me know when you're finished. I'll take you home.” *** Asami walked him to his front door, but once Akihito slipped the key into the lock and pushed it open, the former made no move to follow him inside. “Aren’t—” Akihito looked back, his eyes wide. “Are you coming in?” “Not today.” Asami’s blank expression revealed nothing of what he might be thinking. “Oh.” Akihito didn’t even realize that his face fell. “Okay. Good night, then.” Asami simply nodded, turned around, and walked away. Akihito leaned against the door a long time after it had closed. Goddamnit, he was not going to cry over this. He felt like such a girl—what had he been expecting, anyway? An apology? A good-night kiss? From Asami? Was he losing his fucking mind? When the wave of melancholy passed and he found the energy to walk, he went to the bedroom, stripped out of the suit, and changed into some of his own clothes. Then he grabbed his camera from the nightstand and removed the film. If there was anything that could help him get his mind off things, it was developing the negatives. He hurried to the darkroom. He had just succeeded in removing the film from the magazine and loading it into the reel in the canister when the doorbell rang. Confused by who would want something at this late hour, he nonetheless decided to at least check. To his surprise, it was Asami standing patiently in the hall. “Yes?” Asami’s face was still stoic, but there seemed to be the hint of a frown on his brow. “Can I come inside?” Akihito found himself shrugging as he stepped aside. “I’m in the middle of processing some film, though. If you want anything, you’ll have to wait.” “That’s fine,” Asami said with a slight smirk as he stepped inside. “I’d like to watch you work your magic.” Akihito didn’t say a word as he led the way to the darkroom. Inside, he turned off all but the red lights. Darkness wasn’t required for developing, but it felt weird without it. Of course, now he was stuck with the predicament of being in a small, dark enclosed space with Asami standing three feet behind him, scrutinizing his every move as he poured developer into the film canister and began to agitate it by slowly shaking the container. The darkroom was supposed to be his sanctuary, but right now the air was so heavy and full of tension that he couldn't even breathe, let alone do anything about the presence at his back, which was incidentally the cause of all of his distress. “I've done nothing but stand behind you. I haven't so much as lifted a finger,” Asami's voice sounded amused, his breath playing along the edge of Akihito's ear, “yet you've been trembling this whole time.” He reached out his hand, no, just a single finger, a fingertip playing along the nape of his neck, teasing, tortuously slow. Things like this should be illegal, Akihito thought. This was clearly harrassment. He was so used to Asami barging in and just taking him, he didn't know what to do now that Asami seemed to feel like being playful. If he was going to do it, he should just fucking do it! Akihito felt like he was trapped in a web of lust; he'd been trapped for three weeks now, and all he wanted was to break free. It was the wine. It had to be the wine, and the champagne before that. Or maybe Asami had drugged him somewhere along the way. It had to be the case, had to be, because there's no way that he would be reacting this way to the touch of a single one of Asami's fingers. He refused to believe that he was so out of control of his own body that he would be aroused by such a thing. “Could it be, Akihito, that you didn't really enjoy our 'date' today?” Akihito had to fight the urge to squirm, as Asami's lips were so close to his ear, he was practically kissing it, carefully enunciating each word like he was wrapping his tongue around a sensuous thing. “That all along, what you really wanted was just. Raw. Sex.” What Akihito meant to say was, “I want you to fucking go and die.” What came out what a low and lustful moan that, a year ago, he wouldn't have thought himself capable of. Before he knew it, he was devouring Asami's mouth like it was filled with candy, and he didn't care, just didn't care anymore, as long as they were just fucking touching, because anything else was too painful to bear. “I hate you,” he whimpered when they finally ended the kiss, unable to remember when the tears got there, “for making me this way.” Asami chuckled, his hands already finding their way down to Akihito's pants. “Don't lie. You love every minute of it.” Starving for the touch of Asami’s lips on his, Akihito pressed in closer while Asami’s hands continued to roam lower and lower, disappearing under the line of his belt. As familiar as it was by now, the sensation of Asami’s rough, firm hand on his cock was still intoxicating and he soon found himself gasping for breath. It wasn’t until he hit his head against one of the shelves while coming up for air that he finally recalled what he had originally been doing. “Oh, shit,” he remembered with a start, reaching back behind him to continue to push the film canister back and forth to agitate the developer, “There’s still six minutes left.” “That’s plenty of time to make you beg for me,” Asami remarked with a smirk. “I won’t beg.” Akihito glared, though not enough to hide the growing heat in his eyes. “I’ll never beg.” With Akihito still holding onto the film canister, Asami tugged at his belt with one hand until his pants slid to the floor. His underwear soon followed. Asami’s other hand never let go of Akihito’s cock, although Akihito felt like perhaps it was his cock that wasn’t letting go of Asami’s hand. The latter knew how to pinpoint the exact spots where he was most sensitive, expertly utilizing them to work the boy into a frenzy. Asami’s other hand worked its way back up, lifting his shirt to reveal his hardening nipples. He tugged at them, played with them, and teased like there was no tomorrow. Akihito wasn’t used to such extensive foreplay—most of the time, Asami would just force his way inside at the first good opportunity, and things would go from there. Their pace tonight was almost torturously slow by comparison. “Hurry up already,” he found himself panting, and Asami’s smug grin asserted what they both realized: that that had just sounded an awful lot like begging. Thankfully, Akihito was saved from any humiliating remarks by the buzz of the timer. In one motion, Asami let go of his cock and nipples and took a step backward, causing the boy to almost fall forward, suddenly off-balance. He muttered some soft curse words to himself as he turned to focus his attention back on his film, his painfully hard erection making it difficult to stand on his own two feet. “What now?” Asami asked gruffly as Akihito rinsed out the film canister and poured in the contents of another jug of chemicals. “Stop bath,” Akihito groaned. “Thirty seconds.” Evidently considering that too little time to accomplish a lot sexually, Asami used the interval to remove his suit jacket, vest, and tie. He also reached from behind to tug off Akihito’s shirt while the latter agitated the contents of the film canister. That was all they had time for before the timer buzzed again. Akihito rinsed and refilled the canister with more chemicals, Asami’s hand lingering on his now-bare chest. He was completely fucking naked in his own darkroom. Had it been anyone other than Asami in the room, it would’ve been ridiculous, but now, it seemed strangely appropriate. “Next?” Asami whispered after nibbling on his earlobe from behind. “Fixer,” Akihito panted, Asami’s hand having roamed to his nether regions once again. “Five minutes.” Asami undid his belt and unzipped his fly. Akihito’s eyes widened. Surely, Asami wasn’t thinking of— There was no way either of them were going to have time to release in the short period allotted them before he had to rinse out the canister again, and then he’d be caught in the weird position of having Asami inside of him, both of them halfway to orgasm, while he tried to finish up developing his film. He decided to say as much. “Asami, there’s no way we can—” “Then what do you want to do?” Asami’s face was expressionless, his eyes dark and threatening. Akihito considered his options. He couldn’t bear another five minutes of foreplay and teasing; that he knew for sure. Unless, of course, he himself wasn’t the one receiving the foreplay. Was that what Asami was suggesting? He looked down at the ground and swallowed. “I guess, I could— To you—” Thankfully, Asami did not force him to finish his sentence—the only thing that saved the remnants Akihito’s pride in that instance. He simply acknowledged his understanding of the implication with a nod and a smirk as he lowered the front of his pants enough to reveal his erection and guided Akihito to his knees. When Akihito obediently opened his mouth and began to suck on the tip of his cock, Asami smiled and murmured, “Good boy.” Diligently licking, stroking, and sucking along the shaft, Akihito continued to agitate the film canister in one hand. This was never one of his favorite activities. Part of him still felt it was disgusting, but even moreso, he couldn’t shake the sense of humiliation of it. In the back of his mind, a voice whispered that in a way, it was only fair that he repay Asami this way, but it wasn’t enough to shake off his revulsion for the act. But when Asami let out a few grunts of approval despite his usual stoic demeanor, Akihito felt a sudden surge of pride. Asami looked as though he were ready to burst by the time the buzzer sounded, although Akihito knew first-hand that that was never an accurate indication of the older man’s stamina. He could keep going for hours if he set his mind to it. Akihito blushed furiously as he stood back up and stumbled over to the counter. Asami came up from behind and kissed him passionately, suggesting that his efforts had not been in vain. It took some of the sting off the degradation of his dignity. While Akihito rinsed the contents of the canister with PermaWash and PhotoFlo, Asami fondled his cock and balls and began to prepare his rear opening for entry. By the time Akihito set the film to rinse for the last time, his head was spinning and his body was on fire and drenched in sweat. His ass was literally begging for attention. There was no use in fighting it. It took every effort to concentrate long enough to hang the film in the film-drying cabinet. Then he sent one lustful glance Asami’s way, and the tall man scooped him up in his arms and carried him to the bedroom like a little kid. Depositing Akihito on the bed none too gently, the rest of Asami’s clothes were off in a flurry—fucking world record holder—and this time, he forced his way inside without any more foreplay or preparation. Yet instead of resisting, Akihito found himself welcoming it. God, he was ready. He’d been ready for it for three weeks. They moved in tandem, Akihito raising his hips to meet every one of Asami’s thrusts. It was true that it felt much better when he wasn’t trying to resist it—and it did feel so incredibly good. He had his arms wrapped around Asami’s neck, trying to press their bodies as close together as possible. Akihito wasn’t letting Asami go either. When he came, it felt as though he came in fountains, the release long and hot and messy. But aside from being a little out of breath, he had lost none of his energy—which was good, because they kept going. Sex with Asami meant coming at least three times in one night. Each time he came, the sensations were more intense. When Asami himself finally released, his immense stamina exhausted, he pressed their lips together passionately. Akihito, who was already dozing off, kept his arms locked around Asami’s neck, making it a rather difficult task to disentangle their bodies. Asami smiled to himself. The boy was so wonderfully conflicted. He mouthed the words against the skin of the boy’s temple: “Good night, my kawaii Akihito.” *** When Akihito opened his eyes in the morning, he was surprised to find that the bed beside him was warm. With a start, he found himself still lying pressed to a naked Asami, one arm wrapped around his torso while the other rested between them. Asami lay awake and was watching him carefully, the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. For the fourth or fifth time in two days, Akihito felt like he might cry. It was the first time he hadn’t woken up alone. Sleep was still tugging at his mind. It was still dark outside—not yet sunrise, and he was so content and warm. Nuzzling Asami’s shoulder, his eyes closed, Akihito asked, “Can I pretend this is a sign that there’s maybe a little love implied by the word ‘lover’?” Asami smiled and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “You don’t have to pretend.”

Cobwebs and Hay "Clark?" In the middle of tossing some hay out the back barn window, Clark heard the familiar voice and instantly smiled. Lex was here. He hurried back to the upper loft rail and leaned over. "Lex!" One foot on stairs to the Fortress portion of the loft, Lex swiveled his head without moving from his sexy pose. He found Clark and he smiled back before he processed where Clark was and lost the expression. "Are you still doing chores, Clark?" Clark pulled off his gloves and scrambled down the ladder. "Mom and Dad are in Hennery for a few days, so I've got twice the stuff to do." That wasn't an exaggeration. While Clark was undisputedly stronger and faster, and did a lot of the heavy lifting, his dad had never left it all to him. Regularly, Clark only did a bit more than a normal teenager. His dad, on the other hand, did a lot of stuff during the day when Clark was at school. And there was mom's stuff as well. A greenhouse took up a surprising amount of time, and strength and speed didn't help much when you were waiting for the water to come out of the watering can spout. "I'm sorry," Lex's face smoothed out so his disappointment didn't show, though Clark knew he had seen it. "I didn't mean to interrupt." "No, no!" If there was anything Clark didn't want to see happen, it was for Lex to leave. "I'll just be... ah," Clark glanced outside to gauge the time. There really was a fair amount left to do. He tried to figure out which ones he could put off without hurting the farm. "Clark," Lex waited until the younger man's attention returned to him, "I can wait." "Oh, no! That's okay, you shouldn't have to---" Lex held up a hand and started a smooth glided approach towards Clark. It couldn't really be called walking, the way Lex did it, and it shut Clark up faster than the hand. "I have my cell phone, and there's things I can do." He paused a foot away from Clark, his gaze level with Clark's chest before slowly moving up to meet his eyes. "I won't be bored," Lex purred. Clark took several steadying breaths in. "If you're sure?" he asked, anxiously watching to make sure Lex really meant it. With a genuine smile, Lex dropped most of his poise then also took off his coat. "I'm sure. In fact, I'll help. Have you done the horses yet?" Horrified, Clark looked at Lex's expensive tailored pants and the silk blue shirt. He couldn't help the way his gaze lingered on the way. Lex put the coat over the stair railing and undid his wrist buttons. Clark licked his lips. Lex looked up. Frantically, Clark jerked his gaze away, blushing furiously. "I really can do it, you know. Even your father gave me the stamp of approval for stall mucking." Lex's voice, while mostly full of good humor and persuasion, held just enough of a trace of hurt for Clark to jerk back around. "Um, no, that's not... I remember, Lex." And did Clark remember. Lex, dressed in jeans and flannel shirts, tossing out hay, working with the horses, casually fitting in with the barn and Clark's home. It had been a wet dream come to life, except the parents were watching them so carefully and Lex was on his absolute best behavior and Clark was also scrupulous. He didn't want to do anything to get Lex kicked out when it was his dream to have Lex there. In fact, Lex hadn't even done any of his normal flirting the whole time, and Clark had really missed it. He'd been left wondering if he'd been getting all those signals wrong and Lex wasn't attracted to him after all. As soon as Lex was back at the castle, though, all the flirting started up again, to Clark's delight. Lex threw out a grin as he sauntered over to the stalls. "I'll just get on it, then," and he hefted a muck rack like it was as natural as lifting a pool cue. Clark's lips were incredibly dry, and his jeans were too small. He took a step in Lex's direction and realized just how close he was to disgracing himself. "I'll just, um..." Clark edged out towards the barn door as quickly as he could with the denim too tight around him. At the doorway, he looked back to Lex, who was leaning on the rake and watching him with a small grin playing on his lips. Clark grinned ruefully back. Okay, so he was a teenage boy. Sue him for having hormones. It was all Lex's fault anyway. "Are you sure you're going to be okay, Lex?" Clark had to ask, just to make sure. "Just fine, Clark. Finish the rest of the chores and don't worry about me." Leaning the rake on the wall, Lex pulled on a pair of work gloves from the bench. Clark's eyes followed every move the gloves made over the fingers. Work gloves. While Lex was still wearing his silk shirt. And work gloves. Gulping, Clark quickly left the barn. But the image stayed with him though out the rest of the chores. Rushing as much as he could, Clark finished the rest of the chores and hurried back. Inside, he saw that the horses had been taken care of, so he went up to the loft. Where there was no Lex. Clark gulped. He'd taken too long, Lex had gotten bored and left. Clark clenched his hand into a fist, angry at himself. He should have postponed some of the chores. Or taken Lex with him. Or... There was a noise from somewhere in the barn. Blinking his vision into x-ray, Clark first looked outside and saw Lex's car still parked there. He let out a giant sigh of relief. Then he scanned the rest of the barn. Turned out that Lex was up in the loft, just not Clark's Fortress portion of it. Clark darted down the stairs and then climbed the ladder. "Lex?" From back in the stacks of hay bales, Lex came out, visibly upset. "Clark, one of your barn cats is stuck back here. She keeps yelling out like she's caught on something." Clark didn't actually hear Lex at first. He was too busy staring. Lex was still in his fancy pants and his silk shirt, but the shirt was untucked, the sleeves were rolled up, and there were bits of hay all over him. It was the sexiest thing Clark had ever seen in his life. "Do you even care?" Lex glared at Clark and then turned his back and skulked back to the depths of the hay piles. He couldn't do anything nearly as normal as stomping, no, it was definitely a skulk. Clark's gaze was riveted to that walk, watching the slim ass contract and relax with each step, the subtle sway of the hips that was nothing like a woman and yet was so enticing all the same. A hair-raising howl echoed across the barn. Clark shook himself all over. With a sigh, he followed Lex. "It's okay – that's just Jinx. When he was a kitten..." Clark's voice trailed off. Lex was down on his hands and knees, his head and shoulders inside a gap between the bales as he reached in, trying to get to the cat. Clark's mouth was dry. His body was on fire. Lex was inside the hayloft on his hands and knees, facing away from Clark, with his rear end presented perfectly in line... "Oh great gods of Krypton," Clark breathed out. "What was that?" Where was a cold shower when you needed one? "Uh," Clark replied intelligently. Then Jinx yowled again and Clark remembered what he'd been talking about. "When Jinx was a kitten, he figured out that people came and paid attention to him when he cried out, so now he does it all the time. He's fine, you can ignore him." There was a pause and then Lex backed out, sitting up. This time, in addition to the hay, Lex had cobwebs all over him. Clark found himself walking towards Lex; drawn to this person that was a mixture of the calm rich boy with a healthy dose of farm reality in him. He was still Lex, calm, cool, and collected... but he was worrying about a cat, on his hands and knees digging in the hay, his rich clothes all rumpled and dirty. It was hot as all hell, and Clark knew that's where he himself was going. He could already feel the fires burning around him. "But what if this time, it's real?" Lex asked quietly. "The boy cried out saying there was a wolf. There was none. There was none again. And then when nobody came, the wolf was there and the sheep were eaten. You can't just ignore Jinx because he's done it before." Clark couldn't very well say that he could see Jinx perfectly well and the black cat was just sitting there in a corner grooming his paw, not trapped or hurting or anything. Just being silly as usual. While he was trying to figure out something to say, it was a moment too long and Lex gave him a disappointed look and turned back to the haystacks. Clark gazed down at Lex. There was a strong urge within him to just say the hell with it and do what he wanted. It was so similar to the times he was on Red Kryptonite that Clark glanced around the barn, looking for some. But time times he was on Red K, he didn't care that he was on it. This time... Clark could feel the rational side of him saying he shouldn't, saying it was a bad idea, but there was a much stronger part that was promising heaven if he went to hell. A gorgeous ass, covered in fancy tailored pants, sticking out at him. A blue silk shirt, hanging over the bony frame, showing off the slender body. Clark could see Lex's spine through the shirt. With a deep breath, Clark knelt down next to Lex, one leg between Lex's legs, the other to a side. He placed a hand on Lex's lower back, and leaned over his friend, wiggling his way over Lex's body until he was inside the gap too. Pressed up against Lex, body to body, his thighs against Lex's, his hips pushing in. He ran his hands up Lex's sides, enjoying the feel of silk sliding against skin. His head was just over Lex's, not dipping down, not yet, but waiting. As Clark slipped in over him, Lex had frozen, going completely still and quiet. As Clark's hands ran their way up, Lex's breath caught and released, hitching with a staccato rhythm. "Clark?" Lex's voice trembled, yet he didn't sound scared. No, not scared. "You're right, Lex," Clark dipped his head down lower to breathe into Lex's ear, almost, but not quite, tracing the edges. "If somebody is that devoted to calling for attention, they should expect to get some, even if they were just teasing. We should see if Jinx is okay..." Continuing his stretch, Clark braced one hand on the ground and used the other to trace over Lex's arm, reaching out until he found Lex's hand. The sound of harsh deep breaths echoed in the small hallow in the hay, not quite in rhythm. Clark could feel Lex's lungs expand, pushing his back into Clark's chest. Clark could feel his own chest pressing into Lex's back when he breathed. Clark closed his eyes, feeling every inch of this forbidden fruit, memorizing it, studying it, absorbing it. Opening them again, he flipped into x-ray to see just where Jinx was. Then he placed his hand around Lex's and pulled Lex forward and to one side to touch soft fur. "There's Jinx," Clark wasn't sure how he was able to talk. He let go of Lex's hand, just lightly touching the top of Lex's wrist. "If you scruff him, we can get him out." Lex didn't reply and he didn't move. "Um, if you grab a cat by the fur at the ---" "I know what scruffing is," Lex voice was low and deep, raspy as if he was having problems speaking. Clark grinned. He liked that sound, oh yes. Beneath him, Lex shifted his weight, his body moving along Clark's. The feel of it... Clark groaned. Lex's breath hitched and he stilled. After a cautious moment in which they were both silent, Lex moved again, reaching out to find by cautious feel where the cat's head and then neck were. He got a good grip and then paused. "What if he's stuck and my pulling hurts him?" Enough of that; Clark rolled his eyes. He leaned down until his mouth was right next to Lex's ear. "Lex, I can see Jinx – he's perfectly fine. Now just get him out and we can continue this not stuck in a crack." There was a much longer pause and Clark worried for a moment that he'd made a mistake. Then Lex let go of the cat to give a full-body shake, like a dog after a bath. "God, Clark..." The words were hushed, low, reverent and sexy at the same time. Clark dipped down and placed a kiss on the top of Lex's head. Jinx sat down and howled, expressing his displeasure at not having humans paying attention to him. Lex laughed and grabbed the cat again, bringing Jinx in closer to him. "Clark," he said with amusement, "If I'm going to bring Jinx out, you have to move first." He didn't really want to, but Clark saw the point. Slowly, he backed out the way he came, hands tracing along Lex's arms, then sides, his chest moving backwards upon Lex's. It was Lex's turn to moan, the strangled sound emerging as if torn from his depths. Out in the main hay loft again, Clark moved to one side and then sat upon his heels, waiting for Lex to emerge. The slender form came out more slowly than Clark, inching his way backwards while Clark's gaze was riveted on the ass muscles as they clenched and unclenched during the movement. When Lex was all the way out, he twisted his body gracefully and suddenly he was sitting sideways, legs tucked to one side, Jinx upon his lap. Lex tilted his head to one side in that way that he did; it always got Clark's heart racing. The stupid cat was purring, rubbing into Lex's hand encouraging him to pet more. Clark glared at the black cat, but his heart wasn't in it. It was an incredible picture, Lex sitting in the middle of the hay loft, hay all over him, cobwebs brushed across his face, a cat in his lap. Clearing his throat, Lex said, "We have to talk." "No we don't." Clark inched forward and reached out to one of the cobwebs hanging across the top of Lex's ear. Lex watched him come forward but didn't move. He swallowed as Clark's hand got closer. Clark brushed the cobweb off and then moved up to one over Lex's forehead. "Clark?" Lex's voice wobbled. "Cobwebs," Clark explained, concentrating on his task. There was a little bit hooked into Lex's left eyebrow. Lex was lucky he didn't have any head hair or the cobwebs would have taken him over. Clark brushed the other piece off, Lex's eyes shutting as he did so. When Lex's eyes opened again, his pupils had dilated so far the black almost took over the iris. He stared at Clark without blinking, the connection between them drawing Clark into him. Jinx meowed and hopped off Lex's lap. Neither of the men noticed as their lips touched. The kiss was gentle and sweet, a soft press together, a connection between two different worlds. Clark pushed forward, one hand cupping Lex's head, the other resting on Lex's chest. At the same time he deepened the kiss, his lips slipping against the smooth skin they were on. Slowly, he pressed Lex down into the hay, spreading his bigger body out over the slimmer one, placing his claim. Beneath him, Lex opened up, accepting the possession, parting his lips as Clark's tongue slipped inside. His arms came up around Clark, holding him tightly. Hungrily, Clark let his months of frustration out. Every flirt that Lex had given; every tilt to his head, every slow eye sweep up; every casual sip while watching Clark... it was all to be taken now. Clark sought out every corner and crevice in Lex's mouth, running his tongue over the fine smooth teeth, up against the palate, over Lex's tongue that was likewise searching Clark's mouth. They tangled together, exploring, seeking, tasting. He was never going to get enough of this, never. One taste of Lex's mouth convinced Clark that there was indeed heaven and hell on earth and this was his. No girl had ever tasted so sweet, so rich, so eager. Who cared about Red K? This was the drug of choice right here. Clark's body shuddered as his world suddenly expanded from just Lex's mouth to the feel of the whole of the slender form under him, and his cock pressing into a thigh, demanding attention and wanting to be free of the tight jeans. Pulling back slightly, Clark breathed against Lex's mouth, no space but air between them, sharing this too. Lex reluctantly brought his tongue out of Clark's mouth, pausing to lick Clark's lips along the way; then moving forward that barest millimeter and captured Clark's lower lip, sucking it in, then nibbling with sharp little teeth. Moaning, Clark thrust against Lex's thigh, needing pressure right now. Why hadn't he done this ages ago? He released his hold on Lex's head to run his hand down Lex's side, fumbling for Lex's belt when he got to the waist. "Ouch," Lex let go of Clark's lip and shifted restlessly beneath him. Clark followed, licking the edges of Lex's mouth, seeking out that little scar in the middle. Lex put his hands on Clark's chest and shoved slightly, "Off." Clark finally got to the belt. "I mean it, farmboy," Lex squirmed under him, "Off, now!" He twisted, keeping Clark from reaching his goal. Finally, it penetrated Clark's head that something was wrong. He braced his hand that had been seeking Lex's pants on the ground instead and pushed himself away. He kept Lex bracketed, but gave a few feet between them, looking at Lex with frustration and puzzlement. Lex wormed his way out from under, sitting up, running his hands over the back of his head over and over again. "Hay scratches," he informed Clark, shaking out his shirt and wincing. "I could get that for you," Clark offered, also sitting up. He reached out and plucked a few stalks off the collar of the shirt, working his fingers in-between to the skin underneath. Lex gave him a look that burned. And Clark had thought he was the one with heat-ray vision. With a mental strength denied that of mortal men, Lex drew reluctantly back. "We shouldn't do this." "Yes, we should." Clark reached for Lex again, but Lex dodged him. "Clark, you're---" Using super-speed, Clark clamped his hand over Lex's mouth. "If you say one word about my age, just one..." He pulled his hand off and replaced it with his lips. That kept Lex occupied for awhile. However, when Clark progressed to Lex's jaw-line, Lex took the opportunity to mumble, "It matters." He did not, though, pull away, and in fact had a pretty strong grip on Clark's shoulders. "It doesn't matter. I'm an orphaned foundling, who knows how old I actually am?" Clark rejoined as he made his way to Lex's neck. Lex didn't say anything else for awhile, unless one counted gasps and sighs. Clark was pretty pleased with himself. He should have done this a long time ago. His fingers occupied themselves with unbuttoning Lex's shirt. With a sigh, Lex grabbed Clark's hands, "I could go to jail." That was a low blow, designed to hit Clark right in his moral high ground. Unfortunately for Lex, Clark had already left that ground behind when he'd first seen Lex on his hands and knees in the hay loft. "I won't do anything to hurt you," Clark promised, and started to push Lex back down again. The blue eyes finally capitulated, Lex exhausting his token resistance and promising heaven instead. Yet his body resisted Clark's attempts to resume the activities. "If you push me back into that straw," Lex growled, "You will be hurting me. How about if I push you---" Clark disappeared while Lex was still talking, running down to grab Lex's really large, really durable black coat off the stairwell and running back with it. He spread it out on the hay pile next to Lex while Lex gaped at him. When he had it open and arranged to his liking, Clark turned to Lex. Lex shut his mouth and breathed in. "You..." Tired of talking, Clark picked Lex up and deposited him on top of the coat on the hay. "Shut up," he whispered in Lex's ear, nibbling along the edges. A low deep growl came from Lex's chest, vibrating through his body. It was sexier than anything Clark had ever seen or heard before. "You idiot. For the price of some nookie, you'll sell out your beloved secrets?" Nookie? Clark blinked. He moved his nibbling to the patch of bare skull right behind Lex's ear, licking the throbbing vein exposed there. "If I didn't trust you, I wouldn't be having sex with you." Beneath him, Lex stilled. Clark shifted away from the side of Lex's head to where he could see Lex's eyes. The blue hues were staring at him in confusion and wonder, a dawning delight within them. Clark grinned ruefully down at his friend. He did trust Lex. But it was hard to go against sheer terror. Right now? Not so hard; there was something else outweighing the terror. Lex gulped, his adam's apple bobbing with the motion, drawing Clark's attention to it. Clark really liked Lex's neck, slender, with that really sexy way of tilting his head when doing just about anything. Clark leaned over to lick it. Shuddering, Lex got out one more protest. "You're a teenager, you'd have sex with a turnip if it could!" It was Clark's turn to growl. From his position sprawled on Lex's chest, looking up at Lex's face, he narrowed his eyes at Lex. "I warned you what would happened if you mentioned my age..." With a single motion, Clark tore open the rest of Lex's shirt that he hadn't finished unbuttoning and leaned down to suck at an exposed nipple. Lex gasped and arched under him, cursing with the outward breath, his hands coming up to grip Clark's head tightly. Clark held on to Lex's body and swirled his tongue around the firm flesh. He was rewarded with more thrashing and curses. Clark lifted his head and eyed Lex as the other man collapsed down onto the black coat, breathless. The blue shirt was hanging off him, exposing his chest, slightly shiny where Clark had been licking him. Slender form, but with the shirt torn, all the hidden muscles were exposed – a treasure waiting to be found. Lex Luthor, in his hay loft, having sex with him... Clark inched up and kissed Lex again. As they kissed, Lex's nimble hands found their way down and before Clark knew what was happening, his pants were unbuttoned and his cock was being stroked. He shuddered, barely loosening his grip on Lex in time. "Lex," he gasped. Lex purred in his ear and continued stroking. It was heavenly; it was divine; it was too much. Clark grabbed Lex's hand, holding him until he stilled. "Clark?" Lex sounded nicely bewildered, which was just hot. He was sitting partially upright, propped on one elbow, his shirt dangling down. "I might be the farm boy," Clark said, bringing Lex's hand up to his mouth and breathing on the fingers, "But you're in my loft right now." He sucked on the index and middle fingers, bringing them in and out of his mouth. Lex laughed, the sound low and deep. "Okay." Eyes dilated again to a near black, Lex lowered himself back into the coat, spreading out in invitation. Clark almost came on the spot. He stared for awhile, absorbing the sight and the permission. Then he went back to the delicious chest. He teased the nipples for awhile until Lex was pleading beneath him. As much as Clark liked that sound, that wasn't the goal. He licked a line to the middle between the nipples and then two fingers below it. Twisting slightly to one side, Clark placed his right hand there, base of his palm where he'd licked, fingers pointing up and over Lex's heart but not touching the skin, arched upwards. Slowly, Clark let his fingers drift down until he was covering Lex's skin, touching him gently, feeling Lex's heart pound through his chest. Clark pulled his hand down, drifting across that smooth silk skin, watching Lex with hunger and possessiveness as he did so. Over a year ago, he'd pulled Lex out of the river, given him life. At the time, he'd thought nothing of it, just something he had to do, to instinctively save another. Now, Clark wanted that life he'd saved. He wanted the body, the soul, the mind and the man. Lex watched him back, a similar hunger in his eyes, the need pouring out from them while the only thing he said out loud was Clark's name. As he reached Lex's pants, Clark paused for a moment to return up Lex's body and to kiss him again, holding Lex's head cupped between his hands. Clark didn't think he was ever going to get enough of Lex's kisses, of the taste of Lex. How did he live this long without it? Lex was right along there with him, devouring Clark's mouth, accepting Clark's invasion, demanding more and more. One of Lex's hands wormed its way inside Clark's shirt, going underneath the t-shirt and stroking along the bare skin of his waist, just above his jeans. The other was tangled inside his hair, taking a firm grip while they played tongue hockey. The feel of Lex's fingers on his bare skin made Clark shudder and he remembered what his goal had been. Disengaging from the kiss, Clark moved back down Lex's body again. Lex's hand reluctantly came out from under the t-shirt as Clark moved down. "You're wearing too many clothes," Lex murmured, raising up on his elbows as he watched Clark lick his way down. If Lex could speak, Clark wasn't doing his job very well. He let his fingers work on the pants fastenings while he returned to the nipples and reduced Lex to mere moans again. As soon as he got the pants open, Clark left the skin above for the fascinating flesh below. Lex did, in fact, wear underwear – something Clark had occasionally wondered about as he rarely saw outlines of it under the pants. The mystery was solved with the discovery of the very form-fitting snug smooth cotton. That surprised Clark – he'd expected silk. Currently, the fabric was being distended to extremes the manufacturers hadn't allowed for, making quite a nice tent with a slight wet spot from the pre-come. Clark licked his lips and pulled the underwear down. A beautiful straining cock popped free, red and stiff with the blood flow, and Clark dove upon his prize, grabbing with one hand and engulfing the head with his mouth. Lex fell back against the coat-covered hay, biting back an exclamation as his hips involuntarily thrust forward. "Jesus!" he yelped. Clark lifted his head and grinned up Lex's body. Lex's body was covered in sweat, glistening with no hair to disrupt the light. Clark pumped his cock while still watching, and was rewarded to see Lex's body arching again, his head thrown back, one arm and hand digging into his coat and the hay beneath, the other raising to his mouth as Lex bit his wrist, stifling his cries. Good enough. Clark returned to his task, licking the shaft and head in time with his movement around the base. He used his other hand to grab the inside of Lex's thigh, holding him still. After awhile of teasing with licks to the outside with no other reaction than curses from Lex, Clark re-angled himself and swallowed Lex down. He'd expected a giant yell or something dramatic, but what Clark got was total silence, not even cursing. Trust Lex to be the odd one. Clark hadn't done this to more than a few guys, and that mostly locker-room hazing, but the one time he'd done it for real, he'd been a quick learner. He put that to good use, relaxing his throat muscles and bobbing up and down in easy rhythm, fondling Lex's balls with his hand at the base. Lex gave a strangled cry and shifted his body, trying hard not to thrust. Clark could have told him it was okay, but there was something in his mouth. Continuing to bob up and down, Clark moved his hand from Lex's thigh over to his ass, exploring there, seeking the thing that would put Lex over the edge. None of the other guys had lasted even near this long. Clark so badly wanted to make Lex lose it, to take that control of Lex's and shatter it into a thousand pieces; to watch Lex come for him. With no discernable difference in what he did, Clark got his wish as Lex came apart. Swallowing quickly, Clark scurried up to watch Lex's face. The elegant lines were relaxed, Lex's eyes shut, his lips parted as he breathed in gulps of air. Clark put a hand on Lex's chest and felt the motion. The sweat was all over his skin, and Clark leaned in to lick some off Lex's nose. That got a barest twitch of the lips and a slight opening of one eyelid. Clark watched, fascinated. It was almost everything he wanted. Greedily, he kissed Lex, forcing himself between that gap between lips and taking in more of Lex. He didn't think he would ever have enough of Lex. Lex returned the kiss before turning his head to one side and gasping for breath. "Give me a moment..." Impatiently, Clark licked all the sweat off Lex's head, starting with his cheeks, moving up to the forehead, then over the scalp. Lex chuckled, shivering with the movement. Clark returned back to Lex's lips and this time wasn't turned away. He moved his hips on Lex's thigh, rubbing to relieve some of the pressure, but not wanting to leave Lex to take care of it. Eventually, Lex disengaged again, stroking his hand through Clark's hair. "What happened to foreplay?" he asked, voice hoarse. "We've been doing that for the last year," Clark growled, eager to move on. Lex chuckled again. "I guess we have. But later, I will show you there are good things to slow as well as fast." The blue eyes held a promise and Clark shivered at that promise, wanting it now, but definitely NOT wanting slow right now. "Want to fuck me?" Lex breathed against Clark's lips. Clark jerked, his whole body reacting to the suggestion as if he hadn't already been at full attention. "Oh God, yes!" Lex's grin split his face, amusement lightening the dark seduction of before. "Do you have any---" For that, and that alone would Clark leave Lex right then. He dashed to his portion of the loft and dug around until he remembered he'd moved it and finally found the lube. One of his Red K purchases that had not been returned with the other items. His dad had gone really quiet when he saw it and some of the other items on the credit card receipts but hadn't said anything more other than another lecture on safe sex. A slightly different lecture than he'd given before. And Clark wasn't thinking of that right now. Though it did remind him to grab a condom too. When he returned to the other side, Lex had taken off the remnants of his shirt and his pants and was standing up, staring down at his coat on the hay. Seeing Lex standing there, naked in the midst of the hay piled up all around... Clark growled, deep and low. Lex turned to be met with a hungry possessive kiss. Clark held onto Lex tightly, not wanting him to get away, wanting every inch of him. Allowing the kiss and possession, Lex strained back into Clark, lifting up on his toes to press close to Clark before he broke away with a laugh. "You're still wearing too many clothes," Lex said ruefully, rubbing his chest where Clark's buttons had dragged. Clark tore off his flannel shirt and tossed it away, then shrugged out of his t-shirt. His hands were on his pants when his gaze noticed where his flannel shirt had landed. He paused, his whole body yearning. Normally, it would be no big deal, for his shirt to be toss over a hale bale. But right now... Clark gulped and glanced at Lex. Lex's mouth was curved up in a very wide grin as he regarded both Clark and the hay bale. With a sinuous sultry walk, he prowled over to the hay bale. He put his hand on Clark's shirt and looked back at Clark. "This?" "Oh God," Clark prayed. With another low chuckle, Lex spread the shirt out over the hay and poked at it, "This had better be thick enough to keep out the straw, Clark, because I'm not into the pain thing. Much." His mouth dry, Clark had to swallow a few times before he could reply. "It's hay, and that's why we wear flannel in the barn." "But I don't think you do this particular activity often with it." Lex glanced sharply back over his shoulder, tilting his head as he narrowed his eyes, "Or you better not have..." Clark shook his head frantically. Only in his fantasies, and only with Lex. Tucking the shirt again to make sure it was secure, Lex knelt down so he was leaning over the hay bale. Then he quickly stood up again. "Ouch. Fuck. Clark, bring the coat over, if you would be so kind." Okay, some things just weren't in the fantasy. Clark scooped the coat off the hay pile, pausing to bring it to his face and inhale the smell of Lex musk and hay. He wondered if Lex could have somebody make it into a cologne or something. He was so hard it hurt. Clark gulped, pulling his senses back enough to walk and made his way on unsteady feet to Lex. With glittering eyes, Lex watched him approach, doing one of those body scans that he always did, but this time it meaning so much more. Clark was acutely conscious of his bare chest and tight jeans. However, unlike the locker room, Lex's gaze didn't make him feel awkward, but rather powerful; Lex wanted him, just as he was. As he got to Lex, the other man placed a hand on each side of Clark's head and pulled him into a kiss, tilting back as he pulled Clark down so that their bodies were pressed closely together. Clark let go of the coat and reached for Lex, placing his big hands on what once was forbidden territory. He spread one hand out in the middle of Lex's back, balancing him and pulling him closer. His other hand... it started off just a bit below the first, but moved lower, almost without Clark's direction until he was gripping Lex's ass firmly. Inside his mouth, Lex moaned, pushing into Clark's hand and then forward again. Clark couldn't control his own gasp. He needed... he needed... oh God, he needed something. Making urgent noises into Lex's mouth, he returned the trusts over and over again until the warm wet paradise his tongue was in was taken away. "Easy, Clark," somebody whispered in his ear, soothing hands on his chest, stroking him gently. Clark shuddered and opened his eyes, looking spell-bound into a pair of blue eyes. Or were they green? Or grey? Right now, all he knew was they were the connection that Lex called destiny and Clark called choice. Lex smiled, his hands still stroking Clark gently as he stepped back, wiggling gently until Clark finally let his hands drop away. Lex darted up for another light kiss, and then pulled away again. Scooping down, he picked up the coat that Clark had dropped ages ago, and Lex folded it and then spread it on the floor in front of the hay bale. He continued his downward movement and knelt gracefully, bending over, like a French aristocrat to the gallows. That image was quickly dispelled in Clark's mind as Lex turned his head, gaze heated. "You do know how to prep, right?" Clark blinked. Well, in theory... "Sure." It shouldn't be that hard to figure out. Lex's teeth gleamed as he grinned a shark's predatory smile, seeing the lie but choosing to trust Clark instead. That had always defined their relationship, but now there was another truth to be had in it. "I can set fires with my vision," Clark said, a random fact popping out from somewhere. "You better not in the barn," Lex calmly responded, only his eyes giving away his overwhelming joy. "No, it doesn't happen like that anymore." That particular part of his power acquisition had quickly faded once he could control it, which was a good thing for their current situation. Clark felt like his whole body was on fire. Stepping forward, he ran his hands over Lex's back, over his head, over his ass. Lex accepted it, turning his head into the movements and undulating under the strokes. Lex dug his hands into the hay through the flannel cloth. "You're sure?" "Clark, fuck me now." It was definitely an order. A shiver went through Clark as he heard it. Lex was on his knees over a hay bale in Clark's barn, waiting to be fucked, yet he was still Lex through and through. It was the hottest damn thing Clark could imagine. He took a grip on Lex's shoulder, running his other hand down Lex's spine all the way. He got to the end and kept going... His fingers were too dry. What did he do with the lube? Letting go of Lex, Clark fumbled in his pocket until he came out with the precious tubes of lube. He'd bought a bigger one for him goofing off on his own, but it wouldn't fit in his pockets. That time he'd been on Red K, though, he'd thought about it. He'd thought very hard about it. That day Clark had walked into Lex's office, asking for the car, he'd had the tubes of lube in his pocket. If the pool table had been then, Clark wasn't sure if he would have walked out without Lex. It had still been so close, so very close. Only the knowledge that Lex would still be there for him when he came back had made Clark walk away, a thought to wet his anticipation. And now, no Red K; just Clark - himself and his desires, with a naked Lex spread out over a hay bale on his shirt before him. He didn't need Red K to have what he wanted. Clark fumbled the lid off the lube and squirted the whole thing out into his hand. "Any day, now," Lex's rich teasing voice drifted to him. Clark growled and leaned over Lex, biting the base of neck on one side, then licking the red mark and putting his mouth over it and sucking deeply. Lex gasped, dropping his head down onto the shirt. He gave another jerk as Clark's hand reached his target and he began working his way inside, one finger smoothing in. "Yes; God yes, Clark," Lex moaned, Mouthing his way up Lex's scalp, Clark wondered if he could give Lex a hickey on the back of his head. He grinned; Lex probably wouldn't thank him for it. Instead, Clark worked his way over to Lex's ear, nibbling gently. Lex turned his head and they kissed, sloppily on the side, tongues reaching out to each other where their mouths couldn't connect. Saliva dripped onto Clark's shirt beneath them and Clark watched the spreading stain. That shirt wasn't going into the laundry, not ever. "Ahh..." Lex exhaled in a sharp sound, his body stiffening and then jerking slightly. Clark returned his fingers to the bump he'd found and caressed it again, getting another set of movements, yet surprising little sound. He licked the edge of Lex's ear and then said softly, "You're too quiet." "Practice," Lex gasped out, "For another... Oh gods,... another time." The idea of them doing this again was pleasing. The idea of them doing it where other people might see and hear... Clark hadn't ever considered himself an exhibitionist before, especially considering how much he had to hide, but something in that made him thrust forward, grinding into Lex's hip, so damn close. "Get the fuck in me," Lex hissed, pushing impatiently back. Clark fumbled his jeans and shorts down, getting lube all over them. He was too impatient to take them all the way off, and he still had his shoes on, so they puddled on the floor. With a gulp, Clark positioned himself. It wasn't the best angle – Lex kneeling over the hay bale was too low for him to just go forward, but too high for him to kneel as well. There was no way that Clark was going to ask Lex to move. Not while Lex was face down over Clark's shirt on a hay bale in the loft. Hell no. Clark shifted his legs to give him leverage. And now his pants were in the way. Impatiently, Clark fumbled off his shoes and then his pants, grabbing the other tube of lube and the condom as he tossed the pants away. As Clark put the condom on, his gaze was riveted to Lex. Lex had obviously gotten impatient as well, and was fucking himself, one hand back on his ass, fingers moving in and out. Clark moaned, stroking himself over the condom, movements going faster and faster. Lex pulled his fingers out. "I'm waiting," he growled, returning his hand to gripping the hay bale. With another gulp from a mouth that was entirely too dry, Clark stepped up again, pouring lube over himself and positioning carefully. He tossed the tube away and placed one hand on Lex's shoulder and the other on Lex's hip. Slowly, he pushed in. Tight. God, so tight. Clark saw spots in front of his eyes. He had never been in anybody this tight before, though he was sure at least Kyla had been a virgin. Jessie definitely wasn't. Lex wasn't. But Lex was so fucking tight. Clark paused, trying not to come. "Fucking hell; Clark, stop teasing!" Lex pushed back, driving Clark deeper into himself. Another push and Clark was all the way in, his balls resting on Lex's ass, his dick surrounded by tight hot heaven. They stayed like that for a moment, together. Neither one said a word, their breathing deep and ragged, filling the barn with echoes of the same. Finally, Clark started moving, pulling out and pushing back in. His grip on Lex's hip tightened and he brought his other hand down from Lex's shoulder to grab the other side too. His gaze was focused on Lex's head, watching the bare scalp, the veins throbbing under the skin, the glimpses he could get of Lex's cheek sometimes as his head would turn slightly. He so badly wanted to kiss Lex, to thrust his tongue in and out of Lex's mouth as he was moving inside him. Clark moaned, his thrusts speeding up. Lex wasn't just sitting there and taking it; he was active in his own debauchery, his hips moving back to meet Clark, his fists tightly gripping the flannel over hay. He didn't, however, say a word, unless one counted gasps. The slight sounds were driving Clark wild. Every indication of Lex losing some of his control, every moan to indicate that it was Clark doing it to him, every gasp of pleasure. Clark thrust in harder, more roughly, seeking his own release, wanting to see Lex come. "Lex..." Audibly swallowing a cry, Lex turned his head to meet Clark's eyes briefly before the thrusts forced him to look back down. "You want it, Clark; you know you do. Come on, Clark, take me hard." Clark moaned and obeyed, pounding into Lex in pleasure and desperation. "You want me to come on this shirt of yours? Tonight I'll take it back home with me, and after all the servants have gone to bed, I'll spread it out on my bed, on top of my covers, and I'll grab myself and I'll be thinking of you, of how you feel sliding in and out of me, of your fucking hot body and your green eyes and your wet mouth and I'm going to come just from that, and your shirt will be there---" With a cry, Clark came. He held still for a very long time afterwards, gasping breaths of air, his hands on Lex trembling from the effort, his legs barely holding him. The sweat on Lex's back was calling to him and Clark dipped his head down, resting his forehead on Lex's shoulderblades. Finally he regained enough strength to pull out, hissing as he did so. God, he wanted to do this again. Right now. But his cock was limp and satiated and Clark had no more strength left. But he had just fucked Lex. Over a hay bale. In his barn. Clark gulped. Lex rolled casually over, sitting up on the bale facing Clark, his eyes half-lidded yet bright underneath, his lips parted, his arms open. Clark reached forward, putting himself in those arms, taking the invitation and kissing Lex hungrily. He'd just come, Lex had come earlier, yet he still couldn't get enough of Lex. Lex was kissing back just as desperately. "Clark," he breathed between kisses. "Lex." Clark turned his face into Lex's neck and licked off the drying sweat. "Well, you were right about the flannel. Maybe I should get some of my own," Lex teased while running his hands over Clark's back, stroking him possessively. "You can borrow mine any time you want," Clark moved up to Lex's ear again. He loved Lex's ears. And his nose, and his cheeks, and... "Ummm..." Lex sighed, leaning back in Clark's arms. "I will." Clark's eyelids were drooping down, the rush of energy leaving behind a sated lassitude. He stood up and picked Lex up in his arms, a bridesmaid carry. Lex started to squawk and then cut off the undignified noise. He grabbed around Clark's neck and glared at him and then the glare changed to a soft wonder and acceptance. Lex leaned up to kiss Clark with his lips. Walking back to their earlier nest, Clark started to put Lex down and then realized he'd forgotten something. In his arms, Lex snickered, then squirmed a bit as Clark threateningly started to lower him anyhow into the bare hay. "You better not..." Shifting, Clark put Lex down so he was standing, and then dashed over to grab Lex's coat and Clark's shirt. When he returned, he spread Lex's coat out again in the hay pile, then laid back into it. Lex's eyes were dilated again as he watched. "So beautiful," he whispered. "So wrong..." It figured Lex would get back to that now that he had a moment to think. Clark snorted and grabbed Lex's hands, drawing him down until Lex was resting on top of him. "Not wrong, right. So very right," Clark said firmly. Lex's mouth twisted into a bitter smile, "I shouldn't have done that to you." Clark blinked. "I was the one doing the doing." He shivered a little, remembering it, wanting to do it again just as soon as possible. "But I was---" Clark put his hand over Lex's mouth. Lex would talk himself out of heaven if he could, he believed so much he belonged in hell. Though if this was hell, Clark rather thought he would join Lex there. It didn't feel like hell; it felt right. Like they had only needed that one more step to get here and what had been wrong was not taking that step. This, with them together curled up, trusting each other... this was what was right. "You're mine," Clark whispered, taking his hand away and replacing it with his mouth. Lex didn't protest again, accepting the statement and all that Clark was giving and returning it ten-fold. Eventually, they slowed, too sated to take it again to another level. They curled up around each other and Clark draped his shirt over them both. It was warm enough outside that they shouldn't get too cold for awhile, and then they could move indoors. For now, this was enough, with the two of them twined together, sharing their warmth and their selves. Drifting, Clark wasn't quite sleeping, yet wasn't quite awake when he heard a noise and blinked himself to some more awareness. "Lex, are you purring?" Lex shook with restrained laughter, "Jinx is on top of me. I think he's decided on a new way to get attention." Clark raised his head to look at the rather awesome sight of them in the hay loft, with a black cat curled on top of Clark's shirt resting on top of Lex, curled in his arms. Then he kissed Lex lightly and laid his head down again. The world was perfect. End ^_^

In 2007, Luke crosses the US-Canada border at Niagara Falls, driving a stolen car with a fake ID over the Rainbow Bridge. The scab at his temple has nearly healed and he can't think Sylar's name without following it with a curse. He ditches the car the first chance he gets and loses himself among the street kids of Toronto. Luke's an accomplished pickpocket, an expert shoplifter and a pretty fast talker. With a sad look and a snivel, he can easily wheedle five bucks from every motherly-looking woman who catches his eye. At night, he sleeps in the backroom of a condemned house, keeping himself to himself, just another delinquent youth in a crowd of nameless, faceless squatters. In 2008, all hell breaks loose. With a CNN microphone shoved under his nose, Senator Nathan Petrelli comes clean about the special people living in their midst. He delivers a scathing, and exclusive, exposé on Homeland Security's activities, on the people who'd done nothing but be born different and the way their government punished them for it. In 48 hours, he's disappeared, presumed assassinated, but the damage is done. The UN launches a taskforce and the Vatican issues a plea for tolerance as heads of state across the globe condemn the US while hastily covering up their own attempts to quash the growing population of specials. Canada opens its doors to the evolved people of the world and declares an amnesty for those who need it. But Luke doesn't care. His time with Sylar has cured him of what lingering capacity to trust his father hadn't taken with him when he left. Luke has bigger problems than the marches for equal rights that seem to tramp down every major street. He's cold. He's lonely. He's eighteen with no money, no family and no prospects. He heats an empty tin can so the metal sparks and glows red hot, and presses his fingers to it until he screams. With the tips of his fingers charred, Luke walks into the Covenant House homeless shelter, one block over from city hall. For the first time in more than a year, he sleeps in a real bed, and eats food he didn't steal. No one needs know that this Luke Campbell is that Luke Campbell that Luke left behind in a boarded up Big Jim's Franks and Fries. In 2009, enough people assume Luke's a Canadian that he really becomes one. His fingerprints can't be reconstructed and he blames an abusive father he'd rather forget for why he won't tell anyone where he's from. He's issued a new SIN to replace the one he never had. His hands have healed and if he wants to keep his bed, he has to get a job. He follows a bunch of guys to a construction site just south of Main Street and watches the men at work. "Hey!" he yells through the chain link fence at a stocky guy with a clipboard. "Hey! You the boss?" "Yeah. What's it to you?" "You gotta job for me?" "You!?" The man laughs and Luke bristles. He looks Luke up and down, and still chuckling, shrugs. "You know what, kid? Why the hell not?" By 2010, Luke's saved enough money to move into his own apartment. It's small and it's dingy and it's on the wrong side of town, but it's his. Joe Matthews of Matthews Construction co-signs his lease. *** In 2011, the drive out to the suburbs is long. Luke rides shotgun in Joe's truck. They pass by pretty little houses on pretty little streets, all neatly mowed yards and rose bush borders. One day, Luke thinks, he's gonna live somewhere like this, in a cookie cutter house with a swing set out back and a nine-to-five job. He thinks that maybe, if he leads a normal life, in a normal house with a normal wife, then just maybe, he'll finally be normal too. The site is a new build on an old street. Property prices are rising and the middle class is moving in. Everyone wants to get in on the ground floor in urban gentrification, and some enterprising gangbanger, more businessman than thug, has hired Joe's crew to raze the ghetto and leave a cul-de-sac rising from the ashes. Luke and Joe are the last to arrive and they pull up to find the crew lazing around the backhoe, chain smoking and drinking coffee, as over the bright orange tape that fences off the construction site, what's left of the old neighbourhood has gathered to watch. Luke tightens the tool belt that hangs off his hips; it's too wide by far and the buckle notches in a hole he had to punch himself. He starts pulling equipment from the flat bed of the truck, concentrating on the clang of metal on metal to better ignore the taunts: "Nice of you to show, Campbell. How much ass did you have to kiss to swing a ride with the boss? Or do I mean, how much cock did you suck?" Luke squeezes his fists inside the thick work gloves he wears, and reminds himself that scorched polyester against his palms isn't worth it just to prove a dime a dozen dickhead a lesson. No one stays in Joe's crew for long; they end up back in prison or running drugs or, even, once in a while, moving on to better things. It's only Luke who's stuck around long enough to enjoy the benefits that come from loyalty. Naturally, the guys ride him hard for it; everyone always jostling for a better place in the pack. But, this jackass will soon be in a cell somewhere and another slack-jawed, buck toothed jackass will take his place. They'll have this same petty pissing match again and it isn't worth Luke's time to prove himself to every macho meathead who comes along. "Luke, c'mere." Joe gestures him over to where he's standing by the idle backhoe. Luke shoulders past the other men, earning cat calls for his double quick obedience. "Pussy!" someone growls, muffled in a cough. "What d'you think?" Joe asks. Even four years on, Luke hasn't quite lost that flutter of pleasure at the knowledge that there's someone, anyone, who wants to listen to his opinion. He toes the ground thoughtfully, the steel tip of his work boot dragging patterns in the frost on the grass. "Too cold," the driver spits, leaning on the front bucket of the backhoe. Joe looks to Luke. He nods; it's true. Luke flinches as Joe swears and stamps his feet. He's just the messenger, and Joe's raging at god and the ground and the snow clouds obscuring the sun rather than at them, but still, Luke wants to lash out at the unkempt man chewing tobacco, who'd so casually ruined his boss's mood. "The client's on a deadline," Joe hisses. "We need to get this done." "Shoulda called us in here a week ago when the weather was good. Now…" The driver shrugs. "…gotta wait for this frost to clear. Health and safety." Joe pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes scrunched shut as he frowns. The rest of the crew are already subtly shifting, packing up their toolboxes while they wait to be dismissed. They get paid for showing, whether they showed for nothing or not. And nothing is all that's going to happen until the backhoe breaks ground. Luke doesn't know anything about flipping houses, but he thinks it should involve significantly fewer guns than what their client usually brings to meetings. He's not, Luke thinks, the kind of guy who'll be happy if the deadline can't be met. Joe turns to Luke in desperation. "You know I wouldn't ask…" "I know," Luke mutters. He strips off his gloves, showing them in his waistband at his hip and cracks his knuckles. This is it, everything he tries to avoid these days. Don't stand out. Don't make a scene. Don't let them know who you really are. But Joe's done more for him than Luke deserves. So, he crouches down in the grass and lays his hands, palm down, flat against the ground. The ice is cold enough to burn his skin. Luke can feel the microwaves inside him starting to pulse, surging towards the cold in a rush of self-preservation before frostbite can take hold. "You should stand back," he says, but no one listens. "Stand back!" Joe bellows. Everyone pays attention when the foreman talks. The people who have come to ogle them fall quiet. The crew back off, muttering obscene things from a safe distance away. "You good?" Joe asks. "Yeah. All good." It only takes a little concentration, and his ability is there, like he hasn't shut it away for months on end and tried to pretend it isn't part of him. The air hums red and the ice begins to melt. Under Luke's hands, the ground seems softer already. He presses down with the tips of his fingers, but hits ice again before the soil has caked beneath his nails. More power; more microwaves; more, unending silence from a bunch of guys who've always got a smartass thing to say. Eventually, the dirt grows soggy under Luke's fingers, and the grass drips with melted frost. Luke stands and dusts off his knees, fumbling to pull his gloves back on as if a thin strip of fabric is all the shield he needs against the distrust in the eyes of the men around him. "Right!" Joe hollers. "The ground's defrosted. Everyone back to work." "Thanks a lot, Campbell, you fucking freak!" seems to be the general consensus. *** There's a bar two blocks from Luke's apartment. It's quiet and seedy, smelling like stale cigarettes, old piss and sour beer. One or two alcoholics are there round the clock, propping up the bar. Toronto has nicer establishments, but Luke's found he gets more shit with his new ID and the helix symbol that marks him as evolved, than he ever did with the crappy fake that said his name was 'Abraham', born in 1974. So, he sticks to where he's on nodding terms with the barman, and as long as he pays up, the bouncer doesn't hassle him. It's no great loss; cheap beer tastes watered down no matter where you park your ass to drink it. He settles into his regular booth, huddled in a dark corner as he nurses a drink. His muscles ache and his feet are tired, but that's the price of a hard day's work. He glances up sharply when a glass is set down in front of him, ice tinkling against the rim. "Hello, Luke," a deep voice says, still so familiar after so many years apart. Sylar pushes the glass towards him with two fingers, and that smirk that haunts Luke's nightmares spreads across his face. Luke has imagined this moment more times than he cares to admit. In the first few days and weeks and months after Sylar left him, he'd play over every scenario, no matter how implausible, where they might meet again. Luke saw himself angry, nuking Sylar before he could get a word in edgewise; he saw himself aloof, impervious to Sylar's taunts; he saw himself falling down at Sylar's feet and begging to be taken back. Yet, now, he does the one thing he never imagined himself capable of. Luke curls his fingers around the proffered glass and coolly says, "Hi." Sylar arches a single eyebrow, thick and black and questioning. Luke hates that at twenty-one his chest feels tight with fucking pride for impressing Sylar the way his seventeen year old self never could. The only person Luke hates more than who he is is who he was and he doesn't need Sylar here dredging up a past it's taken him so long to bury. "Canada, eh?" Sylar deadpans. Luke leans back in his seat, squaring his shoulders as he looks Sylar up and down. Regeneration doesn't really sink in when you're a teen; Luke thought himself invincible, then, anyway. But now, when Luke knows his own face his thinner and his muscles leaner, it's like looking back in time to see Sylar completely unchanged. He half expects to catch his own reflection in the glass behind the bar and see himself a dumb, punk kid again, sneering at the world. "Ripping off old ladies?" Sylar asks. Luke laughs despite himself. "Not right now, no. You?" Sylar is still for a moment, gazing at Luke with a critical, considering eye. Luke's throat burns as he takes a gulp of the whisky set before him. Suddenly, he feels the almost-forgotten tug of telekinetic hands at his shoulders. Sylar curls two fingers and jerks Luke towards himself until they're hunched low over the table, heads huddled together. Conspiratorially, Sylar whispers, "See the bartender?" "Yeah," Luke breathes. "Redistributing the grime on these glasses with that filthy rag of his isn't his only skill. He can make ice," he says, rattling Luke's glass, "with the tips of his fingers." The invisible hold relaxes and Luke leans back once more, softly chuckling at Sylar's expense. How could he and the world have changed so much, and Sylar not changed at all? "Still doing that thing, then? That, uh… collecting thing?" "Looks like it." Sylar shrugs. "I would have thought…" He hesitates at the warning flash in Sylar's eyes. But, there's enough seventeen year old Luke left in twenty-one year old Luke to want to push Sylar's buttons. "I would have thought maybe you'd have a new objective by now?" Sylar scowls and Luke snorts. "I mean, come on, dude. It's been… what? Four years? Five years?" "Four years, eight months, two weeks and five days." Luke swallows dryly, because if Sylar's still clinging to the same old objective, he hasn't lost his talent for making Luke uncomfortable when he wants to, either. "You gonna do hours and minutes, too?" "I could." "Yeah, well, whatever man. What're you really doing here, anyway? Can't find enough fresh meat in the good ol' U S of A?" Sylar pops the olive from his martini into his mouth, turning the cocktail stick between his fingers. Eventually he simply shrugs. "I needed a change. Besides," he adds, lowering his voice, "where's the challenge when everyone's walking around, using their abilities willy-nilly in broad daylight?" "Less of a challenge up here," Luke counters. "For now, perhaps." Sylar gives Luke a cryptic smile. Suddenly, Luke wants out like he never wanted out when he was younger, smart enough to see the signs for danger but dumb enough think they really read adventure. Luke's not stupid, whatever anyone else might think. He reads the papers while he waits for the bus to work and he listens to the eleven-o-clock news every night. He knows about the right wing splinter groups calling for segregation and about the bill that's being pushed through Parliament by people scared of only being ordinary, the one that's going to roll back Canada's open-arms policy re: the world's evolved. He's heard about the lynch mobs just south of the border, and the vigilante justice that filled the gap when US Homeland Security deemed specials no longer a threat. He's read about the hate crimes where the victim's the one to stand trial; self-defence is not an excuse to use an ability on an unevolved human, or so the Supreme Court says. Everyone knows the Chief Justice of Canada is a bent normal with half the Cabinet in his pocket and a stick up his ass about specials. Human rights groups, or at least ones who think those with abilities are human too, are dismissing the ruling as unconstitutional while a militant third-party on a 'Take Back Canada for Real Canadians' platform is gaining ground. Their number one campaign promise is to institute a death penalty for all incarcerated evolved peoples. If Sylar's crossed the border just to stir the pot, Luke doesn't want to know. He stands to leave but Sylar's hand covers his on the sticky table. All these years of independence, and Luke still sits like Pavlov's dog, wagging his tail while he waits to be shocked. "Oh Luke," he chides. "You can't leave yet. We've barely caught up." "I don't want to catch up," Luke hisses. For the first time in years, he lashes out in anger with his ability. Sylar's hand snaps back, his fried skin regenerating while the stench of burnt flesh lingers in the air. He clucks his tongue. "Naughty, naughty. If I wasn't so forgiving, a stunt like that could land you in Millhaven." Luke's sick to his stomach with the knowledge that Sylar's right. He looks around the room, checking to see if anyone noticed. The lushes at the bar aren't staring at anything but the bottom of their glasses and the bartender knows better to than to stick his nose anywhere uninvited. Luke exhales a long sigh of relief. "So, tell me, Luke… Four years, eight months, two weeks, and five days, and, there hasn't been a lick of trouble in Toronto. Have you really gone straight?" Sylar looks at his healed palm and slowly clenches and relaxes his fist. "Or are you just better at hiding the bodies, hm?" "I'm trying to make something for myself! Something that doesn't include you!" Luke slaps his hands on the table and now people are looking, even the drunks who can't stand on their own have turned to watch the show but Luke doesn't care. "I've got a good life, here; an honest life and I don't need you fucking things up." Luke steels himself because if his memories of Sylar are accurate, then mouthing off like that will have him flying through the air at any second, crashing through the bar, no doubt, until he's pinned bleeding to a wall. He wonders if this time Sylar will take his ability when he's done stealing the barman's. But, Sylar only laughs. He throws his head back and cackles, like Luke's told the dirtiest joke he's ever heard, and when people turn to look this time, it's Sylar that they're looking at, and the way he's clutching his sides. Luke flushes a deep, hot red, unsure how Sylar can still make him feel so small and insignificant, how in four years of slurs and barbs, no one's been able to humiliate him like Sylar can with just a look. "Liar," Sylar snorts through his giggles. Luke opens his mouth to protest that Sylar's lie-detecting ability must be on the fritz because he's never been more serious in his life, when Sylar's laughter abruptly stops and he says with deathly calm, "I told you that I'm going to murder that man behind the bar. A man that you know. A man that's done you no wrong. Someone living an honest life would have tried to stop me, or at the very least excused themselves to go to the john and call 911. Think about that, Luke." Luke downs the rest of the whisky as Sylar tosses a few bills on the table. Sylar's mind holds him in his seat until Sylar's long gone out the door. *** The winter air is frigid, the cold burning Luke's cheeks and numbing the tip of his nose where it peeks above the heavy canvas collar of his coat. Overnight the excavation has frozen through. It's up to Luke to nuke the earth, but no one thanks him for it. It's too easy now to do this. The gloves slide from his hands like they were never meant to be there and the wind whips away the crude jeers of those who stand across the site, huddled together as they judge him; cowardice in numbers. And as he heats the ground, barely bending over now, no need to crouch when the microwaves pulse from him, hotter and broader than before, the air fogs all around them, oddly humid in the biting cold. It's easy, too easy, to push out more than is needed and when Luke's done, the bottom of the hole they've dug is awash with a slush of mud and ice they all have to pitch in to bail out. "Fucking mutant faggot," someone mutters in Luke's direction. "This is why we don't want your kind doing an honest man's work." And it's hard, too hard, for Luke to curl his hand into a fist and not show the flat of his palm like he's itching to. Sweat trickles down the back of his neck and even in the crisp, winter morning, Luke's running too hot, skin tight and body thrumming with energy that aches to be released. He kicks the ground and turns on his heel, the pound of blood in his ears drowning out the hissed slurs that follow his retreat. He stomps into the makeshift break room, a lean-to cabin of hastily slapped together plasterboard and corrugated iron. The men within it scramble out before Luke gets too close. No one wants to find out the hard way if powers are catching. Luke slaps both hands around the industrial coffee pot, barely flinching as the hot metal sears his skin and he funnels all his anger into a sudden, single pulse that leaves bright metallic sparks shooting all around him and the coffee bubbling over. He yanks his hands away before they scald and watches the volcanic eruption with sullen satisfaction. When it's done, Luke grabs a newspaper from the rickety table in the corner and throws it down to soak up the coffee slick that stains the linoleum floor. He watches as the ink bleeds across the pages and the paper turns a yellowing, sickly brown. And it's only when the faces in the front page photograph have blurred beyond all recognition that Luke's calm enough to read the headline that's been left out for him to find: 59 YR OLD HIGHSCHOOL TEACHER IN WINNIPEG BRUTALLY BEATEN TO DEATH WHEN OUTED AS A 'SPECIAL'. *** Luke exits the subway station opposite the bar. Standing in the doorway, the bouncer stubs out a cigarette with his heel and huffs hot breath on his hands to warm them. There're no blood stains on the front step or police tape cordoning off the area; whatever move Sylar's going to make, there's still time to cut him off. Luke stands at the crosswalk, looking left and right and left again, waiting for that moment when his nerves will steel. The bouncer growls at him as he tramps the site's mud across the sticky floors. Luke sits at the bar, worn gloves placed neatly at his elbow. The stool is high and his legs swing, the toes of his work books barely brushing the ground. Luke fiddles with a napkin, tearing it into hundreds of little squares. "The usual?" the bartender asks. Luke nods a 'yes', his throat too dry to speak. Condensation wets his palms as he plays the beer bottle between his hands. He casts a nervous look around the bar, it's early still, only just gone five thirty and the after work crowd, such as it is in this neighbourhood, has yet to show. The only other customer in the place is slumped in a corner booth, dozing off an afternoon bender. The bartender lazily shines a glass. Luke clears his throat, still not sure of what to say. "Lovers' spat?" "Excuse me?" Luke stutters. The bartender jerks his head in the direction of Luke's usual booth, and looks at Luke knowingly. "The guy from yesterday? Tall, dark, has an ass to die for? I mean, it's none of my business but come on, when a guy turns up for a drink two hours earlier than usual, it means there's trouble at home." Luke's not sure what knocks him off guard more, the bartender's assumption that he and Sylar are lovers (does it still show? Four years on, can it still be so obvious to someone who doesn't know them?) or that he's so openly broached the subject. There's enough bigotry to go around and just because evolved peoples are the new bottom rung of the ladder doesn't mean the boots of the white, straight and narrow minded have stopped treading on those 'normals' who don't quite fit. Implying a stranger in a bar is gay is no safer in 2011 than it was in 2009. Luke shakes off his confusion and grabs the bartender's hand in his own; his fingertips are blue with cold and his skin is clammy where Luke's is fever-hot. "Is he here? That guy? Have you seen him?" "Whoa!" the bartender holds up his hands. "I never pegged you for the jealous type! No, he isn't here. Haven't seen him since yesterday. Calm down." There's an awkward moment and then, Luke sits back. "Sorry," he mumbles. The bartender looks over Luke's shoulder and nods. In the reflection of the glass behind the bar, Luke can see the bouncer relax back against the doorframe. And if Luke's going to warn him, then now's the time to do it, before the bar is lined with people who want nothing but to forget and the bartender writes off Luke's words as those of another drunken fool who won't remember anything in the morning. For, what is Luke to he? A shared ability, a shared curse, doesn't make them brothers, not even brothers in arms. Even if he's believed, a head start won't do much against Sylar. And, when this guy turns up with his scalp sliced off and minus a brain, it won't be Sylar the police string up, but the weird guy who was here the day before, babbling about murder. The days when Luke would gladly pay for Sylar's crimes have long since passed. He finishes his beer and he pays his tab. He walks out the bar and he doesn't look back. *** Luke finds Sylar sprawled out, in his socked feet, on Luke's sofa, a diet soda in one hand and the remote in the other. He doesn't look up when Luke walks in and Luke only barely falters when he spots him. "Hi," Luke says coolly. "Hi." Sylar shuts off the TV and tosses the remote at the coffee table. It skitters across the glass top, its fall buffeted by the newspaper clippings scattered all around. It takes Luke a moment to recognise the contents of the box he keeps hidden beneath his bed. He lunges towards Sylar but telekinetic forces root him to the spot. "That's mine," he grits. "But it's all about me," Sylar purrs as he stands, slinking over to Luke and sidling up behind him. Luke's hands begin to glow in warning, but Sylar only clicks his tongue. "Careful now, Luke. You don't want to burn down your apartment. Although… a little fire damage might spruce the place up." "There's nothing wrong with my apartment!" "No, I suppose a dump like this is the best you can afford doing what you do." "There's nothing wrong with what I do! I have an honest job which is more than you've ever done with your life!" "Luke, please," Sylar scoffs. "There's nothing honest about your life. You're hiding from what you are, trying to pass as some backwards Neanderthal 'normal' as if sweat and dirt can erase what you've done." Luke trembles with rage and he tries to speak, to shout Sylar down and tell him that he's wrong but there's a telekinetic pressure on his windpipe and Luke's lips are clamped shut for him. Sylar presses his nose behind Luke's ear, nuzzling in the soft hair there and inhaling deeply. His front is flush to Luke's immobile back, one arm hooked loosely around Luke's waist. Sylar's hand rests on his stomach, pressing gently to muscle firmed by manual labour as if trying to feel the maelstrom of microwaves being stoked in Luke's core. The air is heating up around them with the burning, red hot glow from Luke's useless, outstretched hands. Sweat slicks Luke's skin and to his disgust he swears he can feel the tip of Sylar's tongue brush against his neck, tasting the salt of his skin. With a lazy curl of his fingers, Sylar summons the yellowing newspaper clippings strewn across the coffee table. They dance on invisible strings in front of Luke's face and he finds that there are forces holding open his eyes, stopping him from looking away: NEW JERSEY TEEN MISSING AFTER MOTHER HELD HOSTAGE AND SOLDIER KILLED DECORATED SOLDIER DEAD IN THE 'MOST BIZARRE' HOMICIDE THE NEW JERSEY CORONOR'S OFFICE HAS EVER SEEN TEEN ABDUCTED FROM HOME BY HIGHLY DANGEROUS CRIMINAL "And the worst part is that the only person you're fooling is yourself," Sylar says with an exasperated sigh, plucking at Luke's mud stained work clothes and gesturing around the room. "I let you live because you're special. You're better than this." "Wake up, Sylar! The world has changed! There is no special," Luke spits as the pressure on his throat is lifted. "Every second person you meet has an ability and no one's afraid to use them. Not anymore." "Oh, but, Luke," Sylar purrs, holding Luke a little tighter as his hot breath tickles Luke's ear, "that's not true; you're afraid." Suddenly, Luke's released from the bonds that hold him and he does the one thing that he's tried to cure himself of in the years since he last saw Sylar: he acts without thinking. Luke twists in Sylar's embrace and in a blind rage, slams his palms against Sylar's chest, all the built up microwaves erupting out and nuking him, over and over. Luke's killing him, and killing him again and again and again as Sylar heals. Sylar stumbles backwards and Luke surges forwards, unrelenting. They topple to the floor, hard, grunting through gritted teeth. Sylar's dying from the inside out; blood seeps from behind his eyes and trickles from his ears. The corners of his mouth are slick and crimson, and underneath his hands, Luke can feel Sylar's innards frying, separated from him by only the wall of Sylar's sternum. The air is rank with the fetid smell of charbroiled flesh and the chemical burn of superheated fabric. Sylar's shirt melts and fuses to skin that bubbles and splits, the whole rancid casing slaked away as new, pink skin takes its place. Luke finds he doesn't give a shit that none of this will last, that his outburst will only be as long as Sylar tolerates it and that in the end Sylar will stand up, brush himself off and leave again, because right here and right now, Luke is making Sylar hurt. And that's payback that's been four years, eight months, two weeks, and six days coming. To Luke's surprise, and maybe Sylar's too, it's Luke who tires of battle first. Sylar's on his back, mostly dead and quickly regenerating. Luke's on his knees, straddling Sylar's hips, one hand flat to Sylar's stomach and the other over his heart. Sylar's shirt has long since been scorched away to nothing and their skin is damp with sweat where they touch. The microwaves slow to a gentle ebb and then, even Luke's strength for that is sapped. He slumps forward, heaving ragged breaths and he finds that, at twenty-one, his forehead still notches as perfectly to the crook of Sylar's neck as it did at seventeen. "Asshole," Luke mutters. Sylar only laughs, his hand coming up to stroke over the back of Luke's flushed neck and ruffle through his hair. Half-heartedly, Luke tries to shrug him off, bracing himself for whatever he's got coming; Sylar's caresses have always been tempered with a slap. But all Sylar does is sling one arm around Luke's waist and draw him down nearer, his lips brushing over Luke's temple, pressing to the tiny scar that Sylar had left behind. "You've missed that, haven't you? Nuking people who piss you off?" "No," Luke gasps against Sylar's skin. "Liar," Sylar murmurs mildly. He cups the back of Luke's head and kisses him soundly. Luke bites at Sylar's mouth, hard, tearing his bottom lip. Sylar simply raises one eyebrow and licks the wound as it heals. He kisses Luke harder, shoving his tongue between Luke's teeth until all either can taste is the sharp, copper tang of blood. He pushes at Luke's rain- and sweat-stained jacket, tearing it down his arms and flinging it aside. "You're better than that," he growls, nimble fingers yanking open the buttons of Luke's thick flannel work shirt. "So much better." "No," Luke whines, not really sure if he's disagreeing or asking Sylar to stop. But Sylar only rolls them over so that the threadbare carpet scratches Luke's bare back and Sylar's chest hair scratches his front. And, when Sylar kisses down his jaw and lower, mapping out the new hard planes where Sylar left Luke weak and soft before, Luke doesn't say no again, no matter how much he knows he should. Sylar's tugging at his bootlaces and peeling off his socks, frowning at the mud caked hems of Luke's winter trousers before ridding him of those too. "So special." Then, he kisses a path up one leg and buries his face in Luke's crotch, licking and sucking at the fabric of Luke's boxers. Luke's making a low, whining sound in the back of his throat. He's twisting his hips, caught between trying to get away and trying to press himself nearer. Sylar drags Luke's underwear down and in one swift movement, takes his cock to the back of his throat. Luke cries out Sylar's name, his eyes scrunched shut with a conflicted mix of pleasure and shame. As his fingers thread through Sylar's hair, Luke hates that four years on, he can't drag himself away from his seventeen year old self's masturbatory fantasy come to life. When Luke summons the strength to look down at Sylar, he finds Sylar staring intently up at him. He pulls off Luke's dick with a wet, messy pop. A glistening string of spit and pre-come hangs between Sylar's lips and the head of Luke's cock, broken only when Sylar licks his lips. "You're too special for this, Luke." It should be too little, too late; Sylar on his knees with only eyes for Luke is what Luke wanted then, not what he wants now but his cock still twitches and his hips still lift to nudge his erection against Sylar's chin. Luke's chest is warm with want and his face is flushed from the attention. Even his ability, thrumming in his gut, twinned with the anger Luke can't quite shake, feels better than it should. "No," he says weakly, but Sylar pulls him up by the hand and walks Luke backwards towards his bedroom. The room is a mess where Sylar has pried. The bed is pulled away from the wall and stands askew; the floorboard Sylar yanked up to find Luke's secrets is leaning against the wall. Sylar's kisses muffle Luke's attempted protest. "So special," Sylar intones as he pushes Luke down and kneels between his legs, dropping kisses to Luke's forehead, the tip of his nose and the cleft of his chin. Luke sits with his head bowed and, without breaking his gaze away from Luke, Sylar takes Luke's hand in his own and brings it to his lips. His tongue drags over the rough, calloused skin where Luke's fingers meet his palm, and at the knot on the side of his thumb, where hammers and handsaws have rubbed as Luke tried to find their balance. Sylar licks and licks, tender and thorough and unrelenting, as if he can kiss away the pain of years of manual labour. "You're so much better than this, Luke." But, Luke knows that isn't true. He deserves much worse than the constant pain in his back from heavy lifting and chapped skin from the winter wind. He lives his life waiting for the day when someone will see him for the monster he really is and it all comes crashing down around him. His palm starts to glow and he can feel the heat trapped between them, flushing Sylar's skin and singeing his stubble. Yet, Sylar doesn't pull away. He leans in closer, pressing his cheek to the cradle of Luke's hand even as Luke slowly fries his flesh. He doesn't flinch though Luke knows it has to hurt. "Too special for this crappy place and this crappy life." Luke pulls his hand away and shuts his eyes against the sudden, hot tears that threaten to spill. His chest feels tight and his throat too. He lies down on the bed and spreads his legs to let Sylar do what he will. Luke can hear the soft slide of a drawer being opened and then there are slick, thick fingers stroking between his thighs. Luke draws his knees to his chest and he throws an arm over his face, biting at the inside of his elbow as he waits for the sharp, hard thrust he remembers all too vividly. But instead, Sylar caresses him gently. One slippery finger works its way tenderly inside, stretching and stroking and slowly twisting until Luke is thrusting back against Sylar's hand and another finger slides in beside it. It seems like hours as Sylar teases Luke open, more careful than he needs to be, more careful than Luke ever thought he could be. And to Luke, it's far worse than the roughest fuck they ever had when he was stupid, seventeen and virginal. He's choking back sobs and his cheeks are wet where he can't stop himself from crying. He tries to twist onto to his stomach, to get up on his hands and knees and smother himself in the pillows, but Sylar's grip on his hip prevents him from turning away. Sylar makes love to him slowly, with lazy, tender thrusts as he laps away the tears from the corners of Luke's eyes. Over and over, he whispers Luke's name, until Luke's hanging on the brink of orgasm and his lips are hovering over Luke's. And when Luke cants up off the pillows, to finally close the gap between their mouths, hating himself for the whimpered "Sylar" he can't hold back as he does, that's when Luke comes, spilling semen over Sylar's fist. Sylar comes with a groan; Luke has to swallow back the bile that rises in his throat. "Are you happy here, Luke?" he asks as he peppers breathless kisses to Luke's sex-pink skin. "Yes," Luke wails. Sylar shakes his head sadly, tying off the condom and tossing it aside. "Liar," he breathes as he swaddles Luke in the sheets and pulls him to his chest. "But that's okay. I'm here now, Luke. You don't need to be afraid anymore." In Sylar's arms, Luke goes cold with fear. When Luke wakes, he's all alone; the tangled sheets and dried come on his belly are the only sign that Sylar has been there. Luke barely makes it to the bathroom before he pukes. *** Two days on the site and the stench from the chemical toilets already leaves Luke gagging. He shudders in disgust as he latches the door behind him and tries not to look at the floor while he takes a piss. Luke winces as he zips himself up; he's got that subtle ache deep in his gut that always comes from being fucked, no matter how gently. He wants to lose himself in the mind numbing push and pull of physical labour, but he's reminded by the throb of muscles well-used every time he sits or stretches or bends to help move the iron girders they're riveting into place. Luke washes his hands and when he finds the paper towel dispenser already empty, he doesn't pause to make a conscious choice before a soft burst of microwaves leaves his skin steaming dry. He presses his warm hands under his shirt and against his belly, letting the heat ease the cramp inside him. When he pulls on his work gloves, supple from years of wear, they suddenly feel too hot, too tight and too constricting in a way they never were before. Still fiddling with his gloves and gritting his teeth against the memories of the night before, Luke walks straight into two guys loitering outside the Porta-Potty. Before he can even mumble an apology, Luke's shoved roughly back. "Don't touch me, shithead!" Luke barely has time to register the insult before the other guy is cracking him across the jaw and following it up with a punch to Luke's middle. He staggers backwards and stumbles against the plastic wall of the toilet. There's a hollow thud as Luke doubles over in the mud. "Faggot!" one yells in his ear, while the other spits, "Freak!" "I thought I told you we don't want your kind working in this crew!" The words are punctuated with another blow and Luke spits blood. "But you can't take a hint, can you?" "Fuck you!" Luke growls, lashing out as best he can with his fists, but it's two to one and they've caught him by surprise; Luke's kicked and punched and kicked some more until his ribs are aching and every ragged breath leaves his chest burning. From the corner of his eye, Luke sees one of the bastards take a hammer from his tool belt. Luke's hands heat so fast and so intensely that his gloves incinerate in an instant. The assholes take one step back but brandish their hammers and laugh. "Go on, you little piece of mutant shit. You'll hang if you even try it." Luke swallows dryly and tries to think, but the blood is pounding too loudly in his ears and adrenaline is making microwaves jump from his palms in spurts he can't quite control. Worst of all, Luke knows they're right; no matter what happens here today, Luke's the one who'll be paying with his life. "Hey!" Joe suddenly calls from across the lot. By the time he's jogged over to them, hammers are back in tool belts and Luke's hands are lightly glowing fists at his sides. Joe grabs Luke by the chin and turns his head to better inspect the black eye and split lip. Luke clenches his jaw as over Joe's shoulder he watches the other guys flip them the bird. "You'll be fine," Joe growls, laying one hand on Luke's shoulder to stop him from walking away. He looks the other guys up and down, and after a tense pause, simply says, "Get back to work." *** Luke limps into his apartment when it's dark. Joe sent him to walk it off but the sun has set and Luke's no closer to knowing what to do. He's bruised, black and blue all over, with a heavy weight in his gut at the knowledge that this is the least of what he will suffer. Luke's so caught up in his thoughts that it takes a moment for the low, groaning sound echoing around the room to register. "Sylar!" Luke hisses. "I'm not in the mood for playing games," he calls as he storms towards the noise. Behind him, microwaves trail in a hazy, red line. "Good," Sylar says as he turns to greet him. "Neither am I." Three chairs face Luke, a man beaten, bound and gagged in each. Luke recognises the swollen faces of the two jackasses that tried to beat him up and Joe. "Sylar, what the hell!?" Luke rushes forward to cut them free but he's lifted by invisible hands and slammed against the bedroom wall. Pens and scissors and shards of a shattered mirror fly towards him as Luke flinches. With precision that Luke can scarcely comprehend, Sylar impales Luke's clothes, not him, and leaves him pinned and hanging from the wall by dozens of objects stabbed through his shirt and jeans. "What are you doing?" Luke cries. "An eye for an eye," Sylar says tapping his fingers to the bruised skin under the eye of the guy who'd given Luke his shiner. "This isn't right!" Sylar turns to look at him, staring at him until Luke's forced to look away. "No," Sylar murmurs. "No, it isn't. But it will be." He rubs one hand soothingly over Luke's belly. "Sylar, don't," he pleads. "Don't what?" Sylar lifts an eyebrow, smirking like he knows full well what Luke means. "This! Whatever this is, don't. Just let them go." "Oh, now, Luke," Sylar says with a mock-pout, "it's far too late for that." Luke wants to shut his eyes to block out the men that struggle and scream through their gags. But he can't; he's forced to watch as tears streak down Joe's face. The air is thick with the stench of blood and sweat. One guy's crotch is wet through where he pissed himself. At seventeen, Luke might have laughed, but now he only wants to get away. "Why are you doing this?" "For you." Sylar presses an obscenely gentle kiss to the corner of Luke's lips. "To keep you honest." Luke spits at Sylar because it's all that he can do with his outstretched hands pulsing microwaves uselessly at his sides. Sylar wipes his cheek with the back of his hand, glaring dangerously at Luke. "You always did have a problem with the truth," he snarls. The hostages cower as Sylar strides towards them. He grabs the man in the middle by his hair and yanks his head back. Luke wracks his brain to remember the name of a man who is about to die because of him but comes up blank. Sylar curls on finger under the rag that stops the guy's mouth, wrapped around his face and bound at the back of his head. "I'm going to take this off," Sylar whispers slowly in his ear. "And when I do, you're going to tell young Luke exactly how well he's passing for a 'normal'. Capisce?" For a moment, the guy just keeps sobbing but Sylar tugs violently at the gag and then, he's nodding frantically. Under Sylar's fingers the rag splits and he pulls it away. Almost immediately, the guy screams. Sylar looks at Luke and rolls his eyes. With one cruel swipe of his hand, the man's tongue is torn from his mouth. Blood streams down his chin as Sylar flings his flesh across the room. On either side of him, the other men look on in dumbstruck terror as Sylar deftly slits his throat. "Oh god, oh god, oh god," Luke wails, twisting as he tries to free himself from the wall. Blood gurgles from the dead man's throat and leaves a thick, black slick seeping into the carpet at his feet. "Don't make me gag you too," Sylar says coldly. With a blood spattered hand, Sylar grabs the other guy by the scruff of his neck. Sylar sneers as a fresh stream of piss trickles down the poor bastard's leg. "Charming." "Here's the deal," Sylar growls. "I take off the gag. You don't scream, or you end up like your buddy, okay?" The guy nods, panting through his nose. Again, Sylar cuts the gag and this time, the guy spits it out, breathing so hard that Luke thinks he's close to hyperventilating. "Uh uh," Sylar says with a shake of his head. He holds up two threatening fingers and the hostage's eyes fly wide in fear. He gulps down great mouthfuls of air and tries to quiet his breath. "Good." Sylar flashes them all a wicked smile. "Now, that wasn't so hard." Sylar steps towards Luke again and rests his hand casually on Luke's hip. Luke can see Joe's hands clench into fists and he prays harder than he ever has before that Joe doesn't try something stupid. It'll be okay, he mouths in Joe's direction but they both know that that's a lie. "You know my friend here?" Sylar's fingers curl, digging painfully into the soft flesh of Luke's side. "Yeah," the man rasps. "Of course you do." Sylar grabs Luke by the jaw and runs his thumb over Luke's split lip. "You gave him this, didn't you?" The man's nostrils flare in terror and he says nothing for fear of saying something wrong. Then, as Luke watches, an invisible hand slaps him across the face, hard enough to tear his lip worse than Luke's. "Didn't you?" Sylar demands. "Yes," the man sobs. "Yes, but I'm sorry. Please! Please don't do this." "Liar, liar, liar," Sylar hisses. "You're not sorry at all." Trembling, he's caught between shaking his head and nodding it, tears streaming down his face and mingling with the blood trickling down his chin. "Please." "Mutant. Faggot. Freak," Sylar spits. "We don't want your kind around here. That's what you said, isn't it?" He bows his head, whimpering, "Yes," his shoulders shaking as he weeps. "And what were you going to do to him?" "Nothing! Rough him up, that's all." The sickening crunch of bone reverberates around the room as Sylar snaps his legs, one by one. He backhands the broken man across the face. "I asked you what you were going to do to him?" "Hit him," he says through his tears. "With the hammer, on the back of his head. They say it's the only way to kill a mutant." "And you thought you'd get away with that?" "We were gonna sink the body in the concrete, in the foundations. Nobody's gonna miss a freak and if someone saw, they wouldn't squeal. Everyone hated him, wanted him gone. Mutants bring trouble and a bunch of guys were gonna quit if something wasn't done." And even moments from death, he has enough hate in him to glare at Luke in disgust. "Guys with families. Normal, hardworking guys who deserve a job. Guys that you lied to," he suddenly yells, "when you tried to pass, you fucking faggot." "Enough," Sylar says and breaks his neck. He fists his hand in the front of Luke's shirt and yanks him down from the wall, scissors and mirror shards flying every which way. Luke lands hard and stumbles, his legs nearly giving out beneath him as he skids on the blood soaked floor. Telekinetic hands steady him before he tumbles into the corpses. Sylar has one hand under Joe's chin, tilting up his tear damp face for Luke to see. It takes all of Luke's self-control to stop himself from lunging at Sylar like he wants to. However fast Luke can be, Sylar's faster. "I know what you're thinking, Luke." "I doubt it," Luke spits. Sylar snorts a laugh and pats Joe lightly on the cheek. "You're thinking, 'So what?' They're just two jackasses and now they're dead. Who cares, right?" Luke shifts nervously from foot to foot and says nothing. "You've gotta be safe now, because good, old Joe, faithful Joe, he'd never do anything like that. Right?" "Right," Luke grunts. Joe looks desperately from Luke to Sylar to Luke again and shakes his head. "I mean, he knows you killed a guy and he's stood by you all the same." Joe's eyes go wider still and he stares at Luke, confused. Luke wraps his arms around himself and finds he can't meet Joe's gaze. "Oh, that's right…" Sylar says. "You neglected to mention that little tidbit from your past when you were letting Joe get you a job and this lovely apartment, when he was saving your ass from guys who probably had the right idea." "No…" Luke wails. "No? You mean, he did know?" Sylar grabs Joe's chin roughly again and jerks his head up. Tears are coursing down his face and leave Sylar's fingers damp. "It doesn't look like he knew." "No!" Luke yells. "He doesn't know, didn't know. But it doesn't matter. That's not who I am anymore, Sylar. Stop trying to make me be like you!" He rushes forward and shoulders Sylar out the way. Luke doesn't stop to think why when Sylar lets him. He fumbles with the knots that bind Joe's arms to the chair, but they're tied too tight for Luke to undo them. He snatches a broken shard of mirror and uses the jagged edge to saw through the rope, cutting his own palm more than he makes a dent on what's keeping Joe in place. Eventually, he throws the glass from him with a grunt, ignoring Sylar's hollow laugh and tugs at the knot on the gag instead. "I'm sorry," he says, "I'm sorry," over and over again like a prayer. "I'm sorry." Luke pulls the rag from Joe's mouth and hugs the man who's done more for him than his real family and Sylar combined. "I'm sorry," he sobs. "It's okay," Joe soothes through his own tears. "Liar," Sylar says mildly, but Luke tries to ignore him. "I'm sorry, Joe. I'm sorry, I would have told you one day—" "Liar." "That doesn't matter now, Luke. Cut me free," Joe pleads. "Please. Let me go." "Okay. Yeah, okay." Luke grabs the rag that was used to gag him and wraps it around his torn and bloody palm, taking up a different mirror shard to try the ropes again. Leaning against the doorframe, Sylar clicks his tongue as Luke manages to cut one of Joe's arms loose. "You're smarter than this, Luke. Better than this." "Shut up!" Luke snaps. "Everything's gonna be fine." "Liar!" "Don't listen to him, Luke. Let me go and everything will be fine. I won't tell, I swear," Joe sobs in desperation. "Liar," Sylar hisses. "He's going to call the police the minute he sets foot outside this apartment—" "No!" "—and maybe you'll get away, now, Luke. But your face will be on every front page come morning and your name'll be the lead on the evening news. Where're you gonna go? What're you gonna do? You know what they do to specials who use their abilities against 'normals'. You'll be lucky if you get the electric chair; vigilante justice can be so messy." "Shut up!" Luke shouts, but he's crying now too, really crying and deep inside, he knows Sylar's right. Even if Joe isn't lying, nothing will ever be fine between them again. The mirror shard falls from his hand and he sinks to his knees at the side of Joe's chair, not caring that he's sitting with his ass in a patch of slowly cooling blood. Luke folds his arms around himself and wipes his eyes on his sleeve. "I don't know! I don't know," he wails. "Shhh," Sylar hums. A gentle hand strokes through Luke's hair and Sylar crouches down beside him. "I know you want to think that world has changed, Luke, but nothing's changed. People are still stupid, and hateful and ignorant, lashing out at anything that's not like them, anyone who's better than they will ever be." Sylar's thumb brushes over Luke's cheek, wiping away his tears. From the corner of his eye, Luke can see Joe's mouth opening and closing wordlessly as Sylar holds his windpipe shut. "It doesn't have to be this way for you." "No," Luke whimpers. "Yes. You can put all this behind you." "No," he breathes, shaking his head as more tears come. "Let me take care of you, Luke," Sylar murmurs, petting his hair and kissing his cheeks, holding Luke in a close embrace when the last of Luke's resolve crumbles and he slumps into Sylar's arms, weeping. "I can't…" "You can. This is who you are, Luke. Stop running from it." Sylar takes Luke's hand in his own and presses Luke's palm to Joe's knee. "It's time to clean up the mess you've made." "I'm sorry," Luke whispers. He flexes his fingers, wincing as Joe silently screams, and lets loose the biggest pulse of microwaves he's ever mustered. The seconds it takes for Joe to die, for his skin to sizzle and burst, his eyes to pop and his innards to putrefy, are worse punishment, Luke thinks, than anything an angry mob could mete out. Luke turns to Sylar. "I hate you," he hisses, tears streaking down his face. "I know." Sylar takes him by the hand, nails digging into his skin when Luke tries to pull away. "Let's go."

Diddling Considered as One of the Exact Magics Hey, diddle diddle The twit and the snivel SINCE the term began there have been two Severus's. The one had a dark tattoo and impressive proboscis, and was called Professor Snape. He had been much admired by Mr. Tom Riddle, and was a great man in small ways. He was also a small man in great ways. He was a professor I had known throughout my childhood and had taken a great dislike of. Now, as a professor in the same school, I have had the opportunity to see the other Severus. This one gave name to the most important of the Exact Magics. In this, he is a great man in a great way-I may say, indeed, in the very greatest of ways. Diddling-or the images conveyed by the verb 'to diddle'-is sufficiently well understood. Indeed, the deed, this thing called diddling, is somewhat difficult to define, but I know it when I observe it. We may get, however, at a tolerably distinct conception of the matter in hand (his, not mine), by defining- not the thing, diddling, in itself-but man, as an animal that diddles. Had Grindelwald but hit upon this, he would have been perhaps not so disillusioned, thus leading our society into a dimness that foretold the recent forecast of uncertainty. Very pertinently it was demanded of Merlin, why a picked hippogriff, which was clearly "a biped without feathers," was not, according to his own definition, a man? But I am not to be bothered by any similar query. Man is an animal that diddles, and there is no animal that diddles but man, although to be sure, canines take it upon themselves to thrust upon inanimate objects at times, as did my cousin, Dudley Dursley. That latter being more owned to the fact his girth was so large as to not allow his own arm to perform such exercise upon himself. What constitutes the essence, the nare, the principle of diddling is, in fact, peculiar to the class of creatures that wear robes, often without pantaloons or knickers. A niffler thieves; a crup cheats; a kneazel outwits; a man diddles. To diddle is his destiny. "Man was made to mourn," says the poet. But not so: he was made to diddle. This is his aim-his object- his end. Certainly throughout my teen years, this proved to be true. And for this reason when a man has finished his diddle, we say he's 'done'. There are other, lesser, terms it is known by, but for our purposes, we shall say he is 'done'. Diddling, rightly done, is a compound, of which the ingredients are minuteness, interest, perseverance, ingenuity, audacity, nonchalance, originality, impertinence, and grin. Many diddle, but few do so rightly. Minuteness: Your diddler is minute. This is not to say his person is minute, but rather his actions. His operations are upon a small scale. His business is in the details, of understanding the particulars of his actions and their effects upon either his own self or on others. Should he ever be tempted into magnificent looped yanks with a group of unsavory characters, he then, at once, loses his distinctive features, and becomes what we term a "wanker." This latter word conveys the diddling idea in every respect except that of magnitude. Interest: Your diddler is guided by self-interest. He scorns to diddle for the mere sake of the diddle. He has an object in view- his completion-and yours, if you are so fortunate. Often, though, he regards always the main chance. He looks to Number One. You are Number Two, and must look to complete yourself if he be not in the mood to do so. Often he shall be content to observe this process. He often looks to gain a thing outside of his own completion. It may be a simple item like an agreement to return a favor at a later date or something of greater magnitude – an opportunity to exploit an enemy, perhaps. Perseverance: Your diddler perseveres. He is not readily finished, but has great stamina. He is never discouraged. Should even his partner beg to be left alone, he cares nothing about it. He steadily pursues his end, and 'Ut canis a corio nunquam absterrebitur uncto'* so he never lets go of his game. Whether that game be cock or cockatrice, it does not matter. Ingenuity: Your diddler is ingenious. His constructiveness is large as well. He understands how to plot. He invents and circumvents. Were he not Alexander he would be Diogenes. Were he not a diddler, he would be a maker of patent-pending potions or spying for the side of light. Perhaps he is all of these things. Audacity: Your diddler is audacious. He is a bold man. He carries the war into the Dark Lord's fortress. He conquers all by assault – mentally, if not physically. He would not fear the crazed daggers of Bellatrix LeStrange. With a little more prudence, Sirius Black would have made a good diddler; with a trifle less blarney, Lucius Malfoy; with a pound or two more brains, Vincent Crabbe. Nonchalance: Your diddler is nonchalant. He is not at all nervous. He never had any nerves. He is never seduced into a flurry. He can make a cloak swish dramatically with unspoken commands. He is never put out-unless you substitute his Earl Grey for Orange Pekoe which I, unfortunately, learned in a most difficult manner. He is cool-cool as a cucumber (which, on occasion, has served as a less than acceptable substitute). He is calm. Calm as a lecture from Professor Binns. He is easy- easy as an old Quidditch glove, or the damsels of sixth year Hufflepuff. Originality: Your diddler is original-conscientiously so. His thoughts are his own. He would scorn to employ those of another, though he shows no reluctance to invade those thoughts for his own amusement. A stale trick is his aversion. He would deny completion, I am sure, upon discovering that he was obtaining it by an unoriginal diddle. Impertinence: Your diddler is impertinent. He swaggers. He sets his arms a-kimbo. He thrusts. He hides his hands in his trouser pockets. He sneers in your face all the while feeling your bottom. He eats your dinner, he drinks your wine, he borrows your money, he pulls your hair, he spanks your bottom, and he steals your kisses. Grin: Your true diddler winds up all with a grin. But this nobody sees but himself. He grins when his daily work is done-when his allotted labors are accomplished-at night in his own closet, and altogether for his own private entertainment. He goes home. He locks his door. He divests himself of his clothes. He puts out his candle. He gets into bed. He places his head upon the pillow. All this done, and your diddler grins. This is no hypothesis. It is a matter of course. I reason a priori, and a diddle would be no diddle without a grin. It would be a dawdle, a trifle, a bore. The origin of the diddle is traceable to the infancy of the Human Race. Perhaps the first diddler was Adam. Prior to Eve, how else would he have been done? At all events, we can trace the magic back to a very remote period of antiquity. The moderns, however, have brought it to a perfection never dreamed of by our thick-headed, and lubrication deprived, progenitors. Without pausing to speak of the "old saws," therefore, I shall content myself with a compendious account of some of the more recent instances that I myself have been a part of or witness thereto. * * * * * Let me begin with one that happened just shy of two months ago. A very good diddle was this. A house elf in want of a sofa, for instance, was seen to go in and out of several stores. At length he arrived at one offering an excellent variety. He is accosted, and invited to enter, by a polite and voluble individual at the door. He finds a sofa well adapted to the room of the wizard he is in the midst of procuring it for. Upon inquiring the price, is surprised and delighted to hear a sum named at least twenty percent lower than his expectations. He hastened to bring the wizard back to view the sofa for approval. The wizard in question, not being alone, invited his guest (which was myself) to view the sofa with him. The wizard did in fact agree that the sofa would suit his purpose but he found the price exceeded his purse. He sent the house elf home with instructions to make space in his rooms for the new purchase. The storekeeper is asked to vacate the room in which the sofa is located so the wizard may consider the furniture in private. The storekeeper, not wishing to offend his prospective clients who are well known in society, absented himself with instructions as to where he could be found when a decision had been made. The wizard then turned to me and proposed a way to reduce the cost. "I believe we need to test the structure and sturdiness of this sofa before I acquire it to ensure it will meet all of my needs," he said, very calm. "And how do you suppose this should be accomplished?" I asked, knowing that this wizard will surely have an interesting plan. The man raised an eyebrow and lifted my person onto the sofa with my back to him. Without saying a word, he reached into my trousers and pulled my manhood out. With the skill and dexterity I had learned to expect from him in the preceeding months, he tugged at my sheath while speaking filth and degenerative words into my ears. In no time, my seed was spent upon the sofa as I collapsed boneless into his arms. With a slight smile, he did up my zip and then proceeded to wipe mostly clean the evidence of his actions (and my emission) from the sofa. He recalled the shop keep back into the room and expressed an interest in acquiring the piece. The shopkeeper, being anxious to complete a sale to such a notorious person as my benefactor, seemed excited until the man pointed out a minor flaw. "The upholstery is stained," he announced. The shopkeeper, shocked, decried such a thing was possible, but verily the man pointed to the smudges left behind so recently by myself. It took everything in my character to prevent a blush from giving up the game. Upon seeing the said stains, the shopkeeper exclaimed, "Oh sir, my deepest apologies. I'm sure I can find one that is more suitable." "I think not, sir. I do think this one will do most excellently, but perhaps it is a trifle overpriced for its condition?" he hinted. The shopkeeper, perhaps happy that he can make the sale, offered an additional thirty percent discount to which the man agreed with hesitantly. Thus, the deal settled, the man has gotten the furniture he wished at a substantial discount and the shopkeeper, blithely ignorant, seemed well pleased as well never realizing that he had been hoodwinked. * * * * * A most recent and quite bold diddle was this. A Deatheater meeting was to be held at a certain spot which was accessible only by means of a Portkey. The Diddler stationed himself by this Portkey, respectfully informed all members of the group that to attend the meeting ordered by their leader, they must all use said Portkey. This Portkey had been developed by the Diddler and required the use of the perpetrator's essence and any other party he wished to grant authority to. The meaning of this last sentence shall become clear in a moment. Earlier, the Diddler requested my presence at a waterfall within the Forbidden Forest. I now believe this was to ensure the noise of our activities would go unnoticed to the approaching guests. I also now believe that the man does enjoy the thrill of the possibility of being caught out as, after the events unfolded, I returned to research this very spell and learnt that it could have been done within a two hour period prior to use. I digress though. Let me reveal the events as they unfolded to give a clearer understanding of my meaning. I arrived at the waterfall to find him standing by a large stone which had an elaborate goblet atop. "Good evening," I greeted the man. There was a full moon and I could clearly see his outline as he strode toward me. Without a moment of greeting or pause of requesting permission, he wrapped his arms around my back and pulled me into a passionate kiss. I surrendered to this unexpected greeting. He has a way about him that weakens the knees of lesser men like myself. "We don't have much time," he stated in between his forays into my mouth. "Time? For what?" I managed to ask. He pulled me forward and down onto a blanket I had not heretofore noticed. I was sitting atop the man's lap, my legs almost entangled in his robes as I automatically attempted to wrap them around him. As he kissed me, he grabbed the goblet and sat it to our side. He then quickly pulled both our respective manhoods out into the open air. "Sir, what are…" I attempted to ask to ascertain his purpose. Of course, I could see what the act was he was playing at. I am not so unintelligible as to not understand 'what' he was doing, but rather 'why' was he doing it? Why here, why now? "Shhh!" he ordered. "They might hear," he said, much to my shock. "Hear? Who hear? Who's here?" I was not making myself clear as he was making the blood quicken in me by means of firm strokes and tantalizing flicks across the more sensitive portions of my 'arbor vitae'*. The panting I was embarrassing myself with was making it hard to be understood. He scuttled himself closer and used his other arm to pull me in tighter. "Deatheaters..." he whispered. I was unsure whether the gasp that issued forth from my mouth was from that revelation, or from the remarkable sensation of his hand clasping not only myself, but his own manhood as well. He gripped the two of us with a purpose and enfolded his right hand with his left hand. For a few minutes, nothing was heard but our joint heavy breathing and my own mumblings of incoherent pleasure as his large hands stroked and tugged the two of us. The man himself though rarely evidenced any other noise until his own completion. It could be thought he was doing nothing other than reading a tome of Greek philosophy so quiet he remained through the duration. I had difficulty restraining my own noises. "Tell me when you are ready to finish. We need to complete this onto the goblet," he said while staring into my eyes. As much as I preferred the privacy of my own eyelids during such activities, I learned his preference was for my eyes to remain open as much as possible. I must admit, as he ne'er made a sound, sometimes the only hint of his deeper emotion could be seen by a slight darkening glint in his stare and I eagerly sought such a sight on occasion. Seeing such a response could easily quicken me. "You must hurry. I hear them arriving. You must finish. Finish now." The low growl of his order sounded in my ear and was enough to push me forward into completion. One hand released me while the other hand continued its work. After the initial rush, I could no longer keep my eyes open, but when I did reopen them, I saw he had moved the goblet between us and finished himself upon it. I jumped as I heard the crunch of a branch not so far away. "Quick," he whispered as he stood and tucked himself back in. Then, he held his hand out to me. "Grab the goblet." I did so as I stood up with his aid. Without a word, he pushed me towards a crevice in the cliff. I slipped into the shadow. He grabbed the goblet from me and proceeded to massage the fluids we produced into the base. He pulled his wand and whispered a spell over it. I watched him turn at the sound of the arrival of his guests. We had just finished. What if I had come just several seconds later? My heart was pounding at just how close we had been to being caught by these interlopers. After the requisite greetings and explanations to the new arrivals, I understood his purpose. The goblet was a Portkey and only he or I would be able to activate it. To what purpose I did not understand at that moment. As previously stated, he informed them they must use the Portkey to attend a meeting ordered by their leader. As a member of good standing within their group, none of the persons present could find any reason to disbelieve him or doubt the sincerity of his request. Some grumbled but all submitted, and the Diddler indicated they should all touch the cup. The irony did not go unnoticed by myself as to the choice of the Portkey as I recalled the events from my fourth year. I watched as all of the crowd shimmered and disappeared, except for the Professor, who at the last moment, let go. This particular trick requires exact timing. Release too soon and no one is transported to the new location. Release too late, he also ends up in the same place as his fellow travellers. In this case, the location was a sealed cave blocked by wards to prevent escape by magical means. While he would be able to reactivate the Portkey for return, there was no guarantee that he could do so prior to one of his victims incapacitating or killing him. But, luck was with us and he remained while the others were sent to their prison, effectively eliminating the most powerful allies of our nemesis, Tom Riddle, just prior to the battle in which I was to face him. As a side note, I should mention that after the defeat of their leader, we made arrangements for the retrieval of these villains with the local authorities. I understand they are still incarcerated and I doubt they will soon forgive their former comrade for his deception. I pray he keeps constant vigilance for potential retribution. * * * * * A very mean diddle was this. A wizard (again, myself) was insulted and almost attacked in the street in Hogsmeade by the Diddler's accomplice, a large thug I knew from my own school days, Gregory Goyle. The Diddler himself flew to my assistance, and, after giving his friend a comfortable thrashing, insisted upon attending me to my own door within Hogwarts. He bowed, with his hand upon his heart, and most respectfully bid me adieu. I entreated him, as my deliverer, to be compensated for his bravery. With a sigh, he declined to do so indicating he did not need monetary reward. "Is there no way, then, sir," I murmured, "in which I may be permitted to testify my gratitude?" "Why, yes, there is. Perhaps you could assist me in procuring a particular ingredient for a potion," he suggested rather shyly. In the first excitement of the moment, I almost decided upon fainting outright. It was, after all unheard of for this man to seek anyone's company. Feeling flush with the adrenaline of the near-attack and the nearness of my would be rescuer, I said I'd be delighted to assist. He offered to have me do it the following evening, but upon my reassurances that I was quite well, allowed me to accompany him to the Potions Lab. Now, I should illuminate the reader that at the time, I had no relationship with the Diddler outside my profession. Indeed, this was the first time he had ever requested assistance from my person even though I had been on staff for at least three months. To continue my story…Once inside, he said, "Are you quite sure you wish to assist? This is a very personal potion and quite delicate. Once it is started, it must be completed and the other ingredients are quite rare." Firm in my resolution to repay his kindness, and with a certain penchant for displaying both the bravery and the impetuousness of the house in which I resided in school, I nodded, quite sure of myself. "Fine, then. Please sit there while I begin the brewing. I shall let you know when I need your assistance." Over the next twenty minutes I became entranced while watching the man chop, slice, cut, stir, and simmer the various ingredients. The odor was rather heady. There was a strong patchouli scent permeating the room. It was not at all unpleasant. Eventually, I wondered from where I would be gathering the required ingredient. I had assumed it would be a plant of some sort so perhaps I would have to head to the greenhouses at some point. I thought it odd he hadn't shown it to me prior to initiating the potion. How wrong could I be? The man pulled the glass stirrer from the potion and set it aside. He came over to where I sat perched upon a stool. He stood much closer to me than I recall him ever before standing. "Now, good sir, while that simmers, I must collect the final ingredient," he said thickly as his gaze darkened in an unusual manner. I looked up at him feeling somewhat anxious at his proximity. "Um, where do we need to go, sir?" I asked, curious. "Oh, we don't need to go anywhere. What I need is right here," he answered. I was confused. Perhaps it was in a jar in this very room, but if that was the case, why did he himself not retrieve it? It would have been most understandable if it needed to be added while still stirring the potion. I quite well remembered how even the smallest detail mattered in the making of potions. I glanced around trying to ascertain the location of the needed ingredient. "Where is it?" I asked. In the succeeding moment, the man had wrapped one arm around my back and put his other hand directly on my groin. In an unmanly squeak, I yipped and fell back in surprise. For one moment I was glad that his arm was there as it kept me from falling. In the next moment, I was aghast as I registered that the other hand was firmly grasping at my Thomas*. "What! What is the meaning of this?" I managed to ask, sounding affronted and less angry than I should have. "I require ejaculate, sir. Yours to be precise." The man smirked and he rubbed circles through the wool of my trousers. I felt myself getting embarrassingly stiff. "No!" I tried to back off. This man, this pervert, was trying to accost me. He was stronger than I anticipated though and held my back firmly in place. "You did agree," he reminded me, "and you owe me. The potion cannot be stopped and I must have it within the next fifteen minutes. The other ingredients are worth more than Grimmauld Place." Admittedly, I had agreed to this arrangement. It was my own fault for not requesting the details. I did not want to have to pay to replace the ingredients. Plus, my own blood was beginning to boil, but not in anger, rather in a decidedly different emotion. Perhaps, I could do this and be done with this quickly. "Fine, then. Let me do it myself in private. Do you have a chamber I could retire to?" I pushed back from him. "As you know from your years as my student, good sir, I always collect my own ingredients. I promise you, it will be pleasant." With this announcement, he swept me up into his arms and carried me bridal-style across the room and threw me onto a small, ratty divan. Before I got my bearings, he had undone my trousers. After quickly pulling me out, he licked the palm of his hands and began to stroke me from root to tip in soft, slow strokes. It felt dissimilar than my own hand and quite different than the delicate hand of a female that had, on occasion, been felt. No, this was bigger, less tentative. It was overall a soft touch but with the slight hardness of the occasional callous, it sent a different tingle through me than I had previously ever experienced. The hand was not at all hesitant. He did not appear at all reluctant to reach underneath and fondle the bawbles where I was particularly sensitive, unlike the females who were either too afraid to touch them altogether or touched far too lightly to be anything more than a tickle. No, like myself, he knew the right firmness with which to roll them and had a large enough palm into which they fit exceedingly well. Manipulating both areas sent my mind into overdrive. I had never felt anything like this. I had my eyes closed trying to forget exactly who was doing this but the hand paused a moment. "Look at me." It was a soft voice, but I heard the command beneath it. Wanting the hand to continue its movement, I did open my lids to see those blackened eyes gazing upon my now flushed face. I would have been mortified had I not been in such a state of desire at that moment. Soon he removed the hand from my bollocks. His now freed hand pulled his wand and waved it so a small test tube floated in the air towards me. He sat the wand down and then cupped the back of my head, gripping my hair lightly. Onward and onward the strokes came. He began to speak deviant things at me, things I could not repeat in good company. Oh, how those words stirred me. He spoke of things he'd like to do to me with not just his hands, but his mouth, his tongue, his own manhood. Upon hearing these things in that deep voice I was used to hearing recite lists with, I soon began to peak. At the moment of arrival, I gasped and he captured my mouth with his, thrusting his tongue inside my mouth. The tube magically collected my essence. As soon as I leaned back, he stood and took the vial back over to the potion and poured it in. Quietly, he stirred. He did not look up at me. I began to gather myself. "You may go. Your debt is paid." The words sounded cold, dismissive. I was unsure of myself. I should have been angry, but instead I felt a sense of sadness. I got up to leave and was standing in the doorway when I realized I couldn't leave without saying anything. Not quite knowing what the right decorum was in this circumstance, I asked, "What is the potion for anyways?" He looked up finally and smirked, "Personalized lubricant. I'll send it to your rooms." "My rooms? Why? What would I need it for?" I asked, perplexed. "I think you'll find out soon enough," he said. He waved his wand and the door shut in my face. I stood there realizing I had, in fact, been played from the outset. A flood of emotions soared through me – anger, embarrassment, irritation, shock. I was certain I would in no manner ever have need of such a thing. I became determined to forget the entire event. * * * * * But as there is really no end to diddling, so there would be none to this essay, were I even to hint at half the variations, or inflections, of which this magic is susceptible and in which I have observed and/or participated in. I must bring this paper, perforce, to a conclusion, and this I can do no better than by a summary notice of a very decent, but rather elaborate diddle, of which our own Hogwarts was made the theatre, not so long ago, and which was subsequently repeated with success, in other still more verdant localities of the wizarding world. In fact, the first instance of this Diddle to my own eyes changed the course of my life. It occurred not long after the shocking events I have just recounted. I had made it a point to avoid being in the presence of the man for some days. I had never had an experience where another male had not only approached me, but in essence, accosted my being in such a way that made me experience a pleasure I had heretofore never experienced. My, admittedly few in number, fumblings with the fairer sex accomplished a completion, but had not left me as stirred or exhilarated as did that short time with a person I had been so sure I disliked and equally sure of his same regard (or disregard) towards my person. Having this assumption torn a sundered so abruptly was a shock to my system. Truth be told, I did not know if he actually liked me or just enjoyed disrupting my calm as he must have known his actions would do. Although I avoided the man in person, I could not avoid him in my thoughts. His image burned in my inner eye. I could not close my eyes without seeing his darkened gaze, his smirking lip or hearing his whispered growls. And these images began to torment me. I tried in vain to shift the images to more appropriate subjects when I felt the all too frequent tightening of my trousers. And so, several weeks of these disruptive thoughts began to unhinge me. Indeed, it made me doubt my very self at times. One evening, a fellow professor, Draco Malfoy, stopped by my office to discuss a joint demonstration of dueling techniques we planned to perform for our students. He had been a classmate of mine, and while in school we were rivals, now we were colleagues. The evening went longer than planned and Draco suddenly recalled an appointment with his fiancé for which he was now late. He requested that I return some items to Professor Snape which he had borrowed earlier and had promised the return of that evening. At his request, I begrudgingly agreed to take the items to the Potions Lab. With a slight trepidation of seeing the man again, I approached his lab. I knocked gently, but there was no answer. I considered leaving them in the corridor, but knew that would be foolhardy. Who knew what student might pass and help themself to whatever was in the box? I tried the door latch and, much to my amazement, it opened. I slowly opened the door and allowed myself in. I looked upon the stool I had sat in those weeks before and the images I had been avoiding returned full force. This was the location those events had happened. I thought it best to set the items down and leave the room quickly. As I turned to go, I heard a low moan, followed by a second. I looked for the source of the sound, but saw nothing evident in the outer area. There was, however, a light shining from the back storeroom indicating that someone was within. I approached cautiously. If it was indeed the Professor, I wished to avoid him. But what if he had been injured, or worse, what if a student had broken in and injured themself? I crept upon the room and looked in. "Oh…yes…um…" In shock, my gaze fell upon the Professor sitting on a crate with his robes wide open and his legs equally wide open. His own hand was stroking an impressive specimen of manhood. Transfixed, I could not pull my eyes away. In my time I had seen other men. I had been on the Quidditch team after all and what boy does not look upon others in order to judge his own merits? I had never been embarrassed by my build. I was surely suitably adequate for someone my size. I was neither overly large nor overly small. I had thought Cedric Diggory was among the largest I had seen (and was it any wonder he was so popular when he was matriculating?) however Professor Snape was certainly comparable, if not superior. It was quite a stunning sight. The light shone just directly onto his chest and groin to highlight the lean, pale angles of his slightly underweight body. No muscle man was he. While he was relatively hairless upon the chest, a dark smattering of short, dark curls created a dramatic backdrop for the thick, wide instrument he was tending to with his right hand. A sheen glistened on it which the light reflected off of. I could swear I saw every throbbing vein bulging. His large, elegant hand gripped and slid along the length ending each upward stroke with a hard twist. Other than the slight panting and occasional low moan, he made not a sound, but his head was thrown back and his eyes closed. I was much relieved to realize he had not seen me at the door. I dropped down so I could observe while berating myself for not immediately vacating the room. My own Adam's apple bobbed up and down in rhythm to his thrusts. I watched. I found that I could not not watch. Here was a man I had known as cold, aloof, stern, nasty even, lost in moment of pleasure. It was quite mesmerizing. More so now than the effect he had had on myself on the previous occasion as he had been in control and I had been lost to sensation. Here, I could concentrate and he was unaware of my presence. And so, with a minimum of movement or noise, I watched him exact the drips of excitement from himself. Small thrusts into his hands, minute movements of his long, lean fingers brushing across the tip, toes curling as a particular rush became apparent, a flush in his cheek I had never witnessed before. I strained to hear the noises that were being ushered forth from his thin lips. To hear the hitches in his breath was hypnotic. The loud panting gasps and clumsy oafish thrusts I had accidentally witnessed with former dorm mates in my youth were nowhere in sight. No, this man moved with tight precision in elegant eroticism. I crept a bit closer, almost without knowing I had done so, and could begin to understand him. "Um…yes, so nice, your mouth is so nice…suck harder, yes…" I wondered who his imaginary companion was. What person gave this desire to the usually restrained man? I managed to palm myself down. In any other venue I would have been mortified. In this though, I was already lost to my own lustful thoughts and ignored the small voice which argued vainly to me that I did not find the male form intriguing. In fact, in a sudden epiphany, I realized this was one of the most erotic visions I had ever taken in. He quickened sharply and I heard his panting increase. I slipped back a bit to ensure I could not be seen. In astonishment, I watched him arch strongly, almost bent backwards as I realized his completion was near. I had a sudden urge to rush forward and take him into my own mouth, but restrained myself from such folly. Imagine my shock though as he ejaculated my name at the moment of arrival. "Harry!" he cried, "Fuck, yes! Harry!" I fell backwards in awe and could do nothing more than stare at the spectacle before me. In normal circumstances, I would have known to rush from the room and pretend nothing had occurred, but I was frozen – wide-eyed as I watched the man open his own eyes and saw me collapsed on the floor in front of him. Expecting a rage, an insult, a vindictive assault of verbiage I would be hard pressed to understand, perhaps even expecting to be punched for my audacity at remaining in the room, I did not expect what actually did occur. He sat up slowly all the way, not bothering to either close his robes or his legs, and slowly licked his essence off his own fingers while he gazed into my stunned eyes. "Perhaps next time, you can join me for real instead of just in my mind," he said with a very slow smile. He stood up and left the room. I remained on the floor, flummoxed. In truth, in that moment I knew he wanted me. Wanted me in a way I had thought only a woman might. I also knew I wanted him – and in a way I wanted no females of my current acquaintance. And that is why this singular scenario is the most important Diddle of all. The conclusion is, that in retelling of these particular stories and thereby also recollecting the dozens, nay hundreds, of other scenarios, that there is no Diddler greater, in every meaning of the word, than Professor Severus Snape. Point in fact, the best diddle I was ever witness to changed the very course of my life. And, I was to learn soon thereafter that I did have great need for that very special potion and became quite appreciative of the magic of diddling as performed by a Master. ____ *Translation - You will never scare a dog away from a greasy hide. Apropos in Professor Snape's case. Also, I believe this applies to the author as well. In this instance, I believe I am the bitch. *Thomas and Arbor Vitae were slang terms for penis in Victorian times. Guess that means Voldemort really was a dick. * * * * * "I still think this is a strange way to learn about muggle literature," Harry grinned as Severus looked up from the essay Harry had written. "I thought you'd enjoy reliving some of our best moments as seen through the lens of famous authors," Severus chuckled. "I know I have. I still think about the story you did based on Austin's "Pride and Prejudice." "You make a convincing Darcy, Severus." "Your Lizzie was passable – though perhaps you're more of an Emma." Harry slapped him lightly. "I am not that much of a busybody!" he announced, insulted. "You were when you burst your way into my office and demanded I teach you literature. Impertinent brat. Seeing how difficult teaching you over the years was, I decided a different tact was necessary. In addition, I wanted to find a way to amuse myself as I am already more than familiar with English literature. As your teacher in this, what is the number one rule about writing?" "Write about what you know," Harry repeated, yet again. "And, Potter, the one thing you know about is sex." Severus leaned back and indicated the Harry should sit on his lap. "And that is a subject I also enjoy." "Well, I had a pretty good teacher for those lessons as well," Harry said as he kissed the man after he snuggled on top of him. "Hmmn. I shall have to thank him someday," Severus whispered. "Not sure you'd want to. He is a bit of a Diddler you know. Has a thing for accosting young professors in the Potions Lab." "Sounds like a pervert. A dirty, dirty pervert." "Is there any other kind?" They resumed kissing for a few moments and Severus slid down the sofa until Harry lay on top of him. Harry pulled away for a moment. "I still love this sofa. It's perfect for sex," he stated out of the blue. Severus laughed. "Ah, is that 'Your Philosophy of Furniture'? As long as it's good for sex, it's a good piece of furniture?" "Can you think of a better recommendation?" Harry asked as he kissed along Severus' jawline and neck. Suddenly he looked up and looked at his partner. "You know, I never did ask if Draco made it in time that night." "What night?" Severus said as he kissed Harry. "You know, the night that changed my life. The one you just read about," Harry answered. Severus laughed. "There was no meeting. He wasn't late." Harry pulled up a bit. "What? What do you mean? Then why did he…" Harry paused and looked at Severus suspiciously. "You great wanker! You set me up. You used Draco to set me up so I'd find you like that!" He smacked Severus on the chest and began laughing. "I am a great wanker, aren't I? Didn't you just write all about how great a wanker I am?" Severus pulled Harry tighter to him and pinched his bum for good measure. Nose to nose, Harry yelped a little at the sensation. "And I fell for it. I really am an idiot at times." He grinned broadly, shaking his head. "But you're my idiot," Severus said as he watched his young lover with an amused grin. "I am surprised though. I thought you'd pick something more well-known of Poe's to tackle. You know, 'The Raven', 'Fall of the House of Usher', or 'The Cask of Amontillado'. I'm surprised you went with one of his essays." "I considered 'The Raven'. I mean you do look like a great black bird at times with this beak," which Harry proceeded to kiss, "but I hated the thought of saying "nevermore" in regards to sex. And I sure didn't want to be 'The Man that Was Used Up, '. Besides, once I saw the title, I couldn't help it. I mean, you are one of the world's greatest Diddlers, and I don't just mean that in the sexual meaning." He kissed Severus again, this time slightly tugging on his bottom lip. "So, did I do Poe justice? Do I get my reward?" "The essay was fine. Your author's notes at the end, however, were a little cheeky. Speaking of the Dark Lord, did you not think about using 'The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar'? That seems an easy one." Severus snickered. "I didn't want to think of Voldemort in any kind of context like that. You should just be glad I didn't focus on 'Four Beasts in One – the Homo-Cameleopard'. Just think of the outfit I would have had to wear! And trying to decide between one hump and two..." Harry waggled his eyebrows. "You certainly are an 'Imp of the Perverse'. I think Mr. Poe would be appalled at how you twisted his very fine essay. I'm quite proud. You have indeed earned your reward, Professor Potter. Shall we retire to the bedroom so you can receive 'The Assignation' properly?" "Indeed, Professor Snape. I am most anxious to receive my reward because 'Thou Art the Man, '" Harry laughed as he took Severus' hand. "Be still my 'Tell-Tale Heart," Severus said as he led Harry back to the bedroom and proceeded to remind Harry exactly what a fine Diddler he was.

“You don’t want to buy a wizzvision, I suppose,” Draco said, hoping a little just the same. “We don’t want all that Muggle nonsense,” said Narcissa. “You listen to the wireless, Mother, where do you think that came from?” asked Draco. He still felt a little daring, suggesting any blending of the wizarding and Muggle worlds. Narcissa had no answer, but wizzvision really was very Muggle associated. The bright young Dennis Creevey had determined to create something his brother would have loved, and never shut up about his aim to adapt Muggle advances to a wizarding world. Draco had seen television once, in the house of a Muggle friend he’d made going through his phase of trying to make his own way in the Muggle world, when, after the war, the wizarding world emphatically hadn’t wanted him. However, he hadn’t been able to show as much interest as he felt, fearful of blowing his cover. It took him a while to think of someone whose wizzvision he could watch; he’d never become much more than acquaintances with Astoria’s set while they’d been together and now they’d broken up neither he nor they wanted much to do with each other. He lighted upon Richard Whitless, a bit of an outsider in the close-knit pureblood circle, living disreputably and paying perfunctory attention to his family and their friends. Draco had found himself more interested in someone like that than he would have expected, and cultivated his company. Richard was also unlikely to take sides between him and Astoria. “So you haven’t got much on at the moment?” Richard asked a couple of weeks later. Draco had come over to his house almost every day, mostly to watch the wizzvision. It had a charm greater than Muggle television. There were Creevey’s technical innovations – the simple fact it was able to function in places with high magical frequency. The viewer could press buttons to change their screen view to anything in the same room as the camera; this often, especially at first, amusingly caught people off guard but the novelty soon began to wear off. There was a button that worked on the same principle as that eye of Moody’s. Different-coloured lights sometimes glowed about the people on film to show hidden emotions, whether a person was nervous, or moved, or duplicitous. The Ministry had banned them from filming certain kinds of events on the dubious grounds that watching wizzvision and having to deal with things discovered thereby would be far too time-consuming. The real interest came with the extra intimacy and transparency added to an already small community. If the viewer didn’t know the person on screen, they probably knew their name or face, or their friend or family. The not-real programmes with acting stuff were a novelty because it showed that person pretending to be someone else to your face. Theatre was a very minority interest and this experience was quite a new one. The people in these programmes acted like real people and didn’t do that weird singing thing like they did in plays. A lot of the actors were attractive and began appearing in things like Witch’s Weekly. Draco had decided that he would have liked to have been be an actor, have all those people looking at him, being interested in what he was doing. There were programmes about real people being real, too. Competitions where people had to answer questions or do spells to win money. People telling you how to make potions, or do beautifying charms, or rid your garden of pests. Broadcast Quidditch matches. There were documentaries, so the wizarding world would learn more about itself, said Creevey and co., trying to brand it as an enterprise in wizarding pride rather than a Muggle invasion. There was a reassuring documentary showing the Aurors – including Harry Potter, of course – efficiently at their brave work. Lots and lots about You-Know-Who stuff, with touching and inspiring tales of personal bravery. There was a film about the Death Eaters and their fates; Draco was relieved to find that his name was barely mentioned. Draco thought it would have been more interesting if they’d had the benefit of footage of any of the people they were talking about, or invited him to talk about his story. He could have blinked away the tears, told them how awful they had all been, assured them that Bellatrix really was like that all the time. “Well, no,” said Draco, his attention shifting to Richard. He’d been trying not to think about it. “I don’t know what I should have on right now. I can’t think of anything that’s the thing to do next.” “You don’t have to rely on the wizarding world, you know,” Richard said after a pause. “To give you a place and everything. I’m just saying, if it would make you happier to disappear into the Muggle world and never make a big impression here, you should do that. Not that I’m scheming to drive you away or anything.” Draco was going to answer, but realised he didn’t know what to say. Maybe that was his dilemma. Maybe his nature wanted to relax into the swim of a larger pool and be ordinary in a way he’d never thought he’d be, and against that impulse struggled all his childish idealisation of his grown-up self, and a stubborn reluctance to quit the field. Look at him wishing he was on wizzvision with everyone knowing about him and approving of him. He’d like that, to be broadcast into wizarding homes across the country, making them have a reaction to them. Maybe he should try to actually do it, try unrealistically to get what he really wanted before making more sober decisions. He almost asked Richard what he thought, but thought better of it. Later, Draco wrote a letter to Dennis Creevey, not knowing who else to address it to. Creevey was in charge of almost all the programmes, present at the filming and everything, leading to rumours of Time-Turners. Once it was in the talons of an owl, he thought that Creevey must surely get scads of letters like that, and there really was nothing convincing about his. It was too nakedly begging, asking Creevey to do something for him rather than saying what he could do for Creevey. Draco managed to persuade himself into a peaceful state without hope. As luck would have it, Draco would not have had long to hope in any case. Creevey came to see him a day or two later. They began awkwardly; Malfoy Manor’s fires were not widely accessible through the Floo Network and it wasn’t possible to Apparate in beyond the gates. Creevey sent a little paper aeroplane note up to the house and Draco, fearing that anything else would prejudice his case, ran down to the gates himself to let Creevey in. Then there was a bit of a walk to the house, while Draco wondered uneasily if he ought to be getting down to business on the way. When they finally sat down, Draco asked a house-elf (in a very civilized, nice manner – must show that he'd changed, right?) to fetch Dennis a cup of tea. Creevey’s eyes flickered keenly about the room. Draco expected some over-excited commentary to escape (the Creeveys had been those weird little squeaky brothers, hadn’t they?) but it didn’t. “I had a lot of thoughts when I got your letter, Malfoy,” Creevey said. “But I’m afraid I wasn’t quite sure what they were, and I thought seeing you would help me explore them and clarify the decision-making process.” “Right.” “Well, you have the Mark,” said Creevey, not pulling his punches, and gave Draco a significant look which made his insides go a bit squirmy and ashamed and afraid. “You spent the Battle of Hogwarts milling around hoping not to fight anyone on either side. My brother was killed fighting the Death Eaters. And now you want me to associate with you on a professional basis. I just don’t know how I feel,” Creevey said, turning earnest and waving his hand. “I know I can’t really bear grudges against everyone who wasn’t actively doing the right thing, but where do I draw the line?” He spoke as if his question wasn’t rhetorical. How do you expect me to know, Draco thought sourly. They’re your delicate feelings. It seemed that Creevey was indeed waiting for an answer, but continued regardless. “In your heart of hearts, knowing what you know of your heart, what do you think I should do? Are you worth me trying to work with?” “Well,” he said uncertainly. “It’s a matter of personal preference, isn’t it? You run the show, you don’t have to work with anyone you don’t want to. I’m sorry, if that’s what you want to know.” He was going to add a really honest bit about how a lot of it was more sorry he got caught on the wrong side but he had a feeling the sum of remorse would grow as he got older and more mature, so he caught himself just in time. Creevey bit his lip thoughtfully. “The thing is, I have a feeling I’d like to put you in the mix. You’d show an interesting side to the zeitgeist. But while I’m thinking, how would I? What would you be on wizzvision doing?” “I don’t have any exact ideas. It seemed a bit sad to plan it all out in daydreams. But I don’t think I could act.” “Oh no,” said Dennis to the latter. “We need narrative progression; it’s all about the journey. I do like to show, not exactly my agenda, but my – my values. So as a former Death Eater, ideally you’d be showing why being a Death Eater is a bad thing, or, more actively, doing something that’s not being a Death Eater and showing it being good because it’s doesn’t adhere to a corrupt and evil ideology. But not cuddling Muggle babies or the like, we’d be more subtle. And if nothing else you could always be a cautionary example. So. Where are you going to go?” Draco, recoiling somewhat from Creevey’s musings, thought about it and suddenly wasn’t at all sure he wanted to be exposed for judgement. “I suppose getting a job would be a start,” he said. “What did you used to want to be when you grew up, apart from a Death Eater?” asked Creevey. “A very important wizard in the Ministry like Father,” Draco said promptly. “But I don’t think—” “—That’s going to fly, no. We could put you into a variety of jobs it might be fun to see you doing, the kind of colourful thing children are supposed to want to do. And then we could end with you finding your niche after making a personal journey. It all depends on how interesting you are.” Draco thought that him being interesting and people being interested in him being interesting were two different things and might not coincide. Misgivings aside, he was beginning to feel a little wistful at the idea of someone coming in and organising his life. He wondered what sort of career children did want. “Those professional duellists,” he said. Not that he knew anything of children’s aspirations in that direction, but he’d been intrigued themselves since they had become something of a fashion since the war, when everyone had been all keyed up about valour and skill and winning and losing. “I could try that.” “Yes,” said Creevey after a moment. “You could. We’ll have a go at making something of you then.” And he clapped his hands while Draco smiled nervously. * Draco had to tell his parents, not least because Creevey wanted permission to film in Malfoy Manor. “But I don’t understand what they want you for. Aren’t they going to make a fool of you?” asked Narcissa. She could have been more unencouraging, but tried to couch her disdain in terms of concern, seeing the way the idea, surely a bad one, had cheered Draco up. “I won’t be taken advantage of,” Draco snapped. “You seem to be forgetting that I will actually be there while they’re filming me. I won’t do anything that makes me look like a fool.” “Will they be paying you?” asked Lucius. Draco did wonder sometimes whether his father resented paying him an allowance. “I assume so. I’ll insist so, anyway.” “You had better make it plain that I will not be appearing," said Lucius with a frown. The shattered pieces of his public image had kept him from Azkaban, but shattered they certainly were. Lucius had soon become paranoid that even brief interactions would incite dislike in others. Draco couldn’t help feeling this attitude represented an inability to tell exactly which parts of his actions and attitudes people found objectionable, let alone why. “They’d claim I was ... unpleasant no matter what they saw me doing or saying.” * To begin with, Creevey explained, they would take shots of wide wealthy Malfoy spaces. High golden ceilings, the grand staircase, the long gleaming dining table, and the grounds, where they would catch up with Draco. His job was to be wandering forlornly while the last of the Autumn leaves whizzed past his head and danced around his ankles. Draco set off, wondering whether his shoulders were hunched enough and whether he wanted to look forlorn anyway. He’d asked Creevey, who’d said “Narrative progression, Draco! If you’re just fine now where are you going to end up? The gutter?” Draco wondered if real life had narrative progression. Plenty of people started off just fine and continued at the same level of just fine all their lives. Some people were on the wrong side of just fine and were never lifted into heights or sunk into depths, just carried on with their problems unsolved but not knocking them off-balance. Putting his hands in his pockets (it was a horrible raw cold day) he stared unseeingly at a peacock sulking under a tree. There were shouts; the cameramen had finished. “Very good, Draco!” said Creevey, jogging up to him. “Lovely thoughtful colours.” Thankfully Draco was allowed back inside now, to talk about how lost he felt and how he was searching for an identity. “And how terrible you feel about the mistakes of your youth,” Creevey reminded him. “You should look very sorry about that.” That wasn’t too difficult; Draco wished he hadn’t been there for the years between sixteen and eighteen. He even was sorry about things he did to other people, not just having to be there himself, but he felt inhibited by thinking what his father’s reaction would be to what he was saying. “I’m Draco Malfoy,” he said haughtily when he heard the word “identity”. “Exactly! And now you don’t know what that means.” He didn’t know who the Malfoys were anymore, it was true, he admitted to himself. He dropped that in after rather distastefully maundering on about being lost. “Hmm,” said Creevey. “Quite stiff, not quite likeable. I’ll see how it goes. It might be a good starting point. We can always re-shoot it if you don’t provide enough of a contrast.” This was the easy bit. The duelling part that Draco had committed himself to had to come in at some point, and this was where it started to come in. Draco had not plucked the idea entirely from thin air. When Richard Whitless wasn't peripherally engaged in the social sphere he was born into, he was headlining as a professional duellist, which seemed to Draco to be something quite disreputable and seedy. So he had, not quite sure why, drawn back from asking him about it until the very last moment. Now he had to take the plunge. He felt a bit embarrassed about breaking the whole wizzvision thing to him – having to ask Richard to interact with him on camera, and admitting that he had acquired this entourage due to his own ego. Richard always seemed laid back, above or at least beyond a lot of Draco’s pettiness and fretful self-seeking emotions. “I’m going to try to duel like you do,” Draco explained. “Do you think you could teach me?” “Sure, we’ll see how we get on,” Richard said. The first thing he did was give Draco a list of hexes, jinxes and curses that were banned in a sporting wizards’ duel, and the very, very long list of spells that were not. Draco hadn’t heard of two thirds of them. “Of course, these are just the obvious ones. You’re welcome to dig up or invent others; it’s not difficult to intuit what would be acceptable and what wouldn’t.” Draco suddenly realised the process of even getting to practice with Richard was going to require more time and dedication than he’d foreseen. He started to familiarise himself with about two hundred spells on the list, and chose a smaller core he felt he could really master. He felt here the annoyance of the camera crew; they didn’t just appear when pre-arranged scenes were to be filmed. Apparently they had to hang about to catch him in the act of being interesting when he was just getting on with his life. They caught all manner of difficult moments in his practice, and he made many noises he wished no one to hear. The best way to Draco seemed to be to choose a limb of his own to direct spells at. That way he could tell exactly how well they worked, and would harden himself to receive an onslaught from an opponent. He learned to have counter-spells to hand before doing this. When he needed to look on the bright side of the position he’d got himself into, Draco was gratified to find himself thinking about spell work in a different way. He tried to think which jinxes he’d use if he had this or that thrown at him, think of spell sequences that might alarm his opponent or lull them into a false sense of security, to practice healing himself in between curses so that it came naturally and didn’t thrown his reflexes off. It was like a language; he wasn’t much used to thinking of spells as linked together to produce a result through combination. Richard came to see how he was getting on. Draco told him how hard he was practicing, and what insights he’d reached. “So when do you want to actually practice with me?” asked Richard. “Now!” said Creevey, who’d just arrived. “It’s time you moved on. Can you do it in the ballroom? Lots of room for you to circle each other.” “I suppose now is – yes, now’s okay,” said Draco, stiffening his resolve, trying to make himself feel like a fight, testing his will against another. Draco was unsure how to act when they got to the ballroom; like he was casually practicing with a friend or like he was having a fight and trying to frighten somebody? He settled for grimly nervous. The flurry of activity he and Richard launched into after Creevey yelled “Go!” didn’t last long before Draco’s defence crumbled. “That was amazing! It happened so fast!” said Creevey while Draco, sat on the floor with an uncontrollably cramped leg and a hand that wouldn’t stop oozing blood and ice. “I couldn’t keep up,” said Draco, feeling very discouraged. He’d expected to be at a disadvantage, but not to be able to put up so little a fight. “It’s all about stamina. That’s what everyone has to learn,” said Richard. The following period of time would be much less tedious edited. There was determination and despair, tenacity and (once, in private) a couple of tears. There was trying again and injuries and tantrums here Draco yelled “I GIVE UP! HAPPY NOW? I CAN’T DO IT!” (on camera, regrettably) And the length of the duels slowly grew, as Draco held out just a little longer and longer. And at last, a butterfly of some kind emerged from its chrysalis; a Draco with a new skill. “I can set up a real fight for you now,” said Richard. Richard was employed by the Professional Duellists’ Association, which charged the general public for seeing duels. Because of this element, Richard explained, Draco should try to have some kind of presence, produce something people might want to watch for entertainment. Draco had seen Richard fight; his angle was to be very languid, so he looked as though he hardly cared what he was doing and needed no concentration to beat his opponent. “It’s with a witch who’s in the same position as you, she hasn’t fought professionally before and she’s trying to get PDA to employ her. It’s not necessarily an either/or thing so don’t panic if you lose; if you both manage to impress them enough you could both get taken on,” said Richard, having set it up. Draco was greatly relieved to find he had only another novice to deal with and was determined not to lose. He resolved that he would be icy, his wand strokes tightly controlled, quick and devastating like lightning. * Draco felt conspicuous at the PDA centre, what with being an ex-Death Eater and having a film crew, which intrigued and annoyed people who had to remember not to blow their noses in too unflattering a way. And then the noise level rose because there, oh God why, was Harry Potter, and fucking hell there was Hermione Granger staring right at him and she was who he had to fight, wasn’t she? He turned and hissed “It’s Hermione Granger!” into Creevey and Richard’s faces. “Ooh, is it?” said Creevey, and looked as if he was thinking of waving. “Is that a problem?” he asked, becoming stern. Draco didn’t know and he wrenched the air about in his hands instead of answering. “It’s just because she makes it seem more real. Pretend she is just a machine pretending to be real, that helps me sometimes,” said Richard. Draco wondered if this accounted for Richard’s way of moving through life as if in a dream, and thought it seemed a little more sinister if so. The advice wasn’t so difficult to take, actually, as Harry Potter and his two best friends had become hazy archetypes to him since they had been Wanted, if not earlier. So there Draco was, in the ring, Granger eyeing him with the same look of wanting to crawl back to bed away from the unbelievable horror of this demand that he felt. The umpire indicated that they should begin, and they bowed to each other. The next thing Draco knew he was, he suspected, a ferret. He quickly unferreted and in the heat of the moment, did an almost involuntary, weird spell on Hermione. Little sharp tusks of ivory protruded from her body and began winding as they grew. Suddenly they accelerated like the briars around the Sleeping Beauty as if Granger was doing it herself now; her scowling face was visible in their midst. The tusks filled the ring and began to jab at him. Leaning against the rope, he snapped the tusks into pieces and removed Granger’s shoes. Granger stumbled on one of the chunks of tusk rolling about like marbles and cut her foot. She sent him somersaulting round and round in the air; he kept raising his wand but was unable to aim it at her. Feeling seasick, he conjured a plate of glass just in front of her so that she bumped into it and was distracted enough to let him go. As soon as his feet hit the ground she turned his ears into roses that weren’t attached to his head. While he snatched them to the sides of his face and retransfigured them Granger hit Draco with a bolt of electricity. Draco fell down and from the floor trapped her in a block of ice. Hermione nonverbally summoned a ring of flames; Draco had to perform a flame-freezing charm as Hermione’s ice melted. The duel ended suddenly not much later when a conjured bird suddenly ripped Draco’s wand out of his hand. Draco didn’t feel any thud of disappointment; he was breathing heavily, a laugh under his breath. He wished his mother was there just because, well, he was in extremity. He kept saying I did it inside himself though he wasn’t sure he’d done anything impressive. He got himself over to Richard and Dennis, looking over his shoulder at Granger, who wasn’t very visible past Potter and Weasley’s congratulatory hugs, and felt a little jealous. “That wasn’t too bad,” said Richard, conscientiously patting his shoulder a moment later. “You didn’t freeze up. You were about equal right up to the end.” “You had a real fire! You and Hermione both looked like you were having a tantrum at each other, like you cared about the fight rather than the technique. Not self-conscious. Brilliant!” said Creevey. “But I lost, didn’t I?” asked Draco, just waking up to the fact. “But you fought!” said Creevey, as if he’d been expecting him to turn tail as soon as Granger raised her wand. Which reminded him what he’d wanted out of all this – he was going to be tough and grown-up and capable. And he’d stood up in front of a crowd and let himself be filmed being attacked; he’d done it to himself and he’d gone through with it. He had been tough, he told himself. Later Draco found himself with Granger in front of the Manager of PDA. He wasn’t especially effusive; apparently they’d been tolerable but might not have got anywhere if not for the interesting angle of who they were, their history. It was all so low-key Draco didn’t understand it was good until he was being given a contract he made only a hurried show of reading. He and Granger were both being taken on for a trial period. Draco’s knees turned to water at the thought of what he’d got himself into but he decided to simply not think about it. * “How—?” began Harry and Ron when they spotted her. “Well, they’ve taken me on,” said Hermione. “But only because it’ll be good for business even if I make a horrible fool of myself, and Malfoy’s there as well. He said my style had potential but I was obviously very inexperienced and unsure, so I probably wouldn’t have done it otherwise.” Harry and Ron patted her on the back, Ron a little too hard in his we’re-just-friends-now-I-can-do-that way that was only just obvious, and told her she’d been amazing and not to start nitpicking. Hermione laughed and tried to hold back all the things she was kicking herself for. “And Malfoy! Malfoy!” Ron exclaimed. Hermione was almost glad he had so bizarrely turned up (with a camera crew!). It showed something that someone had ended up on the same path as her. Also, he gave everybody else another person to look at turning up in a surprising face and being probably not very good, therefore taking that attention away from her. But then again perhaps his presence would draw more attention to hers, especially as they already hailed from opposite sides and all that. * Hermione just didn’t know where her life was going. After the war she’d got carried away by all the Ministry talk of rebuilding their society and decided she wanted to join them, work with the bones of any society, the laws, and change the wizarding world. Then one thing led to another and she was not only fired for inciting rebellion, but sent to Azkaban for six months. To sustain her she had the impression that she was a not-so-dreadful warning, that things would have been worse if she’d been anyone else, and no one took her offense very seriously. The people she encountered during the whole procedure were indulgent in an eye-rolling way. Hermione could have borne all that with good grace, even if she did cringe horribly every time she realised afresh that she’d broken the rules and the Ministry of Magic was angry with her and she’d be lucky if they didn’t shut her out of the wizarding world for good. But she wasn’t actually good at being a freedom fighter. So what should she do? Try harder and see if she could make it go more wrong? Scuttle back with her blotted copybook to conventional jobs and leave the big things to others? House-elves, werewolves, goblins and other magical non-human species had a teeny bit more in the way of legal rights now, but they still had no respect in the wider wizarding society, and wizarding society was still the only one wizards acknowledged. There was certainly no one society for all, as she’d thought desirable. And that meant she had no stock with anyone she wanted to help. They just didn’t want her, her help, nothing. She was outside their world as much as they were outside the wizards’ world. They didn’t think she had any power and wouldn’t have wanted to utilise it anyway. She had managed to establish uneasily polite terms with a young female werewolf duellist, Rebecca Bildene, and persuaded her to give her lessons in duelling. Hermione also practiced like mad with Harry, who found the idea in general intriguing, and Ron, who was charmed by the idea of Hermione, professional duellist, in particular. It was her nerve she had to work on most; usually anxiety spurred her to purify faults and excel, while with more physical disciplines it damaged her reflexes and encouraged poor decisions. She tried to imagine herself enraged like a dragon, perhaps a dragon in Gringotts, who cared for nothing but venting its rage as thoroughly as it could. The growls and squeals this tactic elicited in practice were unfortunate, but never mind. At least she hadn’t embarrassed Rebecca, Hermione thought, realising that whether or not she’d been brilliant, she’d won the fight. Relief released into her blood. It was lovely to have a taste of being good at something again. * Hermione was brought down to Earth when she had to go to the PDA centre to practice. The Association wanted its duellists to be good, wanted them to fight each other for practice as well as performance so they would be forced to come up with new ways of getting past their opponents’ guard, expand their box of tricks. She had an exhausting day in one of the Association’s specially fortified practice rooms, working with those duellists willing to take on someone so inexperienced, mostly out of kindness. Hermione had to hold onto clever moments of victory to bolster her spirits rather than expect an outright win, except then she honestly did win one duel. She was getting better at something difficult, something that had only tougher ground to offer the further she advanced. She liked that feeling. Hermione wandered off to get a cauldron cake and see how others were getting on. She stopped to watch Draco Malfoy being encouraged to perform again and again the charm that sent the opponent whizzing dizzily around, setting them down with their back to you, by John Chillingworth, the half-selkie wizard, and Olivia Matthews, a Muggleborn witch whose parents hadn’t allowed her to go to Hogwarts and had entered the wizarding world by the back door later. Hermione looked at the camera crew, knowing her dubious face in the doorway would be picked up and thought that Draco making awkwardly casual, businesslike conversation with John and Olivia was worth coming about and being captured, in a way. It would be interesting if Draco could be really broken down to his component parts and rearranged better. Her mind, still in battle mode, looked at him hard, thought about disarming him with a flourish, pushing him against the wall ... perhaps she shouldn’t be having vaguely sexual thoughts in proximity to wizarding cameras, she wasn’t sure how much they were supposed to pick up. Draco was actually doing quite well, she thought before leaving. Nice, clean control, not like the flurry he’d been in their duel. * Ron had dropped by. They had their usual nice conversation with its undertone of a sense of achievement and relief at being able to do so, and now he was sitting looking through the newspapers she’d had delivered but squeamishly refrained from reading. “Did they make as much of it as I thought they would or am I just being egotistical?” Hermione asked, unable to help herself as Ron kept raising his eyebrows. “Oh, they’re enjoying themselves, alright. Full of how you’ve turned out dreadfully – I mean, it’s more sneering, not really having a go,” Ron said. “And they can’t decide whether this means Malfoy’s getting better or worse, thought they suspect it feeds his inclination for violence. Mostly they don’t know what he’s playing at. Or you.” “I think he’s trying to prove he’s ... become a man and is not who he was,” said Hermione. “Or he just likes attention.” “And they’re speculating on what it’ll mean that you’re both doing it, and fought each other and will again. Whether it’s the battle of light and dark, the rematch, or a really cunning way of hiding an affair.” Hermione screwed up her face and stared off into the distance. She wanted something, some prize after having tried, just tried in general since leaving school, and getting no praise, no results, nothing. * Hermione was aware of playing the same game as Draco, trying to make herself affable and just-like-you with the other duellists. She was conscious of a tendency to come off as patronising, too jerky or fulsome when she was trying to be friendly at the best of times. If she had a proper aim in all this, it was to make herself more approachable to other parts of the magical community, so that fuelled her more than a simple desire to make her surroundings pleasant. Hermione wondered if Draco, too, felt that underlying the just-like-you stuff was unsureness as to what else they might be like. * “Would you like to come to dinner this evening, Hermione?” Richard Whitless asked her. Draco turned his head to glare at him which compelled Hermione to say “Oh, that would be lovely” over the top of her instinctual reaction, which was to refuse in favour of an evening’s practice. She was to have her next fight in a week and had reached the hysterical stage of preparation. She almost took back her acceptance, but remembered that social interaction might help to make her a real duellist as well as practicing. Quite a few of the duellists would be there, mixed in carelessly with Richard’s more conventional acquaintance, who would just have to lump it. Coming to herself, Hermione made her excuses and hurried home; it would be nice to do something about her hair. “Hello,” Hermione said, offering a thin smile. She’d ended up next to Malfoy, naturally. At least he was, for once, unaccompanied by cameras. Hermione smiled more fully, as Draco, turning, recoiled. “Oh. Hello,” said Draco, and laughed nervously. Hermione peered round at the wizard on her right. She thought he looked like one of Richard’s more aristocratic acquaintances, and he was already peering round at her with a suspicious curiosity she didn’t much like. She turned back to Draco as he cleared his throat. “I suppose I should – I’m just going to say sorry. If we’ve got to talk to each other as polite grown-ups I think we’ve got to clear the slate. So I’m sorry about all the things I did and said to you that I shouldn’t have.” “Alright,” said Hermione, more because, as he said, they had to talk to each other like polite grown-ups than anything else. “I accept your apology.” They both took a gulp from their wine glasses. “You two have certainly been providing us with a puzzle,” said the man on Hermione’s right, tired of being ignored. “No more than old Richard here, I suppose, but we feel like we know all the prominent figures from the war, feel like we know what they’re going to do, and you’ve both been a bit of a turn up for the books.” “Oh, don’t start, Leopold,” said Richard. “I don’t think anyone estimated anything good for me, so ...” said Draco, shrugging. “I don’t know, I think we thought your father would slime you all out of it somehow. But, rumour has it, your father has some strange money-making projects in the works and you’ve been all over the place from what I’ve heard. Working with Muggles, a tumultuous relationship with that Greengrass girl, and now making a show of yourself.” “Everyone is a show these days,” someone said, and started an argument about wizzvision. “The way he says ‘working with Muggles’ makes me imagine you as a contestant in a beauty pageant,” said Hermione. Draco shrugged uneasily. “So what exactly did you do with Muggles?” she prodded. “We’re making polite conversation, remember.” “Well. It was to give the wizarding world a rest from me, so when I came back they wouldn’t associate me quite so much with the whole Death Eater thing. It gave me a rest, too. Not so many expectations.” “You don’t need to sound like you’re explaining it away,” Hermione said irritably. “I’m not going to disapprove, am I? What did you do?” “I wanted a nice safe, dull job in an office, but they all wanted me to know about those computer things. So I had to go and learn about that first.” “Oh, I thought you were going to say you gave up and went to work in a supermarket or something. God, even I hardly know anything about computers, I feel bad about it sometimes,” said Hermione. “How did you get on with Muggles?” “It was weird at first,” Draco admitted. “I kept having to tell myself ‘Pretend you don’t care they’re Muggles.’ But then they stopped seeming different from all the people I already knew. It was like a great revelation and really simple and obvious at the same time.” Hermione nodded as if to grudgingly admit he’d passed a test. “And I heard you went to Azkaban?” he said, brightly changing the subject. Hermione talked a bit about what Azkaban had been like, pointing out without too much rancour that Draco had never set a foot there. Then they both confided that they didn’t know what had got into them to propel them to where they were now. Hermione hadn’t stinted on the wine, which probably helped along a glow of camaraderie. It was good to feel it though; it was like having a little thorn taken out your side to feel someone who’d been horrible was a human being after all who you might even be able to get along with. Draco talked a bit to Hermione’s sort-of friend Rebecca, and Hermione talked across the table to Dittany, the girl she was to fight against next week. She was blonde, and Hermione rather got the impression the manager had paired them up deliberately hoping for a cat-fight kind of dynamic, which she was determined to dampen. Dittany was kind enough to tell Hermione she didn’t consider the forthcoming duel a foregone conclusion when Hermione demurred, at least. Her hand was on the table, fingers entwined with John Chillingworth’s, who Hermione had only just realised was her boyfriend. She wondered what it would be like to fight someone you were in a relationship with. Hermione saw a warm smile pass between them and felt a sudden pang. She hadn’t been in a relationship as such since Ron. She hadn’t even had sex since before she went to Azkaban. She wanted to feel someone’s body against hers, have someone touch her, not to mention get her off. Hermione and Draco turned back towards each other at the same time, not quite expecting their eyes to meet. Embarrassed by herself, Hermione quickly looked instead at his hand on the table. He had quite nice hands. No, he won’t ‘do’, she told herself. You’re hardly sure he’s a passable human being. “When’s your next fight?” Hermione asked, feeling a little unkind for making him think of it. And so her mind veered onto another track, but alas, when the guests were departing, hovering in the room of Richard’s that had two Floos to make their farewells and await their turn, the moment reoccurred. She caught and held Draco’s eyes, an orange-gold of firelight reflected in them. Just seconds away was going home by herself, to worry about everything and look things up before going to bed. The fireplace was free and Draco stepped towards it, looked back, and held out his hand. Hermione was encouraged somehow that he also looked a little frightened by her and the decision. You don’t have to have anything to do with him afterwards, she told herself, and took his hand before anyone else in the room could look round. She closed her eyes and held her breath going through the Floo and had one moment of being intensely aware of his hand clasping hers, warm and rubbing her thumb, perhaps in nervousness. Hermione was expecting to arrive in Draco’s own home, whether a flat or a house, but instead she was in the entrance hall of Malfoy Manor. “Shit, sorry, I should have specified my room,” said Draco. Hermione looked around and felt cowed. This place didn’t want her here; it was aligned with everything opposed to her that she opposed in turn. Not to mention the upsetting association with being tortured. Draco was looking at her face. He held out his hand again, as if asking rather than expecting her to take it. She took it, and they raced up the stairs on tiptoe. By the time Draco indicated the corridor they should turn into for his bedroom Hermione was feeling a weird pleasure in coming back to Malfoy Manor for shag. These were new times. Draco’s room was much as she might have expected – large, green curtains, old Quidditch posters on the walls. “There are no cameras in here, I trust?” Hermione asked. “What? Oh – no. Or at least I don’t think so. Actually, I think I had a nightmare like that in the last few days. You might even have been in it. With Creevey standing by doing a running commentary.” Hermione looked at him sceptically and started to laugh. “Perhaps we should take that as a cue to rethink before making the stuff of nightmares come true.” “Oh no. I do want to. Please.” Hermione looked Draco over. He looked quite earnest, not just drunk or gracelessly It’s Too Late To Back Out Now. “Well, come on, then,” said Hermione, putting her hand on the back of his neck and shrugging as if to indicate how they were standing, not particularly close, talking to each other. She wanted this to be a heedless escape from her worries, not an awkward awareness of how she was adding to them. Draco drew nearer as she pulled him in, and kissed her. They were light and curious first, testing how the other’s mouth felt on their own, half in a sensual way, half as if they might be going to break away and make childish gagging faces. Once the experience had proved satisfactory, the kiss deepened, became hard and breathless. Hermione put her palms on the sides of Draco’s face, feeling the slight trace of stubble over his jaw with her thumbs. That itching sexual desire she’d felt at dinner had returned. She pushed Draco towards the bed, while he held onto her hips. She rocked them a little into his hands, feeling the individual warm imprints of his fingers through her thin silk garment, before pulling her down so she straddled his lap. Hermione balanced her knees on the edge of the bed, liking the feel of cool sheets contrasting with the heat of his thighs between her own. He kissed the hollow of her throat once, looking now more pleasantly amused by stumbling upon this instance in his life, a half smile lingering on his mouth. With one hand he stroked the back of her lower thigh, her robes having rucked up. Hermione nearly took his hand and placed it between her legs but he moved it to assist the other in running up and down her back in search of the fastenings. “It comes off over my head,” said Hermione, impatiently, pulling it up as she spoke, watching Draco’s eyes follow its progress as her body was revealed. She threw it irritably on the floor after it caught her hair and mussed it, then smiled a too bright ‘Here I am’ smile. Draco stroked up and down her stomach and she felt warm tingling in her belly, expecting him to move further up or down. “Take – would you take your bra off?” said Draco in a low voice. Hermione met his eyes, taking as long as possible. She never liked the first big reveal, which she tried to disguise by contrarily making the most of the gesture. “Are you watching?” she asked. “Ready? Now?” her fingers just releasing the clasp, before the cups of her bra slipped down. Draco nodded. The straps fell down over her arms. She leaned forwards to throw the bra on the floor and Draco cupped one of her breasts lightly in his hand, kissing the nipple of the other, causing them to harden. She put her hand over Draco's encouraging him to make his touch firmer. He drew her nipple into his mouth and held it just gently enough between his teeth, circling it with his tongue. Hermione reached between his legs and found, as she'd hoped, the bulge of an erection. "Come on," she said. Draco's cheeks were getting pinker, she noticed. She traced the outline of his cock through his underwear once his robes were off, and he pulled them down in a hurry. Hermione circled it with her fingers. She'd forgotten how she liked the plumpness of a cock in her hand, the heat, the soft/hard feel of it. She traced a vein down the shaft to the head and ran her thumb across the crown. Her finger slid easily across the head dampened with a clear drop of pre-come. She swiped her fingers across a few more times and saw another drop well up. She bent her head and licked it off. Draco drew in his breath sharply, but held her chin to prevent her going in again. He put his finger underneath the waistband of her knickers and looked at her questioningly. She nodded and he tugged them down, Hermione lifting her legs to allow him to pull them off. Hermione thought as he parted her lips that perhaps the first touch was the best. His finger grazing her clitoris managed to be everything she wanted at this moment. The next moment, of course, was different, and as his finger gathered wetness and came back to her clit. It was not enough that his finger was there; it must continue stroking. Draco nudged her onto her back and pulled her knees wider apart. She rested her heels on his back as he slid two fingers inside her and stroked a place that made her wetter, licking and sucking her clit. She could feel her face getting hotter. Draco slid his fingers in and out of her cunt and Hermione couldn’t help forcing Draco’s head down. She could feel the orgasm beginning to build between her legs, each movement of Draco’s moving her closer, and she was reaching the irritable yet most pleasurable stage of wanting only to reach it. Draco lifted his face. “Do you want me to fuck you or –” he asked. “Yes. Okay,” said Hermione. She wouldn’t want to fuck him right after coming and she did want to fuck him. Draco sat up and reached for his wand to cast all the sensible charms. Hermione usually preferred somehow to do them herself, but her wand was on the floor and when he’d finished she straddled him again. They both held his cock at the right angle and Hermione sat down on it slowly. When his cock was fully in it felt so good she had to bite his shoulder. Draco’s hands spanned her buttocks and lifted her up. She began to move with him and recovered her rhythm, hands locked behind Draco’s neck. Their foreheads were just touching and they kissed in between breathing. Hermione felt a thrill when he groaned a beat before she threw her head back and felt that golden moment of pure pleasure relaxing her body. Face to face and sticky, they both breathed a sigh of accomplishment. That was what she came here for. A few hours later she woke up in the grey light of early morning and was forced to venture out of Draco’s room in search of a loo. She found one without too much difficulty, but hurried on the way back for fear of encountering anyone and slid into the warm bed. Draco turned towards her in his sleep and rested his hand on her back. Everything would be fine, she told herself, and managed to believe it. She could deal with waking up with Draco later, she could deal with her fight in a few days. Things would turn out okay.

“Which one do you want, Sammy?” Dean breathes in his ear, one hand curled around Sam’s hip—beneath his coat, where Dad can’t see. Sam swallows, flushing hot all over, and thinks about what it would feel like to shove his brother away as Dean crowds even closer, disguising desire in the press of bodies around them. When a space opens in front of Sam—pulse of cool air over his front—he doesn’t move into it. “Whichever you want,” Dean promises. His hand moves forward, sliding around Sam’s body to rest just below his belt buckle. His thumb, restless, rubs over denim and the suggestive caress makes all of Sam’s limbs go weak. “I’mma give you a present.” A step and there’s no more space between them, no room even for something as insubstantial as air. Dean is a leather-scented body—all warm muscle and lazy intent—pressed up against Sam’s back. His Saint Jude’s medallion digs into Sam’s back between his shoulder blades. Something just as hard—larger, throbbing with something like fever—pushes against Sam’s ass; Dean excited (by the hunt, by Sam’s unease) and just as unconcerned as he always is whether Sam knows it. No, that’s not true. He wants Sam to feel this. “Pick one,” Dean urges as he reaches his other hand around Sam’s body, pushing his fingers beneath Sam’s t-shirt to brush the sensitive skin of his stomach. “I’ll let you watch.” Sam tries not to look at anyone, but the blonde by the bar with the neon pink halter-top catches his attention before he can close his eyes. She’s pretty—all dolled up and looking for someone to take home tonight—but Sam can’t help thinking that she’d look even prettier in red. His stomach heaves at the fleeting thought and now he does push away, hurrying through the press with his brother’s throaty chuckle caught in his ears. Dad doesn’t say anything as Sam shoves past him and out the door, but Sam can feel the man’s disappointment eating away at his back all the same. He doesn’t look back—runs all the way to the motel, where he throws himself down on the bed he shares with Dean and does his best to fall asleep. Sam’s brain refuses to turn off, though, and he’s still awake when Dad comes in almost two hours later with a slender redhead hanging off his arm. Dean is at Dad’s heels, escorting the blonde in her pink halter-top just like Sam knew he would be. Sam promises himself he won’t watch—he never does, never has—but he can’t help listening. Dad’s lower grunts, Dean’s breathier pants. The muffled moans and sobs (shrieks, once or twice) of the girls. The air turns wet and coppery as the rhythm of Dean’s breathing—so easy to pick out amidst the others—speeds and shallows, and Sam turns his face into the pillow and tries not to breathe it in. He lies still while Dean finally lets out the tightly restrained groan that signals an end to the festivities—at least as far as Dean is concerned. Dean’s girl—the blonde—goes completely silent a few heartbeats later, although Dad and his date are still hard at it. Dad takes longer at this part—has since the first time he gave the okay for Dean to try instead of just watch—but then again, Dean’s focus has always been on the aftermath. On the display. Sam can hear his brother making arrangements right now, actually: moving around in the near-dark by the couch where he had his fun. In his head, he imagines how Dean must look—naked and covered in the liquids of his exertions, muscles still flexed and twitching with excess adrenaline. Wet medallion stuck to his spattered chest, sweat dripping from his hair. The back of Sam’s neck prickles and he wonders if Dean is looking over at him right now, pearl-handled blade held loosely in one hand. In his head, he can almost see his brother’s slow grin, the double-edged promises in Dean’s eyes. If Dean is looking Sam’s way now, is he stroking his knife? Is he smiling? Sam squeezes his eyes more firmly shut and turns his mind away from the answer. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ In the morning, Dad is out loading the car and Dean is in the bathroom showering. He always makes such a mess of himself, but can’t seem to be bothered to clean up before passing out on the floor. Dad doesn’t exactly approve, but a quiet sigh is the only reproof he ever offers, and even that is accompanied by a fond shake of his head. Because Dean is his favorite, his pet. Dean is the perfect, good son, who learned his lessons and holds them close to his heart. Sam, who has struggled against himself—against what Dad and Dean want of him—for his entire existence, waits until he’s certain neither of them are going to surprise him and then gets up out of bed. Walks over to the couch and looks down at his brother’s date with his hands clenched and clammy. He was right. She does look better in red. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Two months later, when Sam announces he’s leaving for college, Dad beats him to within an inch of his life. Sam keeps waiting for Dean to step in and stop it, but Dean seems content to watch—or maybe he’s just mesmerized by the red spray and cries of pain. Still, it is ‘within an inch of his life’ rather than ‘to death’, and Sam has his brother to thank for that. By the time Dean intervenes, Sam is too out of it to register anything but red, roaring darkness, but he knows Dean saved him because when he comes around the next morning, he’s been washed and bandaged and Dean is sitting in a chair next to his bed with a face that looks like a truck ran into it. There’s a bulky shape rising from his brother’s back—like a hump—but after only a few moments of squinting up blearily, Sam figures out that it’s just because Dean has strapped a couple ice packs to his left shoulder. Probably dislocated it again. “Dad?” Sam rasps through a bruised, sore throat. Dad held him off the ground at one point; Sam is sure the marks of the man’s fingers are clear on his neck. “Dad’s gone.” Sam searches his head for something to say—‘thank you for saving my life’ seems a little too trite—but Dean beats him to it. “When you’re ready, you know how to find me,” he announces, which is ‘goodbye’ and ‘fuck you’ in one neat package. As Sam lies in bed, confused by the alternating waves of panic and relief coursing through him, Dean heaves his body out of the chair, moves to the door, and is gone himself. For the first time he can remember, Sam is free. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ At Stanford, Sam’s face gives him conversational fodder for a month, but in his stories (wild bear, car crash, got mugged, fell out of a plane), his family never once comes up. It’s better that way for everyone. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Despite his injuries and the amount of lying Sam is forced to do, the first few months of college are everything he ever dreamed they could be. Books and papers and quiet solitude, and best of all, no bodies in the morning when he wakes up. But something shifts around Halloween—Dean always loved this time of year—and by the time Sam’s first semester winds to a close, his dreams are coated in red. When he sleeps, he sees their faces—pretty women, lovely ladies—and feels Dean’s heat against his back. In his slumber, he hears Dean whispering, “Which one, Sammy? You pick.” It always dissolves from there, like a cut scene, and Sam finds himself back in a motel room. In real life, Dad was always the first one through the door, but in Sam’s dreams it’s only him and Dean, and Dean always brings the right one—the woman Sam never pointed out, but somehow marked as special anyway. He must have marked her, because in all their years on the road, Dean has never once guessed wrong. Dreaming, Sam doesn’t face the wall the way he always did in the waking world. He rolls on his side instead, watching as Dean lays the woman down on Dad’s bed (not like Dad’s around to use it). He watches Dean open her up, sees his brother’s hands turn red and the crimson smears transfer to the woman’s face as Dean positions her head where he wants it. He sees Dean crouch low and lick a slow line up her throat as it works laboriously in the shadows. Her eyes are wide, terror thick in her limbs and her rapid breathing, and she’s lovely like this but Sam can’t pay attention to anything but his brother. Dean’s hard, solid body: naked and bloodied in a way Sam never actually saw it in real life. Dean ridden by ecstasy as he bleeds the girl into a river that overflows Dad’s bed and washes over to Sam’s. The blood seeps into the linens, climbing its way up until Sam is lying in warm slickness and then, finally, Dean looks over—catches Sam with those vivid, green eyes—and grins. “Your turn, Sammy,” Dean purrs, and twirls the knife with an easy twist of his hand. The blade spins, glinting light that doesn’t come from anywhere in the darkened room and sending off a fine, red spray. There’s no way of knowing which end of the knife Dean is offering, and that’s always when Sam wakes up, with the warm slick that used to coat his sheets now confined to the place between his legs. His hands tremble as he washes every last trace of semen away, and he wants to be sick. He wants to be, but he isn’t. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Jess is his type. Or maybe she’s Dean’s type. Sam wonders, now that he has almost eight months worth of distance, whether it was Dean who was so good at guessing for Sam, or if Sam just recognized the girls his brother preferred. Chicken or the egg. Apple or the seed. Killer or victim. Jess calls to him with her smile and her laugh, she calls just as loudly as the rest of them, and Sam is ... Sam is weak without his family there to shore him up, and he doesn’t say no. He lets her take him home, thoughts of his brother’s blades bright and gleaming in his head, and then he lets her undress him. He’s never done this before, never come without being covered in blood (in his dreams; from Dean’s helping hands), and it takes some doing. Jess says she’s impressed with his stamina and he grins—you haven’t seen anything yet—rolls over and buries his face against her throat so she can’t see the thoughts moving behind his eyes. He leaves her alive and sleeping in the morning; buys a rabbit on the way home. Later, he disposes of the remains one piece at a time in the garbage disposal and does his best to ignore Dean’s phantom laugh as it echoes through his head. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Jess wants to see him again. It’s fine. It’s good. This is normal, what Sam does with her. This is what he wants. But every minute he’s with Jess leaves another tack buried beneath his skin, and he inevitably needs to dig them out, and it isn’t long before rabbits aren’t enough. He keeps seeing Dean’s mocking, disdainful sneer at his prey of choice; hears Dean critiquing his methods—didn’t Dean show him enough times how it was done? Wasn’t Sam paying attention? The cats in Sam’s neighborhood start to go missing. He marvels over it with Jess, and makes all the right noises of concern, and thinks about the sound of a rabbit’s scream, and how it’s much more like a human’s than the cats’. He wonders how it would be with a dog. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ She catches him when he tries it. Oh God, she catches him wrist deep in dog intestines. Her eyes go wide and round, the way Sam always imagined Dean’s girls’ did. Her mouth opens in the start of a scream. Sam moves without thinking, and the knife is in his hand, and it’s an accident, it’s only an accident. But he can’t take it back, and a part of him doesn’t want to. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Sam puts the dog down the disposal after all his other offerings, but Jess ... it seems wrong to leave her piecemeal. What he wants to do—what he longs to do—is arrange her on the bed. Dean never used a bed for his arrangements, but he talked about it often enough that Sam knew he would have if Dad weren’t there hogging the space. Or if he thought he could get away with putting one of his girls in with Sam. “I’d spread her out for you,” Dean used to say when Dad was paying for gas and had left them alone in the car together. Dean never turned around from his place riding shotgun while he talked. His voice never shifted from a casual, almost bored tone. “I’d brush her hair and wash her face so you could see the blood on her breasts better.” And then, in a confessing whisper, “I’d let you sew her eyes shut.” There’s a sewing kit under the bathroom sink. Jess put it there when she started staying over at his place. Jess put the kit away, but Sam is the one who takes it out. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ After almost two hours of indecision, Sam leaves the house smoking. He hasn’t ever seen a fire before—the blaze that killed Mom doesn’t count, he doesn’t remember it—but as he watches the flames claw at the sky from two blocks away, he thinks it might be one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen. After Dean. He puts the unused kit into the backseat of Jess’ VW and drives away. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ It’s less a matter of finding Dean than it is of making Dean find him. Sam picks a motel in the middle of Los Angeles—it’s easier to blend in when he’s in an entire city full of nut jobs—and buys a couple of tools to mimic his brother’s cherished blades. He doesn’t spend much money on them because he already knows he won’t be using them long. Even using them once feels wrong—feels like cheating—and there are two false starts (his first deliberate kill leaves him so excited that he forgets not to make any noise and has to leave in a hurry, and he’s too wound up on his second outing to remember the sewing kit), but the third girl is his perfect angel. By girl number seven, Sam is making all the front pages, and he knows it’s only a matter of time. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Two weeks later, he wakes up to the prick of a knifepoint at his throat. He recognizes the feel of the blade, the careful rhythm of the breathing coming from the side of the bed, the scent of cheap aftershave. He swallows once—the pressure of the knife doesn’t waver—and then asks, “Are you going to kill me?” “Do you want me to?” Dean replies. The sound of his voice makes Sam’s skin break out in goose bumps, makes his head spin, and he twists his hands in the sheets as the knife moves—across Sam’s throat, then dropping lower and traveling over his collarbone. “I want whatever you’ll give me,” Sam confesses when he has enough spit in his mouth to speak. He doesn’t care what that is. It doesn’t matter whether Dean bears down on the blade now or puts it away and starts touching with his hands. Sam will moan and writhe for him willingly regardless. The knife lifts, but the expected touch doesn’t come. Instead, there’s the sound of Dean moving away from the bed. Sam opens his eyes and sits up, sees that his brother’s duffle bag is in the room at the base of the other bed. His other bag—the special one—is on the table. “Get up and get dressed,” Dean says, tucking the knife away into a sheath at his waist and sitting down in the armchair by the window. Sam isn’t wearing anything underneath the sheets, but he doesn’t hesitate before pushing them down and getting up. He can feel his brother’s eyes on him as he selects his clothes for the day—Dean’s gaze, which is almost as sharp as the knives he carries, trailing over his skin—and shivers. He hasn’t felt so alive in years. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Dean takes him out for breakfast. Sam orders a stack of blueberry pancakes; Dean orders his usual mound of egg and meat and hash brown. Sam watches his brother eat, Dean hunched over his place and shoveling food rapidly into his mouth same as he always has, like he’s worried someone’s going to take his meal away if he doesn’t finish it fast enough. He cuts everything with a knife before it goes into his mouth—wields the dull metal utensil with the so much casual skill that Sam feels the people around them have to know what he is, just by watching him. But no one screams. Their waitress smiles at Dean fetchingly, flirting, trying to get him to notice. Usually Dean flirts back. Today, he ignores her, all of his attention locked on Sam. There’s small talk. How was college. Who was Sam’s favorite professor. How has Dean been. Has Dean seen Dad. That last one gets Sam a sharp, scornful look that runs Sam’s chest and belly cold. He didn’t understand, what Dean said in that motel room so long ago. Didn’t understand until this moment that when Dean said ‘gone’, he meant ‘for good’. Dean gives a nod as the comprehension spills across Sam’s face. Lifts one corner of his mouth in a smile. Goes back to eating. Sam continues to stare, floored by the realization that Dean is his now. His alone. He hasn’t ever owned anything before, but this is a feeling he thinks he can get used to. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ After breakfast, there’s a drive in the Impala. Sam sits in the passenger seat where Dean used to lounge and thinks about what sorts of things might be in the trunk. He used to get nightmares and cold sweats imagining up answers to satisfy his curiosity, but something has changed since Stanford—since Jess—and now thoughts of trophies and strange tools bring an electric thrill. They leave him hard and shifting restlessly in the seat. Dean glances over as he opens the Impala up on the highway, lets his eyes travel up and down over Sam’s body before focusing on the bulge in Sam’s jeans. “What’s wrong, Sammy?” he asks with a smirk. “Your girls haven’t been taking care of you?” Sam licks his lips, turning his head to gaze out the window. “They weren’t for me. I didn’t—I couldn’t—They were for you.” It’s shame painting his face, shame and a certainty of mocking to come, but instead Dean’s hand lands on Sam’s knee. Dean gives him a quick squeeze, then rubs the denim with his thumb. “Good boy,” he says. Sam whimpers as his dick swells harder, and Dean laughs. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Dean takes him to Williams Sonoma. It’s one of Dean’s favorite stores, and they spend almost an hour there, looking over cookware and slowly making their way to the wall of gleaming knives. Examining the coffee pots and slow cookers is foreplay—an old, practiced habit of Dean’s whenever he’s in the market for new hardware, but Sam has never paid so much attention to it before. He’s never been so painfully, agonizingly aware of the well-lit cutlery display, never felt Dean’s curious hands on his body every time Dean decides to pick a mixing bowl up for a closer look. But inevitably they come to their true destination. As if she sensed what Dean was truly interested in all along, this is when one of the employees comes over with an offer of assistance. Dean is all charm and smiles, putting her effortlessly at ease by telling one of his many elaborate cover stories. This one—Sam hears only part of it; he’s too focused on all that shining steel—seems to involve a culinary school and the French Riviera and the perfect porterhouse. Sam drifts away a little, trying not to look as fascinated as he feels as his eyes travel over the array—boning tools and cleavers and paring knifes and kitchen shears. He feels dizzy. Feverish. “Sammy, come take a look at this,” Dean calls, distracting him from his near-trance. Any casual acquaintance would hear nothing but a pleasant request in those words, but Sam knows his brother’s voice well and catches the threat beneath. As though Sam harbors any thoughts of disobedience. He walks over and finds Dean touching (caressing) a carving knife with a handle of—“Is that bone?” he asks. “Ox-horn,” the sales lady corrects with a smile. Dean slips the knife into Sam’s hand—the transfer is made before Sam is even aware anything is happening. He closes his hand around it automatically, an electric shiver running through his body, and stares down at the blade. Lovely. “So,” Dean asks, “What do you think?” He’s looking at Sam expectantly—his wolf of a brother and the sales sheep are both looking at him—and Sam realizes that he has no clue what his place in Dean’s cover story is. He doesn’t know what answer he’s supposed to give. His uncertainty must show on his face, because without waiting for an answer, Dean prods, “I know it’s a little pricy, but this is your first restaurant. I want you to have the best.” Sam slides his gaze away from the heavy meaning in his brother’s eyes and words, and unwillingly rubs his thumb along the knife’s handle. Feels how smooth it is, how perfectly the blade is balanced. “It’s great,” he says, and then, “Yes.” A thousand times yes, even if he still doesn’t know whether he’s agreeing to use the knife or offer up his own flesh for the carving. He’s honored either way; Dean taking such care in selecting the tool and making sure he approves of it. Dean takes the knife back and then passes it to the sales lady with a pleasant smile. “We’ll take it.” On their way to the counter to pay, he slides his hand over the back of Sam’s neck and squeezes: a possessive gesture that might be approval or warning. Sam licks his lips and is thankful his pants are loose enough to hide his response. Dean knows anyway, though—Sam is sure of that. Dean always knows. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ The bar isn’t any different from a hundred others, but it feels different. It feels very different with the new knife (came with its own case and everything) sitting out in the car and Dean’s hand shoved casually into Sam’s back pocket. “What about her?” Dean asks, his breath tickling Sam’s ear. He’s looking at a brunette—buxom, pretty—but there’s no real intent in his gaze, like he already knows what Sam is going to say. Sam shakes his head, same as he did for the last six, and Dean’s answering smile bears more than a hint of pride. Like Sam is passing some sort of test he doesn’t even know he’s taking. Then she walks in and Sam stiffens. Dean follows his line of sight, smiles slowly, and leans over to whisper, “You always did have a thing for blondes.” He pulls his hand free from Sam’s pocket, gives his ass a light smack. “Go get ‘em, tiger.” Sam goes. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Her name is Shelby. Sam gets other details but he doesn’t bother to remember them. He doesn’t need to know anything but the way Shelby is looking at him—the same way Jess used to—and it isn’t any trouble at all getting her to come have a drink with him over at the table Dean has procured. Dean has found his own girl in the five minutes it took Sam to land his—Dean’s a master at the pick-up, always has been—and she’s nothing like the girls Sam remembers Dean bringing back to the room before. Dark, slightly curling hair. Tan skin. Tall, athletic build. There’s a degree of hesitant caution to Dean’s eyes as Sam brings Shelby over—like he isn’t sure how this is going to be received. It’s the first time Sam has seen his brother uncertain about anything, and he’s quick with a smile and a ‘pleased to meet you’—eager to communicate as best as he can that it wouldn’t matter even if Dean wanted to bring back a man. That he’s grateful Dean has been so giving over the years, setting aside his own urges to nurture Sam’s. Dean relaxes and grins. Introduces himself to Shelby and buys a couple of rounds. Sam has never been there for this part, and as a result he’s a little awkward at making the transition from ‘have a drink with us’ to ‘come home with us’. Dean is as glib as ever, though, and smoothes over all of Sam’s rough spots with a touch or a joke. He’s good enough, in fact, that Shelby actually makes the initial overture. Dean’s girl—Sam didn’t catch her name, doesn’t care what it is—is just as eager, and Dean leans toward her. Tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, he kisses the graceful arch of her throat. When he looks back over at Sam, his eyes have darkened to an unfathomable forest green—no less vivid, but shadow-filled. A hunter’s eyes. Dean smiles. Sam shivers. He’s pretty sure it’s excitement. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ When they get back to the motel, Dean makes the first move. He lifts his girl and tosses her onto the bed in a single, violent movement, and Sam reads uncertainty in her eyes when she bounces once or twice on the mattress before starting to right herself. But Dean is there already, gripping her wrists and forcing them up toward the headboard while he covers her mouth with his lips and tongue. Shelby has her back turned toward the action, is kissing Sam’s throat as he watches his brother, and Sam strokes her hair absently while he studies Dean’s technique—how his brother rides the thin line between fear and passion until it’s too late, until the girl’s wrists are tied securely to the headboard with strands of rope that Dean produced seemingly from nowhere. Maybe he readied that bed while Sam slept. Maybe the pockets of his leather coat are deeper than Sam gave them credit for. Now that she’s restrained, Dean’s date has finally made the shift from aroused to frightened. She tries to yell something when Dean finally lifts his lips from hers, but Dean clamps his right hand over her mouth before she can. “Shh,” he chides. “Shh, sweetheart.” Sam stares, entranced by the tears leaking down from the corners of the girl’s eyes, by how much white he can see around her iris and pupils, and he must get a little too distracted because Shelby steps away from him—maybe sees what Dean is doing, maybe hears something, maybe has a rabbit’s sixth sense of danger—and then, with a cry of alarm, breaks for the door. Dean is off the bed in an instant, reacting faster than Sam could ever hope to and slamming the door shut again before Shelby can get it all the way open. Shelby screams, spinning where she’s crowded up against the door. She lashes out frantically and Dean ducks the punch. He drives his shoulder into her stomach, scooping her up and carrying her past Sam. Her feet are kicking, and she’s squirming wildly, but Dean doesn’t seem to even notice as he flips her from his shoulder down onto the other bed—the one that Sam slept in last night. Pressing one hand against her stomach, Dean holds her down and glances expectantly over at Sam. Sam stands where he is, uncertain. “You gonna pussy out on me, Sammy?” Dean asks, still watching him. Both girls are screaming now, like they’re having a contest to see who can be shrillest, and Sam doesn’t understand how Dean can be so calm, so collected. Surely the police are on their way by now, surely it’s only minutes before there are a shitload of guns pointed at their front door. Then he remembers, with a relieved flush, that he took the room on the end. That the motel is mostly empty right now anyway—which was a factor in his decision to hole up here while he waited for Dean to find him. No one is close enough to hear any screams. “Make a decision, Sam,” Dean orders, his eyes and voice hardening. Spurred on by the fear of losing this moment, Sam jerks into action. He doesn’t have any rope—used just his hands with the others, held them down and ended it quick before positioning them the way he knew Dean would like—but the cheap motel sheets tear easily and he uses those to bind Shelby down onto the bed. Adds a gag for her mouth as well—he can’t hear himself think over that racket—and tosses Dean a strip for his own girl. Once everything is quiet and mostly still, Sam feels a little more settled. A little more in control. “Go get your knife,” Dean says, opening his own bag and laying things out on the table. Sam obeys with a flutter of envy—Dean’s bag is full of beautiful, shining things: a true artisan’s toolkit—but he crushes the emotion almost immediately by reminding himself that Dean has had time to build up his collection. Sam is just starting his, and he’s sure that if he survives tonight—if Dean wants more from him than a couple of screams, if he wants an apprentice—his own collection will quickly grow. After all, Dean always was generous when they were growing up, and from the care he took in helping to select Sam’s knife, that hasn’t changed. Dean has already started by the time Sam gets back—he’s naked and crouched over his girl, removing her clothes one slice of his silver paring knife at a time—and Shelby is staring over at the foreplay in the other bed with wide eyes while she screams into her gag. Feeling neglected, Sam’s sure. He hurriedly strips—flushing as Dean’s approving glance lingers on his body—and takes up a mirror position to his brother’s over his own playmate. Shelby is crying, shaking her head and trying to mumble pleas through the gag. Sam sets the box down on the mattress to his right, takes out his knife, and uses it to pat Shelby’s cheek. “Sorry if I’m a little clumsy,” he apologizes. “You’re my first.” His first that matters, anyway. Jess was an accident. The others were nothing more than a quick means of sending Dean a text. Shelby is special, though. She’s going to be Sam’s girl. The main event is even more of a rush than Sam thought it would be. His new knife is sharper than the cheap blades he used before—cuts through first cloth and then skin like they aren’t made of anything more substantial than smoke. And Shelby’s moans—her sobs, as they continue—make his pulse race. But it’s Dean’s words that go straight to his cock—Dean narrating and dictating each move, Dean illustrating how it’s done step by slow, steady step. Dean praising him, and moaning, and letting Sam look at him as he seeps himself in blood and fists his cock with his left, non-cutting hand. It’s part instruction, part performance, and Shelby finally stops moving while Sam is distracted by the way Dean looks with his head thrown back and blood splattered across his stomach and chest. It’s an entrancing enough sight that Sam can’t even find it in himself to be disappointed he missed the moment, although he does give her cheek another pat in apology before going back to watching his brother. Dean ends his own playmate quickly after that—like there isn’t any point in lingering now that Sam has beaten him to the finish line—and then climbs off of his girl without bothering to finish himself off. Sam’s skin flushes hot and cold as his brother takes the two strides necessary to reach his bed. He moves out of the way while Dean cuts through Shelby’s makeshift bonds, although a quick glance from Dean is enough to keep him kneeling on the mattress. The sheets are sticky beneath Sam’s knees. When he runs his hand down his stomach, he finds that he’s made even more of a mess than his brother. Or maybe Shelby was just more of a bleeder than Dean’s choice. Dean heaves Shelby’s body off the bed, tossing her on top of his own girl, and then turns back around and fixes Sam with burning eyes that ignite the air in Sam’s lungs. While Sam is still fighting for another breath, his brother grabs his arm and jerks him to the side, sending him sprawling facedown onto the bloodied bed in Shelby’s old place. Sam has time to flip over onto his back and then Dean’s broad thighs cage him in, one on either side of Sam’s hips. Dean steals the knife from Sam’s hand and sets it beneath his throat, the edge pressing into Sam’s skin hard enough to sting. Sam winces but doesn’t move. “So how was it?” Dean pants, his knees dimpling the mattress to either side of Sam’s body. His eyes are fixed intently on Sam’s face as he increases the pressure of the blade, forcing Sam to tilt his head back further into the pillow. “Was she everything you thought she’d be?” Sam doesn’t know how Dean expects him to answer that question when Dean’s flexed thighs are caging his hips. Doesn’t know how he’s meant to remember the girl when Dean has a knife to his throat, when Dean’s hard cock is dribbling come onto his stomach. But Dean’s eyes are fastened to Sam’s like metal hooks, compelling a response the same way Dean’s hand on a blade compels blood to flow. With his lips and throat desert dry from the bewildering rush of emotion sweeping his body, Sam rasps, “This is better.” Dean hauls in a ragged breath and a moment later Sam grunts as his brother’s body blankets his. His heart races as Dean’s left hand reaches between them to force Sam’s thighs apart. Nervous energy courses through him as Dean feels for his goal—some fight or flight response Sam can’t decode—but Dean’s right hand is steady where it hold the knife to his throat. The threat is enough to keep Sam still, and he limits himself to a grimace and a soft grunt as his brother shoves two greedy, demanding fingers inside of him. “Don’t move,” Dean warns, and then dips down to plunder Sam’s mouth with a brief, harsh kiss. The warning comes again afterwards—a muttered whisper this time, spoken beneath Dean’s breath in a distracted, agitated tone. “Don’t move, Sammy. Don’t move.” Sam does flinch at the third finger—it hurts, a sharp ache—and there’s a secondary, cleaner sting at his throat. Dean sees the trickle of blood running down Sam’s throat—Sam knows from the sudden shallowing of his brother’s breath—but Dean still doesn’t move the knife, and Sam doesn’t ask him to. Instead, he spreads his legs farther and parts his lips in invitation. “Fuck,” Dean curses as his fingers grow even more rough and uncontrolled. “Fuck, Sammy.” “Do it,” Sam begs. “Do it—please, Dean. Please.” His obvious desperation gets him a second curse from his brother—this one lower, more intense—and then Sam groans as Dean roughly yanks his fingers out. He has all of a second to register how empty and open he feels now, and then Dean shoves his cock in deep and fills him up again. Red pain blooms at the violent invasion, but Sam’s shaky cry is a thing of pleasure. One of his legs comes up as he instinctively cants his hips. Planting his foot flat on the mattress, he finds the leverage to push up and somehow take Dean even deeper. Above him, Dean’s hand is white-knuckled on the knife, his eyes narrowed to slits of bliss as he fucks in with no care or concern for whether Sam is ready for him. Sam’s body isn’t ready—the push and pull of his brother’s cock feels a little like fire-coated sandpaper inside of him—but Sam welcomes him anyway. He revels in his body’s protests at the violence of Dean’s fucking, moaning loudly for his brother and keeping his legs spread. It isn’t quite perfect, though—something missing—and after a few moments of hesitation Sam moves his hands up over his head. He grips the headboard, hands positioned roughly the same way Dean tied his girl’s in the other bed. Dean loses the rest of his fragmented control at the sight, digging his fingers into Sam’s hip and jerking Sam’s body up to meet him while he thrusts in. He’s a thing of beauty—bloodied and unfettered, grunting and growling—and Sam thinks that this will be worth it even if Dean cuts his throat after. He hasn’t ever felt anything as heady as the slide of Dean’s cock in and out of his ass—Dean stretching him, possessing him—and the sting of the knife making little cuts in his neck only makes their coupling that much sweeter. Sam’s own cock is hard, slapping against his stomach while the force of Dean’s rutting rocks his body against the bed, and he senses his orgasm clawing closer and closer. The sight of Dean moving over and in him is intoxicating: Dean transformed into some fierce, dark god as he strains after his own completion. Dean’s medallion beats against his own chest in time with his thrusts—a soft, rhythmic thump. Sweat runs down his body, every bead tinted red as it gathers blood. Beautiful. He’s beautiful. Dean tilts the hand he has at Sam’s throat—somehow leaves the blade where it is while pushing his thumb (salt and copper tang) into Sam’s mouth—and then pants, “Come for me.” Just that—no warning or build to the command—but Sam’s arousal spikes obediently and his cock throbs as he comes in an explosion of pleasure that sends him tumbling into darkness. Dean’s choked, pleasured scream follows him down, and then there’s nothing more. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Sam wakes up. It’s a surprise, opening his eyes. More of a surprise to find Dean curled around him, Dean’s hand stroking his hair with something approaching tenderness. Sam’s ass aches. His throat stings. There’s a deeper, more intense burn in his hip that his memories can’t explain, and he raises his head a little to look. He sees Dean’s name written there—the deep, fine cuts still leaking blood. Dean rubs the cut with the hand that isn’t busy with Sam’s hair, and even as Sam hisses, the intensified pain sends a pulse of arousal through him. “Always wanted to do this,” Dean whispers, nuzzling the side of Sam’s face. “Sometimes I think I want to write my name across your entire body. Let me? Let me mark you?” As if that’s even a question. “Yes,” Sam breathes, and lets Dean’s hand in his hair draw him back into a kiss. He tastes blood—his own maybe, or one of the girls’—and groans as his cock stirs between his legs. Dean breaks the kiss to chuckle. “You want more?” he asks, his tone light and teasing as he moves his hand from the name sliced into Sam’s hip to fondle his cock instead. Spreading his legs wider, Sam makes a low moan of agreement and Dean laughs again. He gives Sam’s cock one final, lingering squeeze before letting him go and sliding off the side of the bed. “Manners first,” he says, stretching in an animalistic, graceful movement. “We have some ladies to tend to.” He glances at the other bed before looking back at Sam with a hint of a smile playing over his lips. “But after they’re done, I promise I’ll fuck you as long as you want. Or we could shower, find a new motel … find some more company.” The increased flush of Sam’s libido leaves no doubts what he thinks of that suggestion, and he blurts, “I want to share one. Both of us, together. Can we?” Dean’s breath catches and his eyes go unfocused. He looks debauched and well-fucked just thinking about the prospect, and Sam already knows what he’s going to say. After all, his big brother will do anything for him. “World’s ours, Sammy,” Dean announces after his gaze has sharpened again. He steps closer to the bed, trails his fingertips up the length of Sam’s sprawled leg. “Whatever you want, it’s yours.” Sam smiles.

"You find it yet?" "Bloody mess in here. How do you find anything?" "Come on, it's got to be there somewhere!" "I'm looking, Charlie. Any luck in the attic?" Charlie's head popped in the doorway of the study, cheeks flushed and hair tousled. The bits of wood littering his arms and the dirt on his elbows under his rolled-up sleeves made him look like he'd just emerged from the world's rattiest crawl space – which, Remus reasoned, he pretty much had. "Nothing up there but a pile of old parchment in fucking Romanian. Look so old they must be Dracula's fucking bridal contracts." Remus snorted back a laugh and rolled his eyes. "So what do we do? Dumbledore needs that report." "And he's positive it's here?" Remus sighed. "All he said was that Caleb interviewed all the werewolves in the eastern Balkans in a past life, and one of them knew something about Greyback that we need to find out." Charlie shook his head. "That fucking spy," he said slowly, a grin spreading across his face. "Mild-mannered dragon-keeper by day, out running with the werewolves at night! He was so fucking boring, too. Never would have thought he had some secret brilliant life." He paused, leaning against the doorframe and gazing off into space for a moment. "I miss that bastard." Remus dropped into the desk chair and swivelled around. "Keep looking out in the living room. Maybe it's in the flower pots or something." Charlie pushed off from the doorframe and sauntered away, waving his hand in a slightly bored, slightly irritated gesture on his way out, and Remus sighed again, glancing around Caleb's old office. It was hot and airless in there, and the new administrators at Charlie's dragon compound seemed to have been content to simply let the paper work pile up since Caleb had left for greener pastures and more money in France six months before. The place was covered in dust, and teetering stacks of parchment seemed to mock him from every shelf and peek out of every drawer. He resumed his search, digging through each drawer and trying to make some sense of the piles, all the while not quite knowing what a werewolf census even looked like. Crouched on the floor with his hand stuck way back in the bottom drawer, he grasped a piece of parchment and tugged. It was stuck somehow, probably in between the rails of this drawer and the one above it, and Remus swore under his breath as he freed it. He shook it out, intending to toss it aside as soon as he confirmed it was useless, when a few key words caught his eye. Slowly rising from his position, he stood behind the desk and stared at the parchment, the dark ink not yet old enough to have faded. His mouth fell open a little bit as he read. I, Charlie Weasley, with a free mind and an open heart, do request of Caleb Booth that He accept the submission of my will unto His and to take me into His care and guidance, that W/we may grow together in love, trust and mutual respect. The satisfaction of His wants, desires, and whims are consistent with my desire as a submissive to be found pleasing to Him. To that end, I offer Him use of my time, talents, and abilities. Further, I ask, in sincere humility, that, as my Master, He accept the keeping of my body for the fulfillment and enhancement of O/our sexual, spiritual, emotional, and intellectual needs. To achieve this, He may have unfettered use of my body any time, any place, in front of anyone, to keep or to give away, as He will determine. "Hey, I'm going out to the stables," Charlie hollered from the next room at that moment, and Remus's eyes flew to the door of the study. "What?" he called back, shoving the parchment under a stack on the desk, but Charlie didn't look in. "Office out back for ordering supplies. Maybe it was a secret store room for this stupid werewolf data." The voice trailed off as it left the building, and Remus let out a breath. "Yeah," he called back. "Okay." When he heard the door slam shut, he lifted the parchment out of its hiding place and kept reading, his fingers clutching at the page a little bit harder with each passing word. I ask that He guide me in any sexual, sensual, or scene-related behavior, both together with, and separate from Him, in such a way as to further my growth as a person. In return, I agree: To obey His commands to the best of my ability. To strive to overcome feelings of guilt or shame, and all inhibitions that interfere with my capability to serve Him and limit my growth as His submissive. To maintain honest and open communication. To reveal my thoughts, feelings, and desires without hesitation or embarrassment. To inform Him of wants and perceived needs, recognising that He is the sole judge of whether or how these shall be satisfied. My surrender as a submissive is done with the knowledge that nothing asked of me will demean me as a person. Remus paused, lifting his eyes from the page with great difficulty and sucking in a long, slow breath. This was too much. It was bad enough that he had been forced to come here at all, that Albus had decided that Caleb's work with werewolves was something Remus needed to be familiar with before he could hope to infiltrate Greyback's pack. It was bad enough that looking for Caleb's abandoned work had meant sharing close quarters with Charlie and his compound of fit young men who regularly walked around with towels slung low on their hips and water droplets dripping down their backs. It was bad enough watching Charlie roll up his sleeves and climb into attics, emerging with dirt on his forearms and sweat in the hollow of his throat, to slap Remus on the back in manly fashion or turn to saunter away, broad shoulders and tight arse and thick, muscular thighs heading out the door. But this, this was really too much. Charlie had been with Caleb. Charlie and Caleb had had a contract. Remus glanced back down at the page, heat coursing through his body and sending prickles to his fingertips where they touched the parchment. Charlie was a submissive. A serious, trained, sign-a-contract, real submissive, and he had entered into this agreement with Caleb in order to... oh, God. Remus's prick began to ache. Should either of U/us find that our aspirations are not being well served by this agreement, find this commitment too burdensome, or for any other reason wish to cancel, E/either may do so by verbal notification to the O/other, in keeping with the consensual nature of this agreement. W/we both understand that cancellation means a cessation of the control stated and implied within this agreement, not a termination of O/our relationship as friends and lovers. Remus brought the parchment closer to his eyes, examining a smeared, handwritten note in the margins that had been crossed out. Beside it was a small, emphatic word written in black ink: NO. He dropped the page down again, crunching it in a fist at his side, and stared at the door. He'd been rifling through papers in this office for two days now; he knew Caleb's handwriting. Suddenly Caleb's unannounced departure to France and the resting place of this contract in the bowels of an old desk made a lot more sense. He sat down slowly in the chair, smoothed the paper out over the desk, and then leaned back, folding his hands over his lap and waiting for Charlie to return. He didn't have to wait long. "Okay, there is no fucking werewolf report anywhere on this compound," an exasperated voice hollered after a door banged open out front. Remus waited in the study, not moving even when Charlie appeared in the doorway again. "Are you sure Dumbledore knows what he's on about? Maybe Caleb took it with him, or shredded it, or sold it to fucking Greyback or something." He slumped back against the wall beside the door and rested his hands on his hips as he appraised Remus. The hands sat low, more where his hips met his upper thighs, and Remus let his eyes slide down to take it all in. Charlie watched him for a moment before beginning to smirk. "What?" he drawled. Remus raised his eyes to Charlie's face again, slowly and deliberately, keeping his own impassive. Charlie straightened up a bit, his expression shifting. "See something you like?" he asked softly, and Remus finally rose from the chair. He paused for a moment before slowly walking forward, around the side of the desk and across the room to where Charlie was standing. He approached with predatory steps, his shoes echoing against the rough wood of the floor. When he reached Charlie he paused again, appraising him like a piece of meat. He stepped to one side, eyes roving over every inch of his body before moving away and doing the same on the other side. Charlie stood stock still, his face uncertain but his body apparently unwilling to move, or push Remus away. Finally, Remus turned his back on Charlie and crossed the room again. The air was suddenly too hot and too thick as he stopped before the window and clasped his hands behind his back, looking out. "Come here," he said quietly, his voice even and firm. Charlie gave a surprised sort of laugh. "What?" Remus waited three more seconds before he turned around, hands still clasped behind his back. He regarded Charlie with cool eyes. "I said, come here," he repeated. After another second's silence, Charlie pushed himself off from the wall and raised his hands in the air. "Okay, look, you want some lunch or something? We've been in here way too long, and it's hot and dusty and you're being weird, so–" He moved forward as he talked, but when he reached the edge of the desk and glanced down as he gestured his hands, he stopped dead. He stared at the parchment on the desk and blinked a few times, and Remus could almost see the wheels turning in his head. When he finally looked up at Remus again, his face was flushed and his eyes angry. "You look at this?" he asked, his voice ringing with accusation. Remus nodded once. "Oh, fuck you," spat Charlie, slowly shaking his head back and forth and crossing his arms over his chest. "Fuck you. You found this in here? That's fucking private; that is none of your fucking business, and so what, now you think you can order me around, is that it? Is that what you think this is? You fucking piece of–" "I didn't know you'd lived in Paris," Remus interrupted in a calm voice, and Charlie paused in mid-word. He stared at Remus. "I– what?" Remus nodded towards the parchment. "Paris. Were you trained at Fontaine's or the Mirabel?" Charlie's mouth opened slowly, lips sticking together as though they weren't sure they should open at all. "Nobody knows about Paris," he whispered. A heartbeat passed, then another, before he swallowed and added, "Fontaine's. But how did you–" "That's a classic French agreement," said Remus, gesturing at the parchment. "Written from the point of view of the sub; obvious pronoun modifications for same-sex partners; emphasis on equality rather than obligation. The British are much more passive, the Germans are much more authoritarian, and the rest of Europe – well. Actually, that's as far as my knowledge extends. Perhaps there's another difference for Romania that you could teach me." He let the words hang in the air between them, watching as Charlie grasped them, simultaneously trying to make sense of them while deciding how much to admit to. "I–" Charlie stopped, exhaling low through pursed lips. "Don't need to teach you anything, do I?" he asked quietly. Remus smiled. "No," he said. "Not really." He moved towards the desk, stopping only when his body was flush against Charlie's, hip to hip, and they were both leaning over the parchment. "If the agreement has been terminated, though," he added, "this should have been destroyed." His fingers crept up the page until they met the smeared black ink in the margins, and Remus turned to look at Charlie. "Unless it's only been postponed, not terminated, until this particular sticking point could be resolved." He watched with fascination and arousal as Charlie tried to keep his face impassive, but his heaving chest and flushed cheeks betrayed him. "He wouldn't do that," said Charlie at last, glancing sideways at Remus and then forcing a laugh. "He'd do nearly everything else you can think of, but that… it seems so harmless, doesn't it?" "You've no right to judge his wishes," said Remus, his voice firm, and Charlie's eyebrows shot up. "You had no right to end it because of this. The Master's verdict is final." "I had every right to end it because of this," snapped Charlie, backing away from Remus and pointing a finger. "If that's what happened, but it's not. He walked away, he went to France, and – fuck. There shouldn't be copies of this just fucking lying around." His eyes darted around the room. Remus watched him for a moment before coming to a decision. He grabbed a nearby quill and inkpot and bent over the parchment, ensuring Charlie could see what he was doing. With a firm stroke, he crossed out the name Caleb Booth and above it wrote Remus Lupin. He could hear Charlie's breathing accelerate, but Charlie didn't speak. Next, he let his hand skim down the page until it reached the marginal note again. He placed a solid X through the word NO, circled Charlie's scribbled addition to the contract, and wrote his own initials above the circle. When he looked up again, Charlie's hair had fallen into his eyes and the arms crossed over his chest didn't look as defensive anymore. His expression remained hard but not angry, and his eyes were roving over Remus's body. Remus turned to face him full-on, lifting his arms out to the side to put himself on display. "Agreed?" he asked softly. Charlie paused, lips parted, before nodding. "Good." Remus took a few steps backward. "Now. Come here." Charlie glanced around the room. "Now?" he asked in wonder. "What about the–" "Now," snapped Remus. "And if you question me again, you will be punished." Charlie stared at him for three more seconds, and Remus watched in fascination as his demeanour changed before Remus's very eyes. With a slow lick of his lips, Charlie dropped his arms to his sides, and then moved them behind his back and curled them into the waist of his jeans. His spine stiffened and his eyes fell to the floor, although his chin remained raised as a sign of dignity and control. He had indeed been trained well, it seemed. With careful but determined steps, Charlie crossed the room to Remus and, not raising his eyes, dropped to his knees in one fluid motion, sitting back on his heels and staring forward. "Very good," said Remus, reaching out to run a hand through Charlie's hair. His thumb continued down his cheek until he cupped Charlie's chin between his thumb and forefinger and forced his gaze. "Fontaine's doesn't accept those who aren't serious," he said. "You must be very well trained." Charlie remained silent. "You may answer." "I am, sir," he said. "Very well trained." "We'll see about that." Remus pulled his hand away. "Remove your shirt." Charlie obeyed without hesitation, unbuttoning his work shirt methodically and pushing it off his shoulders. He reached behind his back to grab one sleeve and then the other, sliding them over his wrists. He balled it in one hand and waited. "You may leave it on the floor." He tossed the shirt aside and sat perfectly still, as Remus took in the sight of his body. He'd seen it before, at least this much of it, as none of the men at the compound were shy about wandering around half-clothed, but this was different. This time it was here, on display, for him. There were tattoos, of course: a Horntail over his right shoulder and upper arm and a Snitch just above his left nipple. Remus moved to circle him, walking around the kneeling figure to see that tanned, muscled back. Another hint of ink rose from the waistband of his jeans at his left hip, and Remus's mouth went a bit dry at the thought of where the rest of it was hidden. He'd find out soon enough. He let his fingertips slide over Charlie's shoulder blades, sweeping across in a slow glide. The skin heated and prickled under his touch, and he wondered if Charlie was already as hard as he was. It had been much too long since Remus had indulged this behaviour, and God, how he'd missed it. He unfastened his trousers as he moved back to stand in front of Charlie. It wasn't the most innovative way to begin, but there would be time enough for other experiments and activities later. For now, he wanted to test Charlie's training. Pulling his prick from his trousers, he curled one hand around the back of Charlie's neck. Charlie leaned forward immediately, parting his lips and letting the thick, smooth length of Remus's cock slide into his mouth without a sound. The pleasure was instantaneous. Remus watched as Charlie's lips stretched around him, the shape of his cock nearly visible from the lines of Charlie's cheek. He groaned at the wet pressure of a tongue on the underside of his cock and the ridged roof of Charlie's mouth against the tip. He curled his fingers even deeper into the back of Charlie's neck and pulled him forward. It would be blissful to come like this, only the harsh sounds of breathing and Remus's low moans filling the room, Charlie's hands still anchored behind his back and Remus's prick shoved so far down his throat he'd surely have to cough or sputter before he could swallow. Remus suddenly wanted to see him try it, see how far Charlie's training really went, and if he actually could take a mouthful of come that way without faltering or breaking his concentration. Another time, perhaps. Remus bit down on his lip and slid his cock out, watching the way it glistened with saliva as Charlie let it go, his lips pressing together and his throat swallowing noiselessly as it left his mouth. "Not bad," he murmured, "but that's not really what you want, is it? You may answer." "I want to please you, sir," said Charlie, eyes still downcast and his voice steady, never betraying the fact that he'd just had a cock down his throat. "Do you, now…" said Remus, unbuttoning his own shirt. "It would please me to bend you over that desk and fuck you until you came all over that contract," he murmured, his voice low. "It would please me to leave you there with my come dripping down your thighs and the door open. It would please me to put a collar and leash on you and chain you to that desk until dinner, for anyone to find as they walked by." A tiny ripple passed through Charlie's otherwise still body; had he not been watching for it, Remus would have missed it. He smiled, leaving his unbuttoned shirt hanging open and again forcing Charlie's gaze with a hand at his chin. "It would please me," he whispered when he had Charlie's eyes on him, "to write on you, all over you, all the words you deserve to be called." He paused. "Slut," he pronounced slowly, twisting Charlie's chin in his hand. "Worthless. Sissy. Whore." He released his hand with a little shove, forcing Charlie's eyes down again. "Is that what you deserve? Answer." "Yes, sir," said Charlie, his face still impassive and his body rigidly controlled. "Tell me." "I am a slut," said Charlie, and Remus had to close his eyes against the pulsing threat in his prick. "I am worthless. I deserve to be fucked and left here for others to find." "If they found you, what would they do to you? Answer." "Whatever you wished, sir." "And if I wished to watch from the door as they took their turns with you? Answer." "Yes, sir." Remus smiled, his eyes hooded and his cock aching. "Well, then," he murmured. "You are a slut, aren't you? You'd let your friends and colleagues line up at this door, using my come as lubricant and sliding inside you, fucking you till you couldn't see straight?" Charlie was silent, and Remus let the question hang in the air an extra moment. "You may answer," he said at last, his voice soft. "I would, sir. If you wished it." Oh, he had been trained well, that much was certain. Remus had not visited Fontaine's or Paris in years, but it was heartening to know that they were still doing good work among the younger generation. "Stand," he ordered, taking a step backwards. "Remove your clothes. Then…" He paused, lowering his voice. "Bend over the desk." Charlie let out only the tiniest gasp of air, an almost inaudible whimper before he swallowed soundlessly and rose in one smooth motion. He wet his lips as he pushed his jeans down and stepped out of them. Boots, socks, and pants were tossed aside at a nod of Remus's head, and Remus had to swallow his own groan at the sight of Charlie walking, naked, stiff-backed and proud, across the room to the desk. His prick was thick and hard, jutting out from his body and nearly dripping as he walked, and Remus hated to hide it under that desk. Next time, he promised himself, they would do this in a bedroom, somewhere he could lay Charlie out on his back with his wrists bound over his head and that gorgeous prick on display. But not today. Without glancing back for confirmation, Charlie obeyed the instructions perfectly, moving up to the desk and planting his feet a bit more than shoulder-width apart. He spread his arms wide, grasped the far edge of the desk and bent over, settling his hips against the near edge and his cheek against the smooth wood surface. Remus had to bite back a groan as he watched, that perfect body spread out for him, legs anchored solidly with tensed muscles, back smooth and tanned, and a beautiful arse just waiting for him. He'd been right about the tattoo he'd glimpsed earlier. It snaked down from his lower back to mid-thigh, the long, curving ridges of a single dragon tail done in blue, green and black. Charlie didn't move as Remus gazed at him. Finally, with his own shirt still unbuttoned, trousers unfastened, and his cock hard and aching where it sat between his pants and his open zip, Remus moved towards the desk. He made sure his footsteps echoed loudly, made sure Charlie knew he was approaching. He stood directly behind Charlie, letting the front of his trousers brush the back of Charlie's bare thighs, and grasped his prick, slowly ghosting it over the skin of Charlie's arse. It was a light touch, just a brief, sliding whisper of a touch, but he felt Charlie struggle not to shudder or push back against him. He moved slowly, the head of his prick just barely nudging into Charlie's cleft and then down, ever slowly, to press against his balls and between his thighs. "If I were to try to Summon a bit of lube right now," he said, "where would it come from? You may answer." "Back cabinet, sir," breathed Charlie, his voice only slightly less steady than it had been before. Remus smiled. Just as he'd suspected. Caleb would have been no more able to resist engaging Charlie's many attributes in this very office than Remus was. "Accio lubricant," he murmured, moving his hand away from Charlie's hip for a moment to wave it at the cabinet. He caught the small jar that sailed out, twisted the cap off and dipped his fingers in. Running one hand down Charlie's back, his flat palm absorbing the heat radiating off the skin, Remus moved the other between Charlie's legs and began to open him, twisting and pressing with insistent fingers. "Your silence has been very controlled," he told Charlie as two fingers pushed inside him. "Very impressive. Is it a hardship for you? You may answer." "No more than I can manage, sir," said Charlie, but his breathing had sharpened and his voice was rough. Remus leaned over his back. "I would like you to enjoy this," he murmured. "Would you like to moan when I do this?" He twisted his fingers, watching as Charlie drew in a deep, silent breath and closed his eyes. "You may answer," he added quietly. "I would, sir," said Charlie, his back rising and falling from the desk as his breath quickened. Remus let his other hand trail down to Charlie's balls, pressing gently on them as his other fingers continued to move inside him. "Then you may do so," he allowed, and almost before the words had left his mouth, Charlie let out a low, slow groan. "Oh, oh God…" "More," commanded Remus. A deep, rumbling groan rose from Charlie's chest and he pressed back against Remus's hands. "Fuck," he breathed. "Oh my fucking God…" "That's better." Remus moved his hand away from Charlie's sac and grabbed his own prick, unable to wait anymore. He spread the lube over himself, gasping at the cool slide of it, and nudged it forward before removing the fingers of his other hand from Charlie's arse. With a quick, practiced switch, he positioned his prick, slid his fingers out, and pressed forward nearly simultaneously, watching Charlie's body open for him and suck him in. The edges of his open shirt fell on either side of Charlie's hips as he pushed in, heat flooding his body at the tight squeeze around his cock and the sight of Charlie's knuckles paling where he clutched the desk. He reached up and curled his hands around Charlie's shoulders, leaning forward as he thrust. "Moan for me," he whispered into the back of Charlie's neck, watching the cords tense and Charlie's lips redden and part. Charlie obeyed, thick, throaty moans falling from his lips as Remus fucked him. He thought of Charlie's beautiful prick bobbing under the desk but ignored it for now, concentrating only on the intense pleasure of burying himself in this tight, young body that he never would have thought could belong to him. His eyes drifted to the crumpled contract, just visible from under Charlie's right arm, and he felt a new heat course through him from simultaneously reading the words and having physical evidence of Charlie's submission right here before him, bent over the desk and taking Remus's cock just as he'd been ordered. He may have unfettered use of my body any time, any place, in front of anyone, to keep or to give away, as He will determine. The words swam in front of Remus's eyes and he thrust in deep, feeling Charlie clench around him and pull him forward, inviting him in with every subtle movement of his body. I agree to obey His commands to the best of my ability. It had been years since Remus had had a contracted submissive of his own, making do in the meantime with visits to trusted clubs for single-night encounters. But it wasn't the same. There was nothing like the trust and love at work in a contract like that, no pleasure like engaging in D/s play with someone who would still be there in the morning, who knew him and wanted to be with him, who honoured his wishes and felt sure enough about him to offer his own in return. This agreement shall serve as the basis for an extension of O/our relationship, committed to in the spirit of loving and consensual dominance and submission with the intention of furthering self-awareness and exploration, promoting health and happiness, and improving both O/our lives. His fingers dug into Charlie's shoulders as he hauled himself forward one last time, crushing Charlie against the desk with a ferocious thrust and emptying his pulsing cock deep inside him. He shuddered with the intense pleasure of it, his spine curving and his legs shaking. He felt hot liquid pooling over his cock inside Charlie's body and withdrew slowly, a trail of come sliding out after him and dripping down Charlie's thighs. After his encouraging moan as Remus came, Charlie had fallen silent again, his body still stretched over the desk in perfect formation. Remus eyed the contract again, the circled instruction in the margins still not quite fulfilled. He backed away, muttering a cleaning charm on himself and tucking his prick back in his trousers. He left his shirt unbuttoned, though, as he leaned over Charlie's body to grab the quill and inkpot. "Can you feel that," he asked softly, "my come dripping out of you? I do keep my promises, Charlie. You'll want to remember that." He dipped the quill in the ink and paused over Charlie's back. "Now, what else was it I said I'd do? Ah, of course." He began to write, harsh black letters forming over Charlie's skin. "You're a filthy slut, aren't you? Spread out like this, fucked senseless and still wanting more." The word SLUT bled into Charlie's skin as the ink dried, and Remus moved up to the shoulder not covered by the tattoo. "Worthless, whoring little tramp. Did you plan this, then, getting me out here and trapping me into fucking you? Is that what you do with men who visit this compound?" He wrote WORTHLESS over Charlie's shoulder and WHORE down his bicep. "Stand up," he ordered, and Charlie obeyed immediately, betraying no sign of cramping or discomfort as he straightened. "Turn around." He did so, eyes still lowered, and Remus took up the quill again. "You do suck cock beautifully though," he murmured. He planted one hand on Charlie's chest to steady himself against its breathless rise and fall, and wrote COCKSUCKER in large letters across his chest. After a few more words both written and muttered in Charlie's ear, Remus stepped back to examine his work. "Arms out," he ordered, and Charlie stood tall, planting his feet firmly on the floor and raising his arms to his sides, his body on full display. "Are you ashamed of yourself?" he asked softly. "You may answer." "Yes, sir," murmured Charlie, his face flushed. "Are you embarrassed at how quickly and easily you spread your legs for me? You are young and gorgeous; you could have anyone you wanted, and you let a filthy old man like me fuck you blind. I'll tell everyone out there, too," he added, nodding at the door. "How you begged me for it, moaning like a whore." Charlie swallowed, murmuring something under his breath, and Remus stared. "What did you say?" he snapped. "Did I say you could speak?" Charlie pressed his lips together and raised his chin, the muscles of his upper body tense as he continued to hold his arms up. "What did you say?" repeated Remus, stepping forward. "You may answer." "I said…" Charlie paused, clenching his jaw, and Remus almost smiled at the discipline, the way Charlie was obviously so angry with himself for his error. "… that you're not old." Remus paused, stepping forward again and circling Charlie slowly. He stopped beside him and leaned in close to his ear, grinning. "But I am filthy," he whispered, "just like you." He glanced down at Charlie's red prick. "Bring yourself off, slut," he murmured, his breath hot over the side of Charlie's face. "Loudly. However you like. There's still come inside you," he added, his voice rough. "Use it." With a whimper, Charlie dropped his arms and turned back towards the desk, leaning forward on one arm and reaching back between his legs with the other. His fingers came back covered in come and he smeared it down his cock, groaning at the touch after going so long without it. Remus stood back to watch, taking in the sight of that beautiful, naked body, covered in black-inked insults and green-inked dragons, leaning over the desk and pumping furiously at his sticky cock. It was over in seconds; the poor kid must have been overstimulated nearly beyond his limits, and he squeezed his eyes shut and came in thick strands over the desk – and, as Remus had ordered earlier, over the contract. They were both silent for a long minute afterwards, Charlie's chest heaving and his head dropping between his shoulders, one hand still flat against the desk and the other hanging at his side, covered in come. Remus moved behind him and trailed a hand up his back, a gentle, reassuring gesture that made Charlie turn his head to the side. "Molly," murmured Remus, and Charlie barked out a laugh, throwing his head back and tossing his submission aside at the same time. "I have got to change that fucking word," he groaned. "God, I'll never get hard again if I keep associating this with her." He gave Remus a pointed look, still smiling. "That's why it's the perfect word," said Remus. "Impossible to continue once someone says it. You were smart to put it in the contract," he added. A silence fell between them, and Remus felt a stab of regret and more than a little embarrassment. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea. He was a friend of Charlie's parents, for God's sake; he and Charlie didn't even live in the same country; he was about to embark on a fairly dangerous mission to a pack a werewolves; and he'd just revealed a very intimate part of his life to someone he barely knew. "Hey," said Charlie softly, turning to face him. "If you're feeling a bit weird about this… you might remember that I'm the naked one with COCKSUCKER written across my chest and come all over me right now." He raised his eyebrows, and Remus couldn't help but smile shyly. He nodded. "Yeah. That's… a good point. Erm– sorry about that." He gestured at Charlie's chest, but Charlie shook his head. "No, don't be." He threw a glance at the contract. "You agreed." When he turned to face Remus again, he bit at his lower lip and smiled, then leaned in to kiss him. Remus closed his eyes and felt relief flood him along with a quick throb of renewed arousal as he parted his lips and tasted Charlie for the first time, slow and deep. He brought a hand up to curl around the back of Charlie's neck and draw him closer, moaning softly into his mouth and pushing their tongues together. "Mm, God," breathed Charlie when they parted, his cheeks flushed and his eyes hooded, and he gave Remus a lazy smile that Remus felt down to his toes. "Where've you been all my life?" he asked with a grin, and Remus laughed. He murmured a few charms to erase the incriminating words from Charlie's body and clean him up, then bent to retrieve his jeans from the floor. "Thanks," said Charlie when he handed them over, pulling them on and zipping up without bothering with his pants. They both glanced at the stained contract for a moment before Remus picked up the quill once more. He scanned it again, running his finger down the middle and nodding. When he reached the bottom, he crossed out Caleb's name again and the date. I offer my consent to submission to Caleb Booth Remus Lupin under the terms stated above on this the 16th 4th day of October July in the year 1994 1995. ____________________________ Signature of submissive I offer my acceptance of submission by Charlie Weasley under the terms stated above on this the 4th day of July in the year 1995. ____________________________ Signature of Dominant He signed the form, placed the quill back on the desk, and backed away. It was up to Charlie now. He'd made his desires plain, but if Charlie didn't want to do this again, then Remus would walk out the door, go back to England and never speak of it. He began refastening the buttons of his shirt, trying not to glance up at Charlie, but of course Charlie wouldn't have it. "Hey," he called softly, and when he had Remus's eyes on him, he held the quill up and gave it a little shake. "In case you didn't get the message from all the obeying and moaning and coming my fucking brains out?" He dipped the quill in the inkpot and bent over the desk, scratching out his old signature and penning a new one with a flourish. "I think we did this a bit backwards, though," he added with a smirk when he straightened, and Remus winced. "Sign first, then fuck," he agreed. "Right." "So," began Charlie, glancing around the room. "Can you… stay a few days?" His eyes twinkled, and he gave Remus a sly grin. "Oh, yeah," said Remus, moving forward again and hooking a finger into Charlie's waistband. "I think I'd better." -fin-

For years, Daniel had dreamed of fucking Jack. When the opportunity presented itself, however, Daniel learned to be careful what he wished for. The nightmare began just as Elizabeth Weir's expedition left for Atlantis, and for one brief moment, Daniel's life had been perfect. Overjoyed when Jack responded to his less than subtle flirtatious remark, Daniel plunged headlong into a seduction he'd been fantasizing about for more years than he wanted to admit. They kissed once, frantically, then wasted no time getting into bed, which was fine with him. He figured they could backtrack and pick up all the little dating niceties at some point in the future. Because he figured he finally had a future-- with Jack. That very same night, Daniel was draped across Jack's back, fully, deeply, gloriously embedded in his new lover's body, the most intimate and connected two people could ever be. He was almost mesmerized, feeling his balls gently keeping time against Jack's ass with each sweet thrust of his hips. Everything he'd ever wanted was right there in his arms. His life was finally on track. So much need, so much desire, so much of himself he wanted to give to this man. But on the brink of the most fulfilling orgasm of his life, Daniel felt -he knew- Jack wasn't really in it with him. He was devastated to discover that Jack had been faking it. It was a betrayal Daniel was not likely to ever forget. "It was never really there, was it?" "No. Not like you mean." Cold. Calculated. Jack had been on the bottom, but in all the ways that mattered, it was Daniel who'd been fucked that night. "Just part of the job." Daniel was heartbroken, knowing that some unseen entity was mocking him -worse, that Jack was. He made a decision at that moment, an impulsive one, to see just how far Jack and the IOC were willing to take the whole charade. He told Jack and the invisible listeners that he'd stay, under the condition that Jack was at his beck and call sexually. And it had been so. Jack reported to Daniel's office daily for his morning fucking and then occasionally, Daniel would call him up to his office for a late afternoon blowjob. Jack had told him they'd disabled the camera in his office to allow them both some privacy, but Daniel suspected what one agency didn't see first hand, was happily shared by the others. He'd never thought of himself as an exhibitionist, but there was a certain perverse thrill knowing that some unnamed group of people -'they'- were watching him drill General O'Neill's one-star ass, and that Jack was standing there letting him. After a time though, even the novelty of that aspect of it wore thin, and Daniel had a difficult time getting it up for his daily performances. It was tearing him apart, being so close to having everything he'd wanted for so long, and knowing it was all a lie. But he wouldn't back down; he couldn't. He was angry and hurt and stupidly trying to save face by pretending it didn't mean anything more to him than just the power trip of being able to ream out an Air Force General on US Government property. He'd traded the dream of Atlantis for the dream of a relationship with Jack O'Neill, and he'd be damned if he'd lose both of them. He'd been in love with Jack for what seemed like forever, and Daniel found that extinguishing that much feeling, that big a part of himself, was hard. He'd go to Jack's house and take him in the dining room or the living room, over a chair or up against the wall, making sure Jack came, making sure he enjoyed it. "You'll be gay by the time I'm through with you. I guarantee it." Sometimes while he was fucking Jack, he'd fantasize that they were in love with each other. He'd pretend for a few moments that it wasn't obscene, and that lie would at least allow him to finish. Daniel almost always kept his clothes on -it was just business, after all- and he always left immediately, never even bothering to say goodbye. Sometimes he'd make it all the way home before he broke down and cried. He knew 'they' could probably see his weakness, but Jack couldn't, and that was what mattered to him most. And then one night, Jack had admitted he liked it, wanted it, after Daniel made him beg. It had been humiliating for both of them. "I want you to fuck me... PLEASE. I... need it. I need you." "You're not ashamed for me to take you this way? You actually want me inside you?" "God, yes I want it! I love feeling your dick inside me... Just DO it... PLEASE!" And after two long months, Daniel knew he could finally stop. He brought them both off, told Jack they were finished, and then went home that night and cried his heart out for what he swore was the last time. Then he packed up all his tattered emotions and the ugly memories of the relationship he'd longed for and only gotten a sick parody of, and vowed to get on with his life as if nothing at all had ever happened. ***** For the next seven months, scheduled missions were mostly just interruptions for Daniel. He went where SG-1 was sent, on the lookout for anything that might be useful to his quest, because he had his own agenda now. The morning after he'd made his deal with the Devil, Daniel had requisitioned a dozen additional headcount, and they were immediately approved. He started some intensive "Ancient 101' training and shuffled resources, and now there were fifteen people at the SGC who reported directly to him and whose sole function it was to research possible locations for ZPMs in their galaxy. Anywhere they'd discovered Ancient technology or writings in the last eight years, Daniel eventually had a team on site, translating day and night, ready to follow any lead. He would get to Atlantis if it killed him. ***** When the Trust hijacked the gate, everything came to a halt. Getting it back had been problematic, and the Trust had gotten away with the remaining poison, but after nearly two weeks, the SGC was finally back in business again. It had taken less than a week for the gate to be reinstalled, but Sam spent another eight days running nearly continuous diagnostics to ensure that it had not been harmed and that it could never be stolen again. During that downtime, Daniel kept up a steady litany of commentary to anyone who'd listen, along the lines that he really should be part of the crew that followed up on the whereabouts of the Atlantis expedition. Self-promotion had never been a problem for him; obtaining research grants often required schmoozing of the most brazen and self-aggrandizing kind. Teal'c seemed okay with him going to the Pegasus galaxy, and Sam, although somewhat distracted by the unfortunate incident with her Replicator double, had no problems letting him join the SAR for Weir's team. Daniel managed to annoy Jack daily for nearly ten days, religiously following the 'squeaky wheel' principle. "Why doncha just hold your breath? You haven't done that in a while." He suspected Jack was trying to goad him into resuming their physical relationship, but Daniel knew that would never happen. Being intimate with Jack for those two months had cost Daniel's soul dearly, and he wanted nothing more than to put it behind him and forget they'd ever shared that ugliness. And then one day, all the crap he'd gone through in the previous nine months finally paid off. "Doctor Jackson," Hammond smiled warmly from Jack's chair. "Nice to see you again." "Likewise," Daniel said, happily surprised. "We miss you around here, sir." He ignored Jack's heated glare beside him as he rocked on his toes. "So, to what do we owe this pleasure?" Hammond smiled again. He'd pulled an awful lot of strings to do it, not the least of which was to agree to take command of the upcoming mission himself, thereby guaranteeing the linguist's prompt return. But he felt bad about the nasty way the IOC had used the young man, and was determined to make it right however he could. He figured Doctor Jackson had more than earned his place on the ship. "I came to ask if you'd be interested in joining the mission to Atlantis," he said casually. "You did?" Daniel wasn't sure which of them had said it. He could feel Jack tense up beside him, could almost hear the tirade he was cooking up to argue against Hammond's suggestion. "He's the most qualified person on this planet," the General explained to Jack, "and the mission commander needs someone who can translate Ancient." And just like that, Daniel was headed for Atlantis, and there was nothing Jack or the IOC could do about it. Daniel'd been quietly smug while he was still in Jack's office, refusing to meet the other man's hurt glare. Then, as reality sank in, Daniel was filled with cautious optimism and then genuine excitement about the prospect of finally seeing Atlantis. He briefed his staff and started packing for his imminent departure. Jack was uncharacteristically quiet. True to the way things usually worked out for Daniel though, the search and rescue for Weir's missing expedition started to fall apart less than twelve hours after it began. They received a distress signal, and then the entire crew of Prometheus had been kidnapped by one Vala Mal Doran and the Codpiece of Doom, and the mission went straight downhill from there. Daniel hadn't even gotten out of the galaxy. It took the Prometheus nearly a week to limp home. To his credit, Jack wasn't as childish as he could've been about it. He even treated Daniel to lunch at the commissary, once he'd been cleared by Medical. "I'm sorry it didn't work out; getting to Atlantis," Jack said softly as they sat together at a table in the back of the room. "You almost sound like you mean that," Daniel answered quietly, finding a trace of genuine affection for Jack down deep in his heart. Jack shrugged, not meeting Daniel's eyes. "I ah, read your report..." Suddenly understanding the direction of their conversation, Daniel sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair, balling up his napkin and tossing it onto the tray. He should've known; Jack would never change. "It's none of your business whether or not I slept with Vala, Jack," he stated firmly. "Fine," Jack said tightly as he pushed away from the table. ***** Missions came and went, mostly business as usual, and Jack and Daniel managed to be civil to one another, but not much more than that. Then the Tok'ra sent word that Maybourne's planet was in trouble. Jack let himself be persuaded to send SG-1 to retrieve his obnoxious ass, and as many of the locals as would come before they were overrun by Ares. But where there was Maybourne, there was sure to be a scam, and this time was no exception. This one led to a ship left by a time-traveling Ancient hundreds of years before, and that was Jack's ticket through the gate and away from prying eyes and ears. He could've kissed Harry. ***** Daniel was nearly beside himself with excitement about the opportunity to translate all the Ancient writing on the obelisks. What he'd thought was going to be another throwaway mission and a major waste of time, turned out to be the Ancient mother lode. Once he discovered the reference to the time ship, he strenuously pushed Sam to mount a search for it. Actually finding the ship and then sending for Jack to help them fly it home so it could be studied, was everything he could've hoped for. He was convinced this time ship was somehow going to get him to Atlantis at last. His exhilaration was short-lived, though. When Jack's first couple of tries to get the ship moving didn't produce anything more than a few flashing lights, Jack declared they were out of time and ordered the ship destroyed, extinguishing Daniel's hopes once again. Then, before Daniel could even launch into a plea for more time, Garan's people surrounded them with crossbows drawn, disturbed by the prospect of SG-1 taking away their illustrious leader. There was much blustering on both sides, and eventually it was determined that good King Arkhan would decide. ***** Jack hurried to the village to set Maybourne straight. Ares was on the way, and he didn't know how much time they had. Jack had to destroy that ship and get these people packed up fast, so he could grab a few minutes to talk to Daniel alone before they headed back to Earth. "Tell them the truth, Harry," Jack urged him. "Come clean on all this stuff." "I've already arranged for an assembly of the village elders," Maybourne said somewhat sheepishly. "I'm gonna tell them we have to leave." Jack watched him for a moment, then started off in the direction he'd last seen Daniel. He found him on the outskirts of the village, examining the writing on the aqueduct system. "Does it work?" Jack asked, looking around to ascertain that they were alone. "Seems to be working just fine," Daniel replied, never taking his eyes off the writing. "It's modeled after the ancient Roman-" "Yeah, I'm sure that's all real fascinating, but I need to talk to you about something." Daniel sighed and dropped his chin to his chest, only mildly irritated. "What?" He was accustomed to having his historical observations interrupted for pertinent military strategy. "Look," Jack said, his voice low as he continued to threat-assess the immediate area, "I know I promised you I'd never bring this up again, but-" After being such close friends for so many years, the two men were completely in tune with one another, and Daniel instantly knew Jack didn't want to discuss Maybourne or Ares or civilian evac. "NO, Jack!" he hissed. "That's over! I'd like to pretend it never actually happened!" "Damn it, listen to me!," Jack snapped, whipping his shades off and taking a step closer to Daniel, so he could lower his voice even more. "This is probably the only chance I'm ever gonna get to be able to talk to you without every agency in Washington listening in. There's not a square mile of Earth that isn't surveilled within an inch of its life - I can't even break wind without everybody at the Pentagon smellin' it! Give me five minutes, Daniel, please!" Daniel saw how distressed Jack was and decided to hear him out. With a tight nod, he folded his arms across his chest and stared him down. Now that Jack had a captive, if belligerent, audience, he wondered where in the hell he was supposed to start. He took a deep breath and dove in, talking fast. "The IOC approached me right after I got the promotion; showed me proof you were bi. They said they believed you had feelings for me; that if you could have me, you'd do whatever they wanted you to do. The wanted me to let you seduce me and then continue the relationship like nothing was wrong, so I could keep a tight rein on you." He swallowed hard, desperate to deliver all the information as fast as he could; he wanted to make Daniel understand before they inevitably got interrupted. "I couldn't live with that lie between us. I couldn't stand the thought of you believing it was all good, believing it was just us. They were asking me to do the dirtiest thing imaginable, and I couldn't make myself do it. "I chewed on it for days, trying to figure out a different way. I hated that they wanted to use me to jerk you around, but I knew if it weren't that, they'd find another way to get what they wanted. Maybe something worse-" "What could possibly have been worse?" Daniel snapped through clenched teeth. "Can you tell me that?" "Yes, as a matter of fact, I can," Jack hissed. "They could've set you up with someone else!" Daniel didn't respond to that, so Jack continued on gamely. "Believe me, I never wanted it to go down the way it did. This was the only way I could think of to 'out' them and still leave you at least some control. And I'd hoped we could..." he looked away and shrugged. "I guess that part doesn't matter much anymore, does it?" he muttered. Jack glanced up and noted Daniel's angry stance hadn't changed one iota; that usually meant he wasn't buying it. "Look, I- I don't expect you to forgive me. Hell, I'm not sure I'd even believe me if I were you..." Jack thought about it, rewound it, making sure he hadn't tripped on his pronouns or something. "But there it is." He spread his hands apart in some kind of vain attempt at supplication. He'd been going to throw in a 'for what it's worth, I still love you,' but Daniel's body language didn't allow for it. Daniel shook his head and opened his mouth to speak, but Jack saw Carter approaching from behind him and shook his head imperceptibly to warn Daniel off. "Sir? The village elders have assembled; Maybourne's ready." "Can't he do it himself?" Jack snapped, frowning. "What am I, his priest?" Carter merely shrugged and jerked a thumb over her shoulder. "You want me to tell him to-" Jack ground his teeth. "Oh, for cryin' out loud..." and with one last sorrowful glance at Daniel, Jack stalked back to the village to join Harry on the balcony as he addressed his subjects. ***** The space battle went well, considering, and Jack put another imaginary notch in his belt for Ares. Daniel made no effort whatsoever to talk with him alone before it was time to leave Maybourne's planet. As the farewell committee escorted them to the gate, loaded down with armloads of wildflowers, Daniel was already waiting at the top of the dais with Teal'c. Jack figured that was the only answer he was likely to get on the matter. Obviously, Daniel didn't believe him, and/or he didn't care, or maybe the hurt was just too big to forgive. At any rate, Jack felt a little better for having gotten the truth out at least. He just wished he'd had the balls to tell Daniel he loved him. ***** When they returned, Daniel immediately assigned a member of his staff to Area 51 to keep an eye on the engineer's efforts to understand the time ship. Then he tried hard not to harass her for updates. Also disturbing his concentration was Jack's little speech at the aqueduct. Days later, he still didn't know what to think. Jack's story was wild, but then what part of their life wasn't? He vacillated between the extremes of being furious that Jack could be so incredibly stupid, and touched that he was apparently so deeply smitten he'd concoct something so fucking lame. He wished he'd had the chance to talk to Jack more when they were on Harry's world, a place totally clean of listening devices and nosey minds; there was so much he needed to know! But at the time, he'd been so angry at Jack for even bringing it up, he hadn't been able to see straight, and he hadn't made any effort to get Jack alone. Now they were right back where they'd started, with eyes and ears everywhere and no privacy to work anything out. Daniel thought about the past year and what had happened between them. A brief moment of joy, dashed against the rocks of Jack's deception, followed by two months of angry, vindictive sex. The only redeeming feature of the whole fucked up mess was that the IOC was still leaving him alone to do his work. He wondered if he could manufacture a reason for Jack to go off world again, just so they'd have a way to speak privately. All Jack had said was that he was sorry for hurting him. Not insignificant, better late than never and all that. Notably absent, of course, had been, 'I love you', and 'can we try again'. Daniel wasn't sure if he even wanted to try again. How did someone come back from where they'd gone? Daniel had treated Jack horribly, principally because the asshole'd deserved it, but also out of his own damaged pride. He'd never physically hurt Jack, and he'd made sure Jack climaxed every time he'd taken him, but there'd never been any tenderness in anything they'd done. It had simply been fucking. After that first night, they'd never kissed again. That had hurt Daniel almost more than anything else. So much about real lovemaking happened before the clothes came off, and they'd done none of it. There'd been no holding or touching, no soft words. Daniel had never gotten to use his mouth. Jack's lie had been ten months ago; they'd wasted nearly a year hating each other and expressing it in the vilest way imaginable. How in the hell could anything decent come of it now? ***** Eight days after his confession to Daniel on Harry's planet, everyone's pal Kinsey surfaced in Jack's living room, drinking his best scotch. Jack resisted shooting him long enough for the ex-VP to spout a scam that would've made Harry proud. Two and a half days later, Kinsey was a snake. No, really. An actual, dyed-in-the-wool, Go. Ah. Ooold. Jack had never liked that man, and while Jack'd been busy with his finger on Defcon One, listening to two factions of Russians playing tug-of-war with their missile silo doors, Kinsey had gone and gotten himself dead. They hoped. Couldn't've happened to a nicer guy. Colonel Checkov was Jack's new best-est buddy, and everyone was sending attaches to each other to smooth over all the ruffled feathers. Daniel had asked for and received permission to beam from the Prometheus back down to Russia to collect his things and return home through normal methods of transportation. Checkov had winked at Jack and assured him that Captain Voronokova would take very good care of Doctor Jackson. ***** Less than a week after the Kinsey break in, Jack had another surprise visitor. If Daniel hadn't experienced the Trust's pinpoint monitoring capabilities with the whole Teal'c and Krista incident up close and personal, he'd've wondered just how sophisticated the bugging was and taken his chances approaching Jack to have that little talk. But the Krista thing proved that 'they' liked to watch and listen and record, and only interfered if it suited them. Breaking and entering, murder, and attempted murder apparently didn't interest them very much unless it bought them something bigger down the road. And Jack was sure finding a helluva lot to talk about with the wacko barber from Indiana for the last two days, and how fucking strange was that? The more Daniel thought about the whole disgraceful IOC charade, the more he wanted to punch Jack in the nose. How dare Jack agree to use him that way? Even if everything Jack had told him about the IOC's motives and intentions was true, it had been Jack's decision to play it differently, to lie to Daniel about wanting him. Daniel could take the IOC's manipulations; hell, it was almost expected. But Jack had told Daniel he didn't return his feelings, and that was an even deeper betrayal. That first night, when Jack said it had meant nothing to him -that Daniel meant nothing to him- a little bit of Daniel had died inside. It hurt deep within, where most of his vital organs were, and nothing Jack had said on Maybourne's planet had made that pain go away. He didn't think anything ever could. He was still silently fuming about it three weeks later, as he sat tight-lipped and only half-listening while Sam led a briefing. It seemed that SG-1 was on loan to the Jaffa in a strictly 'observing' capacity as the first phalanx of rebel Jaffa attempted to take out two of Amateratsu's motherships. One minute, they were taking fire; the next, they were evacuating to the rings as waves of Replicators swarmed all over the ship. Daniel felt the beam take him, and when he coalesced again, he was weaponless and surrounded by dull metallic Replicator blocks. Instantly, the opposing wall grew shiny and morphed into a likeness of Samantha Carter. She quickly closed in on him. "Hello, Daniel." "What the hell do you want?" "You have information that I need." "Okay, what do you wanna know?" he asked, backing away as casually as he could. "It's not that simple." "Oh, no, it is that simple. If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not do that hand in the head thing. Honestly, I'll tell you whatever you wanna know." He continued to back up until he couldn't go any further, not surprised in the least when the walls sprouted leg and arm restraints and virtually absorbed him. "Honestly is not the problem. Unfortunately, to get what I need, we're going to have to dig a little deeper." As she raised her arm and continued to approach him, it occurred to Daniel that she'd see everything in his mind; everything he'd ever done or said or known and forgotten. And then she'd kill him. He was as good as dead right now. Suddenly, Jack's lie and their resulting trysts didn't seem all that earth-shattering in comparison. ***** If Carter mentioned 'memorial service' and 'Daniel' in the same sentence one more time, Jack was gonna bust her back to Second Lieutenant. No way was he gonna cave in and admit Daniel was really truly gone this time. Not gonna happen. It wasn't that Jack had a great big metaphysical thingy goin' on, but seriously, when you read the, Jackson, Daniel M., PhD, yadda file all the way through, it was just insane to think he wouldn't be coming back. Maybe not waltzing; Jack might've been wrong about the waltzing part. But deep down, maybe even deeper than any existential shit could ever go, Jack knew that he'd know, it if Daniel were really, truly, permanently gone. And he just didn't feel it. ***** "Is the Air Force the only thing keeping you two apart?" Kerry asked him. "Rules and regulations? 'Cause if it is, you're making a very big mistake." They'd only hooked up twice, and now she was giving him advice about his love life. "And you know what I should do?" She'd come to the SGC as part of the Kinsey investigation via the IOC, so she knew everything. She'd known about him and Daniel when she came on to him. Of course, then Carter decided to just drop in to the house unexpectedly, which had been awkward, to say the least. And now there was just no telling where the woman was going with her advice. "Retire." Jack almost cracked a smile at that. "Again?" And just how was that supposed to get Daniel back? Back from wherever the fuck he currently was, and back into Jack's bed? "Don't get me wrong; the Pentagon considers you invaluable to the program, but the President has appointed a civilian to run the SGC before." Jack flinched at the mention of Weir's time in command of the SGC; Elizabeth Weir had dangled the prospect of Atlantis in front of Daniel, and that was what had started the whole mess; it'd ruined everything. If he never heard her name again, it'd be too soon. He put on his game face and gave Kerry a noncommittal nod. She smiled warmly. "Just a thought." With a flip of her poofy hair –god, that had been an annoyance in bed- she left his office. Jack stood there for a moment, thinking he should probably feel bad about being dumped. Sad. Depressed. Something. But all he kept thinking was, 'Wonder when Daniel's comin' home...' ***** Sixteen days after Daniel had disappeared in a flash of light from Brata'c's ship, he beamed back down into Jack's office. Naked. After the initial shock of it and then the flag thing -which just got more comical the more Jack thought about it- and then getting Daniel checked out medically, there was the official debrief. Half the Pentagon flew in to attend, pencils sharpened, practically drooling. Almost immediately, Daniel's 'it's a long story,' turned into, 'I actually can't remember very much...' delivered with a dimple-powered smile so innocent, butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. As the depressed bureaucrats filed out, Jack managed to keep himself from laughing out loud. He happily gave SG-1 a week's downtime, contingent on their mandatory appearance at his cabin in two days. He handed Reynolds the reins of command, and instructed Walter that nothing short of little green men landing in the Rose Garden of the White House should disturb him. With that, he gave himself the week off, too. Jack stopped by Daniel's office on his way up top; partly for old time's sake, and partly just to remind himself that Daniel was really home. "I'm leavin' tonight to get the cabin aired out and stocked up," he said offhandedly. "You wanna hitch a ride?" Daniel looked up from what he was doing, which looked a lot like daydreaming from where Jack was standing, and nodded distractedly. "Yeah. Sure." Jack nodded too, a little stunned at the affirmative answer. "You... need a ride to your place to pack?" "That'd be great. Thanks, Jack." Jack made himself smile casually, as if he weren't blown away by Daniel's quiet acceptance. "Let's go, then." He gestured with his arm, and Daniel followed him out almost on autopilot, giving Jack a very strong sense of déjà vu. Eight, almost nine years ago, a lost and lonely man standing in the gray corridors of the SGC. Jack had brought him home that first night, and they'd laid the foundation for a friendship that had prevailed against the gates of both heaven and hell, and a lot of shit in between. Jack fervently hoped they could find that again, in spite of everything that had happened in the last year. ***** "It's really beautiful here," Daniel said softly to himself. The drive had been long, but he'd slept through most of it, and now standing on Jack's dock, looking out at the reflection of the sunset on his lake was very soothing. The quiet before the storm, he supposed. "You should probably come in for an hour or so," Jack called from the porch, his voice carrying easily in the calm twilight air. "The mosquitoes are worst at sunset, but they're usually gone by the time the moon rises." Daniel sighed and walked back up to the house. "You wanna beer?" Jack asked, holding open the screen door. "Okay," Daniel answered quietly as he passed him. The cabin was musty from being closed up, but homey, and the décor reminded him of Jack. It had the illusion of being safe; away from prying eyes and ears. But Daniel knew it really wasn't. He knew they'd let him leave the mountain way too easily; he was certain 'they' were confident in whatever level of surveillance could be had out here in the wilds of Minnesota. Daniel found he didn't much care anymore. His recent experiences had put a lot of stuff into perspective for him and he'd long since passed the time where he cared about that kind of trivial crap. He hadn't been entirely truthful with the authorities, but he didn't feel too bad about that either. After he'd been killed and before he'd been alive, he'd spent a lot of time in a diner of sorts. He'd learned some things, seen some things, and now he knew what he wanted. Suddenly, life was very clear and very precious and too fucking short on the mortal plane. For instance, Daniel knew Jack had been telling the truth about the IOC and why he'd lied. He knew Jack still loved him and always had. And he also knew Jack had slept with Kerry Johnson. Twice. It surprised him still, how that made him feel; hot and dark and angry. Jack handed Daniel the opened beer, and they clinked bottles but didn't voice a toast. There didn't seem to be a need to. Daniel took a long swallow and set the bottle down on the table. "I saw you," he said softly. "Huh? When?" "While I was..." Daniel made a spiraling motion toward the ceiling with his finger, then slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans and began to pace distractedly around the small dining room, examining the sparse adornments in a very distracted way. "Really?" Jack asked, not terribly surprised. He was leaning a hip up against the wall so he could look through the screen door and still see the sunset. He glanced over his shoulder at Daniel with mild interest. "How's that work?" "That's not important." "It is to some people I know." Daniel grunted. The petty Taur'i with their pathetic technology and their even smaller minds. "People who might, even now, be listening?" Daniel asked, voice heavy with irony. They could take a lesson from The Others about 'watching'. "Eavesdropping even now," Jack confirmed, warning tingeing his voice. "I'm sure," Daniel said dismissively as he continued to pace around the small wooden table. The watching didn't bother him anymore; he knew how to use it. "Anyway, I saw you with that... Johnson woman... and I didn't like it." Jack's eyebrows rose. "Excuse me?" "You heard me." Putting aside the whole 'peeping Daniel' scenario for a moment -which was far too kinky to be avoided indefinitely- Jack was instantly on the defensive. "Look, pal, you walked away from me; I don't owe you anything!" No, he really didn't; it was Daniel who had a penance to pay for treating Jack so shabbily. Unfortunately, Daniel only saw one way to repair the damage between them; he only hoped Jack would be willing to go along with it. "The hell you don't," Daniel replied softly. "Just where do you get off pulling this jealous lover crap?" Turning to face the room, Jack set his beer on the table next to Daniel's and held up his hand, counting off on his fingers. "Lena? Vala? The Russian chick? Oma?" "Oma," Daniel snorted, shaking his head. "You're an idiot sometimes, y'know that?" "I'm an idiot a lot of the time, Daniel; are you just now noticing that?" Suddenly very serious, Daniel's eyes stabbed Jack with a piercing glare. "I'll tell you this just once, Jack," he said, making his voice sound as ominous as he could. "No one else touches you; I won't tolerate it." Jack's eyes widened in surprise at the blatant show of alpha ownership. "Fuck you!" He laughed out loud, watching Daniel's circuitous loop of the small room. Still speaking quietly, Daniel replied, "No, you've got that backwards, babe; the IOC gave you to me, remember?" "Babe? Who the fuck do you think you are?" Daniel stopped pacing suddenly right in front of Jack and turned his shoulder toward him, shoving for all he was worth, slamming Jack the two steps back up against the wall and pinning his biceps beside him in one smooth motion. "Who am I?" Daniel bit off harshly. "I'm the one calling the shots here, that's who I am." They were face-to-face, mere inches apart, and Daniel let his breath bathe Jack's face for a full two beats before he took Jack's astonished mouth in a punishing kiss. Instinctively, Jack grabbed Daniel by the shoulders, pried the two of them apart, and turned them both, using the weight of his own body to force Daniel back up against the wall. Pausing for half a second, he glared at him before he returned the favor, bruising his own lips on Daniel's as he kissed him viciously. That was when the world tilted. Jack felt Daniel's body relax against him, and his mouth opened, inviting Jack inside; the equivalent of a tiger showing it's belly. Jack was stunned at the one-eighty and after half a second, he pulled back, confused and breathless, and they locked eyes. He saw Daniel's angry glare soften just the tiniest bit, and to Jack it was like a neon 'welcome' sign. Jack figured Daniel must have something up his sleeve, so he played along -hey, he was a big fan of ad-libbing. He struggled not to let his shock and joy show to those agencies that were probably watching and/or listening, as he swallowed hard and tried to remember where the hell the conversation had been going just prior to that stunning kiss. I'm the one calling the shots here. Oh, yeah. Right. "Oh, you're calling the shots?" Jack spat with as much vehemence as he could muster given the confusing turn of events. "And what shots would those be?" Daniel pulled his arms up through Jack's hold and then out, breaking it easily, then cupped Jack's crotch ruthlessly with one hand, while the other grabbed onto the back of Jack's neck, pulling him right in close. "You'll do what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it," he whispered. "Have I made myself clear?" The holds weren't insurmountable, Jack could've gotten lose easily, but plan B was looking interesting, and Daniel's hand on his balls felt amazing. Jack straightened to his full height, but didn't try to pull away from Daniel's grasp; he knew Daniel could feel his dick beginning to lengthen. "We could maybe... discuss it." "Words lie," Daniel said tightly. "Your body can't lie to me anymore. Kiss me." Jack winced to make it look good, as if there was real discomfort in his groin, when that was most certainly not the case. "Is that an order?" he snarked as his heart began to pound. Daniel squeezed Jack's package a little more, narrowing his eyes dangerously. "Kiss me, or I'll have a sudden attack of amnesia and won't remember a thing your friends want to know." Bingo. Either Daniel remembered glowy stuff he was willing to share with the IOC and the power hungry Pentagon, or this was the biggest bluff Jack had ever seen. Either way, he'd never know for sure; there was nowhere they could ever talk without being overheard. So Jack did the only thing he could do; he leaned into Daniel and kissed him like he'd wanted to that first night almost a year ago, and had dreamed of doing every night since then. Daniel opened wide and allowed Jack to take control of the kiss. Jack's warm, beer-flavored tongue explored the inside of Daniel's mouth, tracing the sensitive gum line behind his teeth. Daniel tried hard not to groan in response to the wondrous and intimate feeling; he didn't want to give anything to whoever might be listening. The kiss was gentle and patient, suggestive and needy, containing all the hope and promise Jack could pour into it. He knew it had to hold all the words they would never be able to say to one another. Gradually, the hand gripping Jack's package eased its pseudo clench and began to rub firmly instead, all along the side of Jack's already engorged cock and then down. "Ah, fuck..." Jack whispered against Daniel's mouth as he reveled in the feeling of the strong fingers stroking between his legs. Daniel pulled back just a bit, fire in his eyes. "No fucking," he frowned. "Not like that; never again." Jack met Daniel's gaze and saw the grief and sadness that was the fallout from Jack's lie; guilty baggage Daniel was carrying with him from before. "I love you," Jack whispered. "I have for a very long time." "I know that, now. I believe it." "Let me show you, Danny..." Daniel nodded slowly, his eyes moving back to Jack's mouth. "In a minute." Then he leaned back in, lips open, wanting more kissing, more intimacy. "I just need to..." Jack met him halfway, then used the couple of inches he had over Daniel to tip him back toward the wall, molding his body around Daniel's, letting him get a taste of his weight, his power, enrobed in the sweetest, most delicate kiss he could manage. Daniel's hands came up to cradle Jack's skull, prolonging the kiss, really tasting Jack's mouth for the first time. He could feel Jack's cock, rigid and ready against his hip as Jack's body covered his own, gently squashing him back against the wall with delicious pressure. No longer were they an angry, vindictive top and unwilling but complacent bottom. There was cooperation, mutual pleasure, and genuine eagerness in their actions. They both wanted this; needed it. Daniel was aware of the snuffling noises they were both making as they each tried to breathe in between the kisses, and those real sounds were the melody he'd been looking for, for what seemed like forever. Some part of his brain was also aware that they were slowly moving against each other, hips pressing, urging; needy and expectant. Probably some kind of innate mating drive that propelled the male of the species to seek completion once stimulation had begun. Daniel wanted to come; he needed to come, but more than that, he wanted to stay right here, at this level of arousal, forever. Just kissing and needing. Loving and being loved back. Jack was beside himself. Daniel in his arms. Kissing him. Hands in his hair. Mouth open, devouring him, eating him alive. Tongue combat on a level never before seen. He wanted to win. He wanted to lose. He couldn't get enough. The one hurried kiss they'd shared nearly a year before; the one he'd dreamed of, jerked off to, fucking canonized in his memory, paled in comparison to the glorious oral lovemaking that was happening at this very moment. And they still had all their clothes on! Jack pulled away reluctantly, gasping air into his starved lungs. "For cryin' out loud, are ya tryin' to kill me?" he smiled. "God no, but don't... just come back here-" Daniel cupped Jack's face gently and pulled him back down and started kissing him again. "I need more of this," he breathed around Jack's lips. "Lots more." Jack tightened his arms around Daniel and answered the kiss with pleasure, whispering, "As much as you want, Danny..." He didn't know what the rules were; were there any rules? Was Daniel going to want him to take the passive role again? He didn't have a problem with that; he'd take Daniel anyway he could have him, but god, he wanted to top! To feel Daniel beneath him as they rocked together, hot and tight and together. He so didn't want to fuck this up again. "I knew you'd be a great kisser," Daniel murmured around the kiss. "Lips'r too skinny." "They're perfect." "I always thought-" Daniel chuffed in frustration and yanked his glasses off, tossing them onto the table alongside the abandoned beer, then grabbed Jack's face again. "Shut up, Jack." He planted another needy kiss on his mouth, this time with more urgency, his tongue seeking to top Jack's. Jack melted into the kiss, grabbing Daniel's ass with both hands. He turned his body a little and slid his leg in between Daniel's and was gratified when the other man began to hump his thigh. Denim rubbing against denim sounding loud and thrilling in the still evening air. Then suddenly, Daniel pushed Jack away, trying to hold him at a distance, eyes closed, frowning in concentration. "Damn you," he muttered, grabbing his own crotch tightly. "I have a bed," Jack whispered in Daniel's ear, smiling at his predicament. He hadn't any idea when he asked Daniel to come up early with him that this could possibly happen. They'd been best friends once; Jack's greatest hope was that they could somehow begin to re-build that friendship. Now, it seemed that his very horny friend was bent on sucking Jack's tongue out of his mouth, and Jack wanted to help him do just that. "Come to bed with me," Jack coaxed. "Please." He didn't want to do whatever they were going to do up against a wall. Daniel opened his eyes and peered at Jack warily. "Will there be more kissing?" "Oh, I'd count on it," Jack nodded sagely. He extended his hand and Daniel took it, following Jack toward the master bedroom in the back, passing the smaller room Jack'd set Daniel's bag in earlier. As Jack began unbuttoning Daniel's shirt, he asked softly, "So... this exclusivity you're demanding..." "Non-negotiable." "I see," Jack nodded, pursing his lips. "Does that go both ways, by any chance?" Daniel raised a careful eyebrow. "You think you can give me everything I need?" Jack pushed the shirt off Daniel's shoulders, letting it spill onto the floor. "If you give me the chance," he said seriously, "I think this could be the best thing that's ever happened to either of us..." Daniel reached into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small bottle of lube, which he held out to Jack. "Let's see what you've got, then," he said softly. Jack smiled and snagged the bottle. He still wasn't sure just how much of what Daniel was saying and doing was for the benefit of the surveillance and how much was how Daniel really felt about things; all Jack could do was play this by ear. Daniel had decreed there'd be no more fucking; that was fine with Jack, because he'd always preferred lovemaking, himself. Daniel handing him the lube was a trust Jack intended to honor with solemn devotion and singular determination. Jack had no problem with exclusivity, either; in fact he preferred it, as long as it went both ways. This whole thing had the feeling of a job interview, and although that rankled a bit, Jack was determined to give it his all. He took Daniel into his arms and made love to him with everything he had. There was more kissing, lots of it, and still they managed to strip pretty efficiently. Once on the bed, there were gasps of pleasure at their combined nudity, warm limbs intertwining and stroking, hard dicks rasping, all of it intimacy which Daniel hadn't permitted since that first fateful night more than a year ago. The bedsprings complained of disuse; too long since Jack's old bed had seen the weight of another, witnessed the sounds of loving. As they moved, the noise of the springs fell into the background, lost in the music their sighs made. "You feel so good next to me," Jack breathed as he covered Daniel's body with his own. He leaned in to bury his face in Daniel's neck, inhaling his scent and kissing up the taste of him there as his hand stroked along Daniel's smooth side, and his dick made itself a temporary home next to Daniel's. There was so much Jack had imagined doing with him; it was all he'd thought about while he was forced to stand still and let Daniel fuck him for two months. His hole clenched now, as he remembered the cold sex they'd endured, and his hips shuddered involuntarily, causing enough friction that both of them moaned out loud. At this point, Jack wasn't sure he was going to last long enough to pass the job interview. The feel of Daniel's firm, warm body beneath his was something he'd dreamed about for a long time, and he was perilously close to the edge. As if reading his mind, Daniel nudged Jack's head up to face him. "There's no hurry now," he promised softly. "We have all the time we need; we'll get to all of it eventually." Jack smiled and kissed him deeply. When the kiss ended, Daniel bumped Jack's groin with his hip. "I'd love to feel that inside me. Slow-" he licked teasingly at Jack's lips. "And deep." Daniel licked Jack's lips again, causing him to moan out loud. Jack figured he could do deep without any difficulty, but slow might be more problematic, considering how close he was. Then Daniel wrapped his one free leg around Jack's back and arched his hips, crashing their cocks together and ripping a groan out of Jack. "Unless that's how you wanna get off," Jack said tightly, "you'd better take it easy with that kind of thing." "I need you..." Daniel whispered, drawing Jack's head back toward his mouth so he could engulf Jack's ear with his moist breath. "Don't try and drag this out for my benefit, Jack; you're gonna rupture something." Jack chuckled and raised himself up on his arms. "You don't know the half of it," he said cryptically. He felt like he had the weight of their whole relationship riding on this one performance. He'd made a mistake before -a bad one- and he couldn't live with knowing he'd screwed them up again. "Look, I... I don't have any condoms here," he said uneasily, "but I-" "Used them with Kerry," Daniel finished for him. "Yes, I know. Can we not mention her ever again as long as we both shall live?" he bristled. Jack pursed his lips at Daniel's choice of words. "Um, I do." "Exxxxcellent," Daniel replied. He raised his arms over his head wantonly and worked his left leg out from under Jack so he could use both legs to bring Jack's torso back down against his own again, digging his heel into Jack's tailbone. "If you wouldn't mind so very much getting the hell in with it, then," he said smugly. Jack smiled, realizing that Daniel's subtle distraction had just bought him enough control to get the job done. What a team they made. Jack kissed Daniel quickly, "Be right back," and started to slide down Daniel's body, kissing and licking his way across the smooth expanse of chest and belly, then back up to suckle each nipple lovingly in turn. He knew Daniel was expecting him to go down on him, but Jack had been there, done that. What he wanted most right now, was to taste all the bits Daniel had kept covered before. He lavished oral praise on each nipple until it turned dark and pointed and Daniel's gasps were audible, then moved on to trace his tongue along each rib, feeling soft, golden hairs leading him south. At the last minute, he detoured and licked the inside of Daniel's thigh and was rewarded with a surprised yelp, followed by an impatient twitch of Daniel's cock. As he felt Jack move lower, Daniel opened his legs wider, sighing in contentment. Feeling Jack adoring him with his mouth this way was everything he'd ever dreamed it could be, and completely different from the forced blowjobs. He tried hard to let these memories overwrite the bitter taste of what had come before. Jack pushed his face into Daniel's groin, inhaling deeply, tonguing the loose sac and then scraping his beard across the wet skin, watching it tighten up before his eyes. "Aw, fuck..." Daniel breathed, pulling his knees back and apart, offering himself, offering Jack everything he'd withheld before. "God, Daniel... in a minute," Jack complained, nearly overwhelmed by the sensuous sight, and Daniel's musky scent, and wanting to do it all right now. "Stop rushin' me, for cryin' out loud." Jack wanted to see if he could get both Daniel's balls in his mouth at the same time. He wanted to taste his beautiful ass, he wanted- "God, Jack... I need-" "I know, I know, I'm gettin' to it," Jack grumbled. He shifted around, snagged the lube and then took Daniel's dick in his mouth all in one go, causing him to arch up. Mewling ensued, as Jack moved Daniel's foreskin with his lips, the way he knew Daniel liked, accompanied by first one, then two, then three of Jack's fingers, pressed deeply into his ass. "God, Danny, you're so tight..." Jack whimpered in awe, nudging Daniel's dripping dick with his face. "I'm a damn virgin again, Jack, what the hell did you expect!" Daniel panted. Jack withdrew his fingers and moved back up Daniel's body, kissing him deeply. "That is... So. Hot..." he murmured, nibbling at Daniel's open mouth. Daniel laughed out loud at Jack's nearly stoned expression above him. "Well, if you'd stop all this god damn talking and just do something already, maybe we could take care of that little inconvenience," he begged a little desperately. With a subtle shift of his hips, Jack was already at Daniel's entrance, his dick gently prodding the opening. I'm first, I'm first, I'm first, he chanted silently, and then he rose up on his toes and continued to pulse his dick against the tight pucker. As the head popped through the first ring of muscle, Daniel gasped, arching his shoulders, head back, knees held wide. In all of Jack's daydreams, he'd never come close to imagining how beautiful this sight would be; Daniel holding himself completely open this way... like a gift. Jack listened to Daniel groan as he continued to lean into it, slowly opening him up, creating a space for himself inside Daniel's body; making himself at home there. "Bear down," he whispered, "Let me inside you, Danny." "I don't remember it hurting this much," Daniel panted, "You must be hung like a fucking horse!" "Just average, I'm afraid," Jack whispered modestly. "It's you; you're so goddamn tight. God you feel good!" He rested his forehead on Daniel's chest, nearly dizzy with the way his dick was being squeezed. "Jack, just do it!" "No," Jack said firmly. "I won't hurt you." Too much of what they'd had together so far had been about nothing but pain and humiliation. There was no way he wanted to bring that forward; he wanted this to be a fresh start for both of them. "I want you in me! Just push, for godsake; get it over with!" Daniel groaned, gripping handfuls of sheets as he tried to bear down long enough for Jack to pop through the stubborn ring of muscle. "Uh-uh." "Oh, god... just kiss me, then!" Jack did, swallowing Daniel's sobs as he continued to pulse his cock into Daniel's passage until the muscle finally relaxed, and he slid in the rest of the way all at once. "Ohhhh!" Daniel cried out through clenched teeth. "Godthatburns!" "Shhh... I'm in, I'm in..." Jack soothed in comforting tones. Daniel was breathing heavily beneath him, and Jack tried hard not to notice how good it felt when Daniel's hole rhythmically clenched around his dick, or how soft Daniel's dick had become between them because of the pain. "Just relax, Danny..." Jack rained tiny comforting kisses along Daniel's slightly scratchy cheeks, waiting for him to say he was ready for Jack to move. And god how he wanted to move. "Are we good?" Jack asked anxiously. Daniel clenched his ass muscles deliberately, making Jack howl, then he chuckled. "Yeah, Jack, I think we're good," he panted. "Why? Didja wanna move or something?" "Oh, y'think?" "Then do it," Daniel said huskily, "Or do you want me to pull the come out of you?" he threatened, clenching and releasing and clenching again. "Nah, I think I prefer the old fashioned way," Jack grunted, setting his jaw against Daniel's teasing clenches. His hips rolled of their own volition as he rose up and delivered a slow, bone-melting slide into the man beneath him. "We can save all that new-age stuff for next time," he breathed roughly as he touched bottom. As slow and steady and deep as Jack could manage, he was totally focused on Daniel's expression, his closed eyes, the way his tongue darted out to wet his lips, parched now from dragging so many tortured gasps across them. Jack changed the angle subtly every couple of strokes until- judging from the change in Daniel's whimpering -he'd found his virgin prostate, and how fucking cool was that? Then Jack homed in on it, tagging it with nearly every pass. He felt Daniel's cock begin to fill against his belly as the agony of the initial breech was masked by the new, delicious fire in his gland. Jack watched as the sensations began to mount for Daniel, straining and sweating and groaning beneath him. Jack tried to stay focused; he wanted so badly to be able to hold on long enough to make Daniel climax this way, to make up for everything. Jack leaned in further, nearly bending Daniel double, and latched onto his lover's mouth in a desperate kiss. "God, Danny, please..." Daniel moaned into the kiss, then opened his eyes and let Jack watch him come. "Oh, yeah..." Jack whispered, his own climax beginning. "God, yeah..." ***** They lay side by side under the Jack's grandmother's double ring quilt, tired and sated. Daniel was more than a little sore, but pleased with how the evening had turned out so far. "You have to tell Sam and Teal'c about us," he said softly. "Are you nuts?" Jack was sure the IOC would have something to say about that. "I'm very serious, Jack. Sam's in a real bad place right now. She's confused as hell, and with Jacob gone, she's got no support system. She's making some incredibly bad decisions, and if you don't do something, she's gonna crash and burn." "How do you know-" "Will you stop asking me that, and just believe I do know?" Daniel snapped. He didn't need to have otherworldly knowledge to see the state his friend was in, in the wake of her father's recent death. And he'd made a casual remark to her about Pete, and Sam had sadly told him she'd let him go. As her friend, he hurt for her. As Jack's lover, Daniel needed his claim stated clearly and soon. No good would come of keeping them a secret from the team; their family. "Sorry, it's just..." Daniel turned onto this side, throwing his leg over Jack's and resting his head on Jack's shoulder. Then he reached across Jack's middle to grasp his free hand under the covers. "She's been in love with you nearly as long as I have," he said softly. Jack peered down at the top of Daniel's head and thought maybe his heart was gonna explode. "What am I supposed to say to her?" he whispered, tightening his arm around the other man. "Tell her the truth," Daniel said simply. "Tell her you're mine." Jack's heart lurched painfully as he waited to hear if he'd passed the job interview. "Exclusive?" he whispered. "Absolutely." Jack was so choked up he couldn't speak. He wanted to say something pithy. Or manly. Or spectacularly mushy. But not surprisingly, actual words failed him. He felt Daniel's hand move inside his own, and he opened his fingers so they could intertwine them, but Daniel shook him off. "Wha-" "Shhh," Daniel instructed firmly. Then he reached for Jack's hand again, curling his fist loosely inside of Jack's. "I don't-" Jack started, then Daniel's fist formed an easily recognizable 'freeze' signal inside Jack's hand, and Jack stilled immediately. Every civilian member of each SG team was taught to recognize and perform the hand singles for Close Range Engagement before they were allowed through the gate, and Daniel was no exception. Jack held his hand loose and still around Daniel's and waited. Daniel performed a series of unrecognizable gestures within the circle of Jack's hand, then formed the CRE signal for 'stop'. Jack paid close attention and once again, Daniel repeated the same five distinct gestures, ending in 'stop'. Jack understood the game now, but he didn't speak the language. Daniel was spelling words to him using the only language the IOC and all their pals couldn't intercept because they couldn't see it, nor hear it. Jack didn't know what it was called, but he'd seen the movie; it was the sign language that had freed Helen Keller from her silent prison. Jack flattened his hand and moved it laterally, using the CRE signal for 'I don't understand', then gently circled Daniel's fingers once again and waited. Daniel smiled; Jack had caught on even faster than he'd expected. It would take him a while to teach Jack to understand the manual alphabet, and longer for Jack to be able to actually use it, but he'd caught on to Latin pretty quickly once, so Daniel had hope this would work at least as well. This was the only way the two of them could communicate that was completely private. Daniel raised himself up on one elbow and leaned down to kiss Jack softly, then spelled the words inside Jack's hand once again as he spoke them out loud for the first time. "I. Luv. U." ***** Carter and Teal'c arrived together the following afternoon. After they'd brought their stuff in from the rental car, Daniel snagged Teal'c and an empty cooler for a run into town for supplies. They took the scenic route and -skipping the part about surveillance and deception and a year's worth of wasted time- Daniel explained that he and Jack were now lovers. Teal'c seemed unsurprised by this news, and offered his congratulations. Daniel couldn't help but grin, ridiculously smug and proud. "Thanks, Teal'c." "And that is why we are on a quest for undomesticated waterfowl, is it not? So that O'Neill may break the same news to Colonel Carter in our absence?" Daniel tried to hide his smile. "No wild goose chase, Teal'c, we're really gonna get a case of cold Guinness and some munchies..." He glanced to the seat beside him, and received the full force of Teal'c's 'Eyebrow of Disbelief'. He cleared his throat and amended his statement reluctantly. "Because Jack's probably gonna need 'em once he breaks the news to Sam." Teal'c inclined his head knowledgably. "It is my understanding that Colonel Carter and Pete Shanahan have parted ways." "Yeaaaah..." Daniel drawled. "Well, maybe that can be salvaged too..." ***** To Daniel's surprise, Sam didn't seem to want to immediately push him into the lake. When he and Teal'c returned to the cabin with the beer, she and Jack were on the dock fishing. Her eyes were a little red, but she managed to find a smile and told him she was happy for them. Daniel sat down on the dock beside her and took her hand -the one that wasn't holding the pointless fishing rod- into both of his. He squinted up at her, and smiled sheepishly. "I have another confession to make," he said gently. She looked stricken, but was stopped from saying anything when her cell phone rang. She handed Daniel the rod and pulled the phone from her pocket, frowning at the caller ID. Then she looked at Daniel again, her jaw dropping open. The phone buzzed for a second time. "Answer it," he urged her softly. "He loves you." Sam flipped the phone open as she left the dock, walking back down the driveway for privacy. "Hello?... Pete?... Oh, my god, how did you..." Jack smiled down at Daniel and shook his head fondly. "You are such a Yenta." ***** Catherine's funeral was held two weeks to the day that Jack and Daniel became lovers. Her death had been a shock, but it wasn't a big surprise, Daniel supposed, that she would follow Earnest by less than a month. She'd lived long enough for Daniel to confide in her about his and Jack's relationship, and she'd been thrilled for them; she hadn't seemed all that surprised, either, come to think of it. The delivery of her estate to Daniel's office at the SGC was a surprise, and Daniel began to work his way though the artifacts randomly, like a kid on Christmas morning. The second book he opened and started flipping through was the 1889 edition of 'The Eye of the Sun', a very rare tome. A dozen pages into it, he found an illustration depicting various rituals of the Sun god, with Ra holding out what appeared to be a ZPM. Daniel sat there, stunned, for several minutes, contemplating what he held in his hand. Then he stashed the book in his desk and made his way to Sam's lab. After a handful of pleasantries, he asked with a casualness he didn't feel, if they'd ever scanned Earth itself for the unique energy signature associated with ZPMs. Sam chattered on about 'soil and rock density' and 'graviton emissions and 'decay modes' while Daniel bit his lip and smiled and nodded like he was listening. He completely understood Jack's 'Aht! Bottom line it for me!', attitude. After what seemed like hours, she finally wound down. Daniel squinted. "So... that's a, yes-we-looked, but no-we-didn't-find-any' kinda answer then?" he summarized. She grinned. "In a nutshell." "Thanks," he said as he turned to leave. "That's it?" she called after him. "Did you find something?" He turned back around to face her and shook his head sadly. "Nah, I wish; just a crazy thought." Then he shuffled back to his office, his heart pounding. He knew they could do it. The ZPM might not be on Earth now, but it had been on Earth then; the illustration more or less proved it. They had the time machine, they could go back in time to Giza, 3,000BC, get it, bring it back here and... then what? He took the volume out of the drawer and looked at the illustration again. This was his chance to finally get to Atlantis. Daniel weighed the likelihood of being able to convince Jack and the powers that be to take the risk, and judged that to be excellent. He considered the possibility of mechanical or Ancient failure along the way, and decided those were both probably negligible. Then he thought about the possibility of something going wrong once they'd gone back in time. About what could happen if one of them touched or said or did something that changed the timeline as they knew it. The timeline where the Replicators had been wiped out and the Jaffa were nearly free, the Goa'uld nothing more than occasional comic relief. The same timeline where Sam and Pete were again engaged to be married, and he and Jack were finally lovers and were enormously happy together. With no small amount of guilt for the fate to which he might be condemning Atlantis, Daniel set the priceless book on the corner of his desk. He reached across it for a pen, the cuff of his BDUs recklessly spilling yesterday's leftover coffee all across the dangerous picture. He watched the murky brown liquid soak into the fibers of the paper until he was certain the image was destroyed, then he quickly tore the page from the book so as not to damage the rest of the priceless pages with his carelessness. Yes, Daniel decided as he set the ruined page into his trashcan, they'd all gone through enough already, and it was simply too great a risk. He picked up his phone and dialed Jack's number. "I'm feelin' like a nice, juicy steak tonight; wanna see if Sam and Pete and Teal'c can join us?"

The moment Jim walked into the loft and Blair hunched in a defensive way over…something on the coffee table, he knew what it was Blair was hiding. Well, not what it was in detail; just in general. A Christmas present for him, had to be. Smiling, smug, because his gift for Blair was wrapped and hidden and had been for a week, Jim magnanimously pretended not to notice. They didn't do presents. Not officially. They'd agreed not to do them that first year, but Jim had seen something that he knew Blair would like and hadn't been able to resist getting it because the kid had been looking wiped out from studying, and wouldn't you know it, Blair had got something for him, too. After that, they'd just done it as a matter of course. Never much, never anything expensive, but it was nice, Jim found, to have someone to buy for. His shopping list was pretty short. "You saw it, didn't you?" Blair said accusingly. Jim held up his hands, warding off Blair's glare. "Saw what, Chief?" He put his hand over his eyes. "Want me to keep them closed? Or go upstairs while you, uh, tidy up?" "No." Blair's voice was cheerful again. "I might just as well give it to you now." "It's Christmas Eve," Jim protested, tempted but guilt-ridden by a few memories of peeking early and then not being able to sleep, convinced Santa would know and skip their house -- or even worse, just skip him. "Well, I don't really do Christmas," Blair reminded him. "And we're going into work tomorrow, aren't we?" "Just for a few hours," Jim said. "I got us the afternoon shift." He didn't mind; more important for the officers with families to have the day off. If the city behaved itself they'd get up a poker game, most likely, and it wouldn't be too bad. "So, have it now," Blair urged with the seductive lilt of a siren. "You don't want to wrap it, do you?" "Not my strong point," Blair confessed. "Huh." Obscurely reassured by the way it was now presented as him doing Sandburg a favor, Jim nodded. Blair smiled, lit up and bubbling as he pushed Jim down into a seat. "You're going to love this, man. I saw it and I was just --" "Saw it where?" Blair's eyes went blank for a moment, opaque and blind. "Some shop… no, a stall in the market down on Dale and Third. There was this English guy…" "Well, now, don't you look like a young man of taste." Blair grinned at the man behind the stall, holiday spirit making everything glow brighter. "Hey, English! Cool. And right now, all I can taste is lunch." The man's mouth, thin and wide, twisted ruefully. "You sampled Mary's curry, didn't you? The stall on the corner?" Blair fanned the air and nodded. "Whew. Hot. And I always thought I could take it spicy, but that was incendiary." "Indeed, it is." Dark eyes gleamed. "She seasons it with some herbs and spices that are a little… shall we say, irregular, but if I might hazard a guess, that shouldn't trouble you." "Don't let the hair and the earrings fool you," Blair told him. "These days, I'm the law-abiding sort." Because if he got busted now he had a shield, Jim would kill him. Or kick him out, which would be worse. "No, he wouldn't." Blair blinked at the soothing, knowing words. "What?" "I should introduce myself." The noise of the market was fading to a distant, busy buzz, and for some reason, this stall wasn't attracting customers, even though Blair had been instantly drawn to the entrancing jumble of glitter and tat. "Ethan Rayne." A little surprised, but willing to be friendly, Blair extended his hand to clasp the one Ethan was extending, and shook it. "Blair Sandburg." A small, fiery stab of pain made him yelp and snatch back his hand. "Oh, dear," Ethan murmured, sounding quite distressed. "Did my ring catch you? Dreadfully sorry…" Blair sucked his hurt finger, tasting a trace of blood. "I'll live." "You do tend to make a habit of it, don't you?" Ethan's expression warmed with amusement and something else. Something hungry. Blair felt his cheeks heat even as he puzzled over the man's words. He'd had older lovers from time to time, learning something from them, some richness of approach, some measure of patience. And they were the ones who let him indulge himself, exploring long-held fantasies, sometimes leaving them desiccated husks because the reality had ruined them, sometimes making his fever dreams flower into musky, lush blooms. The first time he'd allowed himself to be tied up it'd been with a woman twice his age; his first threesome had been with two men with more than fifteen years separating them. Ethan, though -- late forties?-- was just not his sort. Too threadbare elegant, the drawl of his voice salted with satire. Someone Blair would have liked to talk to, though, if he wasn't busy -- God, why was he standing here, when he'd promised to cook and it was getting dark -- "Relax," Ethan said. "I'm sure whoever you think is waiting for you at home, is in fact fighting the abominable traffic." His thin face creased with a smile. "And you wouldn't want to go home empty-handed, now would you?" He swept his hand out, a majestic gesture. "Look. See what calls to you." And Blair had looked and seen -- Intrigued, Jim tried to peek around Blair and got a smack on the shoulder. "I saw that. Wait." "You said I could have it," Jim protested. "Stop being logical." Blair stepped aside, waving his hand like a magician expecting a rabbit. "It's just… it's us." His voice lowered, became a little wistful. "Well, us as we could be, but I guess you're still not ready…" Shocked to silence, Jim stared at the carving. Two figures, rendered in a dark wood -- or was it stone? It looked old, but maybe timeless was a better word for the activity… Two men. One standing, head thrown back, one kneeling, mouth… busy. Sandburg thought it was -- he was -- Jim's thoughts stumbled and skidded around his brain like a kid on roller skates for the first time, colliding with certainties (he's straight, has to be, or he'd have -- and I'm…he knows I'm… does he know? Did he guess? Fuck) and bouncing off. "Look at it." Sandburg's voice held the cadence of a dream, lulling, lilting. "I envy you. I've been looking at it since I got home and I keep seeing details I've missed, but you -- you can just get so much out of it. Touch, too; I bet it's going to feel so good when you touch it…" Jim swallowed, feeling the muscles of his throat ripple, the action too close a match to what he was looking at to be reassuring. The man standing had his hands in the hair of the figure kneeling. Long hair, sure, but a man. Jim could see the thrust of an erection; almost, if he concentrated, see a hint of shine and gloss at its tip. Hands deep in hair, but the figure kneeling; were those tears on his face? From nothing worse than a too-deep thrust, Jim was sure, because the kneeling man's hands were tight, possessive, around the standing man's ass, holding him close. And now that he looked, the man standing was brushing those tears away with his thumbs, soothing, loving. Yes, it looked a little like them, he supposed, but their faces were passion-twisted and Jim didn't know what he looked like when his dick was getting sucked and he sure as hell didn't know what Blair's mouth looked like rounded and filled like that. As soon as he admitted the likeness existed, it intensified. He could pick out scars both of them bore, faithfully rendered, see, if he focused just right, the tangle of curls springing up from Blair's forehead on the left, spiraling wildly, just as it did on the man beside him. It was them and they looked… "I want that, Jim." Blair's voice was hushed, imploring. "It's waiting for you any time; you know that, right? I meant it." Meant what? When had Blair ever offered this? Jim felt a brief surge of anger because shouldn't he have known this? Known it explicitly, been told? He wanted to look at Blair but the statue held all his attention. And now the hands in Blair's hair looked cruelly tight and he was wrong; Blair's hands were on his -- that other Jim's -- hips, trying to push him away. "No." Jim shook his head, rejecting that, sickness filling him. "God, no, Blair, I would never --" He'd dreamed of Blair sometimes; he spent too long with him for Blair not to star in both dreams and nightmares and that was before they got into the whole Sentinel and shaman deal. The dreams were usually a jumble of random events but sometimes, not often, they turned sexual and Jim had learned to accept that without obsessing over it too much. It could get awkward facing Sandburg over breakfast but by the time they were out of the door, he'd usually forgotten what wasn't more than a hug lasting longer than normal, an ache of desire, once, a kiss, Sandburg's chattering mouth silenced and soft. If they'd ever involved him forcing himself on Blair, he'd have woken screaming. Blair's sigh of disappointment brought Jim's gaze to his face, although it was an effort. "Chief, you can't tell me that's what you want." "Why not?" Blair's forehead furrowed. "Jim, you've resisted the spiritual aspects of the Sentinel abilities but after what we did -- you brought me back from the dead, man! We shared a vision. You don't walk away from that. Well, I don't. I'm still dealing with it; I just don't mention it much around you, because you shut me up faster than you do Rafe when he's trying to get a twenty out of you before payday." "Blair…" Jim squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them, blinking until he was sure they were clear. "There's something wrong." "What, besides the fact you haven't said thank you?" Blair reached out to pick up the statue. "You know what? I'll put it in my room, okay? Get you something else. Or just not bother." "No!" Jim grabbed Blair's wrist, not sure of anything but that there was danger here and Blair wasn't getting hurt if he could help it. "Don't touch -- oh, God." "What?" Blair sounded as close to snappy as he got; usually when he was angry he skipped over the intervening steps between calm and incensed and just blew up spectacularly, unrestrained, elemental. "It's a jaguar and a wolf." "Yeah." Blair's mouth was tense. "And you hate it. Hate being reminded of all the mumbo-jumbo stuff. I get it, Jim." "It's a jaguar…" Jim repeated wonderingly, still holding Blair's wrist. Stretched out on a low branch of a tree, attached to a tree trunk which tapered upwards into a suggestion of more, one paw dangling down, playfully swatting the head of the wolf who sat below, tongue lolling out in a grin, relaxed and content. Unlikely from the perspective of anyone who knew both animals; familiar to Jim, whose hand had curved and gently cuffed Blair's head too many times to remember, getting just that look of friendly exasperation back. It was as recognizable as them as the two human figures had been. "Jim, you're freaking me out here." Blair gently eased his hand free and let it settle on Jim's knee, a warm, solid weight. "Yes, it's a jaguar. So?" "So it wasn't before," Jim said grimly. "Uh…" Blair visibly debated tactful responses to that and then shrugged. "You do some drugs on the way home, Jim? Because all the cool kids just say no." "All I did on the way home was curse the traffic." Blair's eyes widened. "He said you were having problems with the rush hour and all the last-minute shoppers. Wow. Although, I guess anyone could've predicted that today." "Who said, Chief?" Jim didn't know why he was panicking; this would turn out to be a reaction to something and Blair would deal with it, same as always. No need to panic. None at all. "The guy who sold me this." Blair's eyes went vague again. "At least, I think I bought it. Don't remember paying, though; too busy hoping I wasn't bleeding over the stuff on the stall." "Bleeding?" Jim inhaled, a sharp sniff, his nostrils flaring. He could smell it now, yes, but there was something else, something smoky and overly sweet, something that he didn't like. He had the urge to strip Blair naked and scrub him clean. Okay, his first thought had been 'lick him clean' but that wasn't all that practical… "His ring cut me…" Distracted voice now; Blair thinking hard. "What the fuck?" Jim snarled, cold with fear and a sudden, scrabbling need to hurt and kill and protect -- He took in a breath, making it deliberate, not automatic, trying to remember the calming exercises Blair had drilled into him. "Ethan. Weird English guy at the market," Blair said patiently. "What do you mean, it wasn't before? What did you see?" "I can't tell you," Jim said after a long moment of trying to find words that were safe and polite and failing miserably. "Yes, you can." "No, I --" "Jim." Blair's hand moved up to touch Jim's shoulder and he realised that at some point he'd slid to his knees beside the table, kneeling against the couch, so close to Blair, so close. "It's me. You can. Everyone needs someone they can say most stuff to, and for you, I'm it. Who else do you have? So talk. And remember, you know plenty of my dark and dirty little secrets so this is just evening the score." True enough. "I saw…" Jim did it fast, jumping into cold water, cannon balling in, with a heart-stopping, skin-searing shock of sensation. "Us. You and me." "Well, so did I." "No. Us. Human. And we were…" Okay, maybe he was dipping his toe in, after all… Blair's expression was calm, settled, patient. It helped. "Naked." "Naked." Blair absorbed that and then nodded. "Okay." "You were on your knees sucking my -- me," Jim said, flinging the words at what had suddenly become an irritating calm, wanting it to shatter. "You were enjoying it." "And that bothered you?" Blair cleared his throat. "Because, yeah, I probably would have been. I like doing that. I'm good at it." "That didn't bother me," Jim said, the approaching words spiked and heavy in his throat. "It surprised me, but it didn't -- it was what came later. What it looked like a few seconds later." "It changed?" Until Blair asked, the impossibility of that hadn't struck home. "Yeah, it did… I thought I was just seeing more detail, and I was, but it was changing, too." "Hallucination? Zone?" "No… it felt…" Frustrated, Jim slammed his hand down on the table, jarring it and making the statue rock. "Different. And what bothered me was that you'd stopped enjoying it. I was forcing you. God. Making you do that to me. Fuck." He shuddered, feeling the greasy sickness of self-loathing slick his mouth. "Now, that would never happen," Blair said firmly. "Ever. You know it; I know it. Forget it. And if I ever got lucky with you, I'd be --" "Got lucky?" Jim stared at him, offended at the idea of being attached to Blair's list of conquests. "That's how you'd see it? Got lucky, like I'm some fucking prom queen you get to third base with?" "I mean I'd be lucky to have you." Blair shrugged lopsidedly, one shoulder hunching up, keeping his hand on Jim's leg. "Any way I can. That's all I was saying, so stop getting bent out of shape. I don't say it often; maybe I should, the way we keep getting shot up, but being your friend, your partner, it's… yeah. I'm lucky." "I can't see it that way," Jim said after a moment, meaning it. "And I don't think you and me like that is a good idea." He didn't feel like a good friend. Not after the hideous communication breakdowns of recent months. And Blair wanted something more? Was the man a sucker for punishment or something? A friend could hurt you, sure, but a lover could savage you, wound you until you were bleeding out and gasping for breath. Love was power, and power corrupted. Blair gave him an amused, fond look. "You don't have to see it, Jim. It's just the way it is for me. And I'm not pushing that on you, as well as the mystical stuff, don't worry. Just… if you needed to be told it's an option, which somehow I don't think you did, well, now you know." "I did know…" Jim couldn't have said when he'd known that was true, but he did. "It's just not safe." "Safe?" "I could hurt you." Blair's gaze left Jim's face and turned to the statue, not answering Jim directly. "It changed. Concentrate on that, not freaking out over your insecurities." Ouch. Well, he supposed he'd deserved it. Telling your partner, a man who'd never backed down from anything or anyone, that he was vulnerable and needed protecting verged on insulting. "When did it change? Exactly?" Jim replayed it in his head, the reconstruction of events simple enough to picture. It was something that came in handy for work and Blair had trained him to do it well. "When you tried to touch it. No; when I touched you." Blair flexed his hand where it lay on Jim's thigh, sending a faint tingle of arousal through Jim, one he put down to the fact that it'd been a while since he'd been touched in anything but a casual, impersonal way, even by Blair. "And we're still touching and I've never seen it as anything but the animals. Want to try an experiment?" "No." "We're going to do it anyway." Blair's mouth was set stubbornly. "And no matter what you see, hang onto this thought, Jim: I trust you. Totally. And I love you, as a friend, if anything else bothers you. Across the board green, okay?" Jim nodded, grateful for the reassurance even if he still wasn't able to quite accept it. The ease with which he'd accepted the burden of guilt for something he hadn't done personally was another sign of how fucked-up he was these days. He might not have been so ready to shoulder it if he hadn't got so much of a buzz out of the original appearance of the statue. Blair's mouth… on him… oh, God, yes. "I hear you, Chief." He took Blair's hand, prolonging their contact a little longer, and on an impulse he couldn't explain, raised it up and kissed it, his lips nuzzling against the bumps of Blair's knuckles. "Jim..." Blair looked at him levelly. "Don't take this the wrong way, but that crosses a line and I'm not sure you're serious, so just stop until you are, will you?" He could taste a dozen different traces on Blair's skin; sweat and salt and spices; gas -- Blair must have thought ahead for once and filled up his car -- and that oddly challenging alien scent. "Sorry, Chief." With a reluctance born of more than apprehension, he let their hands slip apart and turned to look at the statue. "It's -- God, yes, it's -- we're human --" Blair winced. "Still bad? Still…?" "No…" Jim felt his heart rate slow to normal. "We're just… kissing now." "I wish I could see it." Blair grimaced. "I'm still just seeing the animals." "Jaguar on a branch?" Jim waved his hand vaguely. "Sort of patting the wolf?" Blair nodded, a grin flashing over his face. "Same old you." "This is just nuts," Jim said flatly. "And I've had enough." He got up. "Let's go and see this joker." "Yeah…" Blair stood, but he didn't look happy about it. "What?" "You're going to want him to take it back." "I'm not..." Jim sighed, feeling frustrated. "Blair, there's something so far beyond normal going on here that I don't know what I want." "I do." Blair's voice was quiet but perfectly audible. "Me. Like that. With you." "Crying? Begging? Yeah, Chief, it's on my wish list, too." Blair's eyes blazed with sudden irritation. "Don't dodge the issue. You just said it'd changed and we were kissing." "You want me to kiss you?" Jim heard his voice rise with temper, craving the release of shouting at Blair. "Well? Do you?" "It'd be a start." Blair's mouth had never looked less ready for kissing, set in a compressed slash of whitened skin, tight and obdurate. Jim reached out, hauled him closer, and had his hands in Blair's hair a moment later, his spread fingers snagging on the tangles the wind had woven, feeling each strand, alive with static and curl. He took Blair's mouth in a bad-tempered press of lip on lip, lacking any tenderness, any sweetness, and felt a fierce flash of triumph when Blair opened his mouth to him without hesitation. The bite that followed shocked him out of complacency and into contrition. Licking at a stinging patch of skin, he murmured an apology against Blair's cheek and tried again. This time, their noses bumped and he was pretty sure there was way too much spit involved. "Give up," Blair whispered, the command a challenge. "Thought you wanted this." "I thought you'd be better at it." Jim smiled, refusing to let that sting as much as the bite. "Sandburg, I can melt the enamel off your fucking teeth but let's rain check it until we find out what the hell's going on, okay?" Blair sniffed. "Whatever you say, man." "Oh, for God's sake --" Jim flung his arms wide. "You do it, then." "It's supposed to be a joint effort." Blair's acid words were sweetened by a forgiving glint in his eye. He moved in, took Jim's face in his hands and planted a kiss on him that went from almost friendly to incendiary in the time it took for Jim to work his tongue past Blair's teeth. As kisses went, it proved that third time was the charm as far as Jim was concerned. They parted, gasping, eying each other. "Okay, that worked better…" "You don't sound too sure about that, Chief. Want to do it again?" "No." Blair scrubbed at his face with the heel of his hand. "No. We've got to stay focused and we're not and I don't like that." He waved his hand over in the direction of the kitchen. "The packaging -- Jim, there might be something in there. I just ripped into it; I didn't really look at it." Jim didn't want to look at cardboard and paper. He wanted to look at Blair, naked, over him, under him, in him. Arousal, violent and uncompromising, was drenching him, drowning him and he couldn't think, couldn't -- A dull pain radiated out from his shoulder and he rubbed at it, blinking down at Blair. "Did you just hit me?" "Yes, Jim. And you know I wouldn't have done it unless I had to, so get over it and get your ass over here." Biting back a curse, Jim went to the kitchen area, rolling his eyes as Blair rooted about in the trash before dumping a cardboard box and some packing -- a few sheets of newspaper -- on the island. "That's all of it. See what you can do with it." Giving a soggy area of the box a wide berth as he didn't want to get two-day-old Chinese noodle sauce all over him, Jim did his best to flatten out the packing. "The newspaper he wrapped it in is old. Really old; the date's December 24, 1931. Was the statue displayed inside anything? A case, maybe?" "No. It was in the middle of the stall, and that was covered with cloth. When he gave it to me he…" Blair frowned, his eyes going distant. "He didn't touch it. Not directly. He brought the box up and put it in front of him and then he sort of scooped the statue up with the paper already in his hands, and wrapped it and then put the statue inside." The lines deepened on Blair's forehead. "The paper… it was… it fit. You know; like it was what he'd used before." "Except, who keeps a newspaper nearly seventy years old and then uses it like this?" Jim shook his head and began reading the paper, skimming his gaze down the dense paragraphs. "I'm seeing nothing…" Blair came around beside him and began to read. He was close enough that it felt natural to slide an arm around him but when Jim did, Blair jerked in surprise, giving him an astonished look. "Jim… what's with you?" "I don't…" Jim traced a pattern on Blair's side with his thumb, knowing just how hard to press to stop it being ticklish. "Do you mind?" "Yes and no." "Oh, well, that's useful." "I mind because I'm not sure why you're suddenly all over me when you've managed to be oblivious to my charms for the last few years." Blair didn't move away but he was clearly uncomfortable with being held in the circle of Jim's arm. "You asked me to kiss you," Jim reminded him. "Yeah…" Blair gnawed at his lip. "Which really wasn't the right moment for that but I just -- it seemed like the right thing to do, you know?" "I know." Jim took a deep breath and let go of Blair. "Okay. Something's -- someone, maybe -- is fucking with us. Agreed?" Blair nodded reluctantly. "Yes. But don't go thinking I didn't want to kiss you, because I did. Just not --" "When I'm seeing things," Jim finished. "Because that would come first with you. I know that." "I'm not sure I'm that professional and dedicated," Blair muttered. "But, yeah, our timing sucks." Jim turned the sheet of paper over and continued reading. "Or it's just right…" "Huh?" Jim tapped his finger on the paper. "A couple found dead in their apartment. Lovers' quarrel. Except they were both men so it kind of dances around that. Calls them business partners. Who were in the habit of sleeping naked together until one strangled the other and then shot himself." Blair swallowed, looking queasy. "That's not a nice way to go." "Gutshot?" Jim winced, reading between the guarded words. "Or lower. No, it's not." "What makes you think it's connected, though?" Jim stared at the grainy picture of the murder scene, and what stood on the table beside the bed. A statue. Two men. One on hands and knees getting fucked… and rearing up, struggling, because hands which should have been on him, caressing, loving, were locked around his throat, throttling him. "Oh, it's connected, Chief. I just don't know why." Turning away, he grabbed at his coat. "Come on." "To the market?" "Yeah, we'll try there, but I doubt that guy --" "Ethan Rayne," Blair supplied. "Rayne, yeah, I doubt he'll have hung around." "I don't know," Blair said thoughtfully, reaching out to stop Jim, his eyes suddenly wary. "If he knew what he was doing, and I think he did, he'd want to see what happened. He'd want to be close." "Close?" Jim closed his eyes, waving Blair to silence and letting his sense of hearing sift through every sound around him. Easy, this, now. Easy to discount, discard, linger briefly over the quick, unsteady breathing of an agitated Blair… He weeded out everything that didn't matter, from the hum of the fridge to the off-key carol someone in the street was singing under their breath and was left with a silence broken at intervals by a heartbeat and a rapid, excited one at that. Oh, he was close. Really close. Keeping his eyes closed, Jim took one step, two -- then launched himself forward, trusting to his senses, even if one of them, his sight, was telling him lies, and ignoring Blair's yelp of shock and warning. His clutching hands closed around an arm and he fell, eyes open now, a squirming body under him, kicking and fighting. "Jim, what the hell --" Blair's voice changed. "God, I can see him now! He's --" Getting away. The man wriggled free, almost, almost, and Jim lost his temper, driving a vicious blow deep into Rayne's stomach that had him turning an interesting shade of greenish-white and going limp. "Was he invisible?" Blair sounded awed which irritated Jim for some reason. And the memory of the solid air twisting to reveal a body was disturbing on many levels. "I don't know. Why don't we ask him?" Jim hauled Rayne to his feet, making sure his grip on him was secure, and gave him a shake. "Well?" Sucking in a whoop of breath, eyes watering, Rayne shook his head. "Not… exactly," he gasped. "Cuffs. My bedroom," Jim said curtly. Blair took off and Rayne summoned a smile. "How well-equipped you are." "I'm a cop." "Oh. How disappointingly banal." "Save it," Jim told him, taking the cuffs from Blair and snapping a link shut around one of Rayne's thin wrists before pushing him down on a chair and attaching him to it with the other cuff. "Before I read you your rights --" "For what crime?" Rayne protested. "Breaking and entering, for one." "I walked in; uninvited, perhaps, but through an open door." "You followed me back here," Blair said, his voice indignant. Rayne smiled a little tiredly. "How astute of you. And yes, I was taking care not to be seen. A small charm, no more. Anyone really looking could have seen me, but so few people truly see the world around them." "He does," Blair said, nodding at Jim. Rayne studied Jim thoughtfully, his dark eyes curious. "So he does. How… unexpected." "I don't have time for this," Jim announced. "You've had your fun and now you can pay for it." "Consequences," Rayne said, nodding. "You know, I always found them frightfully tedious." "I bet." Jim loomed over him, then bent, putting his hands on the back of the chair and pushing his face close. The smell that had bothered him intensified and he tracked it down to an inside pocket on Rayne's jacket and a knotted bunch of leafy twigs and bone, bound with sinew. He dropped it hastily. It smelled of blood. "What the fuck is that?" Blair came to his side and peered down at it. "It looks like a gris-gris but not quite…" "A man of discernment." Rayne gave Blair an approving smile. "I tend to… adapt magic. I'm rather good at tweaking it to suit my purpose." "Which is?" Rayne shrugged, gesturing elegantly with his free hand. Jim found himself wishing that he had a spare set of cuffs. "I… amuse myself, while paying tribute to Chaos. It works well for both of us." "I don't know what you mean and I don't care. You tried to kill us and I want to know how the hell that's supposed to be amusing!" Blair touched his shoulder. "Jim… calm down, man. We're not dead." "No, you're not." Rayne smiled kindly. "I'm glad about that, believe it or not. You're quite an interesting pair, you know that?" "Oh, we're a laugh a minute," Jim told him sourly. "Will you accept that in allowing young Blair to acquire his… gift, I wasn't automatically dooming you both?" "No," Blair said before Jim could reply. "You know we've seen the newspaper." "Ah." Rayne pursed his lip. "It's not necessarily a bringer of death, you know." "Which is why you were so careful not to touch it, I suppose," Blair said. "I could have touched it quite safely," Ethan told him, stiffening slightly. "I have no… partner. Not now. Not for many years, in fact. Only Chaos, and I think as forces of nature go, she's immune to this particular item's allure." "What does it do?" Ethan shrugged. "It shows you what you fear." Jim licked dry lips, remembering the look on the Blair figure as he'd knelt. He didn't mind being scared of the thought of putting that look on Blair's face. "If you're weak, that is," Ethan continued, his tone delicately scornful. "Or unwilling to commit." He darted a knowing glance at them both. "And the men who died before were both, and unfaithful to boot. They really deserved--" "No, they didn't," Blair said through his teeth. "No one deserves that and Jim isn't --" "Yes, he is," Ethan said positively. "He's lusted after you for years -- not that I blame him because you're really very charming -- and done nothing about it. He might think that makes him strong but you know, I doubt you see it that way, do you?" Blair flushed, sending Jim an appealing, apologetic look before giving Ethan a considerably harder glance. "I didn't say anything to him, either and I didn't see anything but us together, happy." "So I heard." Ethan raised an eyebrow. "I suppose you haven't quite given up hope. How sweet." "I've had enough," Jim said. "Look, buster, I'm taking you in and we're running your prints. I'm betting we find a rap sheet a mile long and I wouldn't be surprised if there were a few outstanding warrants, too." "I really doubt it." Ethan smiled. "I'm good at covering my tracks and what I do tends to be… overlooked. People are so slow to believe the evidence of their own eyes, don't you find?" He studied the fingernails on his free hand. "I'm really looking forward to you telling them how I was in your home, invisible, for almost an hour." Jim wasn't. He could already hear Simon's incredulous bellow. "I'm not letting you go." "Yes, you are." Ethan sounded bored. "I'll escape if you don't. Release me, put me in your debt, if you like, and perhaps I'll help you." "We don't need your help," Jim said. Ethan leaned back and smiled up at the ceiling. "Oh, yes, you do. Unless you know a decent cleansing ritual and a way to destroy an artifact that's been knocking around for longer than you can possibly imagine." "'Cleansing'? Are you telling me we're infected?" Jim demanded. "In a manner of speaking, yes. You might have overcome the initial attack but the effects are quite insidious. Now that you've had a taste of him, you know you'll want more and do you really want each precious moment of passion blighted by the nagging worry that you might kill him as the uh, climax to your pleasure??" Jim flushed. "That wouldn't --" "He wouldn't," Blair said, the casual, dismissive tone more convincing than anger would have been. "You don't know him. What he is or what he's capable of." "I know he's killed. Many times," Rayne replied. "And will again." "Sure. He's a cop and ex-army." Blair smiled, utterly confident. "But he wouldn't hurt me. Ever." "You say that after what he's done to you so short a time ago?" Ethan shook his head. "I can see the betrayal. Trust me; to a lover of Chaos, it screams out to be heard." "He's right, Chief," Jim said reluctantly. "I did. Alex… and then your book…" Blair rounded on him. "Have I ever said they were betrayals? Ever?" "No, not exact--" A finger poked his chest painfully. "Then don't you say it! If I feel betrayed, I'll let you know, okay? When have I ever not told you when you've pissed me off? Sure, we've had some moments… but you weren't yourself and you had your reasons and the hell with you, man." Blair whirled around to face Rayne, his face twisted with annoyance. "You don't know as much as you think and you know what? It's going to stay that way. I can whip up a cleansing ceremony that'll leave us squeaky fucking clean and as for that, that thing, I'm guessing running water will work and there's a whole bay of it right over there. We'll burn it, or melt it down, take it out in a boat and dump the ashes." "Won't work," Ethan said positively. "Then what will?" Jim demanded. Had Ethan flinched just a little as Blair had been speaking? He dialed up everything, concentrating on the man. "Blair, run down a list of things we can do to that statue to break it or whatever." "What? Oh… right." Blair closed his eyes in thought for a moment and then began to recite a list of surprisingly inventive -- some positively vicious -- ways of disposal. Jim was fond of the ones that involved Ethan in some way, while doubting that they were all physically possible. When Blair got to burning again, Ethan's heart rate spiked. "Burning." Jim nodded slowly. "Thought so. Throw it on the fire." "I don't think it's going to be that simple…" Blair began. "It would take a really hot fire, maybe special wood…We don't even know what it's made of…" "No?" Jim said. He strode over to the statue and picked it up, ignoring Blair's alarmed cry. The statue was wood; he could feel the grain. Too heavy, though… there was something in the centre, something weighing it down… "It's metal at the core," he announced, putting the statue down and repressing the urge to wipe his hand on his jeans. "Chief, don't you have a friend who makes stuff out of glass? With a furnace that gets really hot?" "Jesse, yeah…" "Oh, don't bother," Ethan said sulkily. "I can take care of it if you release me." Jim chuckled. "Cop. You really think I'll buy that?" Ethan stood, the cuff dangling from his wrist, his smile a little smug. "I told you that you couldn't keep me for long." "Shit…" Jim moved toward Ethan but Blair got there first, wrapping his arms around Ethan as the man began to chant something in a language Jim didn't know, the words crawling inside his head like scurrying beetles. Blair clapped his hand over Ethan's mouth and was sent flying as the air around Ethan suddenly burst into a cold blue fire, crackling audibly, like cat fur in a storm. "Blair!" Jim tried to get to him but the blue fire was arcing out unpredictably in thick weaving tendrils, sparks flying. One struck his hand, burning like ice and leaving a slash of blood behind. "Move and let me do this," Ethan said, his eyes black, standing straight, every muscle rigid. "Or I'll go through you." Jim went to his knees without hesitation, every instinct he had sending him there, and the tendrils merged into a thick strand, whipping out to engulf the statue and raising every hair on his body as it passed over him. There was a small, impressive explosion and Jim's coffee table was left in pieces, smoldering quietly. The statue had gone. And so, when the fire had been put out, and Jim had made sure Blair was in one piece, had Ethan Rayne. *** An hour later, damp and shivering from a shower which had run cold, Blair yelping a protest, his hands continuing to scrub at Jim's skin, they sat in a circle of candles and chalk. "You're sure this will work?" Blair had called Naomi, speaking in guarded words that had still alarmed her, and had been given a number to ring in a part of the world where it was tomorrow, something Jim had always seen as magical as a child. The woman he'd spoken to had dictated instructions in a mellow voice Jim, listening in, had found reassuring, although some of what she was saying was anything but. And now, cleaned physically, with both of them reeking of the herbs Blair had crushed into paste and daubed on them in wavering, swirling lines, they were kneeling naked in a chalked circle Jim was glumly certain would be a pain to clean off the floor. Assuming the candles didn't set the place on fire. His ears were still ringing from the frenzied squawk of the smoke alarm after Ethan's little fireworks display. "It won't if you don't let it." Blair took a slow, deliberate breath, his eyes closing. "I can feel you resisting." "I'm not resisting, I'm just…" He'd found out something about Rayne. Not much, but something. His inquiries had dead ended abruptly, as if someone had taken care to wipe the records clean. It wasn't the first time Jim had seen that happen but somehow he doubted Rayne was covert ops for any government and he sure as hell wasn't the type to be in a Witness Protection program. Not that Jim had any difficulty in seeing Rayne betray a fellow criminal but he had too much pride to vanish and from what Jim had discovered, he was using his real name. He still didn't know what the point had been behind the whole thing, nor why Ethan had, in a way, saved them. He just knew that Blair was upset to the point of withdrawal and that the need for this ritual was about all that was keeping him in the loft. Jim could understand that. He felt pretty upset himself, though none of his anger was directed at Blair and he wished he could make Blair see that. The gift might have been cursed but seen through Blair's eyes it had, right up to the end, been a representation of the two of them together. He couldn't feel unmixed gratitude because it'd shown his own limitations too clearly, leaving him half resentful, half defensive. "Blair --" "You need to be quiet, Jim." Blair didn't open his eyes but his hands, palms upturned, resting on his thighs, tensed, fingers crooking. "I can't do this until I tell you --" Blair's eyes opened, dark in the candlelight, the blue lost. "You don't need to tell me anything." "What, you can read my mind now?" "More or less. Your poker face isn't that good." "Neither is yours," Jim reminded him. "Blair, this wasn't your fault. You tried to give me something --" "That would push you somewhere you really didn't want to go," Blair interrupted. "I'm not blaming myself for putting us in danger -- I couldn't have known; fuck, I can barely believe it happened -- but if you think I was being anything but a pushy, selfish, impatient --" "That's not how I see it." Jim shifted forward, already feeling the ache in his knees. "Do we have to kneel?" he asked irritably. "I'm getting pins and needles." A flicker of amusement banished some of the bleakness on Blair's face. "You could sit cross legged." Changing positions, uncomfortably certain that he'd been giving Blair a lot of new territory to look at, Jim continued. "He was right. Eth--" "Don't say his name in the circle," Blair warned him. "Names have power." "Yeah, right," Jim muttered. "Okay. No names. But he was still right. I was the weak spot, not you. I was the one who didn't have the guts to tell you how I felt when I realised there was something to feel." "Just out of curiosity…" "A really long time ago, Chief. Really long." Jim tried to think back, but he couldn't pin it down. Hell, it might have been that first day. Blair had gotten to him from the start, annoying, persistent, elusive, there. In his face. In his home, his life, and, yeah, though he'd never say it, his heart. And now, maybe, his bed. Which wasn't as inevitable as it seemed, no matter what they'd both been feeling, because hell, it would complicate things so damn much… "You don't have to. We can go back to the way we were yesterday." "Mind reader and time traveler? You're a man of many talents." Jim gave him a regretful smile. "You know we can't. And I don't want to." "And it's all about what you want." There was enough bitterness in that to make him wince, but he welcomed it in a way. He deserved a few digs and Blair wasn't likely to pass on the opportunity to deliver them. The man was human, after all. "No. Or it shouldn't be. I don't want it to be." Jim reached out, sliding his hand into Blair's. "We can try something new. If you want?" Blair's hand tightened. "Oh, I want. I'm just not sure you do." "Then I'll make you see just how sure I am." Jim let Blair see him staring openly, his gaze drifting down Blair's body, appreciative, admiring. Wanting. "Can we do this cleansing when we're thinking about sex?" The soft, unassuming curl of Blair's cock began to thicken and swell, matching Jim's own evident arousal. "I don't know. The only other time I did anything similar to this I was nine and it wasn't really an issue." "Nine?" Jim questioned, wondering what the hell had happened to that younger Blair. "I'll tell you later," Blair said. "Right now, we need to do this, Jim. I can feel it on us, sinking in… We're still poisoned, man. We have to get it out of us." His grip became painfully tight. "Forget about fucking me. Forget about wanting me, hating me, loving me, all of it." "I don't --" "Sometimes you do. I've brought a lot of changes to your life and you don't deal well with that. But it doesn't matter. You're a Sentinel, Jim. You've got powers of your own and you're connected to the earth in ways he isn't. Chaos. Yeah, that's part of the whole, it's needed, it's even good, but your roots go deeper. Follow them. Do it. Do it --" Now. Blair's final word echoed in a familiar place, the blue-lit jungle Jim no longer felt surprised to see. He was in his animal form now, sleek and black, feeling the rough scratch of dirt and stone under his paws and snuffing at rich air, ripe with decaying vegetation and brimful of new life. He set out along a trail a human wouldn't have recognized as such; a sinuous winding between trees and bushes, leaves brushing against his fur like dry fingers. He could smell the wolf and the scent called to him, a confusing mix of prey and mate. He wanted to catch the wolf, here in his territory, his domain, but after that… he wasn't sure. And overhead, watching, cawing in a thoughtful cackle, was a bird, blue-black feathers glossy, head tilted in an inquiring, impudent question. It wasn't real. He knew that. Knew that all of this was a construction, symbols, jumbled and often as sense-free as dreams. Knowing that helped and hindered him. He could almost hear the husky growl of Blair's voice urging him to let go… immerse himself… but an innate caution held him back. Find the wolf. He padded on silent, heavy paws into a clearing with a pond and the tree from the statue close by. The wolf turned from drinking, tongue lolling out, fur sprinkled with water, a low growl rumbling through his chest, one the cat answered with a howl, territorial and possessive. But it wasn't directed at the wolf. The bird was swooping down between them, larger than it had seemed when in the trees, its beak curved and sharp, powerful talons raking the air. He leaped up, paws slashing the air, and got nothing but a soft, mocking caw of amusement from the bird. The wolf was growling louder now, a continuous warning that left him unsettled. Pacing, his head tilted up, he eyed the taunting bird, the interloper, looking for a weakness. The wolf shimmered into Blair, dressed in his usual jeans and layered shirts, hands loose at his side. "Jim… he's not going to let you catch him. He's the Trickster, the Loki. He's the ultimate con-artist and you can't beat him." Blair stared at him. "He's not who you need to fight." He shook his head, baring his teeth, feeling his tail lash angrily. The bird. All his fault. All of it… "Look, Jim. Look." The persuasive voice Blair used was too familiar to ignore no matter what form he was in. And when Blair walked over to him, sliding his hand fearlessly into the thick, dense fur at the base of the cat's skull, he let the man lead him to the pool. "See?" Blair asked gently. "That's always who you have the most problems with." He watched the reflection in the water change to his human face and batted irritably at it with his paw, shaking the water from it and growling as the image remained in the rippled, disturbed water. "Yeah, it'd be nice if it was that easy." Blair sounded amused. "Jim, I'm here and I think we're sharing this vision but ultimately, this is your place, man. I'm a guest, just like I am in the rest of your life." No. There was something really wrong if Blair still thought that but like this Jim couldn't tell him… With a grunt of effort, he willed himself into human form, feeling a disconcerting dizziness as his awareness of his surroundings shifted to accommodate the change. Humans experienced the world differently. He tended to forget that. "You're not a guest." He put his hands on Blair's shoulders and felt the shiver that ran through Blair as if it was his own response. "You're part of my life." Easy to say it here… "I know that." "No, Chief, I don't think you do." He hesitated. "Will we remember this?" Blair grinned. "You always ask me like I know this stuff." "If you don't, no one does." "Well, I don't." Blair shrugged, not enough to dislodge Jim's grip; in fact it felt more like a sensual shift of his muscles as if Blair was enjoying the weight and contact of Jim's hands. "We did last time. You usually do, right?" "How would I know if I didn't?" He thought it was a reasonable question but Blair rolled his eyes and groaned. "I just… if I say this once it's going to be a miracle, Chief. I'm not sure I could do it again." "If you don't remember, you won't know you did and if you say it again, it will be the first time," Blair pointed out. Jim gave him a pained look. "That's just a little too metaphysical for me." "So talk." "I don't… I don't know what to say." Jim felt foolish and verging on desperate. An annoyingly derisive squawk from the forgotten bird didn't help. "What the hell is he doing here?" "I don't know." Blair moved closer, slipping his arm around Jim's waist and joining him in staring at the bird. "I think he's still watching." "You want to see us fight?" Jim said, addressing the bird. "Not going to happen. You want to see us die? Not going to happen, either." "Jim…" Blair murmured. "We're here to cleanse ourselves." "Yeah, so?" "There's a pool of water right there." "You want us to take a swim?" Blair nodded. "It feels reasonable." "I'm not getting naked in front of that bird," Jim said flatly. "I, ah, don't think he's going away." "I could --" "No, Jim." Blair stopped him as he bent down to scoop up a rock. "I really don't think that's a good idea. And I still think the barrier is your own issues and doubts. About me, I guess." "You don't like that, do you?" "Being the source of so much confusion and stress?" Blair pursed his lips and then grinned mischievously. "Uh, maybe. A little? I kind of get off on knowing I have that much effect on you." "You would, you son of a bitch," Jim said without heat. "Well, you do. But not for much longer." "Whoa." Blair stepped back, his hands up. "Jim, don't do anything hasty, here." "I just mean, I'm not confused. Not now." Blair arched his eyebrow skeptically. "Come on, Jim. This is you we're talking about. I've seen you take ten minutes to choose a breakfast cereal in the supermarket; you're telling me you've decided to give us in a relationship a try in the space of a few hours?" Jim considered that and then shrugged. "Sure. A few hours… plus a few years. Dammit, Sandburg, just go with it, will you?" "Then get naked and in that pool." Blair crossed his arms over his chest, his feet --bare, Jim noticed suddenly -- planted firmly in the thick grass. "And once you're in there, I have a feeling we're going to be doing more than splash." "You want to have sex in a vision?" Jim blinked at him. "While our real bodies are back in the loft?" "This is real, too." Blair reached out and slapped Jim's arm, hard enough to sting. "See? It's a different version of real, that's all." "You couldn't have proved it a less painful way?" Jim grumbled, rubbing at his arm. "I'll kiss it better any time you want." Blair looked at him without the flirtatious, easy charm Jim had seen him use a score of times before, his expression calm, his voice forceful. "I'll kiss you from head to fucking toe, Jim, if that's what you want. There's nothing I wouldn't do if you asked. There's nothing I wouldn't let you do to me, either, just so we're clear." "That's a lot of trust there, Chief." "You've earned it." "I don't know how." "I do." Blair nodded at the pool. "Enough talking, Jim. It's time to end this." Jim gave the watching bird a final glare, daring it to squawk again, and started to strip off his clothes before deciding not to bother doing it the hard way. Hell, it was his vision, wasn't it? He stepped toward the pool, giving Blair's naked ass an appreciative, sidelong stare, and was bare by the time his feet struck the warm water. Blair waded in waist-deep and then gave a whoop of laughter and dived forward, splashing Jim as it was definitely more of a belly-flop. Jim watched him swim under water for a few yards and then surface way too far away, his hair sleeked back, dark and heavy. Water coursed down, over his chest, over his belly and down, the rivulets tracing patterns over skin Jim had never touched, never tasted, leaving the hair flattened against the smooth skin, Blair's nipples tight and hard. Jim swam over to him, not taking his eyes off Blair, and then got to his feet. The water lapped against him, gentle smacks as the water settled. He ran his hand through it, then caught up a scoop of water in his cupped palms and let it spill out over Blair's head, making sure it didn't get in his eyes. He repeated the gesture, pouring the water over Blair's shoulders, his back, circling him as he stood silently, watching the clear liquid splash and cling and run in droplets and streams over Blair's skin. He was hard without caring about it. He couldn't be this close to Blair, this aware of his body without being aroused, but it wasn't important. "I have to get you clean," he murmured, gathering more water, more, seeing Blair shiver, his skin roughening as it cooled. "Am I?" Blair asked, breaking his silence. "Look at me, Jim. Am I clean? Are you?" Jim came back around to face Blair, taking a step back and studying him. If he closed his eyes just a little, focused just right… He could see Blair's skin glow, but there were dark spots still… Without thinking about it, he leaned in and put his mouth on one, in the hollow of Blair's collarbone, licking at the cool, wet skin, tasting the emptiness of the water and the richness of Blair's scent. Blair moaned softly. "That feels… God, it almost hurts but it feels good…" Jim pulled back. He'd left a red mark, but the darkness was gone. He let his gaze wander. There… and there… He fell to his knees, sucking hard at the places his senses told him were stained, random scattered flaws on Blair's body. He couldn't see a pattern; they weren't all in places he would have normally kissed; some, like the one in Blair's armpit left Blair squirming, even kicking out, as Jim's mouth fastened hungrily onto sensitive flesh. And the heavy fullness of Blair's balls and cock were clean which left Jim feeling almost cheated until he moved around, lying in the water, and found that he had a final place to deal with in the center of Blair's left cheek. Ducking underwater and ignoring Blair's pained yelp, he grinned and damn near chewed the skin clean, leaving it scarlet. "That's going to bruise," Blair told him. "I wanted it to." "Is this some primal, Sentinel --?" "No." Jim splashed Blair with a final handful of water and glared at him. "It's just me, okay?" "Fine," Blair said. "You're kinky and possessive. I get it. I like it. As long as you stay away from the ticklish bits." Jim quirked his eyebrow. "You have ticklish bits, Chief? Can't say that I noticed, so if I hit some by accident…" The look Blair gave him told him that he wasn't going to be getting away with that. "What about you?" Blair licked his lips, doing it deliberately enough that Jim noticed and reacted just as he was supposed to, with a dull, sweet ache of lust in his balls. "Where do you need some TLC?" Nowhere, from what Jim could see of himself. He had a feeling that just walking into the water had been enough for him; that had been a huge deal although Blair probably hadn't realized it. "Oh, let's see…" He frowned and tapped his chest, an inch away from his right nipple, figuring that was safe. "There." "You're cheating." There wasn't an ounce of doubt in Blair's voice. "Totally lying to me." "Chief," Jim protested. "As if I would." Blair grinned. "I didn't say I minded." He ducked his head and gave the indicated place a swirling lick of a bite. "And I didn't say I wouldn't play. But are you sure?" "I'm sure," Jim told him. "And since I'm busted…" He tapped his mouth. "Here. Please?" "Oh, man, you just…" Blair ended the game before it had began, wrapping himself around Jim; arms and one leg, his foot rubbing along the back of Jim's calf, his hands caressing Jim's back and ass. "Going to take care of it," he said against Jim's lips. "Going to…" The kiss was perfect this time. Jim didn't think that was necessarily going to carry over to the real world -- although they'd been getting the hang of it, definitely -- but he didn't care. Something to aim at was good and this was just… oh, yeah. Blair tasted… right. Blair's spit was fucking turning him on which was a whole new level of disturbing. And the soft fur of his chest hair, rubbing against Jim's smoother chest was, too. And the noises he was making, encouraging, appreciative murmurs deep in his throat. And Blair's fingernails, God, they were driving him insane, scratching and digging in and perfect, perfect… "I'm going to come from kissing you," he muttered against Blair's hair, wet and cool and tucked behind an ear he'd licked and bitten until the skin was hot and pink. "And you'll never respect me again." "You got that right." "Really?" Jim pulled back to look down at him with as close as he could get to what he called Blair's puppy dog eyes. He obviously needed to practice because Blair snickered heartlessly. "Jim, you come before I even touch your dick --" "You are touching it." Jim shimmied his hips, feeling the head of his cock slip-side across Blair's belly which was as close to self-inflicted torture as he'd ever gotten. "See?" "That doesn't count." "It counts, Sandburg, believe me, it's counting." "So this isn't going to take long?" Jim groaned, feeling Blair's fingers trace a maddeningly indirect path from his ass to his stomach. "Not if you keep doing that." "I'm hardly doing anything." "I know. It doesn't matter." "You're too easy." "I won't be for ever," Jim warned him. "I'll be exacting, fussy, picky as hell, hard to please…" "Can't wait." "But right now, I'm gonna blow as soon as you touch me." "Thought I was…" Blair's hand dropped, circled, clutched and dragged in a mercilessly loving caress. Jim came before Blair finished his sentence, feeling Blair huddle closer, moving against him with an urgency that showed how near he'd been himself to a climax which followed Jim's within moments, Blair's teeth finding Jim's shoulder, his body jerking and rigid. The clear water was clouded briefly, come spreading in opaque filaments through it and then dissipating. Jim held Blair to him and let Blair hold him up, until they were leaning like fallen trees, a fragile, co-existing balance. The bird was cawing somewhere overhead, flying away, the beat of his wings loud in Jim's ears. Blair was panting, soft, harsh gasps, his chest heaving, his hands moving over Jim's back in quick, stuttering strokes. "Sshh…" Blair was solid and real and Jim wanted to tell him he loved him, while he still could, before they went back to a world where it wasn't something he'd be likely to say easily, but he wanted Blair with him again, not lost in sensation. "I've got you, Blair." "Always do, man. Always do." Blair lifted his head, his eyes hazy but clearing. "Love you." "I was going to say that." "I'm not stopping you." Jim chewed the inside of his cheek, feeling the indentations there. He did that too much. And he had to hurry. He still kissed Blair first before he said it, though. He had to hurry, but it didn't mean he was going to rush it. Not his style. And he was going to remember this, and if Blair forgot, he was going to tell him. Over and over, until it was clear and settled between them, like the water they stood in.

Love, Interrupted. A Sable & April AU Nc-17 by The Fox Los cascos del potro cibernético resonaron en el empedrado del patio, como si el contraste entre moderno y anticuado quisiera hacer su presencia notoria con un toque de clarín. El castillo en los Highlands de Scotia, había sido construido hacía muchas más generaciones que las que habían sido capaces de poner a los seres humanos en el espacio: y dominando el lago, sus tejados puntiagudos y sus almenas orgullosas relucían en un magnífico atardecer de oro, que hubiera podido ser la imagen de un libro de historia de no ser por el potro cibernético- y su jinete- que cruzaba el patio con paso veloz y la amplia sonrisa de quien se sabe bienvenido. El héroe de una guerra observó al jinete subir la amplia escalinata, tomando los peldaños de dos en dos, una cola de cabello rubio escapándose del cuello del pesado abrigo de gamuza café. Llevaba botas, un sweater verde brillante abajo y unos gruesos pantalones de pana, y se soltó la cola de caballo que llevaba sujeta, liberando una marea de cabello que relució a la luz del sol. El dueño del castillo, héroe y High Lord de Scotia sonrió, dirigiéndose a la puerta del estudio. Sin embargo lo pensó mejor y volvió a su sillón, echándose allí, una pierna sobre el brazo del sillón y la camisa seductoramente abierta, para luego poner los ojos en blanco y volver a su posición original, un libro en su regazo, repantingado cómodamente. - Hola, qué hay de comer?- fue el saludo de su ex colega, la navegante de Ramrod y vieja amiga del High Lord, la general April Eagle, de civil June Crowley Hunter. El Jinete Sable, Almirante de la Confederación, Eward McKenzie Greysthwwalthry, cerró su libro y observó a la vibrante, sonrojada joven mujer que cruzó la habitación en dos zancadas y se dejó caer, aún sin aliento, en el sofá frente al suyo. - Hola, April. Me alegra verte.- dijo Sable sonriendo.- Veo que tuviste un buen viaje.- - Pésimo. Se está armando una tormenta estelar: Nova y yo fuimos las últimas en pasar antes de que cierren el espacio atmosférico... no sé para qué me llamaste, pero más vale que me ofrezcas una cama, porque no podría pasar esa tormenta ni con Ramrod.- - No te preocupes. Hay veintitrés habitaciones en este castillo, y además, yo duermo solo.- dijo el antiguo héroe, con una sonrisa maliciosa. Pero la joven, que había encontrado la bandeja con los restos de la merienda del High Lord, estaba ocupada comiéndose la mermelada de ciruelas caseras a cucharadas. - Me gusta dormir contigo: eres calentito.- dijo April con tal inocencia, los labios rojos de ciruela, que Sable se sintió desarmado. - Deja esa mermelada, llamaré que te traigan algo... estás muerta de hambre.- - Famélica. La comida en el transbordador era guiso de legumbres, pero no el que hace Colt: era repulsivo... y las galletas eran saladas, así que planeaba comer en Edimburgo cuando llegara, pero estaba todo lleno y al fin preferí tomar a Nova y venirme de inmediato... oye, esta mermelada está muy buena...- Sable le quitó el pote de dulce.- basta, no más azúcar en tu estómago vacío, primero una comida caliente y decente...- - Ma zuca, papi.- - No.- dijo Sable, agitando una campanilla de plata.- Reginald, prepárale una comida a la señorita, y algo de sopa para mí. Cenaremos en el cenador particular, luego iremos a la sala pequeña: prepárale también el cuarto azul.- - Sí, Milord. Puedo expresar la alegría que me invade al verla sana, salva y aquí con nosotros, señorita April?- dijo el anticuado mayordomo, que había ayudado a criar a Sable y ahora lo servía con la dedicación que sólo alguien de su clase podía aspirar. - Gracias, Reginald.- dijo April gentilmente. Luego, se sentó más cerca del fuego, frotándose las manos y estirando los pies a la candente chimenea. - Helada y hambrienta. Afortunadamente, puedo curar ambas cosas.- dijo Sable al verla suspirar de placer al sentir el calor.- Cómo están las cosas en Jared?- April lo miró, antes de volverse al fuego y ponerse todo el cabello en un hombro, con un gesto disciplente.- Renuncié.- - Qué?- - Renuncié. Estaba harta.- - Tanto te acosó Randolph?- - Hasta acá llegó el rumor?- - April, perdona que te lo diga, pero no ha sido precisamente discreto. Sobre todo si Randolph sigue dando entrevistas sobre sus sentimientos por ti, de cinco páginas, en toda revista del corazón que se deje.- April bufó, la cabeza en las manos.- Por favor, no me lo recuerdes... cuando vi la portada de Frontopolitan me quería matar...- - La de "Passionate Prince, The Incoming Warrioress Wedding?"- Sable sonreía, con muy poca burla y más bien alivio.- En donde te sugerían un vestido de novia con tirantes, vuelos, fruncido, relleno, campanitas de oro y tiara con velo de diez metros?- - Me sugirieron relleno? Qué se han creído?!- - Sí. E hicieron una votación para el Best Man. Debo reconocer que llamé diez mil veces, así gané la encuesta por sobre Fire, Colt, Jessie Blue y Scrape.- - Sable, cállate, o meto la cabeza en la chimenea.- - Por favor... el olor a pelo quemado...- Sable rió.- Fue lo único por lo que dejaste ese maldito cargo?- - Tú me aconsejaste que lo tomara!- - No sabía que Randolph descendería a acosarte todo el santo día. Y pensé que el rey te daría más apoyo.- - Apoyo? Querían tenerme como elemento decorativo. Si no me dejan reorganizar su ejército, pues que se las arreglen solos, tengo mejores cosas que hacer.- dijo ella estirándose, al fin ya en calor, y dejándose caer cuan larga era en el amplio sofá. Sable se levantó y se sentó junto a ella, interesado, apoyándose en el respaldo. - Mejores cosas? Qué, te vas a hacer Hare Khrishna?- preguntó. Al no obtener respuesta, se acercó otro poco.- Está bien, me alegra que lo hayas dejado. La verdad, te llamé porque quería... quería hablar contigo. Tengo algo que...- April lo miró, y de pronto sonrió. - Qué?- - Nunca te había visto con tan poca ropa.- Sable se sonrojó, echándose atrás, y bajándose el kilt con un gesto maquinal. Era cierto que no llevaba nada más que calcetines escoceses altos, kilt tablado y una camisa blanca muy delgada y desabrochada hasta la mitad del pecho, que se abotonó de inmediato. - Me has visto en traje de baño.- - Es diferente. Te ves sexy: es como la edición Scotia de Playgirl.- dijo April, echándose a reír. Sable se bajó el kilt todo lo posible, hasta que le cubrió las rodillas por completo: el atuendo en otro hombre podría haberse visto estúpido, pero Sable, que había llevado kilt de la infancia, se había visto relajado y cómodo, y con un cuerpo como el suyo, muy apuesto, hasta ahora, que estaba rojo. - Qué me ibas a decir?- dijo April, repantingándose más, disfrutando del calor. -... vete a la...- - Anda, dime... prometo no molestarte más por el kilt.- - Está bien.- Sable tomó aire.- Te llamé porque...- - La cena está servida, Milord Eward.- dijo Reginald de la puerta. - bien!- dijo April, saltando del sofá y dirigiéndose al comedor. Sable le echó una mirada atravesada a Reginald, pero podría haberla dirigido con más efecto a un macetero, porque Reginald la aguantó sin inmutarse. - No tu mejor timming.- le soltó. - Lo siento, señor. Lamentablemente, el timming depende de la señal para entrar en escena.- - Eso fue un sarcasmo?- - En absoluto, señor. Después de todo lo que la señorita April y usted han enfrentado, sin embargo, estoy seguro que podrá superar los obstáculos de timming.- - Eso fue otro sarcasmo?- - Sable, si no vienes, me como tu pavo!- resonó la voz de April, que ya se había instalado en el cenador. - ...Ya voy. Y cómete las verduras primero.- Llamó Sable, haciendo sonreír a Reginald. - Si, mamá.- - Un dedo más... un poquito más... Sableciiito...- - No seas golosa.- Sable cerró la botella y la dejó a un costado, mientras April observaba con ojo crítico la copa curva llena hasta la mitad de auténtico brandy escocés.- Estás muy delgada, y nunca has tenido un gran aguante para el alcohol.- - Y qué? Este brandy es rico. Y si me emborracho, me llevas en brazos a la cama, hoy no tengo que manejar.- April olfateó su brandy con una sonrisa, notando que Sable se servía lo mismo que ella, pero de whisky.- Además que me merezco que me mimes... Randolph y el rey casi me vuelven loca.- - Tentador como suena tenerte ebria a mi merced, prefiero que estés sobria para discutir el porqué te llamé.- - No era que me echaras de menos?- April bebió un poco, tosió, se aclaró la garganta y rió.- Está fuerte...- - Es auténtico Scotia, por supuesto que es fuerte.- dijo Sable, agitando una mano.- Te llamé porque...- - Has visto a Colt?- -... sí. La semana pasada vino con Ewie. Los demás niños están con Robin en Westmine, pero ella prometió dejarlos venir a pasar el verano acá: espero que tú también vengas, porque Fire va a venir con Sylia.- - Espero venir.- dijo ella, la vista en su copa. Se había quitado el abrigo, pero aún estaba muy abrigada. Su gesto se hizo pensativo, y Sable la miró, allí cómodamente acodada en el sofá, las piernas recogidas, el cabello descuidadamente suelto, satisfecha, calentita y algo soñolienta, y por primera vez en tanto tiempo, completamente a salvo. - Me gusta verte así.- - Ah?- - Te ves... tan tranquila.- - Dejar Jared era todo lo necesitaba. No sé que voy a hacer con mi vida ahora: el Comando me ofreció un puesto de ingeniera bifásica arregla-líos en el Comando, pero no sé si tomarlo, va a ser uno de los 24-7...- - pensé que ibas a descansar un poco.- - Me gustaría hacer algunas investigaciones en Yuma University, sobre fusión trinaria...tal vez pueda enseñar algo.- April no parecía nada segura.- Es una opción.- - Pero qué es lo que quieres hacer, April? De veras. No suenas muy entusiasta.- - La verdad? Creo que estoy algo confundida. Tal vez me tome unas vacaciones primero: hace mucho que no tengo vacaciones.- - Podrías quedarte aquí.- dijo Sable en voz baja mirándola. - De vacaciones? Te lo agradezco: aprovecharé un par de semanas tu hospitalidad si no es molestia, luego iré a molestar a Fire y hay un concierto en Yuma de Line que quiero...- - Me refería a permanentemente.- dijo Sable muy serio.- April...- - No crees que Scotia queda un poco lejos de Yuma?- dijo April moviendo la cabeza, con voz ligera.- Además, qué va a pensar la futura lady Greyswwalthry si se entera que vivo acá? Como no me ponga delantal de ama de llaves...- - No hay ninguna futura lady.- dijo Sable, moviendo la cabeza.- April...- April se levantó, dejando su copa en la chimenea, y buscó su bolso, del que sacó una caja de madera tallada. - Me olvidaba. Mira lo que te traje: lo encontré en un mercado de antigüedades en Boreal. Y lo vendían bastante caro: espero que te guste.- dijo sonriendo. Sable se enderezó para abrirlo, y emitió una exclamación de sorpresa: era la empuñadura de un sable cibernético, rota, pero en la que aún eran obvios el trabajo de sobredorado en el puño, el código impreso, y la hoja de adamantium aún brillaba rota. - Es mi antiguo sable, el que perdí en la zona de vapor! April, cómo...?- - Ni idea. Pensé que te gustaría recuperarlo, aunque esté roto: después de todo, es con ese que apuñalaste a Nemesis. Algún día será una reliquia de tu casa, no crees? " Éste el sable que el abuelito usó para matar al villano de otra dimensión! Ooooh!" Si ya oigo a tus nietos...- Sable se echó a reír.- Cálmate con los nietos: no tengo ni hijos todavía...- - Ya los tendremos.- dijo April sonriendo.- Jugarán juntos, y nadarán en tu lago y harán desastres con tu cristalería.- - Obviamente jugarán juntos.- dijo Sable, mirándola.- O si no les pegaré, si no juegan con sus hermanitos.- añadió, intentando descifrar la frase de April. Pero ella rió, moviendo la cabeza. - Me gustaría que crecieran juntos, y se quisieran como hermanos.- dijo con un curioso suspiro.- Me alegra que te haya gustado!- agregó, volviendo a animarse.- Cuando lo ví, pensé en ti de inmediato. Además, ya va a ser tu cumpleaños- - Gracias, April.- Sable dejó con reverencia la caja sobre la chimenea.- Es un tesoro para mí.- - Ya sabes. "Forjarán de nuevo la espada rota..." - citó April.- Cómo era? "De las cenizas surgirá un fuego... "- - " Y una luz surgirá de las tinieblas: el descoronado será de nuevo rey, forjarán de nuevo la espada rota"- Sable sonrió, y de pronto se sentó a su lado, mirándola a los ojos, y continuó con otra cita.- Pero yo no soy un rey.- - me alegro, si Randolph es un botón de muestra.- dijo April ácidamente.- Y yo no deseo ser una reina.- agregó, continuando la cita en broma. Pero antes de que Sable respondiera, se levantó, bebió un poco más de su copa, y se volvió a él con una sonrisa. – Tienes algo nuevo para escuchar? Yo traje el nuevo disco de Lilah, no sé si lo tienes ya...- Sable se puso de pie de golpe. Dio dos pasos, y mirando fijamente a April, su rostro se endureció. - Suficiente. Llevo toda la noche tratando de decirte algo, así que siéntate y cállate de una vez. Y no me interrumpas. – April se quedó boquiabierta, pero una mirada amenazante de Sable bastó para ocupara el sillón en silencio, su copa en la mesita del lado, tan semejante a una escolar regañada que Sable casi sonrió. - Okay...- Él se aclaró la voz, y finalmente habló, apoyado en la chimenea, mirándola.- la guerra ha terminado. Y llevo varios años esperando que terminara para decirte esto.- dijo Sable, su espalda asumiendo una rigidez militar.– Siempre me sorprendió que fuéramos tan parecidos: es como si fuéramos gemelos o algo así. Tú me entiendes mejor que nadie en el universo, y creo que nadie puede conocerte y entenderte como yo, April. No hay nada en ti que no me conmueva, y creo que nos complementamos muy bien. Tú eres flexible donde yo soy rígido, y...- April reventó de risa. Sable se volteó indignado. - Maldita sea! SACA TU MENTE DE LA ALCANTARILLA! Estoy tratando de decirte algo importante, eres una...- April tuvo tal ataque de risa que se sepultó en los cojines. Sable se dejó caer en el sofá opuesto, los brazos cruzados, completamente irritado. - Que te zurzan. Se acabó, no hablo contigo hoy, estás insoportable.- - No te enojes... Sable...- April se secó los ojos.- Es que la frase era... ay, Sable...- añadió, levantándose.- Me dio algo de sueño: me llevas a mi habitación?- - Eso es un no, verdad?- dijo Sable en voz baja. - No se de qué...- - Prefiero un no claro y conciso a que trates de evitar esta conversación, April. No quiero ser Randolph y que huyas de mí: si es no, prefiero saberlo y te dejaré en paz para que sigamos siendo amigos. Pero necesito saberlo.- April suspiró. Luego se volvió, y toda risa se había ido de su rostro.- No creo que estemos destinados a estar juntos, Sable.- - Yo no creo en el destino.- dijo él levantándose también.- April, no quieres que estemos juntos?- Ella movió la cabeza.- hace diez años, en la guerra, hubiera dado cualquier cosa para que me dijeras esto. Pero ya es muy tarde, Sable. Hemos cambiado... y no creo que ninguno de los dos esté listo para esto nunca.- - Yo lo estoy. Más listo de lo que nunca estaré. Al menos dame una oportunidad, April. Puedo ofrecerte un hogar, una familia... no quieres eso?- susurró Sable dulcemente, tomándole las manos.- Si me quisiste... no queda nada para mí?- - Ha pasado demasiado.- dijo ella en voz baja: no lo miraba. - Hay alguien más?- la voz de Sable se hizo suave.- April, llevo tanto tiempo soñando con esto... crees que era fácil en la guerra sentirte respirando en la habitación del lado cada noche, y ansiando esa respiración en mi almohada?- - Tú eras tan fuerte.- dijo April, moviendo la cabeza.- Yo no era tan fuerte, y te necesitaba.- - Si fui fuerte era porque pensaba en ti. Si luché sin parar esos años, era porque cuando estaba agotado, o desesperado, o exhausto, pensaba en ti y en la posguerra juntos y tenía fuerzas...- el susurro de Sable perdió algo de su suavidad, haciéndose áspero.- Dame una oportunidad.- April, las mejillas como sangre, los ojos húmedos, movió la cabeza.- No. No es esto lo que yo quería. Te quería libre, y salvaje como en esos años: no quiero a un Lord, ni un castillo... te quería, entonces, cuando éramos libres y valientes... pero no quiero un matrimonio de conveniencia, ni una amistad... perdóname.- - Crees que no te amo?- susurró Sable, su voz ronca.- April, yo...- - No.- - Bésame al menos, y luego dime que no.- la voz de Sable fue demandante cuando de pronto, sin aviso, le apartó el cabello de la cara y sujetándole la cabeza con ambas manos hundió su boca en la suya. April hizo un gemido ahogado de protesta y sorpresa, pero luego su cuerpo se aflojó contra el de Sable cuando la boca de él se dilató, su lengua penetrando la boca de ella, reclamando dominio de cada rincón hasta enredarse en la suya y barrer su paladar con una presión húmeda y apasionada. April gimió de nuevo, y Sable le respondió con un bajo gruñido, sus manos bajando a su cintura para presionarla contra algo que el kilt no podía disimular. - Sable... por favor suéltame... no puedo más...- - Se siente eso como un matrimonio de conveniencia?- ronroneó Sable, hundiendo la boca en su cuello. April clavó los dedos en sus hombros, sorprendida cuando él la apretó más contra sí y dejó escapar un gruñido bajo completamente lascivo. - Sable!- - El hecho que me haya aguantado tanto no significa que no pensara en ti de esta forma. Te amo, y te respeto, y amo tu cerebro, tu alma, tu corazón... lo que no significa que no me haya puesto aceite de bebé en la mano y no haya fingido que mi mano era tu sexo apretándome, mordiéndome los puños para que no me oyeras...- April se quedó boquiabierta, mirándolo. Y luego, de repente, se echó atrás, le abrió la camisa de un tirón, y empujándolo al sillón se lanzó en un ataque descontrolado del cuello y los hombros de Sable, sus manos finas bajando codiciosas por sus pectorales, su vientre, su cintura, sus jadeos algo completamente sorpresivo. Sable emitió un gruñido al sentir su lengua en el cuello, cerca de su oído, sus besos fervorosos en el pecho, el tirón con que al fin le quitó el kilt y la breve prenda de ropa debajo, y cómo al fin se arrodilló, besándolo en el vientre y más abajo, quitándole los calcetines escoceses hasta dejarlo desnudo como Dios lo echó al mundo en el sofá, en el mismo momento en que lo hacía lanzar un fuerte gemido al sentir su boca y sus manos llegando allí. - Cada vez que te herían...- susurró ella, su boca en una cicatriz cerca del hueso de la cadera.- Quería matarlos por herirte... por herir lo que sentía mío... Sable...- añadió hambrienta, su voz cargada de tanto deseo que Sable sintió su sexo dar un sacudón bajo su mano, mientras ella inclinaba la cabeza y su cabello lo rozaba, sedoso y tibio... - E... espera... April, espera!- jadeó.- Espera!- añadió, tomándola por los hombros, viendo en shock sus pupilas dilatadas, sus mejillas rojas. Dónde estaba la risueña joven de hacía una hora, la confundida, triste joven de hacía quince minutos? April estaba ardiendo de pasión, los ojos oscuros, los labios rojos: cuando la apartó, ella le echó la mirada del tigre al que le quitan su cena.- Me estoy sintiendo como el pavo de navidad... yo también quiero acariciarte...- dijo él con suavidad, levantándola al sillón con él. - Déjame hacerlo.- susurró ella inesperadamente.- Deseé tanto hacerlo que casi puedo sentir tu sabor...- jadeó ásperamente. Sable la miró boquiabierto, y tuvo que parpadear antes de casi venirse a su sólo tono de voz. - Si haces eso, no te serviré de nada más adelante...- April lo tocó, como si no pudiera dar crédito a sus ojos al verlo desnudo. - Eres tan hermoso.- susurró, su voz llena de adoración.- Sable, me quieres? De veras me quieres? No es sólo que nos conozcamos, que me quieras como amiga, que...- Sable emitió un gruñido, y le quitó la chaqueta, el sweater y un polerón, todo de una vez. Debajo había más ropa. - Pero... si eres como pelar una cebolla...- Sable empezó a reírse tras la tercera camiseta.- llevas un cinturón de castidad, encima?- - Soy más friolenta que tú.- dijo April, sonrojada, ocupada en acariciarle el pecho.- Sable... estás seguro de esto?- - Si tú no lo estás, esperaré... no mucho... pero esperaré.- dijo Sable, deteniéndose ante lo que parecía la última camiseta. April calló, y Sable se detuvo, acariciándole los hombros. Pero luego ella habló, y llevó sus labios a los de él, mientras las manos de Sable descendían a su cinturón. - Si tú quieres... quiero estar contigo.- susurró ella, besándolo y acariciándolo sin parar, sus ojos sin detenerse bajando y subiendo por su cuerpo, como si nunca hubiera visto un hombre desnudo. Sable se estremeció ante el hambre de sus ojos, un hambre que jamás le había visto: un hambre que era por él, sólo por él, y que había estado oculta tanto tiempo, demasiado tiempo. Le desabrochó el pantalón de gruesa mezclilla, y poniéndola de pie se lo quitó despacio, para encontrarse con medias debajo. Con algo que parecía una risa le ayudó a quitárselas, y al fin April se quedó frente a él, en ropa interior, calcetines de encaje y camiseta blanca sobre su sostén, él completamente desnudo. Ella caminó a su alrededor, observándolo, sus manos acariciándolo. Sable aguantó todo lo que pudo, antes de tomarle las manos y quitarle la camiseta, enseñando su discreto sostén de encaje blanco cubriendo su pecho, que podía ser una indulgente copa B, pero le envió un golpe eléctrico a sus genitales de inmediato en cuanto lo tuvo a la vista. - Anhelaba verte así.- susurró April, sin dejar de besarle el cuello, adorándolo con manos y boca. Finalmente, Sable tuvo suficiente, y sujetándola la tendió en el sofá, colocándose sobre ella y arrojando los cojines al suelo con un gesto violento, inclinándose sobre ella mientras se apoyaba en una mano y la otra iba a su mejilla. - Se acabó la exhibición de tu semental. Estás oficialmente en mi poder, April Eagle, y esta vez vas a obedecer todas mi órdenes, todos mis deseos, y todos mis bajos instintos. Así que no te resistas, ni trates de negociar, porque he esperado tanto esto que cuando acabemos necesitarás suero intravenoso.- - Tú no tienes bajos instintos.- dijo April riendo cuando Sable se tendió sobre ella y empezó a besarle el rostro, y luego los hombros, con húmedos, largos besos. - Cómo le llamas a esto?- sugirió él, antes de clavarle los dientes en el cuello. April gritó, pero no se resistió, máxime cuando los dientes de Sable se deslizaron, justo en el punto de dolor, adonde su mano se movía sobre su seno, cubriendo por completo la tibia carne bajo el encaje elástico. - Sable...- jadeó ella cuando él apartó el suave encaje y su boca se ocupó del delicado seno, de pequeña areola color durazno. La lengua de Sable se hizo demandante y perversa, sus dientes rozándola, y April jadeó y rodeó sus caderas con los muslos, hundiendo los dedos entre el espeso cabello rubio y atrayéndolo más hacia la carne sensible que atendía.- Sable!- gritó a ciegas. - Sí?- dijo él perversamente, levantando sus pupilas a ella, sin que su boca detuviese su enloquecedora acción, ahora pasando al otro seno mientras su mano atendía al que había dejado caliente y húmedo.- Algo que quieras?- - Por favor...- la voz de April tembló.- Sable, estoy... estoy casi...- Los ojos del Jinete Sable se oscurecieron.- Sí?- preguntó, su mano deslizándose por su vientre, a la juntura entre sus muslos. Su mano se acomodó allí, y April emitió un jadeo y grito cuando, a través del algodón de su ropa interior, un dedo dominante la penetró sin aviso, curvándose en su interior mientras un pulgar siniestramente hábil trazaba círculos sobre el pequeño bultito de nervios que comandaba su placer. - Bajos instintos, no crees?- dijo Sable burlonamente, antes de echarse atrás y levantarle los muslos, retirando sus manos un momento para quitarle la pieza de algodón que era la última prenda en su cuerpo.- Yo también he esperado demasiado para esto.- agregó, su mano volviendo a su posición anterior, ahora sin barreras entre los dos. April jadeó, pero su voz se volvió de pronto un gemido agudo cuando Sable la miró a los ojos, y luego, manteniendo su mirada, bajó su rostro entre los muslos, hasta que su mano abandonó a April y algo mucho más suave y más exigente tomó posesión de su ardiente rosa de carne, haciéndola gritar. - Más dulce que la miel, mejor que ese brandy...- susurró Sable con ardor, mientras su boca devoraba a April, ayudándose con los dedos, su hambre tan violenta que April sintió que sus dientes la romperían, succionando como si se alimentase de su miel. Le sujetó los muslos apretadamente y se enterró allí, aún mientras April se retorcía, jadeando y gritando: y cuando al fin el orgasmo la atenazó, levantó el rostro para mirarla, sus dedos aún comandando after shocks profundo en su interior. - Me imagino que habrás notado que un matrimonio de conveniencia, de fría amistad y todo eso tiene lo suyo.- dijo Sable al aire mientras April se aferraba a él, su cuerpo convulsionándose en sus brazos, gimiendo como una agonizante.- Aún sin pasión ni deseo, el afecto tiene lo suyo... ya sabes, son los atributos más altos del espíritu los que cuentan...- - Cállate de una vez...- jadeó ella, besándolo, sus muslos húmedos apretando su cintura en espasmos.- Dónde aprendiste a hacer eso? Creí que me moría...- - Digamos que mis lecturas no han sido siempre estrictamente militares.- dijo él sonriendo, aunque jadeaba.- April... quiero penetrarte. Puedo hacerlo?- - No tienes que pedir permiso.- la voz de April estaba temblando mientras su pecho subía y bajaba.- Sable, estoy esperándote.- - Eres mía?- - Completamente... siempre lo he sido... por favor...- - Prométeme que serás mía, que podré tenerte siempre... no quiero nada menos que un para siempre, April.- - Lo tienes... cuando quieras, como quieras, te lo juro... soy tuya... Sable!- demandó April, sintiendo a su antiguo oficial superior apoyando su miembro en su húmeda entrada: la piel de él quemaba como fuego. - Aquí estoy, April. – dijo él con súbita dulzura, besándola mientras su miembro se hundía en la carne tibia y palpitante. April emitió un gemido al sentir a Sable llegando hasta su mismo fondo, obligando a carne que no estaba acostumbrada a ello a dilatarse, acomodándolo, tomando su forma: pero luego la tirantez pasó, para ser reemplazada por una deliciosa fricción, una sensación de plenitud que les robó el aliento. Ella jadeó y se agarró de sus hombros mientras cerraba los ojos y su rostro apoyaba en el de él, los dos buscándose a ciegas, concentrados en la sensación de la carne unida. Sable jadeó, ardiente, casi doloroso, y April jadeó, todo su cuerpo estremeciéndose. - Dentro... estás tan... profundo...- gimió April. - Sabía que sería así.- susurró Sable.- Te necesitaba así... te he necesitado tanto tiempo... dime que eres mía.. April...- - Tuya... Eward.- dijo ella, con una sonrisa, que se trocó en un ardiente jadeo cuando Sable, los ojos oscurecidos, se apoyó en manos y rodillas, y se empujó de pronto más adentro, antes de retirarse con un brusco movimiento de sus caderas, y volver a entrar, lentamente. April gimió, y le echó los brazos al cuello. - June...- susurró él, antes de gemir y hundirse en ella tan al fondo como podía llegar. Aún faltaban centímetros de él que empujar: Sable llevó las rodillas de ella a sus hombros, y se empujó, arrancándole un gemido, hasta que sus testículos duros descansaron al fin apretados contra su húmeda entrada. - Sable!- gritó ella ante la profunda invasión, y Sable la sintió mojarse aún más mientras sus piernas temblorosas se aferraban a sus fuertes hombros.- Sable... por favor...- - Por favor qué? Dímelo. Pídeme lo que quieras... excepto que te deje.- susurró Sable ferozmente, un leve balanceo de sus caderas permitiéndole sentir las espasmódicas contracciones dentro de April. -...no... no me dejes... Sable, por favor...- - Dímelo.- -... te necesito... aquí...- April trató de moverse contra él, pero en su posición apenas lograba un leve vaivén.- Sable...- gimió, estirándole los brazos. Él comprendió, e inclinándose, doblándola hasta que sus piernas casi le tocaron los pechos, presionó la pesada raíz de su miembro contra su clítoris, y no conforme con eso, introdujo una mano entre ambos y oprimió el tenue botón oculto por pétalos mojados contra su verga, asegurándose acariciarlo en cada movimiento. April emitió un gemido desesperado y se aferró a las sábanas, su rostro tenso de placer: y Sable se dejó llevar en un ritmo lento, aunque estaba sudando por el esfuerzo de controlarse. Podía ver el sonrojo de sus mejillas, en sus pechos, ver cómo sus jadeos se hacían más desesperados, ansiosos: pero sobre todo podía sentir su interior contrayéndose en un ritmo cada vez más frenético, más fuerte. Sabía que estaba cerca. Y entonces jadeó, y enderezándose de golpe April lo miró con ojos nublados, casi asustados, sus mejillas rojas como sangre mientras Sable continuaba. - Por favor... Sable... para... es demasiado... no puedo...- jadeó, su voz tan aguda como un sollozo. Le echó los brazos al cuello, y trató de detenerlo, pero Sable le sujetó las muñecas.- Por favor... es demasiado... no puedo c-c-controlarme...- gimió ella, su cuerpo arqueándose cuando él apoyó todo su peso sobre sus caderas, y aceleró el movimiento- Sable, no!- - Déjate llevar... no tengas miedo... vuela conmigo...- susurró él, su boca succionando sus labios, su lengua en su oído, en su boca, en sus mejillas, mordiendo su cuello de un modo animal.- Estoy aquí, yo te cuidaré... déjate ir... estás en mis brazos, April, déjate llevar... quiero verte gritar... vamos...- añadió, sus caderas manteniendo el torturador ritmo aún lento. April echó la cabeza atrás y gritó, incoherente, y cuando él le clavó los dientes en los pechos, ella se convulsionó inconteniblemente, gimiendo y jadeando, su cuerpo retorciéndose bajo el suyo, Sable reteniéndolo con manos de hierro, permitiéndose sólo un gruñido al sentirla contraerse brutalmente alrededor suyo, intentando vencer la dureza de su miembro. Sable aguantó, y luego se apoyó en los codos, dejando que las rodillas de ella le rodeasen la cintura, aún contrayéndose. Le apartó el pelo de la cara, mojado de sudor, ella jadeando como su hubiera corrido una milla, su interior ahora suave y blando como la seda... - April.- susurró él.- Amor, estás bien?- Los párpados de ella se abrieron, para mirarlo de frente con una expresión que le quitó el aliento. Eran los ojos de un ángel, de un recién nacido: sin preocupaciones, ni miedos, ni esperanzas: los ojos de la más absoluta felicidad, mirándolo fijo y tiernamente, sólo para él. - Soy tan... feliz.- susurró ella, besándole la cara, sus manos flojas y temblorosas en su pelo.- Sable... nunca me habías llamado así...- - Cómo? June?- - No. Mi amor.- A Sable le tembló la voz.- April, te amo.- - Y yo... mi High Lord... héroe...jefe...espía... guerrero...poeta...- susurró April apasionadamente, llenándolo de besos. Sable volvió a moverse, esta vez más rápido, y April apretó los muslos, reteniéndolo dentro de ella, sus jadeos enfebrecidos, ardientes mientras él se agitaba con cada vez más violencia, sin que ella objetara. - April! April, voy a... te amo, voy a estallar, no puedo más...- jadeó él, su cuerpo completamente presionado contra el de ella mientras jadeaba contra su oído, agitándose con violencia. April lo aferró con brazos y piernas, y Sable empujó sus caderas a toda velocidad, metiéndolo y sacándolo de ella tan rápido que apenas sentían más que una sorda vibración enloquecida. La mente de ambos ardió y se borró: más que amor, hacían fuego. Cuando Sable al fin se derrumbó contra ella, aferrándola con todas sus fuerzas, sus nalgas de jinete hundiéndose en ella dos, tres veces más y luego quedándose tan adentro como podía en una presión ansiosa y bestial, April dejó escapar un suspiro contra el rugido agónico de Sable, sintiendo cómo se derramaba dentro de ella una oleada de calor. Los músculos de Sable se soltaron luego, destensándose, su miembro aflojándose dentro de ella en placenteros temblores: pero él acabó desmadejado, completamente abandonado sobre ella, en sus brazos. - Sable...?- - Aah. Ah...- el pecho de él parecía vibrar aún contra el suyo.- Oh... April...- - Estás bien...?- Sable rió, ahogadamente.- Es... una pregunta capciosa...?- - No... es sólo que no puedo... respirar...- Sable rodó torpemente a un costado, quedándose con la espalda pegada al respaldo del sillón, pero manteniendo brazos y piernas de April a su alrededor.-... mejor?- - Mmm.- - Cansada o... quieres más...?- April lo miró como si fuera un alienígena.- Puedes más?!- - ... creo que sí...- - Estás... bromeando, verdad? Creí que... se caía el cielo...- - Me siento halagado.- dijo él, riendo apenas.- Dios... he soñado tanto con esto que... no creo que pueda parar ahora...- - Vine a caer en manos de un adicto al sexo? Y te veías tan decente.- susurró April. - Ya sabes que los niños buenos somos los peores.- dijo Sable riendo.- Cuando te cases conmigo, tendrás que tolerarme que te haga el amor cada vez que quiera y te bese a mi gusto.- - Puedo vivir con eso, pero... casarnos?- - Pretendes vivir en pecado?- - Lo que acabamos de hacer no te parece suficiente?- - A mí me pareció una experiencia religiosa. Además...- Sable se giró para mirarla a los ojos.- ... estás tomando algún anticonceptivo? No, verdad?- April negó, y sus ojos se abrieron. -... pues yo no usé nada, y además... llevo siete años sin una mujer y me masturbo muy poco... así que me atrevo a decir que es muy probable que hayamos...- April se sentó de golpe.- Sable...?- - Te molesta? Puedo conseguir algo si quieres...- sugirió él, sentándose a su lado, acariciándole el pelo.- Perdóname. No pensé en nada, ni siquiera...- - De veras crees que puedo estar...?- - Es probable. – dijo Sable sinceramente.- Los hombres de mi familia son muy fértiles.- - Pues...- dijo April, echándole los brazos al cuello.- Si no lo estoy, asegúrate de que mañana lo esté.- Sable sonrió.- Es un trato. June?- - Sí, Eward?- - De veras te gustó la mermelada de ciruela?- - Sí.- - Tráela.- ******************************

Wrong Turn at Yesod The problem with immortality was that, on Earth, it was always made up of days. Which was all well and good when you had one of those days that was all soft painterly sunlight and lovely unhurried dust motes and the discovery of both very new baby ducks and very old books. It was not so well or good when you had a day like Aziraphale had just had, when the bus with the intoxicated driver indeed doesn't go over the edge of the median but spins out into the oncoming lane instead when you were too busy holding off the lady with the stroller yakking on her mobile phone from trying to cross at the time, when the young girl does indeed walk away quickly from the drug dealer—and goes straight into the topless club instead, because the reason she wants to quit dope in the first place isn't about what's right or healthy but about saving money, and even more than that she wants to make some…. It was a crap day, that's all, and running late was only par for the course, and finding that the blessed demon (in both the ironic and straightforward senses) had just let himself in and started drinking without him was of course the way it ought to be capped off. But what he found was even worse than he'd expected (and considering his mood, that was saying something). Rather than swaying glazedly at the table as usual, Crowley had gotten not only into his booze, but his books. His precious books, sprawled and violated all over the floor, where Crowley lay on his back balancing an especially fragile and irreplaceable volume over his head, his long legs kicking in paroxysms of hysterical laughter, swinging the priceless 14th-century grimoire painfully close to a bottle (which teetered uncertainly on a stack of 9th-century Etruscan parchments). Aziraphale performed a very minor miracle in self-defense. Crowley barely seemed to notice. He was laughing too hard. "There y'are! Ya gotta see this! Oh Lor- I mean t'other Lor—I mean bwhahahahahah!*SNORT*" Not a good sign. "Well, I…just have that one for historical value, it's really not my kind of thing…" In truth, this particular volume wasn't one of the ones Aziraphale really enjoyed touching.[1] "Right. 'T'so good! I mean it's awful! Stupid even by human standards! Horny desperate half-literate wanker…I mean, Master of ye Black Artes, snicker…has a spell to…get this….call a succubus!" "Oh dear." "Well…" Crowley cackled, sunglasses askew. "'S'not like they had the cards in the phone booths back then." Reluctantly Aziraphale padded over to the pile of crackling books aching at him to straighten them. And it seemed he had some catching up to do, drinkwise. "So…" he asked resignedly. "Do you think it would…work?" "Oh bloody up there no, look at this!" Crowley slammed the book down on the floor and pointed mockingly at a complicated series of calligraphic atrocities. "Couldn't find his Qlippothic spheres with both hands and a hunting dog, look – you wanna be tunneling out the sphere of Lilith to the Raven of Dispersion, and here they've got Oreb Zaraq…Bwahahahahaha!!" He clutched his sides helplessly, hiccupping just once. Aziraphale was just befuddled. "But…not that I'm an expert…isn't that…?" "Corresponds to bloody Hod, in your angel-babble." "I would've thought it was…er, Netzach. And isn't that…well, that's not the first tunnel, there's also…?" Crowley pierced him with his not-quite-best woozy "you're-an-idiot" glare through his shades. Its effect was mostly lost on Aziraphale, because he knew behind those glasses the slitted eyes were woefully unfocused. Glare leaked out and spilled when he was like that, lost much of its pressure. "It is not fucking Netzach." "I thought…er…well, I do know Netzach rather well, but…" Aziraphale took a swig from the bottle grumpily. There was no way he was going to catch up with this kind of inebriation, and frankly he was in no mood to try. "Crowley, dear, I have no energy tonight. It's gone. I need to have a good liedown and make it all go away for a while. You're welcome to stay. Please don't destroy anything. Even if you think it deserves it." Crowley just laughed a little wheezily and pointed his finger past the book and up. "Fine – 's'not like you need any…'trocious incatna-…incansha…ssshpells to get a demon into your bed." Crowley's leer was even sloppier than his glare, but it had an easier target. But they'd been at that particular permutation of The Arrangement long enough that Aziraphale was well aware the drunk-and-giggly/sober-and-cranky combination was not a fortuitous one. Rather like Lilith and Malkuth, or ammonia and bleach. "Please turn the lights out when you come in," Aziraphale said sternly and walked away, forgetting that he had been the one to turn them on in the first place. *** Aziraphale does not usually sleep, exactly, but the habit he'd fallen into lately (by his rather fluid definition of lately) was something like a pleasant drift through a haze of books and writings of all kinds that are so nearly perfect that their imperfections pained him; in his dreams he wields an angelic red pen. By the time the Metamorphoses had been slightly transformed and the 'Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam' remolded closer to his heart's desire, he awakened to grey sunlight, a mattress unslept-in beside him, and an acrid smell fading in the air. His spurt of panic subsided when he realised it wasn't burnt books. Just unmistakably brimstone—which wasn't uncommon—and maybe a few other things, perhaps a hint of curry. And was that a whiff of cheap tarty perfume? From the usual low buzz of demonic presence, not to mention the clattering and banging from the kitchen, he deduced he was not alone. The clattering and banging didn't sound happy. Nor even just hungover. It sounded stressed somehow, so Aziraphale's panic poked its head up again, just a bit, like a wormhead checking for robins in the vicinity. "Crowley?" he shouted hesitantly. No reply. Well, unless a warning hiss counted, which he supposed it would have to. Quickly he threw on a flannel dressing gown, and headed to the kitchen. He froze dumbstruck in the doorway. Lounging on one of the kitchen chairs, menacing a cup of tea, was….a creature straight off the lower class of sailors' tattoo, a little bit winged, a little bit horned—and very, very, utterly, unmistakably female. Rather splendidly so in its trashy way, he had to admit—all long legs up to here in shiny stiletto-heeled boots, tight black leather skirt with a slit showing…it…she…was wearing suspenders, not tights….a red blouse skimming full, high breasts like really good tires on a very curvy mountain road… The long red nails on the slim, jeweled hands tapped the cup offensively, and the sneer of the pouty scarlet lips would have insulted the manhood right back off a lesser angel. The entity's long, glossy raven hair seemed to seethe and slither. Aziraphale started to speak. Actually, he felt he had started to speak a long time ago and just hadn't arrived there yet. It seemed to be taking quite a while. "Close your mouth before something flies into it, angel," Crowley snarled in a throaty voice, crossing her luxurious legs and thrusting her chest upwards defiantly. At last Aziraphale's gaze zoomed back a little bit and took in the rest of the full effect: the smoking brazier, the long-guttered candles, the scorch marks in the parquet—and the book, looking much the worse for wear. He closed his mouth. Nothing good was going to come out of it. "It was Oreb Zaraq," Crowley finally sighed, her voice thoroughly distaff. "I caught that in time. The problem was FUCKING Gamaliel. I took the wrong turn….or rather the right turn, which is wrong in the Qlippoth.." "Oh yes…" Aziraphale mused, shakily. "Yesod. Who'd that be…underneath… Garg…" he balked at the name. Crowley hissed. It took several cups of tea before Aziraphale felt qualified to try to speak again. By that time, Crowley had already resumed drinking. Aziraphale insisted she use a glass. It wasn't ladylike to swill out of the bottle like that, and besides she was leaving lipstick smears. *** It took a little more wine and a lot more lousy attempts at commanding to finally get something like a coherent explanation out of her. The obvious question was why, but Aziraphale knew better than to head for that directly. He was already learning all sorts of fascinating things in the monologue he was getting – She-Crowley was rather more talkative than He-Crowley. [2] She also liked getting reactions just as much, if not more. "Well, actually, I did once apply for the incubus/succubus detail. It would technically have been a bit of a demotion but I wanted something…lower-stress. This was way, way back. Long ago." "And?" "No luck. They told me I was overqualified." Aziraphale took a big, rather undignified swig from the bottle. *** The story as it emerged was that because of the wrong turn at the penultimate sphere (or second if you were headed that way, which of course Crowley wasn't) the invocation had hovered around a bit, befuddled, and curled around the leg of the nearest sentient being like a spoiled cat smelling tuna on his person's trousers and refusing to go out into the rain. The best that Crowley could guess about what had happened next was that, as the damnedly[3] forgotten conjurer of olde had been a rather inflexible sort unwilling to even entertain the idea of male demonic consorting[4], the poor invocation, bound to work but not to work properly, was able to find only one demon at all (since it was, after all, looking in the wrong place), much less one who fit the criteria. But since an invoker is almost by definition opening up some part of his – or her- being to the invokee—and since in this case the invoker and invokee were in fact now the same entity …well, the poor invocation just had to get a little creative. Aziraphale was going to have to find a good far, far-away private spot in which to laugh until he was sick. Crowley anticipated this, and she stood up and stalked towards him with every bit of menace she could muster – and it was impressive for all that she hadn't completely got the hang of the stiletto heels yet, for she-Crowley's celebrated saunter was still smooth but had this certain sinuous ripple to it that…oh dear—and placed one pointy-toed, dagger-heeled shiny boot of leather right on the edge of Aziraphale's chair, tip between his legs, giving him a long, fishnetted leg to look up and a flash of scarlet and skimpy knickers above at sightline's end. "If you even think about laughing at me – and I'll know," Crowley growled, "I swear to you that when I come to you tonight on a beam of leprous moonlight to exploit all your shameful desires, as succubi do, I will drain so much of your essence that your duck friends will have to come here and feed you. Through a tube." Aziraphale was appalled to hear himself actually whimper. He was used to Crowley's threats of course, but the problem was that, as threats went, it was a little bit double-edged. With that, Crowley angrily swayed out. Aziraphale winced at her slam of the door, and even more at the screech and bang of the traffic accident outside. *** This day turned out to be better than the last, largely because Crowley wasn't waiting til the traditional late night to get started on her new career path.[5] Aziraphale was sure Crowley was proud of herself for shagging two priests in one afternoon – only the angel knew that one of them had been suicidally depressed thinking himself permanently impotent, and the other had been on the verge of venting his frustrations on the person of an altarboy instead. Crowley had also managed to bang a member of Parliament who'd been left so limply exhausted that he'd missed a crucial vote that, had he shown up, would have had an effect of reducing pensions for at least 400 ailing WWII veterans in the London area alone. If Aziraphale was concerned about anything, it was his own sorry performance of thwarting, which maybe didn't even count as a truly sorry performance – it wasn't as if he were actually trying and failing. Succubi and incubi are insidious, after all; they're lured by frustration and shame. If he'd learned anything watching humans "suffer" under their ministrations [6] it was that the more moralists fulminated about carnal lusts for their own carnal pleasure of watching the entire congregation discreetly cringe and then check their neighbours for cringing, the more shame practically reeked out of them the second something made their bits tingle, and the greater the succubi/incubi numbers got. The 19th-century man who invented the elaborate cage system designed to somehow prevent teenage boys from playing with themselves at night, for example, died without having seen the moon in 20 years for the thick haze of sex demons hovering outside his window with their wings buzzing all the time like hummingbirds. Trying to thwart them by upping the puritanism ante was counterproductive to say the least, and Aziraphale really hadn't had the time to come up with a better idea. Anyway, maybe it was better the poor sods get a wild guilty ride with a demon than troll for someone innocent, or capable of catching or spreading diseases. As for Aziraphale himself, well, once he'd gotten over the initial shock of making the effort lo these several thousand years ago, he really hadn't seen where much shame entered into it. Free-floating anxiety, insecurity, embarrassment, self-consciousness, and second-guessing certainly, but that was hardly the same thing. In fact, he wasn't sure he would be very attractive to this version of Crowley at all, and he had a good deal of mixed feelings about that. So mixed, in fact, that he decided to sit right where he was and keep staring at the book he wasn't reading even when he heard the door opening and felt a cold blast of foggy drizzle. London weather had a way of being Gothic when Crowley wanted it to be. Aziraphale meant to turn around, he really did, but by the time he had collected himself, the hum of Crowley's presence — and the tug of that spicy tawdry perfume — was so strong around him he knew that if he turned around he'd be planting his face right into the center of a deep and flawless cleavage, and that was never the strongest position from which to start a Serious Talk. But he lost the thread of what he'd been about to say that was so serious anyway, because he suddenly felt that pillowy warmth against his back, right up on his shoulderblades, arms reaching around him, slim hands crawling up his neck. His mouth had gone suddenly very dry. And then very wet. "Er…Crowley…aren't you a little…didn't you have a busy day already?" Smoky feminine laughter buzzed in his ear, soon replaced by a tongue that was still quite familiar. Aziraphale shuddered and slumped into the tightening embrace a little, still thinking it might be for the best he wasn't looking full on at his other number just yet. Some things were best to get used to gradually — and those things included clever fingers opening his collar, a hand in his hair bending his head back just so, the supple mouth working with increasingly less gentle bites over the side of his neck and down his throat. He sighed with uneasy happiness and tangled one hand in Crowley's hair, feeling the other feminine hand creep down his chest pausing at buttons on its way down, slipping underneath and startling his skin with its coolness and dampness from the rain. Poor thing's blouse is still wet, Aziraphale thought. She must be cold. "I wasssn't sure you'd ssstill want me like this," Crowley whispered. "What?" Aziraphale said. Of all the things Crowley could have said, he wasn't expecting that. "You know I've…I mean, women, of course I.." "I know that, sssilly." She backhanded his cheek so gently it passed for a caress. "All of you lot have some paternity suitsss in your closets, don't you? Quite a scandal, those Nephilim.." The hand that had just not-quite-slapped the angel closed pre-emptively over his mouth. "But…well, never mind. Just never mind." And she turned his head around to look into her snakey eyes that faked being warm-blooded very well indeed, and penetrated his mouth with her tongue until Aziraphale growled in a very earthly way and turned himself with the chair around and dragged Crowley onto his lap, pressing her against him yes there, hands gripping her all too flawless behind, hearing her encouraging moans in his ear. That friction was too much, really too much, the twitches of the muscles in her lush little thighs… He started to try to speak one last time. "Ssssshh!" She pulled away deftly and hopped up on the table, daring him to chase her—which he did, it wasn't far. And it wasn't fair: her hand in his trousers knew him already, found the landscape familiar, all the responses that she already knew how to coax out with her flexing fingers: he was learning a new world with his hand up her skirt, all those silky ridges unusual in their soft slickness…But from the way she squirmed and twisted and demanded more with her whole being, he didn't seem to be doing anything wrong yet. She wasn't going to give him a chance; imperious legs wrapped around him and yanked him foreward and halfway over her. He braced himself with a hand on each side of her. "Angel," Crowley snarled in a voice so throaty and deep she almost sounded like his old self, "Fuck me." He didn't have time to blanch at the word; he was already making contact, riding into her on a terrible gravity. She was wet and hot and all enveloping, and impelling him to a lusty violence; her nails shredding his shirt and her sharp heels digging in the backs of his thighs. "Harder," she begged, and he did, until he thought he had to be hurting her but that was the horrifically thrilling thing; he wanted to, if that's what she wanted. "Harder," she commanded, her teeth snapping at something, reaching out for some part of him to bite. His book-stacking miracles forgotten, books slid off the table and landed in ravished piles around his feet while he thought of nothing but getting further into her, a better angle inside her, satisfying her whatever it took…She arched slowly up towards him, eyes open and glazed as everything of hers clenched around him. He came back to consciousness limp and weak, head resting on her shoulder while she stroked — was that sweat? — from his face. "Niiice," she sighed, her fingertip dragging across his bruised lower lip just before she kissed him. *** It would have been alright if it had stopped there, perhaps. Because as Aziraphale lay there in the dark, he had to admit that had been extremely arousing. He also knew that it didn't matter much what type of body Crowley had as long as it got along well with his own. But the problem went deeper. He just couldn't quite put a finger on it. So to speak. Crowley came back that night cackling about some torrid and messy adventure involving a whole decaf-klatch of Mormon missionaries she'd managed to entice into something called a "circle jerk."[7] Aziraphale had tried to broach the difficult subject and hope Crowley had some insights of her own to offer, but he'd wound up flat on his back in the kitchenette with Crowley riding him, his hands wandering her lush body wantonly, grasping and directing her and finally completely overwhelmed by her rhythm and compelled by the sounds of violent ecstasy she made with the timbre — and vocabulary — of a wildcat in heat. [8] He floated in a sated stupor while she purred and gloated, and he thought he should probably try again to bring it up in the morning. Crowley obviously still had a lot to get out of her system. The conversation started bright and early, but Crowley got the last word [9]. Aziraphale ended up on his knees between her wide-splayed thighs, tongue otherwise occupied as her hand in his hair roughly directed his head this way and that. The angel chose not to breathe so as to never have to pull away from her; the demon chose to, emphatically, and her gasps and pantings and sudden choking stoppages were a coherent, expressive language, laying out a path for him to follow in pleasuring her. *** By the fifth day, Aziraphale was certain he'd had quite enough, thank you. He had had a dam — awfully long day cleaning up after his supernaturally slutty companion, who had in one day made a respected author on popular theology switch abruptly to writing the vilest pornography and incited a prison riot by taunting inmates who hadn't seen a woman in decades. And he hadn't been feeling very energetic to begin with. He hadn't liked the way his human form looked in the reflection from the window: rather gaunt and shadowed, hair and eyes a little dry and dull. He certainly hadn't liked falling into something rather like sleep when he'd had no intention of doing so, and he liked even less waking up naked on the floor where Crowley had left him. His neck had been cricky all day. He had dim memories of being incited — nay, induced, or perhaps strongly requested — to bend Crowley over the kitchen table and take her from behind, and he doubted the table would ever be the same. He remembered those painful-looking heels doing dangerous things to the shape of her legs and her fine round bottom, the twist and bend of her slim waist with her skirt hitched up around it… He pinched the bridge of his nose and stared glazedly into his wine glass. His hands had a bit of a tremor. With a new determination, he went to the hastily restocked shelf that had been the cause of all this trouble and snatched out the offending volume, carrying it between two fingers to the already despoiled table, and slammed it down. With a grimace, he cracked it open to a small cloud of sulfurus yellow dust. This thing was truly foul. The worst part was not really its demonic intent: for all Aziraphale had seen of human subterfuge and naivete, there was something refreshing about such nakedly greedy ambitions as this book laid out in deliberately overripe medieval German. The problem was that it was so utterly inept. Vitally important Names were off by a letter; talismanic seals had the wrong number of sides or just one sigil facing the wrong way; the less said about the Gematria the better, only that Aziraphale wouldn't have trusted the writer to make change in the fish market. In fact, it all looked so plausible on the surface but was so thoroughly dysfunctional that Aziraphale suspected the book's author probably wasn't human at all. In his experience, a human couldn't produce something that was all flaws any more than he or she could make something with none at all. [10] That was only more confusing, as surely Crowley would have been able to recognize one of his own crew's creative travesties, wouldn't he? Er, she? When he found the relevant passage, and corrected for the appropriate degree of sheer wrongness, he gazed upward to the waterstained ceiling, his eyes piercing the veils between himself and the surface of the celestial dome, looking for a time-reading and fast-forwarding it until he knew what he needed. He had just four hours. He had better get to work preparing. *** When Crowley slinked in, heels clicking and hips swaying, Aziraphale could feel the smugness emanating from her in waves. She'd managed to cap off her day by getting the lead singer of a very popular band with a reputation for social activism and an inspirational, uplifting sound arrested on indecency charges after she, allegedly, performed a very lewd act upon his person in front of 20,000 people including the Prime Minister's daughter. So much for the traditional privately shameful nocturnal emissions. She clearly wasn't expecting to meet Aziraphale with the angel's full adamantine Will almost completely engaged, but she compensated quickly. For some time there it seemed Aziraphale's counterattack was not going terribly well, as he found himself pinned, with his head indenting a row of books and his trousers yawning open like the very Ishtar Gate as Crowley went on her knees and down to work, using her full range of unfair physical advantages. [11] Wasn't fair, the way Crowley could hiss and spit out all sorts of foul profanities when he writhed and twisted in erotic abandon, but if Aziraphale let fly with just the slightest hint of his holiness….well, was it? Was that…not the time to be thinking about it. His thoughts were whirling now, spinning down to one red point of pleasure. He looked down at her face, watched himself moving in and out of her ruby lips, saw those lascivious eyes fix upon him….Now, something cold and decisive in himself said, breaking through the haze. Now or never. He grabbed her hair and yanked her head backwards, sinking down to his knees to face her directly, grasping her upper arms and shaking her just a little bit. "This has to stop." She blinked. Which was unusual. "I mean it. I really mean it. It's not just that I'm feeling…" No, he didn't want to admit he felt weak. Scratch that. "If I were human I might be dead. You don't even think. You just come in here, and…" No, that wasn't the right track either. She hissed and lunged. Aziraphale realized that his trousers were still open, and that Crowley was being distracted as compulsively as a prize trout by a spinning lure. Not wanting to let go of her, he just wished them shut and himself less…well, just barely presentable. "Don't try to tell me you don't like it," she sneered. "That is what I'm…All right, not exactly. But yes. You know what? You're one-dimensional. You're bloody boring. You're a misogynist stereotype dreamed up by the kind of sour-faced church ghouls everybody Up There dreads having to have around. And you're better than this. Or worse, or – oh, whatever. I miss the real Crowley, the one who has creative wiles. The one who's always coming up with new atrocities. The one who's unpredictable, though not half so much as he thinks he is. The one who lets me seduce him once in a while!" Oops. "Well, if that's what you like," she purred, her face suddenly turning almost demure. "NO! IT'S NOT THAT SIMPLE! YOU'RE NOT YOURSELF AND I'M TIRED OF THIS YOU!" Was that a little loud? He really didn't want to be Overheard delivering an impassioned monologue about exactly what kind of demon lover he did and didn't want. But it was probably a little late to worry about that. She broke one hand free and slapped him. Hard. Her nails raked his face. "You sanctimonious bastard! I'm out there doing what I have to do, it's in my nature, but I try to save all the best for you! You let me think you loved it, and you're just saving it all up so we can have Permutation 4,378 of the old Making Love Versus Fucking Argument, and –" "Is that really all you think it's about," Aziraphale demanded in a cold, tense voice. "Really?" He grasped her wrist hard. It felt tiny in his hand. "Because I assure you, it is not." Crowley started to lunge again, and while Aziraphale might have hoped briefly for some self-awareness to kick in, he could tell that what she was really gearing herself up for was the mother of all rage shags, the kind that would leave them both bloody but in a good way. It would have been a disturbingly appealing thought three nights ago. Aziraphale let her push him backwards. He saw what was behind him. Backed up against the closet door, he let her crush against him and kissed her once, hard and deep. Then he ducked sideways and yanked the storage closet open at the same time and shoved her in. It was all ready in there: book, candles, incense, circle, correct astrological hour imminent. He threw his whole weight and then some against the door to shut it and lock it. Crowley started to shriek a Word. Aziraphale got his Word out first. It was shorter. He finished his Sigil first. It was simpler. He flinched just a bit at the violence of the pounding from the inside of the closet, and stood just an inch from the door. "If I could do this for you, or with you, I would," he said. The blast of astounding feminine profanity blew his hair back. "It's your choice," he called, trying to sound resigned. "I'm walking away. The door will open at dawn. Either way." It wasn't easy, but he did it too. He made it all the way back to his empty little bedroom with a bottle of brandy which he drank until he felt some dim facsimile of ability to do something resembling sleep or at least a state less focused on that horrible banging and shrieking. Which eventually did subside. He found the door hanging open in the morning, and no sign of Crowley, either way. Well, he might have expected that. *** On the third day after that, the phone was actually answered. "Yeah?" It was a thick, hoarse, and decidedly familiar masculine voice. Angels don't dance, it's true, but something in Aziraphale leapt up rather lightly and in a silly manner, delighted to be back on the head of the pin instead of the business end. "Oh good, you're…existing." "Sod off'n'lemme sleep s'more." Click. The angel felt three thousand years younger. Crowley showed up two days later as if nothing had ever happened. Almost. "Glad I got out of that racket," he said darkly a bottle in. "Wouldn't admit this to just anyone, but my cunt was getting really sore." "Crowley!" "I always wanted to say that." But he turned sulky again after that, and left soon. He came back again, but they didn't have much to say that didn't concern It, and therefore not much to say at all. *** It took a few days more for the tension between them to settle back down into prickly acclimation. A new reluctance between Aziraphale and Crowley to let each other out of their sight had developed. Whether this had to do with happy reunion or simply a sense that they couldn't trust each other at the moment as far as they could throw each other even with wings factored into the equation remained unknown, as they steadfastly refused to discuss the matter. Aziraphale sat on one end of Crowley's stylish but miserly sofa with his brittle books, occasionally nibbling on a scone and dribbling a bit of dust and crumbs. Crowley lounged at the other end, staring through his opaque sunglasses at the television. Aziraphale had feared a staredown that could stretch out for decades, but it started to seem that Crowley didn't have the animus for it. Finally Aziraphale closed his eyes and let dreams wash over him, just to get away. When he awakened, the TV was still squawking the same awful programme it had been when he blinked out (clearly one of Crowley's little masterpieces, a shouting, loud-rock-music-blaring abomination full of artificial-looking Americans eating live scorpions and jumping bicycles out of helicopters to win money), yet it had been daylight before and now it was dark. A strange sense stirred in him, a little vibrating hum of relief that was hard to pinpoint until he contemplated getting up to stretch and realised that each of his thighs had a weight on it. On the right was the book. On the left was Crowley's head. Of course. He picked up the book and reopened it as quietly as possible, not caring too much that his place was lost. His other hand trailed lightly through sleek dark hair. Crowley still had that ability to not look innocent in his sleep—but Aziraphale's heart still swelled at the way he hummed and shifted a little happily when some part of him took notice he was being petted. It was not Aziraphale's intention to push his luck, but inasmuch as his book was holding his attention at all, it was only dimly distracting him from his stray hand, which slipped quietly of its own accord from Crowley's hairline down his cheek, along his jawline, and creeping with featherlight strokes over his throat, then under the neck of his black t-shirt over the small rises of his collarbones. Crowley leaned his head back a little, knocking his sunglasses askew. Beneath them his eyes were closed, but Aziraphale was almost certain he was faking now. He decided to find out. One eye on his book for cover's sake, he let his hand be drawn inevitably to a strip of pale skin exposed between Crowley's jeans and his t-shirt hem. Aziraphale sighed in wonder at the silky warmth, savouring every centimeter as slowly as he could. When he went just a little too far on purpose, nudging below the denim waistband, the golden eyes half-opened and Crowley gave a little hiss of desire, hips nudging upwards slightly, hand covering Aziraphale's with obvious intentions of directing it downward. Aziraphale's book slid off the sofa's arm and onto Crowley's head. "I'm sorry, my love," said Aziraphale, tossing the book on the floor. Crowley flinched more at that than at the thunk. Aziraphale smiled indulgently. Crowley deftly scooched himself up til he was sitting in Aziraphale's lap, hand tangled in the fair hair, allowing the angel to bend him slowly backwards against the sofa's armrest as they locked in a wet, sliding, restless kiss. Aziraphale executed a move of his own, a little less deftly, but effective in having one widely-awake-now demon pinned halfway underneath him. This put him a good position to move his face slowly, trailing kisses down Crowley's neck along with a long series of whispers - all his most heartfelt and saccharine endearments. Crowley was moving against him in that ripply way of his, clearly eager to get the pace going a little faster. Aziraphale let his hand pay one almost-grudging visit to the front of his partner's jeans, cupping and squeezing him, listening with satisfaction to the sounds that produced. But most of his attention was up higher, as he let himself wish Crowley's shirt elsewhere and continued laying out his pattern of meticulous [12] lovebites down Crowley's neck and left shoulder. "Oh rose-petal-lips, my cinnamon bun…want you so much…need you…love you…" Long fingers dug their nails in his back. "…oh my kitten, sweetmeat, my dearheart, do slow down...plenty of time…" Crowley moaned his name just once and seemed to stop just short of something else, hand grasping the angel's arse just a little too hard, trying to nudge him over. "Snakelet, my darling," murmured Aziraphale just a little bit sternly, having trapped one of Crowley's wrists and being just about to apply his tongue to its pale underside, "To be fair, after what you've put me through, I think you really do owe me one. At least." Crowley struggled to slow down his breath, biting his lip, clearly working as hard as he could to at least salvage a little pride. Well, that was fine. It didn't matter if certain key phrases like "I'm sorry" and "thank you" weren't in Crowley's vocabulary. Aziraphale was going to make sure "please" was. ~fin~ [1] Why the touching of a really pretty lamely demonic book should discomfit him more than his frequent, prolonged, and thorough touching of an actual demon was something it hadn't really occurred to him to question. [2] Stereotypes are true in Hell. [3] in the sense that Crowley was pleased about it, of course. [4] and the idea would have been bored silly by his notion of "entertainment," anyway. [5] She would later explain that it wasn't the medieval age anymore, and with the inventions of modern Amsterdam, Ecstasy, and the Internet, anybody who couldn't get their shameful desires exploited more mundanely just wasn't trying. So a working girl had to put in a lot more effort. [6] Not that he'd ever watched it that closely, of course. Or that often. Or even sometimes repeatedly. [7] Aziraphale had always felt a little ineffectual about the Latter-Day Saints; that whole religious underwear business just puzzled him. [8] Lest you think there's a close relationship between the species, note that succubi make that noise mostly when they're getting what they want and cats make it mostly when they aren't. [9] It was "there", as in "ohfuckyesyesyesTHERE!" [10] Although the Left Behind series by Jenkins and LaHaye comes eerily close. Perhaps it takes more than one human working in collaboration to achieve it. [11] Ever seen how a size-small snake swallows a size-large egg? (Also an excellent parlour trick; beats the glass-eye-popper-outers every time.) [12] Actually a little obsessive-compulsive, to tell the truth.

He doesn't know how long he's been running. Forests are forests no matter the planet, alien evergreens reaching long arms into the darkened sky, dirt lousy with leaves and roots that catch his boots, the shadows too dark and the caves too deep. Every step takes him farther from the camp, breaking through fragrant, rain-wet fern and bushes draped in berries shining red as blood. Scratches climb up both arms and snake across his face from too-low branches and too many stumbles on unfamiliar rock. He's not made for this kind of terrain. His world's been circumscribed by the four walls of a lab, bright overhead lights always on, clean tables stretching beneath his fingers, keyboards and microscopes and telescopes. A million miles from this. Rodney drops against rough bark of an unidentifiable tree that spirals into the dark above him like it might go on forever. There's no moon to see from beneath the canopy of leaves, and suddenly, he wonders how far he's come. Without even the stars to guide him, he could have run for miles, or only feet. An alien world, but the smells are the same, pine and oak, trampled vegetation sweet and astringent, the scent soaking into his skin and clothes, green stains on his hands and his knees from every fall. Wiping his hands on his thighs, he sees stripes of blood from rock-scraped hands. His mind brings up infection, contamination, but the thoughts won't stick, floating away with the thud of blood in his ears, instinct louder than intellect could ever be, *move* and *go*, *hide* and *run*. He can still hear the beat of drums, matching the hard beat of his heart, and catching his breath, Rodney keeps running. ***** "I like it," Sheppard says with a grin, looking over the wide clearing, the neat circles of tents stretching out around them. Nice tents, too, as far as tents go, Rodney thinks, watching his scanner pick up fuck-nothing when seconds ago, there'd been *something*. This will drive him crazy. The Elgesh remind him of Teyla's people, with more of the moving and less of the gathering. Hunters, he thinks, wondering if he should suggest that someone from the social sciences come out and slowly orgasm over yet another semi-primitive society, if a society that uses what appears to be generators for their lighting can be called primitive. The Pegasus galaxy threw the technological curve on civilization development in interesting directions. The leaders that had met them seemed nice enough, and they'd bonded with Teyla and Ronon in a completely unsurprisingly turn of events, leaving Sheppard to wander after Rodney as he continued his scans, P90 carelessly tossed over one shoulder, like he didn't have a care in the world. Of course, he could have it back in his hands and pointed at an enemy in less time than it took Rodney to breathe, so maybe careless isn't quite the word. "I don't believe this." Rodney controls the urge to knock the scanner with one hand, because Ancient technology doesn't respond to violence. Or so he'd learned. The hard way. "Something should be showing up." Coming to a stop, Rodney turns in a slow circle, watching the readings. "There's something here. I *saw* it." Dark hair brushes against his cheek as Sheppard leans over his shoulder. "Sure you're reading it right?" Rodney jerks away and forces down an inappropriate urge to snarl. "Go do something useful. Hit on someone. Better yet, maybe figure out where we're going to set up camp, because we're not leaving until I figure this out." Sheppard just smiles contentedly. "I already radioed Elizabeth that we'd be staying the night. And for camp, we'll be staying with the nice people who invited us for dinner." Leaning against a tree, Sheppard's gaze drifts behind them, where Teyla and Ronon disappeared into a tent early on. "I could get used to missions where we aren't shot on sight." Rodney has to agree, but he doesn't have to say it. Grunting softly, he flips the scanner closed, giving the sky a glance. "It's almost dusk. Maybe it's solar activated or something. I'd know if I could *find* it." His stomach rumbles uncomfortably, and Rodney reaches into his vest, dragging out a power bar. "Any chance we'll be eating soon? Starvation setting in. Not good if you want me to find out whether this planet has a ZPM or not." Sheppard grins. "Come on, let's find out." ***** Rodney lets instinct take over. It can't be any worse than the panic. Thinking is getting him nowhere. Keep moving, stay out of the open spaces, duck when he hears a sound. Don't run through the bushes, that leaves traces, avoid the piles of leaves, keep in the shadows, run, run, run, don't stop, don't *ever* stop. *Run*, and *move*, and *hide*. Two hours, he thinks as he comes to a stop against the trunk of a tree, breathing a little too lightly for the way he's been running, like his body's not aware that he's never done *anything* close to this. Listening for the sounds of feet that he knows he'd never hear until they're too close to evade, he finds himself scanning the shadows around him. He's seen them move, slick and fast and careful, like shadows without substance, watched them change from people into something else entirely; he has no idea how he's gotten this far and not been caught. "Right," he murmurs to himself, looking around, picking up the dark shapes of other trees, the slow incline of the land, the clearing just ahead bathed in silver that's temptation and danger all at once. "Right, right, stop, think, *think*," but no thought will complete, circling back to listening behind him for footsteps through undergrowth. Stargate, get back to that, but he has no idea where he is, how far he's come, sense of direction fucked to hell. Radio, lost miles back in a twisting pile of leaves he'd fallen into, and who the hell would he call? Stop and wait, that's so incredibly stupid that he can't believe it even made the list. Rubbing his bloody hands against his knees, he controls the urge to move. Think, think, stop reacting, think, and when he moves, he's clumsy again. He bites his tongue hard enough to taste the blood, shaking the fog for brief seconds of clarity. This is *wrong*. "Don't, don't, don't," he whispers to himself, looking at the smear of blood he left on the rock. "Don't run, stop, think--" but his body's not interested in logic, and he goes along because it's not like he has any better ideas. Stargates and wide clean four-walled rooms, the soft hum of computers, high ceilings and bright sunlight, all like half-remembered dreams of a place he's never been. It's *crazy*. They did something to him, they-- "Run," he hears himself say, staring at the silver-bathed clearing, the forest shadowed beyond. Something whispers he'll be safe there. He believes it. ***** The Elgesh believe in feeding guests. "We're honored to have you among us," the assumed leader says, the woman they'd first met, now less in the way of clothes, which Rodney approves of immensely, since she seems to come from the Teyla school of fashion, slit skirts and halter tops, though he admits the fact that the woman's skirt is considerably shorter. That's a lot of leg. He likes primitive people. Picking up his bowl, Rodney watches Sheppard, head tilted, listening to the man on his right while making his way through his second helping of stew. He can just overhear the conversation, which seems to be a description of bringing down something that seems to describe a boar two days ago. Sheppard listens with every sign of interest, but Rodney's seen that same look turned on Elizabeth when she's marveling on the wonders of Ancient culture, so right. John's as bored as he is. "We thank you for your hospitality," Teyla is saying, on her third bowl of stew. Ronon's he stopped counting at five. Reaching for another piece of bread, Rodney steals a surreptitious look at his scanner, still depressingly blank. Solar energy required, perhaps, or natural dampening effects from something around here. Tomorrow, they can explore farther, see if the rock formations they passed have anything to do with the problems in reception. "We have heard little of the Elgesh," she adds, and Rodney sees the woman's eyes flicker over them briefly, fixing on John, as women's eyes tend to do, before darting to Teyla. "We keep to ourselves," the woman says, taking another spoonful of stew with careful fingers. Rodney wonders if they use utensils when they don't have visitors--no one seems comfortable with them, awkward with bowls and strangely unsure with the ladle. "You must, if the Wraith have avoided your planet for so long," Teyla says over a piece of bread. Rodney can hear the question in her voice. This place, this world, so much like Athos that even Rodney can see the similarities, but untouched by the Wraith. They don't keep a census, but there are thousands of tribes, and if this is any sample, their population must number into the hundred thousands.. The anthropologists would be happy, Rodney thinks blackly, staring at his almost empty bowl. A friendly hand refills it before he even gets the chance to ask, and Rodney's eating before the ladle fully withdraws, golden broth just salty enough, faintly tasting of chicken and herbs. "The Wraith have no terror for us," the woman says with another too-wide smile, passing another loaf of bread to Ronon, who hasn't stopped eating since they sat down. Rodney doesn't blame him. For something cooked over an open fire, it's amazing. "They--have learned how we deal with unwelcome guests." "Oh?" Teyla asks, eyebrows raised. The conversation derails when one of the men comes forward, murmuring something in the woman's ear, and Rodney turns his attention back to Sheppard, vaguely surprised to see him on what seems to be his third bowl of stew. Huh. "Colonel?" With a smile that doesn't hide his relief (at least to Rodney), Sheppard turns to him, looking absolutely normal except for the desperate look in his eyes that's better than telepathy. Yes, *just* like Elizabeth's lectures. "McKay?" "Can you tear yourself away from dinner long enough for me to get some readings before we turn in?" Rodney asks, and Sheppard's on his feet so fast that Rodney barely sees the transition. Had he always been that fast? A hand closes around his wrist, pulling him up and with a few words directed to Teyla and the woman, Sheppard leads him away from the circle of firelight. "Toward those rocks we passed earlier," Rodney directs as Sheppard drops his wrist, missing the warmth in the cool night air. "I'm thinking natural insulation of some kind, since the readings stopped almost as soon as we got here." "You think that's the source?" Sheppard points toward unwavering darkness. "More to the left if you want the rocks." Rodney squints at the blank darkness. Nothing. "Your night vision's better than mine," he admits grudgingly, frowning at the blank scanner and pulling his vest closer. "This is ridiculous. Power doesn't just vanish." "Hmm," Sheppard says, and Rodney looks up. It's almost too dark to read his expression, but there's a familiar twist to his mouth that's usually followed with running and shooting, or sometimes, really large spaceships. "You know, since we got here--" "What?" Rodney prods, stumbling over a rock in the uneven ground. Sheppard's hand slides beneath his elbow, balancing him before he falls. "Nothing," Sheppard says finally, but he's still frowning Absently, he lets go of Rodney's arm, unzipping the top of his vest. "It's a little warm tonight." Rodney frowns at that, but his attention's jerked away by the sound of--something. A low, regular rhythm that pushes into the back of his head, making the bones behind his ear vibrate. Sheppard turns abruptly, hand jerking out to catch Rodney mid-stride, almost knocking him over. "Wait." "What is that?" Rodney frowns back at the camp, the faint flare of light from the torches set up in a circle around the center. From here, the small, comfortable fire seems larger, somehow. When he looks up, Sheppard's eyes are fixed on it. "That reminds me of something," Sheppard says slowly, eyes narrowing. Almost like he's being pulled, he starts toward the camp, dragging Rodney behind him like an afterthought. "I've heard that before." "Hey, readings? Rocks? Did you--let go of me!" Rodney bats uselessly at the hand on his arm, pulling him a little too fast, just off his normal stride; he has to take three steps for every one of Sheppard's two. "It's drums, they're--probably doing some tribal welcoming dance or whatever. They all do. Now can we get back to--Sheppard?" Like Sheppard doesn't even *hear* him. "Colonel? *Colonel*. What are you *doing*?" "I know this," Sheppard says, moving faster--not quite a run, but close enough, and Rodney pockets the scanner, making himself keep pace, vague discomfort crawling out from inside his head, pushing at the edges of his thoughts like an itch. "It's--haven't you heard it?" "No, unless you mean bad eighties rock. Can you let go?" Though there is something he recognizes in the low, pulsing rhythm, something that makes him not fight quite so hard, move quite so slowly. The benches and tables were cleared away at some point--Rodney has a vague impression of movement in the crowd, as slow as the drum beats from the group gathered close to the main tent. Coming to a stop at the edge, Sheppard lets him go, hesitating on the edge of the light. And the fire is bigger, Rodney thinks, taller than the tallest of the natives, and how did they get time to build it up that far? Were they gone that long? "It has been many moons since we have had guests," the leader intones, and somehow, though Rodney can't quite wrap his mind around the *how*, she seems even less dressed than before, standing on the edge of a table braced against the tent. Sheppard takes a step toward the ring of light from the torches, and that feeling again, discomfort and warning both this time. Rodney reaches out, grabbing his sleeve and pulling him back. "Don't." The dark eyes turn on him. "What?" "We honor those that went before us," she says, firelight gleaming off bare arms. Sheppard's gaze is jerked back to the group. The crowd seems to be growing as more of the camp drifts into the circle of firelight, and the drumming is faster, picking up the rhythm of her words, the bodies following in a slow, strange sway that's almost hypnotic to watch. Rodney tightens his grip on Sheppard's arm just as they both sight Ronon, a head taller than anyone else, but with the same look on his face that Sheppard has. "The choices they made that keep us free." "Colonel," Rodney whispers, missing the next part of whatever the hell the speech is supposed to be about. "Something's wrong." With a jerk, he gets Sheppard's attention, eyes flicking back to Rodney, clearing a little in confusion. "Something--" At his waist, he feels the scanner hum. "Oh. Wait. The power source." "Power source?" Sheppard says slowly, like Rodney's not speaking perfectly normal English. His eyes keep skipping back to the woman, her arms still raised, and Rodney can feel him moving--slowly, not quite like the crowd, but picking up the strong beat of the drums. Letting go of Sheppard's arm, Rodney fumbles the scanner out, watching as the power levels spike. "What--it can't be--" Fuck, Sheppard's shifting toward the light again. Rodney reaches out, catching a sleeve just before Sheppard can get too far away. When he looks at the moving crowd, he thinks he sees a glimpse of Teyla, staring up at the woman with the same glazed attention as the others. "Stop that! What the hell is wrong with you? Power source, why we're here--" No clear direction. Like it's in the air. Or they're standing-- "Rodney, I know this," Sheppard says softly, and he jerks back, hard enough to throw Rodney off balance, fingers tearing the fragile fabric of his shirt. One step, then another, crossing the line of light, then Sheppard slows, stopping short outside the group, shaking his head. "I've heard this before." "We're standing on it," Rodney hears himself say, watching Sheppard's body tense, turning slowly to look at him with wide, surprised eyes. Afraid, Rodney realizes, scanner forgotten as Sheppard slowly turns away, the drum beat getting stronger, louder, matching the sharp rhythm of the blood pounding in Rodney's ears. "Colonel." His mouth shapes the word, but it's impossible to hear, even if Sheppard had been listening. Rodney watches Sheppard hesitate again, like he's fighting that last step. "Colonel, don't--" "You were asleep," the woman says, and the entire group goes still, drums stopping, leaving a silence so loud it makes Rodney's ears ache. Rodney feels--something--a coiling something, huge and thick, hanging just above their heads in the perfectly clear, perfectly normal night sky, and it pulls at him, too, tempting him toward the edge of light, and all on their own, his feet start moving, swaying toward it, whatever it is, like a favorite song, a familiar voice, home-- "No," he whispers, dropping the scanner, hitting his foot sharply, jerking him back into thought like a splash of cold water. "Wake up." It's more felt than seen--Rodney feels it drop, his feet inches from the edge of it as it covers them, the entire clearing going so still he can hear the wind in the far off trees, the lone sound of an animal howling, a single leaf drop to the ground. An exclusion so sharp Rodney can feel it in his gut like pain, locking him out, the second the group becomes something else. There are over a hundred people less than twenty feet away, but he feels completely alone, the drums starting again, faster and sharper, or maybe it's just the sound of their feet in the clearing, the way they all move. He can see Teyla, slim and fast, Ronon, dark and tall, face in shadow--and Sheppard, moving with them, among them, glittering and bright and alien, all of them, in a way they've never been before, strangers wrapped in familiar skin. "This is how we remember what we are," the woman says, and Rodney keeps his eyes on the group, leaning down to feel for his scanner, stumbling and landing on his ass when he hits the edge of a tent peg. Stuffing the scanner in his vest, Rodney pushes himself slowly back, the sound of the drums working up into his arms from the ground, vibrating every bone, every muscle, a single thought flashing through his head as the woman brings her arms down. *Run*. "Now we hunt." ***** He's two thirds of the way across the clearing before his head clears. Coming to a stop, Rodney draws in a short breath, then another. He should be tired. He should be fucking *unconscious*, his body's never had to do this, but there's the barest hitch of breath in his chest, the lightest pain in his legs. He should be tired and he's fucking *not*. The meadow stretches grey and black around him, colors washed to nothing by the silvery moonlight. All around is nothing but trees, dark and swaying. "Hunt," he murmurs, forcing the word over instinct, exposed, move, run, faster, farther, don't let them catch you; it's like elementary school all over again, except nothing like it. "Hunting. What the *hell*?" Hunting as in, you are being chased. Prey. Christ, this isn't what he signed up for. "Fuck," he whispers, just to hear his own voice, drowning out the chant in his head. "Fuck fuck fuck, stop, *think*." Straightening, Rodney forces himself to move slowly, adrenaline so sharp that every movement's too jerky, over controlled--his own body's fighting him, energy spiking by the second until he's jogging without even meaning to, already staring at the trees ahead, measuring the distance, how far he can get before the next time he turns, throw them off-- *the scent* --keep moving, keep hiding, don't get caught, don't be caught out, not here, not here, not *here*. "No," he tells himself and forces his feet still. "I'm not prey." Though he seriously doubts that the people he's running from are going to see the logic of that one. And it's so fucking hard to *think*. ***** Rodney pushes heels and hands into the ground, struggling backward, shedding his vest without meaning to as the group's movement sharpens, faster, focusing, pulling at the edges of his mind, the message as clear as a shout in silence. *Join. Or. Run*. The woman raises her arms again and all movement freezes, leaving only the fast beat of the drums to trickle off to silence. "Good hunting." All eyes turn, moving as one, staring at him struggling on the ground, a single, powerful *something* focusing on him for a second that lasts forever. This, Rodney thinks suddenly, is every Discovery Channel special he's ever slept through, condensed into a single shining second of perfect fear. Nothing human is looking at him from within that group, nothing familiar, no one he's met, no one he knows. In front, Rodney sees Sheppard, staring at him with alien eyes. "I'll find you." Rodney's never moved so fast in his life. ***** Feet or miles later, he's not sure which, he's stumbling, finally, breath hitching in his throat, *finally*, exhaustion overcoming adrenaline, *finally*, and Rodney collapses against a tree, lungs burning and every muscle turned to water. *Run* isn't as powerful when he can't even catch a full breath, panting into rough bark, not caring what kind of splinters he's pushing into his scratched hands, the rocks against his knees, this is *insane*. "Stargate," he tells himself, but where the fuck *is* it? The forest is all the same, dark and green and thick around him, and there's no way he can follow his own tracks back, even if he wasn't sure that they were behind him, out there, somewhere. "Elizabeth," but she isn't real, nothing is but the dark curling around him, the need to move, hide, run until he can't anymore, whoever catches him-- Oh God, he doesn't want to know what comes next. Pushing off the tree, Rodney stumbles to his feet, dragging in deep breaths, easily avoiding exposed roots, hidden rocks, blood-red bushes and slippery moss, water rising up around his ankles, chill even through his boots. It's almost enough to make him want to think again, whatever's driving him clear for a second, just a second where an almost-idea clears his head-- *someone is behind you* Rodney makes it to the other side of the creek when a body collides against him, knocking him into a tangle of fern and leaves. Rodney instinctively struggles, his hand sliding to his belt--*what happened to my gun?*--pulling the knife he's never used before today. A hand traps his arm against the damp forest floor, the body settling over him and easily holding him down. Rodney stares up into Ronon's eyes, moonlight-silvered, and his breath catches in his throat. Fingers work brutally into his forearm, fingers going numb around the knife--*were you going to use it? Against Ronon?*--and it falls to the leaves silently. Ronon bares his teeth, staring down at Rodney like they've never met. "Ronon," he whispers, feeling the edge of a blade against his throat. Honoring those that came before, his mind offers up. Offering. No. Not right. Sacrifice. There's enough moonlight that Rodney can see he'd lost his shirt somehow, smudges on his skin in patterns that look like symbols, chased up and down each muscular arm, across his chest, one high cheekbone. The blade presses closer, the tip pushing against the hollow of his throat, and Rodney can feel the second it breaks the skin, blood pooling hot on his skin around the cool metal. Of all the ways he thought he'd die in the Pegasus galaxy--and there are a lot--this hadn't come *close* to making the list. "Ronon, what the *hell*? You *know* me. Get the fuck *off* me!" That gets him a snarl, and Rodney's fingers feel for the knife again, scrabbling on dry dirt and slick grass, like there's any chance he can possibly use it. Instinct, his mind offers up helplessly as the blade presses closer. No one wants to die, not like this. "No," he whispers. "No," says another voice. Ronon's head jerks around, knife moving a not very comforting distance from his unprotected neck. Rodney follows his gaze and sees Sheppard slumped against a tree, breathtakingly normal and anything but. "Mine," Ronon growls, like he's forgotten how to speak, knife moving back down, and Rodney shuts his eyes, because there's no way that Sheppard can-- There's a dull sound and something scrapes across Rodney's cheek, the weight off him so suddenly he forgets to move, opening his eyes to see Sheppard crouched beside him, close enough to touch. He looks--so normal, head tilted, mouth curved in an amused smile, but there's a knife in his hand and blood smeared all the way up to the hilt. His other hand rests just on Rodney's chest, palm pressed in silent warning. Stay down. Rodney doesn't want to *think* what this means. Ronon makes a soft sound, low enough to be a growl, raising all the hair on Rodney's neck. Rodney fumbles for his knife, jerking it close just as Ronon's boot comes down where his wrist was. Sheppard gives him an approving look before his eyes flicker back to Ronon. "No," Sheppard says, reaching out too fast, swiping Rodney's blood from the cut on his throat. "Not him." Rodney watches in fascination as Sheppard smears the blood across Ronon's forehead with his thumb, drawing another symbol into his skin. They---those are-- His eyes flicker to Sheppard, taking him in this time, dark spots on his chest and arms, the smears in patterns that his mind almost recognizes. Ronon catches Sheppard's hand, drawing Sheppard's thumb into his mouth, licking away the blood with slow, deliberate strokes of his tongue, before he nods, then his head jerks up, scenting the air. "Teyla," Sheppard says, not even turning around. Rodney watches in disbelief as she materializes from behind a tree like a shadow, circling Rodney's feet to drop on her knees by Ronon, knife flashing out. Sheppard catches her wrist and twists effortlessly, eyes narrow. The knife falls on Rodney's stomach. "*No*." Teyla frowns, gaze flickering between Sheppard and Ronon for a second before she nods sharply. Sheppard drops her hand, head tilting as she retrieves her knife, and her head lowers as Sheppard swipes another finger of blood, drawing the same symbol on one high cheekbone. Slowly, they all stand, and Rodney, gripping the knife in one shaking hand, slowly starts to sit up. "What the *hell*--" Sheppard's boot presses against his chest, pushing him back down with just enough force to get him groundward. "Stay down." "Not even. Colonel--" But the eyes that fix on him aren't Sheppard's, as endlessly dark as a starless night. "Stay. Down." His eyes flicker to Rodney's knife, almost amused. "Keep that." "Was planning on it," Rodney murmurs, clutching the knife against his chest, but he stays down, and Sheppard's mouth curves in a brief, too-familiar smirk before his head turns, following Ronon and Teyla's gazes outward. "They're coming," Ronon says softly. A few long seconds of utter silence follows, then Sheppard's head cocks, boot moving from Rodney's chest. He flickers glances at Ronon and Teyla, like they don't even need words, then looks at Rodney. "Let's go." ***** Maybe they don't need language. They certainly don't seem to have problems communicating with just a look. They're faster, too, blinding speed that should scare him and doesn't; sometimes he can match it, and that doesn't scare him either. Teyla and Ronon appear and disappear in the dark, but Sheppard's a constant, close enough for Rodney to trace the patterns on his back with his eyes when it should be too dark to see, even tell who did which ones--Teyla's smaller, finer fingers on some, Ronon's larger ones on others. All of them mean something, something he can almost grasp, flickering at the edges of his mind. "Something's wrong," Rodney tells them, getting thoughtful looks for his trouble. There are others in the dark, watching them warily, and Rodney can feel their challenge on his skin, waking up something inside that wants to answer it. Sometimes, they come on Ronon pulling his knife out of an unfamiliar body, letting it fall silently to the forest floor, and Rodney watches, eyes wide, as Sheppard kneels behind him, fingers dipped in blood, painting another symbol onto Ronon's back. Rodney counts them once and then stops thinking about it immediately after, because the connection is clear enough even for him. They leave the bodies in a trail behind them, a warning to those who track them. Rodney wonders why on earth anyone would want to follow. He watches as Teyla and Ronon take down one together, silent and still in synch with each other. Another one. Another. Each one written into their skin with their own or John's fingers. "Why do you--" But he stops there, with no idea what question he could possibly ask to explain this. He gets an interested look in return, but Sheppard would have pushed him to continue and this man doesn't, hand closing on his elbow to pull him faster. The ground should be less familiar, but it's like they've been in this forest forever. Vivid colors even in the dark, green and red and gold, and he can *see* things, too bright, too rich. There's a rhythm to this that Rodney can almost fall into, the one that's wrapped around Teyla and Ronon and Sheppard; he can feel the edges of it pulling at him, and if he doesn't stop to think, he falls into it; part of him wants to, reaching for it when he stops thinking, pulling back when he realizes what he's doing. Every time he does, Sheppard looks at him with the same thoughtful focus, almost--waiting? Waiting, something like it, layers behind it that he can't quite touch. Teyla and Ronon and Sheppard move like choreography on impossible, unfamiliar ground, and when he's close to them, Rodney does it too. That's how he sees the one that gets past Ronon, past Teyla, slipping through shadows, and he can feel Sheppard's sharp observation but no action. Rodney turns to look at him just as Sheppard steps away and an unfamiliar body crashes into his, rolling him onto hard, unforgiving ground, leaves crackling beneath him. For a second, pinned on his back, he has no idea what to do. A glance around shows Ronon and Teyla, close enough to see, but unmoving; Sheppard, close enough to *stop this*, but still and quiet, crouching, eyes wide and dark. And knowing, answering every one of Rodney's unspoken questions with a look. This one is supposed to be his. "No," he hears himself whisper, but his body's already in motion. Rodney kicks, with no clear idea how he's doing it, jerking his knife up and out until it meets flesh, rolling them faster than he knew his body could move and bringing it down, catching the scent of fear and anger pouring from the man beneath him, overlaid with the scent of freshly shed blood. This isn't him, but his body doesn't know that. I'm not like this, Rodney tells himself, then cuts the exposed throat with a quick, efficient twist of his wrist, moving instinctively away from the spray of blood, surprised how easy it is. Rolling off, he comes up on his knees, staring at the knife in his hand, slick with blood, smeared up his wrist and over his shirt, waiting to feel something. It's not like he's never been responsible for a death, but it's never been this personal, close enough to watch the light fade from blue-green eyes, going dark and lifeless and silent and still. Then Sheppard is kneeling in front of him, fingers pushing his chin up, fierce approval radiating from him like the heat from his bare skin. "Yes. Like that." Closing his eyes, he can feel the brush of steel as Sheppard cuts off his shirt, then fingers, warm and wet, drawing something on his chest. Opening his eyes, he stares down at the almost familiar symbol etched into his skin as Sheppard draws away, looking up to see the satisfaction in Sheppard's eyes. Rodney catches the slim wrist, bringing the bloody fingers to his mouth and slowly licking them clean. That feeling again. That hovering *thing* that's his team, reaching for him and into him and a part of him, welcoming him home with the first copper taste. Sheppard's other hand curves around his jaw, pulling his fingers free. Leaning forward, Sheppard's mouth touches his a fast, sharp kiss, with a bite to his lower lip that makes him gasp, then Sheppard pulls away and stands up. He follows, legs unsteady, feeling Teyla and Ronon's pleasure, feeling *them*. They don't need language, he thinks, feeling drunk but clearer than he's ever felt before. They have *this*. He slots into place like they'd been waiting for him to catch up, a net of feeling/thought/memory, their confusion when he wasn't with them in the camp, something *missing*, of Sheppard hunting him through the forest, catching his scent on trees and stone and grass, searching desperately to be the first to find him, *ours, don't hurt, ours, don't kill, ours* when Ronon caught him, waiting, not quite him, not quite there, not quite theirs, but now, now, now�. "Oh," he whispers, and Sheppard nods slowly, mouth curled up in a smile before the nod, *move*, more coming, many more, *go*, run and maybe rest for a little while before they start again. *Yes*. ***** He and Sheppard take two more, and he knows what to draw on Sheppard's back, as easy as an equation on the line of his spine, matching the ones Sheppard draws on him. When he kisses Sheppard this time, there's nothing but warm satisfaction, a shock of pleasure like liquid metal that burns into the shape of Sheppard's fingers against his skin. He feels high when they stand up, and he wants more. ***** They stop for a while to rest, and Rodney crouches while he cleans his knife on a patch of clear grass. Behind him, he can hear Teyla and Ronon spreading cleaned bones on the path behind him, a firmer warning than the first ones. When he looks up, John's smiling at him, and Rodney closes his eyes as John reaches for him, licking the blood from his mouth. ***** They get quieter as the night goes on, falling into seamless rapport without even trying, so easily Rodney forgets he's supposed to fight this, or even why he should want to. It's like they are as a team, but better, brighter, focused in a way they've never been before. So much easier, Rodney thinks a little wildly, to *know* what to do, not rely on misleading body language and misinterpreted, imprecise words. The vivid night is fascinating; he's never been interested in the outdoors, but tonight, everything seems more real, the scents and tastes, the warmth of the woods closing around him, Ronon and Teyla tracking with cool deliberation, and John's single-minded focus guiding them, keeping them safe from the others. The others watch, but they steer a wide berth now. Rodney can see them from the corners of his eyes, feel the edges of their fear, hiding in the trees, watching them go by, confused and uncertain and wary. He thinks they'd submit if they were sure John wouldn't kill them. Rodney's not sure John wouldn't either. He's not even sure if *he* wouldn't, and it should be more frightening than it is. "They don't move in groups," Rodney hears himself say when John falls into step beside him, sharp and painfully bright, glittering edges naked, the way he's never been on Atlantis. This is what he's always hidden, Rodney thinks, and feels John's slow smile and agreement, the warmth of his approval like a blanket. It's a dangerous feedback loop, Rodney thinks, the instinctive need to please their team leader. "Noticed that," John murmurs, moving liquidly on the rough terrain, up a short, steep incline before pausing to wait for Rodney to catch up. "You'd think they'd catch on by now," he adds absently, and Rodney wonders about that, too. "Maybe it's supposed to be solitary," he says as Teyla comes up behind them, Ronon a silent shadow beside her. "Maybe this wasn't supposed to happen to us." Prey, Rodney thinks, remembering how the leader had looked at them, the unfamiliar way they held utensils, her smile as she set them free to hunt. "We were their prey." "They were going to hunt us," John says softly as he catches Rodney's thoughts, pausing when Ronon stops short, making a sharp left that they follow. Rodney thinks of the fire, the way they looked at him, and wonders how many John killed to get to him in time. *Killed*. Rodney's mind plugs in for a vivid, almost painful second, because he just doesn't *care*. "The power spikes I saw started when you were--" There aren't words for what he saw. "Something in the ground at the camp." John tilts his head in question, and Rodney struggles to frame the concepts into something understandable. "I don't know how--but she was powering something." His mind offers up a thousand comic book scenarios of mind-control machines, and God, what he wouldn't do to believe that, to wrap himself in it as justification, but it's just not. He's still Rodney, the person he was on Atlantis, but it's like he woke up here, and the man in the lab is so many thousands of light-years from what he is now that he barely recognizes him. Before is a monochrome, sterile dream, slow and frustrating and he wonders how he lived before this, before his team, family, all the definitions and none of them, because there aren't words for what they are now. "More coming," John says softly, and Rodney turns his head enough to take in the anticipation on John's face. "They're afraid." Rodney can feel John's focus sharpen abruptly, pulling them in, rage that he never suspected lived below the surface of John's skin, pleasure in the chase, satisfaction in the finding, pure joy in his team around him, the undercurrents of a feeling that he knows now that John's searched for all his life without knowing it, never found until now. "They should be," Rodney answers, equally soft, shifting his grip on the knife. John's been looking for this all his life, and maybe, Rodney has, too. ***** It's hard to think around John's focus, bright and sharp as a laser, cutting through logic and uncertainty like they don't exist. Like there's nothing but here, nothing but now, nothing but-- "We need to get back to the gate," Rodney hears himself say eventually, the words clumsy and foreign on his tongue after hours of silence. Night is ending soon, and they'll stop--no idea why, but Rodney's body telegraphs it, some mix of instinct and whatever the hell is doing this to them. "John." John stops short, looking back from his place beside Ronon, then eyeing the slowly lightening east, brows furrowed. "We can't--" "--go back like this," Rodney says, feeling Teyla's silent agreement. "I know. But--we have to--Lorne is coming. His team. If we don't check in." John takes that in for a second, and Rodney feels the flashes of John's too-fast thoughts. Lorne, here, and maybe a threat, maybe not, maybe they'll be able to recognize other Atlanteans, but no one feels real, not like their team. The worry underneath it, that they aren't controlling this and had stopped trying a long time ago. The worry that they're forgetting that they need to. It's just enough to clear his head, pushing himself out of the mesh of thought, be himself for a second, and he sees John slow-blink his displeasure, thoughts coalescing around Rodney. "We have to get to the gate. If we can even find it." Ronon snorts softly, and Rodney can feel his amusement on the edge of his thoughts. He can find it, they'll find it when they're ready, no pressure to do so now. Now is sunup and they need shelter, pulling on the edges of their minds. Daytime, rest, later, find it later, find the gate, later. Later. A glance from John, and Teyla and Ronon scout ahead. John stays right where he is, watching Rodney warily. "You're afraid." There's nothing for them to fear. No one on this planet can touch them. "Not--exactly." Afraid that they care so little. That he cares so little. That he knows they're doing things they would never do, horrific images that crawl up to the surface of their thoughts. He keeps thinking, what are we doing with the bodies? And he thinks he knows the answer. "John--" "I don't--" "Care, I know, I don't either, but we *should*." The pressure sharpens, wrapping around him, almost physically painful. "Stop that. I can't--" "Rodney." "Back *off*." The pressure dissipates, drawing back, hovering tantalizingly out of reach; John's blocked him. The sudden silence is deafening, and Rodney opens his eyes on a distant Sheppard, not John, watching him with the cool eyes of a stranger. "That's petty." And God, he can feel the things he's done this night crawling upward from the murk of his mind. He can't do this. He can't live like this. He can't-- Sheppard cocks his head, arms crossed incongruously over his chest, a parody of normality. "You're keeping us out." "To *think*." Frantically, he grasps for them, Sheppard shifting away, holding the team away from him, dangling it like bait. "I need to fucking *think*, and I can't, I can't when I--" It's like a drug, that feeling, he wants it *back*, more than he wants to figure this out, far more than any indistinct concept of *Atlantis* and *home*. Every second stretches like an hour that Sheppard holds him like that, away from anything familiar, alone in a way he's never been before. John. *John*. "John." Sheppard crosses the space between them, light and easy and angry; Rodney can read it in his body language like a shout. A foot away, he pauses, still watching. "You manipulative son of a bitch." Sheppard's expression doesn't change. "You're shutting us out." For a second, he lets Rodney feel the gap he's left, ripped mesh edges of thought and knowledge and feeling, and Rodney *gets* that, can feel them in himself. Sheppard's this stranger he doesn't know and he *should*. "Rodney." *Don't leave me.* Then Sheppard lets it go, and Rodney grasps for it desperately, surrounding himself with his team, gasping in a breath, relief sharp in his throat, his chest, feeling whole again, the world coming back into focus. John's fingers slide around his wrist, rubbing a thumb into his pulse, *like this, us, all of us*. "Come on," he says, head turning to the east. Rodney can see the rise of dawn, pink-violet and grey, just beyond the edges of the trees, feel the sharp taste of discovery, satisfaction from ahead. "Ronon's found a place." ***** They stop--*daylight*--thin and pale, short days, long nights, taking shelter in a cave. The forest looks different now, somehow wrong with too-bright green light filtering through the trees. It feels like home. There's something they should *remember*-- Sheppard's hand against the small of his back is a command, and Rodney frowns but obeys. It's darker inside, the farther they go back, moving carefully to avoid leaving signs of their passing. Perfect, comfortable dark closes around them finally, warm and safe, until Rodney's eyes adjust enough to see bare stone walls, the sandy floor. Ronon murmurs something soft against Teyla's skin, answered with a whisper, then Sheppard's pulling him again, pressing him down into soft dirt, dried leaves crackling against his back, running his tongue up Rodney's jaw before a sharp, brief kiss. Yes, this. No, not like this. Not like-- "Colonel," he says, but the word's shaped wrong in his mouth and Sheppard--John's eyes narrow. He wonders, suddenly, why he'd even said it, what it means. "John." John kisses him again, slow and dirty, teeth against his lower lip like a promise or a brand. Warm, callused hands slide up his sides, nails scratching new patterns into his skin that he can almost read. "John," he breathes when the warm mouth settles on his throat, sucking bruises into his skin, growling low when Rodney twists his hands in John's hair, leaves catching between his fingers, smoothing away twigs and patches of blood, breathing him in, quiet forest and warm night and soft sand around them. When he pushes, John rolls onto his back in a liquid sprawl, easy as a cat. Straddling him, Rodney traces the lines of one of the first symbols, just below the collar, then leans down, tracing it with his tongue. Salt-copper and warm skin, sharp sweat, dirt and leaves and night air, John, distilled, electric like a shock from an open circuit. He touches every symbol, mouths the skin between, memorizing scent and taste, feeling John's satisfaction, the warmth of his pleasure in Rodney's touch. More than that--their teammates close enough to breathe, to feel, Ronon touching Teyla like this, hands careful on her body, learning the lines of muscle and the curve of bone, her low sighs at every touch. John smells of a long night running, the forest around them, the lives they took tonight, of family and loyalty and beneath it all, something feral and familiar and *Rodney's*. Hands on John's shoulders, he pushes him down, teeth sinking into the thin skin below his ear, feeling John arch up in surprise and pleasure at the touch, nails digging trenches into Rodney's back when Rodney's teeth break skin, tasting blood. "John," he murmurs into damp skin, licking John's taste from his tongue, John's hand in his hair pulling him back to his mouth, sharp teeth nipping at his lip, his tongue, his chin, pushing him onto his back and covering him with miles of warm, willing skin. Rodney wants to take, claim, make new marks that won't wear off, carve them into John's skin, into his own, *mine* *yours* *ours*. It's John, but somehow more, stripped to something elemental and incandescent, glittering bright above him like the moon on a cloudless night, and Rodney wants him so badly he aches for it, stripping off his own pants and reaching for John. *Inside you* John's spit-wet fingers press, asking, and Rodney opens up, twisting his hands in John's hair when two fingers twist inside, *want*-- "Yeah," Rodney mutters, "yes, John--" *do it now* It's so easy, how he works open for John, cock thick and hot and not quite slick enough, but the raw edges make it better. Rodney presses down to get more, wanting cock in his ass and flesh between his teeth, leave John marked and claimed for everyone to see. He draws patterns with his fingernails on the smooth skin of John's back, follows the symbols with the tips of his fingers, tastes John's low moans. He can feel *everything*, everything, sharp and clear like a drink of cold water on a hot summer day. "John," he whispers, feeling the proprietary growl hum along his skin as John's teeth rake across his shoulder. He leaves fingerprint bruises in John's hips, scabbed bites on his throat, moaning his pleasure into John's shoulder when he comes, bright and shaking and so high he feels like he's flying. John comes seconds after on a thrust Rodney can feel in his throat, and he wants this, wants John and nights spent running and days like this between, wrapped in feeling and instinct and John's surprised happiness. Rodney murmurs it into John's skin, tells him with his body when he straddles John, *mine, yours, ours*, and John stretches out for him, long and golden and says *yes*. ***** The night's cold; Rodney wakes up curled up against John's body, blinking blearily at the sight of Teyla pressed against John's other side, Ronon wrapped around her like a blanket. Animal warmth and reassurance in the slow breathing around him, the rise of John's chest beneath his head, the hand locked possessively over his hip. Pack, his mind offers up suddenly, and he eases back into them, feeling Teyla's warm contentment, Ronon's quiet relief, John's sleepy, fierce joy in having him, having *them*. This, them, this place, his people. *Pack*. It comes together with a kind of inevitable understanding, why they don't fear the Wraith. Rodney wonders why he didn't figure it out before. Beside him, John wakes up, as sharply as an animal, disturbed by the rhythm of Rodney's thoughts. Pushing himself up on one elbow, he stares at Rodney, eyes growing slowly wider, comprehension slicking the surface for a second too long "What's happening to us?" Rodney feels the edges of John's panic as he takes in what Rodney already knows. John's breath catches. "We--we aren't--" "No," Rodney whispers, feeling that uncomfortable knowledge welling up again, more sluggish, more distant, less real. He can see it in John's face, feel it in the restless stirring of Ronon and Teyla, the fracturing of their easy connection into glass-sharp points, razor edged and cutting, hurting. Rolling onto his side, he pushes Rodney over, mouthing the back of his neck for a heart stopping moment. "I don't think I even--" "--care," Rodney answers, closing his eyes, lacing his hands through John's against his stomach. Clarity comes with a price, and he's not willing to pay it, not now, not ever, not if he has to give this up. "They'll come for us," he says. Atlantis, he thinks, feeling John's instinctive rejection as much as his own, fear clawing up from somewhere deep in his stomach. Faces flash through his mind, Atlantis-Elizabeth-Zelenka-Cadman-Caldwell-Carson-Lorne, strangers, outsiders, no one they need, no one they can't live without-- Nothing they can't live without. It washes over him, through John in a wave of relief, and Rodney can feel Teyla and Ronon go quiet as it settles into them as well. Nothing at all. Rodney relaxes into John's warmth, rolling over to press a slow kiss against his mouth, growling softly until John responds. "They won't find us." Rodney thinks of the miles of forest spread over the planet, caves beneath the surface, picturing this world that's home the way no other place has ever been: that he knows to his bones. John grins against his mouth, teeth sharp on his lip, his tongue. "No. They won't."

Title: Flying Blind (or, you know, you can call it Karupin Smash. I don't care.) Rating: soft NC-17. This fic was written as a response to the following art, which was done for me as a gift by the lovely ficcentricity. Fanart is the way to my heart. And clearly the way to all those other parts as well. _________ Karupin has clearly been on too many trips, or so Ryoma thinks as a ball of fuzz darts out of his tennis bag into the middle of training camp. It's not like Ryoma isn't glad to see him, but this is Seigaku - they get kicked out of restaurants over wasabi. A week after Fuji decided to play hostess at Atobe’s nationals party, Atobe was still sending out mass emails threatening to sue them all for punitive damages after scarring his entire household staff. No one should ever let Inui-senpai near a game involving the words "truth" and "dare" again. The blur of white streaking across the room incites panic. Sakuno screams, and then everyone else does too. Eiji is bouncing around going, "Oh, Echizen, you brought your pet squirrel!" while Horio states with perfect authority that it was a raccoon, and Momo, forgetting that he's only seen Karupin at Ryoma's house eight million times at least, barks, "Both of you are wrong! It's a groundhog!" Kaidoh calls Momo a moron and hits him over the head with a towel. He looks hopefully under the couch for Karupin in the brief moment before Momo grabs his shoulder, hauls him up, and tries to punch him in the face. "If it's a wild animal then we need to call animal control," Oishi says nervously. Then he squints at Ryoma in concern. "Echizen, what is a rat doing in your tennis gear?" "RODENT ARRIVAL!" Taka-san booms from the kitchen, banging around what sounds like all the sushi knives he owns. "MUSKRAT LOVE, BABY!" Ryoma doesn't know how you hear "tennis camp" and think "bring cutlery." "LET'S DEFEAT IT WITH TENNIS!" shrieks Tomo, as if she's ever defeated anyone with tennis. Well. Apart from Horio. Everyone not currently fist-fighting shrieks their agreement. Ryoma mutters and swipes at Karupin's legs from under the counter. Nobody is defeating his cat with tennis. Over in the corner, Kaidoh throws an uppercut at Momo and an apologetic glance at Ryoma. Ryoma knows he’d help if he could, but it’s okay; he and Momo have their priorities. Fuji doesn't so much as sidle up to him as miraculously appear. Ryoma starts in surprise and bangs his head on the underside of the counter. Karupin shoots him an unimpressed look, curls up beneath the far end, and lick his paws clean of travel dust. "I have a better idea," Fuji says smoothly, blithely ignorant of Ryoma standing there rubbing his head. "Tezuka can help Echizen look for his cat. The rest of us can all go have lunch!" He smiles like this is the most brilliant thing he's ever heard anyone say. Ryoma thinks about how in fairy tales, Fuji's character is the trickster who’s off trying to turn people into hats and wear them around or something. Fuji probably reads a lot of fairy tales. So far the only one who hasn't said anything is Tezuka. He still doesn't, just comes over and kneels down beside Ryoma. Even when he squats he's so large he has to duck his head to even see under the counter. He's wearing his Seigaku jersey and the material bunches up around his bent knees, poking out in odd places and making him loom even larger next to Ryoma. There's something compact and warm about him even just like this that makes Ryoma go dry around the mouth, makes him duck his head and pull down his cap and glare at Karupin. Not in front of all these people, in front of Buchou, in front of his cat - who incidentally doesn't look fooled. "Mrow," Karupin informs Tezuka. "Ah," Tezuka says with complete sobriety, before reaching one long arm under the counter and gently pulling Karupin out by the scruff of his neck. He deposits Karupin in Ryoma's arms just as gently, his fingers brushing Ryoma's coat sleeves in the process. Ryoma mumbles, "Thanks, Buchou," and buries his burning face in Karupin's fur. At lunch time, Eiji tries to set a place for Karupin at the table. Instead they all wind up giving him their table scraps until Ryoma drags him away to prevent him eating himself sick. "You've been hanging around Momo too much," he scolds him as he deposits him in his bedroom. He and Momo are rooming together as usual - as the Seigaku tennis entourage has gained in prestige over the last few years (amazing what winning a few championships and having players who spent most of last year gracing the covers of Tennis Monthly, Tennis Pro Japan, and once even Sports Illustrated will do for a team budget; SI had compared Tezuka to Feds and Ryoma to Rafa, and Ryoma had to wear his cap constantly for a week so Tezuka wouldn't see the permanent grin on his face), it's gotten easier to rent a cabin with actual beds instead of just a big room with a floor. When he sets Karupin on his bed, Karupin raises a paw and cleans his ears indifferently. "Don't go spilling all your secrets to Buchou," Ryoma says. He doesn't think Karupin would betray him like that, but Tezuka has uncanny levels of perception when it comes to Ryoma, so it's not a far-fetched idea that they might extend to Ryoma's cat. Actually... "And no blurting things out to Kaidoh-senpai, either," Ryoma says, frowning. "Also, if you talk to Fuji-senpai, he'll talk back." Karupin sniffs. Ryoma scratches him behind the ear he just cleaned as a remonstrance for having snuck his way into Ryoma's private sanctuary for a week, even though he doesn't really mind that much. He just hopes Horio can remember that Karupin's not a raccoon. Ryoma doesn't have to worry, though. For the next two days Karupin mostly sleeps or crouches under the coffee table in the den. When he does come out, it's only to talk to Kaidoh-senpai or Tezuka-Buchou, as if to show Ryoma he can pick his own company just fine, thanks. He curls up next to Ryoma when Ryoma sleeps, which is a bit of a relief to him because it means there's less danger of Ryoma having some sort of hideously embarrassing dream or sleep talking or something, and waking up to find Momo giving him funny looks and sharing secrets Ryoma isn't looking to bond over. Instead he mostly dreams of breathing fur, and occasionally having his face trodden on by white horses with tiny soft hooves. During the day he plays tennis, and plays tennis, and plays tennis. The weather for this time of year is unseasonably cool, and the breeze whips across his face whenever he pauses to rest. But the pauses are few and far between; Seigaku has to take nationals this year because it's Buchou's last year, and Oishi's, and Fuji's, and Kawamura's, and Inui's, and Buchou's, and Eiji's, and Buchou's. Ryoma will hit as many serves as Tezuka hits, he'll run as many laps as Tezuka runs, he'll match him every step of the way and then surpass him by at least five more. He knows Tezuka will be right behind him - he knows he'll be coming up fast and passing him by again. He knows it every time they fall in step beside one another, every time their eyes meet across the court. He burns all over with it. This is theirs, just theirs, and Ryoma honestly believes that the rest of Seigaku could lie down and sleep for a week and the two of them, just him and Tezuka, could win nationals together just by out-blazing the competition with intensity. Being fifteen and perpetually on fire anyway probably helps. Wanting to breathe in Tezuka all the time probably helps, as does the unceasing awareness of time and how little of it they have left before Ryoma has to go back to America and Tezuka goes to university. Tezuka hasn't told Ryoma yet, but he knows anyway. He knows because of the way Tezuka's shoulders set whenever he talks to Ryoma, as if the dual pillars aren't enough to relieve him of his private burden. As if he doesn't know how to tell Ryoma - just Ryoma. Thinking about this for too long does weird things to Ryoma's stomach. He doesn't like it. And there is tennis to play, so much of it. He hopes he can perfect a serve this week that will eat right through Tezuka's resolve, his insecurity, his everything. Something that will burn its way into Tezuka and stay forever, the way all of this has stayed with Ryoma for three years. By the third day he is exhausted and sated and ready to dig deeper within himself than ever, and by nightfall he all but falls into bed after dinner and stays there, concentrating on the beating of his own heart. His mind is stunningly clear and focused. He goes over serves and returns, techniques and training exercises, the litany of things he still needs to work on and perfect, the ever-expanding list of ways he knows he needs to grow. He plays the record of serve, volley, serve, return, in his head until he realizes all at once that Karupin isn't in his room. This would be all right except that Momo has been out doing who knows what with Kaidoh every night so far, and he always slams the door when he gets back no matter how late it is. (Ryuzaki knows better than to be too strict about the curfew. Ryoma suspects this is because she has been breaking it herself to sneak off down the mountain and have a drink after all the students are asleep.) Ryoma doesn't want Karupin to get shut out after everyone has gone to bed. Grumbling a little at how his muscles resist the thought of movement, he stumbles out of bed and down the hallways. Karupin's not in the kitchen or the den or outside on the porch. Ryoma checks the tennis courts, but it's not likely Karupin would have wandered that far. He checks the laundry room, the dining room, and the upstairs bath before heading back to the team rooms. It's still early yet but given that they have to be up at 5 am for the first of two daily jogs down the mountain and back, several of the team members are already in their beds or headed that way. Ryoma passes by what appears to be Fuji and Eiji painting each other's toenails and a lot of odd grunting noises coming from Inui and Kaidoh's room. Then he pokes his head into Tezuka and Oishi's room. Oishi isn't inside, but Tezuka is. He's lying on his back with his eyes closed and a book pressed awkwardly by his side, as if he had been reading it and just fallen asleep in the middle. His glasses are still perched on his nose. Tezuka doesn't even take off his glasses when he knows he might be going to bed. Ryoma is so intent on Tezuka's face as he moves forward into the room that he doesn't see Karupin sitting next to him until Karupin flicks his tail. They look at each other. Karupin is curled next to Buchou, and Buchou even has one hand lightly resting against Karupin's neck. "Rubbing it in," Ryoma murmurs. Karupin replies with a final tail-flick that clearly anyone with wherewithal could find themselves in his position if they really wanted. Then he hops into Ryoma's arms and purrs loudly by way of encouragement. Ryoma can't exactly curl up next to Buchou, though, so he just looks at him. His hair is actually lying down for once instead of spilling all over the place. There's a lock of it in his eyes, trapped between his forehead and his glasses. The rest of it is swept back, curling softly around his ears and clinging to his neck. Ryoma has never studied Tezuka from this close before. His hair isn't the same color all the way through. It's dark underneath and tea-colored on top, as if he actually absorbs sunlight from standing on the court all day. It looks soft. His features are soft, too. Ryoma hasn't thought of Tezuka's expressions as hard in years, not since the very beginning of this. It takes him by surprise anyway, how smooth Tezuka's features are when they aren't rigid with decorum or annoyance or worry. He's sleeping now, and all the concern has melted out of his forehead, out of his eyebrows and the dint below his bottom lip. He's almost a man, and pretty much always has been, but Ryoma thinks Tezuka has never looked younger. He leans forward, being careful not to breathe, and carefully removes Tezuka's glasses from his face. The lock of hair catches between Ryoma's fingers. It is soft. Tezuka doesn't wake up and Ryoma just stands there, looking at him. Oishi-senpai comes in quietly after a time - Ryoma actually has no idea how long he's been there. He mumbles something about Karupin when he sees the look on Oishi's face, and then tries not to look as if he is fleeing when he walks back to his room. It's not like he was doing anything wrong, anyway. He doesn't think Buchou would mind knowing that Ryoma had been watching him sleep. Ryoma wouldn't mind. Back in his own room he turns off the lights and curls up in bed, more exhausted than before and happy to let sleep overtake him with Karupin still clutched firmly in his arms. The room alarm is set for 5:00 am but he knows it is earlier than that when he wakes, knows from the slant of the light just breaking through the windows and the way his body resists. He coils around his pillow with a mumbled protest, and starts to pull the covers up when a soft, slightly scratchy voice says, "Good morning." Ryoma opens an eye halfway, then all the way. "Hey," he manages, then yawns all over like Karupin. Tezuka is kneeling beside the bed, already showered and dressed. Something like that would annoy Ryoma in anybody else, but Ryoma likes Tezuka all the time, even when he's annoying. Sometimes that's when Ryoma likes him best. Tezuka is looking at Ryoma now with the same expression he had when he was sleeping last night. Ryoma wonders how long Tezuka has been sitting there beside him. Momo is still snoring. "You have something that belongs to me," Tezuka says. Ryoma wrinkles his nose in confusion and looks down at his pillow. Clutched in his hand exactly the way he left them are Tezuka's glasses. He looks at them. They're folded up and they don't look bent out of shape. He wonders if he should be embarrassed. He isn't. He sits up with Tezuka's glasses still in his hand. Then he sets them on his nose. The world blurs sharply out of focus and his eyes sting. He glances over at the mirror on the wall, but can't see how he looks. When he looks back at Tezuka, though, he can read the hidden smile. "They're too big for you," Tezuka says. He's trying to talk softly so he won't wake Momo, but this just makes his voice sound low and quiet and intimate. Ryoma pushes them up his nose. They slide back down. "You can keep them. I don't need glasses." "I know," says Tezuka. "I had to - " Ryoma says, and then stops, awkwardly. He doesn't need to tell Buchou about Karupin, curled up at the foot of the bed at the moment. He probably already knows from Oishi. He looks down his nose at the glasses, face heating. A moment later Tezuka leans forward and starts to remove his glasses from Ryoma's face. When his fingers meet the frames, though, they also meet the sides of Ryoma's face, just above his cheeks. Tezuka stops moving, stops everything, and his fingertips rest there against the ridge of Ryoma's cheekbones. This is the closest they've ever been and the only time they've ever touched beyond handshakes over the court. Ryoma knows exactly how many handshakes, but he doesn't know how to count this. After another moment Tezuka takes his glasses and settles them on his own face, the frames sliding into place like a puzzle piece fitting where it should. Ryoma leans over to straighten them. "Crooked," he explains, and then instead of moving his hand away he runs his palm all the way down the side of Tezuka's face. Tezuka doesn't do anything, which Ryoma knows is the closest he will ever get to explicit consent. His eyes are knowing and bright behind his glasses. Ryoma scoots to the edge of the bed and runs his thumb over the fine stubble of Tezuka's chin. Sitting on the bed he's taller than Tezuka. He has Tezuka's face between his hands; Tezuka is just letting Ryoma touch him, letting him explore the curves of his face and feel out the pattern of his razor along the line of his smooth cheek. Ryoma suddenly feels taller and powerful, which makes him feel awkward, as if Tezuka is more vulnerable than he should be, even if he doesn't look it. He wishes they didn't have practice today. Tezuka is wishing it too. They've never talked about this, Ryoma thinks. Ryoma threads his hand through Tezuka's hair, watching the way Tezuka's expression just seems to get softer and softer. After a long moment Tezuka covers Ryoma's hand with his own, and tugs it gently away. Ryoma waits for him to let go, but Tezuka lingers, calloused fingers tracing his for a moment before he finally lets go. He stands up just as the alarm goes off and Momo rolls over in bed with a groan. Ryoma throws a pillow at Momo to wake him up. Tezuka leaves the room as quietly as he came. Ryoma feels like his nerves are on end all day, his fingertips tingling whenever he sees Buchou, like he's still touching him. Tezuka doesn't seek him out, doesn't avoid him either. Ryoma wants to play him but winds up watching Tezuka play Fuji instead, until the power of the two of them on the court has him so on-edge he picks a sparring fight with Eiji just to have something else to do. He doesn't miss Fuji's chuckle when he stalks off the court, though he suspects Tezuka is too focused on the game to even remember his existence. Eiji takes him to a seventh-game tiebreak set that lasts over an hour before he manages to break through the acrobatic play, which is now more properly Olympian gymnastic play. Even then the only reason Ryoma manages it is the appearance of Fuji and Tezuka, standing beside each other looking cozy and domestic, and the sight of it burns through Ryoma in a sudden white hot determination. Ryoma can think of at least six different people who'd like Tezuka to be their one true rival, and that's before he's even out of the Kantou prefecture. Fuji is good, Fuji is excellent, but it's Ryoma, not Fuji or Yukimura or Atobe or any of the others, who will stand beside Tezuka in the end. The two of them are going to defeat Hyotei and Rikkai so badly at nationals that no one else will ever think of coming near them. It doesn't matter whether Tezuka goes pro or not. Ryoma will come back and play him every week if he has to. So people will know. He slams a cyclone smash past Eiji with a burst of strength he thought he'd lost hours ago. When it's all over and he's finished being thoroughly hugged by Eiji at the net, he looks back at Tezuka, and all at once the restless unsettled feeling evaporates. Tezuka knows already, he thinks. "It's too bad you dragged Eiji away, Echizen," Fuji says lightly, and Ryoma doesn't miss the way he lets his shoulder brush Tezuka's. "He's never seen me beat the captain." “Hoiii,” Eiji says, whistling. “Tezuka-Buchou lost?” “Only by match-point,” says Fuji, eyes closed. “It was a good game, wasn’t it, Tezuka?” “Yes,” Tezuka replies. Tezuka never looks unhappy about losing. He always looks just the way he does whenever he watches Ryoma play. When their eyes meet, Ryoma almost, almost reaches out and touches his hand. “Eh, Fuji-senpai,” he says. “It won’t happen twice.” Fuji’s eyes pop open and his smile grows two sizes. “Are you so confident, Echizen?” he says. He sounds delighted. “I’ve been practicing a lot.” “Che,” Ryoma says, letting Tezuka see him smirk. “So has Buchou.” Everyone talks about the match between Tezuka and Fuji at dinner, and Eiji feigns indignation that no one cares that he only lost to Ryoma by one game. Oishi pokes him in the ribs. Taka serves giant piles of steamed dumplings, one of which winds up in the cat bowl that has miraculously appeared for Karupin, six of which wind up in Karupin’s stomach. Kaidoh watches Momo wolf them all down, fascinated and repulsed the whole time. Inui writes down everything everyone says at dinner, then attempts to talk to Tezuka about the statistical details of his match. The gleam on the edge of his glasses gets brighter with every passing moment Tezuka ignores him. Fuji makes Taka turn bright red three times during the course of dinner. Sakuno stays bright red the whole time. Tomoko puts on an apron and screams until she procures volunteers to help her with the dishes. She’s loud, but effective, Ryoma thinks. Karupin struts around after his meal with his tail straight up. Ryoma watches him weave between Tezuka’s legs. After dinner, Ryuzaki-sensai announces that tomorrow, Thursday, is a full day off from training. It’s useless to make Seigaku take a full day off, everyone knows that – they are past adrenaline at this point, energy flowing through them like the mountain stream they have raced against every morning. But it feels like time well earned, and the freedom of a day, an entire day, settles over them all like relief. Tezuka looks at Ryoma. The two of them play each other against the backdrop of pines spiraling up from canyon plunges, beneath twilight unfolding across a mountain sky. The courts are deserted, and if they attract bystanders from among the other members of Seigaku, Ryoma doesn’t know or care. In past matches they have teased, have talked. This match is different. This match Ryoma can’t speak except through the rhythm of his swings against Tezuka’s. His muscles ache from his earlier match with Kikumaru-senpai, but he wants it that way. He wants Buchou to have his first, his last, his best, to have him at his tiredest and his strongest. He wants to draw something out of Tezuka that no one else ever will or can. He tells him so over and over again. They play until they can no longer see the ball. There are no practice lights on the courts and no one left to see them play a match that has no end. They don’t shake hands. Tezuka lets Ryoma stand on tiptoe and drape his arms across his shoulders. He pulls Ryoma closer. The net gets caught loosely between them but it doesn’t matter. They stand like that for a long time: foreheads touching; eyes closed. They don’t talk on their way back to the cabin. Tezuka takes long showers; Ryoma finishes his and takes his time toweling off. He wonders what will happen next. Tezuka steps out of the shower with his towel around his waist. He wipes his face with a dry towel and looks up at his own face in the bathroom mirror. Ryoma is leaning against a sink next to him. Tezuka reaches over and touches Ryoma’s hair, lets his fingers slide slowly through it for a moment. He turns around when he pulls on his boxers and shorts, and Ryoma almost laughs. He watches Tezuka as he slides his t-shirt on. His muscles shift beneath his skin. His hair is still wet. Ryoma doesn’t change clothes. He follows Buchou back to his room with his towel still wrapped around his waist. Tezuka’s room is empty. Ryoma walks in and sits on the bed, trying not to look around at the casual mess of clothes and books scattered between Oishi’s bed and Tezuka’s. Tezuka’s bed is neatly made. The pillows are fluffed. Ryoma thinks about lying back and going to sleep. Tezuka steps inside and locks the door. He turns around and looks at Ryoma, and suddenly Ryoma isn’t tired at all. Tezuka stands by the door for another moment, and they watch each other until the seriousness of it all becomes absurd, and Ryoma laughs. “Come here,” he says. Tezuka comes to sit next to him on the bed. “Are you going to steal my glasses again?” “Yes.” Ryoma reaches up to tug them gently off Tezuka’s face. “Can you still see me?” he asks. Tezuka says, “Yes.” Then he says, “Ryoma,” and places his thumb gently beneath Ryoma’s chin. Every time Ryoma has thought of this he has seen hesitation, has imagined them barely touching each other. But Tezuka is Tezuka, and the hesitation vanishes the moment he tilts Ryoma’s head. Everything is instinct, just like stepping onto a court together. Tezuka’s mouth against Ryoma’s is firm and open, and the shock of it bursts through Ryoma like the match point of the U.S. Open. Tezuka’s glasses are still dangling between Ryoma’s fingers when he cups them around Tezuka’s face. His cheek is the smoothest thing Ryoma has ever touched. He opens his mouth and lets Tezuka’s cover it. Tezuka’s lips are thin and his kisses are slow and good. They feel like rainwater in his mouth, cool and insistent. Ryoma murmurs something warm and feels Tezuka’s arms coming around him, pulling him closer. He burrows against Tezuka, fingers rustling the edges of Tezuka’s t-shirt. Tezuka shifts and suddenly they’re right next to each other, chests touching. Tezuka’s chest is firm and solid, and when Ryoma run his palm over it he suddenly feels weightless – he hears the catch in his breath before he feels it. All he can take in are Tezuka’s skin and his muscles and his mouth. He tilts his head up and it’s still not far enough, not close enough to feel taken over like he wants. He tries to pull Tezuka’s head down even more, but Tezuka is too tall and he’s already leaning over him, so instead Ryoma just tugs hard on his t-shirt and pulls him all the way down. They fall back against the warm bedcovers and Tezuka is suddenly pressed against him all over, his mouth still covering Ryoma’s. Ryoma writhes and tries not to push up too much, tries not to scare Buchou away. Tezuka doesn’t stop; he lets out a soft murmur of approval and slides his tongue briefly inside Ryoma’s mouth – Ryoma gasps and tries to adjust, but it’s gone just as quickly. Tezuka leans in and presses his mouth against the hollow of Ryoma’s neck, and his tongue touches nerve endings all through Ryoma. Ryoma moans, he can’t help it; he feels all over like one of Tezuka’s drop shots is plummeting to zero gravity inside his stomach. He tries to wind his fingers through Tezuka’s hair, but it’s too silky, too soft, and just makes him long to feel every bit of Tezuka’s skin pressed against his. He doesn’t realize he’s had his eyes shut until he drags in a breath and forces them open to look at Tezuka. The hollows of his cheeks are taut – his whole face looks sharper, leaner without his glasses, and his eyes are darker than they have ever been. Ryoma sucks in another breath and says, “Buchou,” forcing the word out in a shaky whisper. Tezuka looks at him, and Ryoma presses into him, leaning up enough to get a hand under Tezuka’s shirt before he yanks it off. Tezuka’s eyes widen a moment before the cotton disappears over his head but when he re-emerges, flyaway hair in his eyes, he doesn’t look fazed at all. Ryoma’s eyes rake down his chest, over the line of hair creeping below his navel, the muscles he has memorized through sweat soaked shirts and foggy locker rooms, but never been this close to – never been able to reach out and touch. It’s Tezuka this time who rakes in an uneven breath. Then he calmly bends back down and kisses his way down Ryoma’s waist. Ryoma starts in surprise and falls back against Tezuka’s pillow – the bed is narrow and Tezuka is leaning over him completely, there’s no room for anything else but submission. He throws his head back and tries not to squirm, but it’s impossible – Tezuka slides a hand over his chest in one long touch, and just the idea that this is Tezuka, Tezuka touching him any way he wants, makes Ryoma gasp and arch up. Screw patience. His hands find Tezuka’s back, trace his vertebrae up to the long line of his neck, his hair and the stubble under his chin, over his shoulders and his chest and his nipples. He can’t do anything but touch. He’s never going to stop touching. When Ryoma’s fingertips scrabble desperately at his waist, trying to connect to any part of him he can reach, Tezuka laughs, a low, throaty chuckle. Ryoma’s never heard him sound like that before, it’s something just for him, for this, and Ryoma never knew he could make so many incoherent sounds in response. Tezuka’s fingertips slide over Ryoma’s chest, and he leans up to kiss Ryoma again just as he brushes his fingertips over Ryoma’s nipple. Ryoma gasps so hard he nearly loses it, loses everything, and almost forgets to start breathing again. He wraps both arms around Tezuka's back and clings to him as Tezuka kisses his forehead. “Shhh,” he murmurs, but his voice is hoarse, and Ryoma can feel his struggle to stay calm in the vibration of his voice, in the slight tremor of the muscles in his arms and legs as they brush against Ryoma’s own. “Just,” he says against Tezuka’s mouth, voice breaking. “Just let me – I don’t care, I need– “ “Wait,” Tezuka says, trying to be stern, which looks more like trying to try to be stern. “Relax.” “ You relax,” Ryoma says, biting his lip because it’s the only thing he can think of to keep control, and he slips his fingers into Tezuka’s waistband, moving his hands down to cup Tezuka’s ass and pull him against him. Tezuka inhales sharply, a gasp of surprise and pleasure, and then he looks at Ryoma, eyes glittering. “Alright,” he says, before pressing Ryoma back against the mattress and forcing his head back in a hard kiss. When the pillow gets in the way of his control he yanks it unceremoniously out from beneath Ryoma’s head. Ryoma can’t get leverage against Tezuka’s skin this way, can’t arch up enough to regain control, can’t fight the way Tezuka is kissing him with his hips elevated. He can’t touch, can’t grind, can’t feel how hard Tezuka is. He groans in frustration, and this time instead of biting his own lip he bites Tezuka’s. Tezuka makes a sound that can only be arousal, and Ryoma nearly comes all over himself from that alone. Ryoma bites his lip experimentally again, then bites at the dint in Tezuka’s chin. Tezuka’s breathing goes shallow, and Ryoma murmurs, “Gotcha,” softly before he kisses him again. Tezuka dips his tongue inside Ryoma’s mouth, lets Ryoma taste it for a moment. Then he breaks the kiss, wrenches the towel away from Ryoma’s waist, and slides his shorts off all in the same fluid movement. Ryoma stares up at him, so hard he’s dizzy, staring at Tezuka’s body. He’s on his knees, leaning over Ryoma on one hand, fully erect and somehow managing to look serious even with the sheen of sweat breaking over his body and his lips barely resisting a smile. “Yes,” says Tezuka, and he doesn’t need to say anything else, because the look in his eyes fills in all the rest. Ryoma looks back at him and he knows his eyes are probably saying just as much. They know each other best like this. He closes his eyes because it suddenly hurts to keep them open – his chest feels too tight, like it’s match point, even though he already knows how this game will be. “Buchou,” he says, and he doesn’t fight the whisper, doesn’t fight how uncontrolled it sounds. Tezuka bends down and kisses him, locks their bodies together all the way down. He doesn’t resist when Ryoma presses into him with a shuddering breath, wrapping his legs around Tezuka’s waist. Ryoma grips Tezuka’s shoulders, heels digging hard into the backs of Tezuka’s calves. Tezuka’s cock slips against his, bruising Ryoma’s thigh every time Ryoma presses up. His hand moves over Ryoma’s skin, skimming over the dips in Ryoma’s stomach, the flare of his hips, before finally – finally – trailing down to wrap around Ryoma’s erection. Ryoma arches up in short thrusts as Tezuka strokes him; his fingers are long and steady, thumb roughing the underside of Ryoma’s cock, glazing it with sweat and heat and guiding the pulsing heat and the slick hard length of his own against Ryoma’s until Ryoma is shuddering and bucking against him hard enough to make the mattress jerk and squeak against the frame. Ryoma slips a hand up into Tezuka’s hair and keeps it there, plying it between his fingers, feeling how soft it is, how smooth Tezuka’s shoulders are, the skin at the base of his neck. “I want – “ he manages, but he can’t say what he wants because he wants everything . Tezuka just keeps kissing him, letting Ryoma rock against him, pushing back and rolling his hips up because he can’t not - this is Tezuka, this is Buchou. Ryoma has waited and waited for this and he can’t, he can’t hold back. Tezuka murmurs Ryoma’s name and strokes faster, kissing his forehead, his cheeks, his lips, even his nose, which shouldn’t make Ryoma harder but makes him clench his fists to keep silent. An image flashes through his mind, of Tezuka kissing him like this on a court, of his hand brushing Ryoma’s shoulder, thumb lingering near the back of Ryoma’s neck, and he knows in a flash of yearning that starts in his toes and explodes through him that this is how they will be – just like the game they played earlier – no end and no winner, but tied and pressed together at center court forever . And even as his head hits the mattress and his hips jerk off the bed entirely, his orgasm hits in a wave of an even deeper yearning, because it’s not enough, it’s not enough, it will never be enough until they are air, until they can crawl inside each other’s skin and stay there. He shudders through his climax with Tezuka holding his hips steady, and when he opens his eyes Tezuka is looking at him with wonder and surprise and something else that Ryoma wants to put inside of him and keep and never lose. He gasps, “Fuck me,” before pulling Tezuka down for a brutal kiss, his nerves shot and his body still trembling. “Please – fuck me, do it now, Buchou.” “Ryoma,” Tezuka says, a bit breathlessly, resting his head against Ryoma’s shoulder. Ryoma hums and settles against him. Tezuka kisses his hair and gathers him up into warm arms, fingers moving lightly over Ryoma’s cheek. “I want to. Very much. But…” Ryoma pouts and rolls over, sliding almost on top of him so he can study Tezuka’s face. “I know you’re not going pro,” he says. “You haven’t wanted to tell me but it’s okay, Buchou. It won’t matter – I’ll still play you. We can still have this, it won’t change or anything.” Tezuka looks back at him ineffably for a moment before continuing: “But I didn’t bring any protection.” Ryoma blinks. “Oh.” “Sorry,” says Tezuka, a bit lamely. Ryoma briefly imagines Tezuka rummaging around looking for condoms. It’s a lose-lose: finding anything in Oishi’s bags would kill whatever lust he currently feels. “I’ll get some from Momo tomorrow,” he says without elaboration, sinking down against the warmth of Tezuka’s chest. “Ah,” says Tezuka expressively. Ryoma loves that Buchou will never ask him to follow that up with explanation. He can think of lots of things he loves about Buchou at the moment. Tezuka runs his fingers over Ryoma’s stomach and Ryoma all but purrs. He’s suddenly extremely sleepy, and Tezuka is warm and solid beside him. He is fighting closing his eyes when Tezuka murmurs, “And I know it won’t.” “Yeah,” Ryoma murmurs sleepily. What he thinks is: how could anything change this? He thinks he should probably find out what Buchou wants to do in a university anyway – they don’t offer degrees in tennis, do they? - but he’s so tired that his next question turns into a yawn before he has figured out what he was going to say anyway. The thought crosses his mind that Buchou didn’t come yet, but when he lazily leans down to wrap his fingers around Tezuka’s waning erection, Tezuka catches them and drags them up to his waist. “Go to sleep,” he says gently. “Mmmm,” Ryoma says by way of response, and nudges into Tezuka’s hand where it strokes his hair. He’s almost completely asleep when the thought suddenly occurs to him. He sits up: “Buchou, your glasses - ” Tezuka gazes at him calmly. “On the dresser,” he says. Ryoma looks. Tezuka’s glasses are folded neatly on the nightstand. Ryoma has no idea how they wound up there, but Tezuka’s straight face is annoyingly expressionless, so he scoots up and places his fingers over Tezuka’s eyes. “Can you still see me?” he asks. Tezuka smiles. Behind Ryoma’s fingers, he closes his eyes and keeps them closed. “Yes,” he says.

--------------- "Cadman, get to the damn gate, NOW" Lorne bellowed over the sounds of the mortars that she had set exploding. Her breath was ragged and her arms were covered in blood. Sergeant Felix had taken shots in the leg and neck, their enemy apparently wise to avoid the Kevlar vests. He was dead when Laura had reached him, his blood pooling under him and soaking the grass, but she had done her best to tourniquet his leg and put a pressure bandage on his neck. Major Lorne had ordered her twice to the gate but she had ignored him to care for Felix. Sensing that she was about to disobey him for the third time, Lorne dove for her position literally grabbed her by the scruff of her jacket and manhandled her back to the gate. --------------- John put the data pad down on the desk and went to the window. The mission had been a clusterfuck from beginning to end. They lost four men, four good men. And now this on top of it. "What's your recommendation, Major?" John ask tiredly. Lorne was sitting in the chair opposite the desk and let out a big sigh. "Once I could write off as her not hearing me, but not all three times, Colonel. That being said, it was fucked up situation and she was trying to save Felix. I can't fault her for that. And I don't think she deserves a black mark in her service jacket over this." John turned to face Lorne. "Neither do I, but I don't know if she'll take the other option. Women rarely do." Lorne cleared his throat in embarrassment. "No, they don't." John stared at Lorne for a long moment, sensing the other man's discomfort and finally asked, "You don't want to administer it if she chooses it, do you?" "Honestly, sir, no I don't. I get that you have to break them down to build them back up, and I've done it with men before but never a woman, and I wouldn't want to screw it up." John nodded, "You're going to have to do it sometime, Major. But I'll handle it this time." --------------- Laura stood at parade rest in the Colonel's empty office. Her stomach a mass of butterflies, she knew he was going to be angry and disappointed in her. She didn't hear him approach from behind and she startled slightly as he said quietly from behind her, "We seem to have a situation, Lieutenant Cadman." She hated how her voice cracked as she replied, "Yes, sir." He stepped silently past her and went to sit at his desk. He casually flipped open a folder and perused it while she stood there, her nervousness growing. He finally closed the folder and folded his hands on top of it then met her eyes. "You disobeyed a direct order not once but three times, Lieutenant." "Yes, sir," she answered simply, knowing attempting to lie or stammer out excuses wouldn't win her any points with the Colonel. "You've put me in a bad spot, Cadman. Now I have two options, I can put a formal reprimand in your file which will effectively fuck up any future promotions you might go up for, or you can agree to corporal punishment and counseling." "Sir?" she asked in confusion. "Seventy-five lashes, Lieutenant, twenty-five for each disobeyed order, along with three hundred hours of counseling." Laura paled. "All the lashes at once, sir?" "Of course not, putting you in the infirmary is not the goal." She nodded slightly and asked, "What does the counseling entail, sir?" John stood and walked over to stand in front of Laura. He leveled an intense gaze on Laura. "No one ever explained that to you?" She resisted the urge to tremble under his scrutiny. There was something in his eyes, a predatory hunger that she had never seen before. He frightened her. "No, sir." All she had ever heard about corporal counseling was from male teammates that just brushed it off as having to be their CO's lackey. "It depends on the infraction. For things like fighting and drunk and disorderly, it means PT every day until you puke. For disobeying a direct order, it means that you are going to learn to obey orders whether you like them or not. You'll learn to obey your CO even if it goes against everything your brain is screaming at you." Laura swallowed hard. "How exactly, sir?" She had a sneaking suspicion she knew already but had to ask, had to get confirmation from him. "You're going to give your body over to me, Lieutenant, to do with what I will. You will take your lashes in reasonable doses, and you will obey every single order I give you during our counseling time," he stepped closer into her personal space, so close she could feel his body heat, and continued, "Just to be clear, Lieutenant, some of my orders will be simple, cleaning my quarters, shining my boots, things like that. But others won't be so simple, and if you have a problem with my dick being in any part of your body you should just take the black mark and stalled career option instead. Do you understand?" Laura paled again and felt lightheaded and the trembling she had tried to contain started up in force. "Breathe, Cadman. Just breathe," John said gently. Laura forced herself to do just that and after a minute or so when her cheeks had pinked back up a little, John said, "I want you to take tonight to think about your decision. You'll report back here at 0800 tomorrow and give me your answer." Laura wished he would step back, move out of her space so she could think, but he didn't and she suspected it was all part of it. She whispered, "Yes, sir, 0800." John ticked his head to the side a little and narrowed his eyes. He could see her trying to think, trying to figure out what to do, and not being successful. He stepped back and put his hands on his hips. "Dismissed." --------------- After a long and sleepless night, Laura was again standing at parade rest in Sheppard's office. She had gotten there a few minutes early and was waiting. 0800 came and went, as did 0810, 0815, and 0820, and with each tick of the clock on the wall she grew more nervous and apprehensive. John was watching her from the corridor, he wondered what her decision was going to be. He allowed himself to assess her body, she was definitely built like a brick shit house and he knew that most of the men on Atlantis, military and civilian alike, would give just about anything to fuck her. If she made the decision he was pretty certain she made, he was going to be fucking her for nearly the next six months, both physically and mentally. He hadn't told Lorne, but he had never personally administered corporal punishment and counseling for a woman before either, a slew of men under his direct command, yes, but never a woman. And he had never administered counseling for such an extended period of time. He had heard rumors of unexpected attachments growing between CO's and the people they were punishing in cases like this. He wondered where his own head was going to be when this was all over. Would he really be able to give her up? Would she want him to? He pushed off the wall he was leaning on and headed for his office, none of those questions mattered until he knew for certain what her decision was. --------------- From behind Laura, John again startled her by sneaking up on her and speaking. "Sleep well, Lieutenant?" She swallowed nervously, and answered honestly, "No, sir." John moved in front of her, again into her personal space. "I didn't think you would. So have you made your decision?" He saw her open her mouth just a fraction, her lips quivering just the slightest bit as she hesitated to answer. He wondered how those lips were going to feel on his dick later that night, because with that hint of hesitation, she had unconsciously given him her answer. Her throat was dry and her voice cracked a bit as she finally answered softly, "I will take the corporal punishment, sir, I'd like to keep my service record clean." "And so it will be, Lieutenant," John said clinically before stepping away so quickly it again had Laura off balance. He picked up a folder from his desk and held it out to her. "This is your new schedule. You're being pulled off missions until I decide you're fit to return to going offworld. You'll have assigned duties here on the city during the day with scheduled meals and PT. Once those are done for the day, you will return to your quarters to shower and change into a fresh uniform then report to my quarters for discipline and counseling. Just so we're clear, you will be spending two or three hours every night in my quarters. On the nights you're scheduled to have discipline, one hour will be taking care of a portion of your earned lashes. The other two will be filled with what ever duties I decided to order you to do, some will be menial, some will be humiliating, and a good majority are going to involve me fucking you in whatever way tickles my fancy. Do you understand, Lieutenant? If you have questions, now is the time to ask." Her hesitation was back but she answered, "I understand. Can I ask, sir, am I getting the same type of counseling a man would receive?" He nodded. "Yes. Although I doubt any of your male comrades have ever owned up to getting fucked up the ass by their CO during counseling." Laura swallowed hard. "No, sir." "There is a release packet in that folder. I want you to read it thoroughly today and sign it and bring it with you to my quarters when you report at 1800 hours." "Yes, sir." --------------- Laura had read the release packet forwards and backwards, twice, and with a shaking hand had signed it. Colonel Sheppard wasn't allowed to physically hurt her outside of the lashes she had earned, and he was also barred from making permanent or semi-permanent changes to her personage, things like tattoos and piercings or shaving her head. He also couldn't impregnate her. She was barred from having any other lovers during her counseling and by signing the release, she also agreed that for every order she refused to obey during her counseling sessions with the Colonel that she would earn an extra hour of counseling. She arrived promptly at 1800 with the packet in hand. She had followed the new schedule he had assigned her to the letter. The door to his quarters opened and she entered quietly. It closed behind her and she stood there waiting. The lights in the room were all on and the window blinds were closed. Sheppard was standing casually in the middle of the room, himself freshly showered and in a clean black t-shirt and bdu's and unlaced boots.. "You're on time. That's a good start, Lieutenant." "Yes, sir," she held out the release packet, "I signed it, sir." John took it from her and flicked his eyes down to her signature. "So you did, Lieutenant, so you did." He walked over and dropped it on his desk. He then dragged chair from his dining area over in front of a full-length mirror attached to a bare strip of wall. Laura noticed that written in red dry-erase marker in the top corner of the mirror was a "75", she swallowed hard at the implication. He sat down in the chair and crooked a finger at her, "Let's get started, shall we?" Her feet didn't want to move. She just couldn't move. His eyebrow raised and he said sternly, "Lieutenant." She fisted her hands and forced herself to step over to where he was sitting. He pointed to the numbers written on the mirror. "That's your lash count. It will be your responsibility to keep a running tally after each spanking. If you forget I won't care and you don't get to fix it the next day and it will be like those lashes never happened. We're going to start out slow today, I'm going to use my hand. Now drop your pants and underwear and lie across my lap. You're getting ten tonight." Laura took a breath and her hands undid her pants and she pushed them down. She discovered that trying to lie across his lap was a little difficult but found his strong hands there making sure she didn't fall. Laura tried to keep her breathing calm and just wanted to close her eyes and have this all be over. The Colonel however, had other ideas. John saw her almost stumble and he helped her get settled across his lap, there was a difference between being defiant and being uncoordinated in a stressful situation. He could see the skin of her exposed ass was pebbled with goosebumps, he was partly to blame for that as he had lowered the temperature in the room on purpose. He wanted her skin cool and hypersensitive to his touch. With a gentle, but firm hand, John turned her head so she was looking towards the mirror. "You're going to watch and you're going to count and thank me for every lash, Lieutenant." "Yes, sir," she whispered. "What was that, Lieutenant?" John asked in his command voice. "Yes, sir." she replied automatically in a strong clear voice. "Better. Let's go," he said as he raised his hand for the first stinging slap. It took all Laura's self-control not to jump off his lap, but his arm was firmly across her back with his fingers curled under her waist. Her eyes flashed to his and she saw that same hungry predatory look in them as she had the day before. She knew in that moment that fighting him would be a mistake. She said in what she hoped sounded like a clear voice, "One, sir, thank you, sir." He nodded at her once in the mirror and raised his hand again to deliver an even more forceful blow. "Two, sir, thank you sir." John glanced down at her ass. He decided right then and there that she would be getting all seventy-five lashes by his hand alone. The pair of red hand prints standing out against her pale skin intrigued him and he wanted more. He met her eyes in the mirror again and raised his hand for the third lash. --------------- By the time he had delivered all ten, she was crying and he was hard enough to drive nails. He helped her off his lap and said clinically. "You can pull your pants up." She did that and he handed her a washcloth for her face and a bottle of water. "Wash your face, and drink all of this." Laura nodded, she felt numb, like this was all some sort of surreal dream. She washed her face with the washcloth and turned to straighten her hair in the mirror. Her eyes caught the numbers and she hastily grabbed the dry erase marker perched on top the mirror and subtracted out her ten lashes. "Good." John said from behind her. He looked at the clock on his nightstand. "You have fifteen minutes to relax and pull yourself together." He turned off the majority of the lights and took a folded towel and laid it on the floor in between the couch and the coffee table. "At 1900 I expect you to be wearing nothing but your dog tags and kneeling on this towel. Understand?" Laura shivered in the cool room, she wondered what his plans for their remaining time tonight was. She had felt his enormous erection grow beneath her as he spanked her. She didn't think she was getting out of being fucked tonight and part of her wanted to run for the door. She forced herself to find her voice, "Yes, sir." --------------- At exactly 1900 she was kneeling on the towel. Her ass was throbbing and the room was cold making her nipples uncomfortably hard. John got up from where he was sitting at the desk, he had been feigning ignoring her for the past fifteen minutes, but in fact he was completely focused on her. He saw her inner struggle and he thought for just a moment that she might bolt, but she was apparently made of sterner stuff than that because she had finally taken off her clothing and knelt on the towel. He sat on the couch in front of her and took her chin in his hand. "Your counseling session begins now, Lieutenant. Any order you refuse to obey in the next two hours gets another hour of counseling tacked on. When I ask you a question I want an honest answer, no matter how private or embarrassing you might think something is. You're here to relearn how to obey orders. This isn't some play bondage sex slave fantasy, you don't have a safe word, and you don't get to refuse without paying the consequences. I'm telling you right now that this isn't going to be easy for you. Are you ready for your first order?" Laura shivered and said, "Yes, sir." "Good. I want you to turn around and lay yourself across the coffee table." She did as she was told. The metal and glass table was cold against her skin and she felt exposed and vulnerable to whatever the Colonel wanted to do to her from behind. John leaned back on the couch admiring the view. He was trying to gauge just how harsh to be on her tonight. He suspected that she really didn't know what she had agreed to and he decided to take a middle ground approach. Casually he asked, "Why are you here, Lieutenant?" Her voice was low and she sounded a little confused as she replied, "I'm here for corporal punishment and counseling, sir." "Let me clarify. Why did you choose corporal punishment and counseling over a formal reprimand?" He heard her hesitate a little before she answered, "My career is important to me, sir. I didn't think I deserved to get a black mark for trying to save a man's life, sir." "No one faults your intentions, Lieutenant, but in trying to save Felix who, by your own account, didn't have a pulse, you put not only yourself in jeopardy, but also Major Lorne who you distracted from the enemy and had to break position force you to obey his direct orders. You're lucky that neither of you died, Lieutenant." "Yes, sir." She sounded so resigned he decided to shake her up a bit. He reached out and ghosted his fingers over the curve of her ass cheek, carefully avoiding the hand prints. She startled, just as he expected her to, and he asked, "How many sexual partners have you had, Lieutenant?" He heard her swallow hard before answering, "Nine, sir." He dragged his fingertips up her spine making her squirm against the glass table. "Soon to be ten, Lieutenant. How do you feel about that?" Her voice was tight as she forced herself to reply honestly, "Apprehensive, sir." He laid his hand flat on her back, and stroked gently, calming her like one would calm a nervous horse. "Why apprehensive? Do you think I'm going to hurt you? That I'm going to order you to do unnatural things?" "I just... I just don't know you very well, Colonel. And I never realized that this was part of counseling." He leaned back and stroked his chin with his hand, thinking and deciding his next move. He broke the quiet and gave her some orders. "Lieutenant, I want you to go into the bathroom. On the shelf in there is a small wash basin. Fill it with warm, soapy water and bring it, a washcloth, and a dry towel back here." Laura was confused by his yet again abrupt change of topic, but replied, "Yes, sir," as she stood and walked to the bathroom. When she had left the room he shoved the coffee table out of the way and moved over sit in the center of the couch. She returned with the necessary items and looked at him hesitantly, awaiting further instructions. "I showered before you got here, Lieutenant, but as you can see, I put my boots back on. I want you to kneel in front of me and take off my boots and socks and wash and dry my feet." "Yes, sir," she replied without hesitation. She obeyed his orders thoroughly and bathed each foot and drying them both carefully. When she was done she kept her eyes downcast, naive she knew, but she was half praying that that was all he required from her for the evening. Sheppard leaned forward and his nimble fingers found the pins holding her hair in its now messy, but regulation bun. He fluffed it gently and pulled some of it forward over her shoulders to fall teasingly around her breasts. He decided he liked the look on her. "From now on, as soon as you enter my quarters I want your hair down like this, Lieutenant. "Yes, Colonel." His fingers trailed along her check and lightly across her lips. He dallied there for a moment before moving them under her chin and raising her eyes to his. "How do you feel about oral sex, Lieutenant?" His thumb found her lip again and she stammered out around it, "It's never been my favorite, Colonel." "Giving or receiving, Lieutenant?" "Re... receiving, sir." "And giving?" "I... do it but I've never let anyone come in my mouth, sir." The predatory look was back in his eyes and he said flatly, "After tonight you won't be able to say that again." Laura paled and he could see her flight response kicking in. He leaned back and settled himself down on the cushions. His hands were resting flat on the cushions on either side of him. He licked his lips and said, "Go dump that basin and come back here." "Yes, sir," she said and complied. She returned and he crooked a finger at her. "Come and straddle my lap, Lieutenant." She did as he ordered and hissed a little as her sore ass came in contact with the rough fabric of his bdu's. "Sore?" "A little, sir." "That's going to get worse before it gets better. That's why you've only got discipline scheduled every four days." He ground his hips upward a little, making her hiss more and pressing his erection against her. "Feel that, Lieutenant? Most of the women, and at least half the men on this expedition would do just about anything to be where you are, to have me this hard for them. Are you happy I'm hard for you, Lieutenant?" "Not really, sir, I'm sorry." Quick as lightning he sat up straight, his face in hers, his fingers curling into the soft flesh of her hips. His voice was low and deadly as he replied, "But the time your counseling is done, Lieutenant, you'll be begging for my cock. I promise you that." This time her flight response really did kick in and she scrambled off his lap and ran towards her pile of clothes. His clinical tone was back. "Lieutenant, you were not dismissed from my lap. You just earned yourself another hour of counseling." Laura was keeping her eyes on him as her hands struggled to find her pants. She froze in place as he stood and deliberately turned towards her and peeled off his t-shirt. His pants soon followed and he sat back down on the couch, his cock hard and looking impossibly large. "Lieutenant, you have five seconds to get back over here and kneel or it's another hour." Laura wanted to be sick, she knew what was coming and in that split second she tried to decide if her career was truly worth it or not. She hated herself for walking back over and kneeling between his spread knees. "Suck me." His order was direct and to the point. She leaned forward and took him in her mouth. Her motions weren't very fluid and she didn't take him very far in her mouth. He placed a hand on the back of her head and applied gentle resistance. "Take it all, Lieutenant, all the way in, I won't choke you." He was true to his word and though he was enjoying fucking her mouth all the way to her tonsils, he was careful about letting her breath. He could feel his balls pulling up tightly and the first flickers of an orgasm building. Faster and faster he pumped into her mouth and his hands found their way back to her head and he whispered hoarsely, "I'm coming, Lieutenant." When the first spurt hit her mouth, Laura wanted to gag and wanted to pull away, but his hands on her head prevented her. More and more filled her mouth and it escaped the corners of her mouth even as he kept slipping in and out through his release. "Swallow, Lieutenant," he ordered as he pulled most of the way out of her mouth, leaving just the head of his cock between her lips. She didn't want to, and she shook her head slightly. "You want another hour added on, Lieutenant?" She shook her head and he repeated, "Swallow." Willing herself not to vomit, she complied. Sheppard nodded and slipped his spent cock all the way out of her mouth. He looked at her for a moment and reached over and caught the dribble of spit and come that was trailing down her chin. He brought it to her lips and raised an eyebrow. Without a word she opened her mouth and let him wipe his finger on her tongue. She wondered if this was what being a whore felt like. His next order was simple and edged with a hint of compassion. "Go back to the bathroom and wet a clean washcloth to clean me. You can rinse your mouth out with some water and wipe off your face while you're in there." She nodded her compliance, not trusting herself to speak. In the bathroom she did as she was told and then returned to the living area with a warm wet cloth. "Clean me," he said, and she did. "Go get rid of that," he said, and she did. This time, however, on her way back from the bathroom she glanced at the clock on the nightstand and to her horror she realized she still had an hour and ten minutes left with him. He had slid down to one end of the couch and he patted the empty cushion next to him. "Come and lay down with your head on my thigh." Laura did as he ordered and he amused himself by playing with her hair. His voice was oddly gentle, more like the Sheppard she was used to dealing with every day, as he spoke, "You're doing very well for your first time, Lieutenant. I'm pleased." Whether it was his gentle hands soothing her or the praise itself she couldn't be sure, but like a dam letting go, her tears started. "Shhh," he whispered, one hand stroking her hair, while the other rubbed little circles on her back. He let her cry for a few minutes and heard her emotional storm taper off. He asked, "Who was Felix to you?" She sniffed hard and answered hoarsely, "My best friend. I've known him since ROTC." The compassionate Colonel was back, "I'm sorry. It's not easy loosing a friend like that." "I couldn't save him, sir." "No one could, Lieutenant. What happened to him is not your fault." John let her have a couple minutes of quiet before asking, "Are you seeing anyone on the city?" "No, sir. I... I don't date much really, most men find out I play with bombs and run the other way." "Good. So there won't be a pissed off boyfriend that's not getting any for the next few months." "No, sir." "So tell me this, Lieutenant, if you had had a boyfriend, would you still have chosen the punishment over the black mark?" "Yes, I would have. My career is important to me and anyone I would call a boyfriend would have known that, sir." "Hmpf," was his only reply. He patted her shoulder and ordered, "Sit up." She complied and he said, "We've still got an hour left tonight and I want to end the evening where we began it." He pulled the coffee table back into position and gestured. "On your knees over the table." She complied with only the slightest hesitation, settling herself once again on the cold metal and glass. She jumped when she felt him kneel behind her, his soft cock brushing her ass. He entertained himself by exploring her body with his hands. He ordered her up on her hands so he could play with her breasts, and she felt his cock stirring against her as he teased and tormented her nipples. John leaned back a little and gathered a handful of her hair and said in a husky whisper, "Arch your back for me." Laura complied and if she looked anything like she felt, she looked like a porn star. His dick apparently liked the show as his erection started growing in the cleft of her ass. She silently cursed that he didn't have a longer refractory period. John let go of her hair and dragged his fingertips down her back. "Have you ever had sex without a condom, Lieutenant?" She gulped. She hadn't even thought about that, and it wasn't specifically covered in the release packet. "No, Colonel," she replied. The predator was again close to the surface in him and he said in a low voice, "Something else you won't be able to say after tonight." He felt her tense and he wondered if she were going to try bolting again. "Lieutenant, I want you to lay back down on the table and reach back with your hands and spread yourself open for me. I'm going to fuck you now, and, no, for the record, I'm not going to use a condom." "Please, sir, don't" she begged. "Are you questioning my orders, Lieutenant? Just how many more hours do you want to earn today?" She shook her head, and haltingly lowered herself flat on the table. With trembling hands she reached back and pulled her sore ass cheeks apart. Laura felt him position himself behind her and his cock head slowly pressing into her. She wasn't bone dry, his earlier tactile explorations had aroused her a scant degree, but she didn't want him, and didn't want to be in the current situation at all and it made his entry a little difficult. John inched forward with the patience of a saint. His dick wanted in in the worst way, but he didn't want to hurt her. Slowly he seated himself fully inside her, his pubic hair rough and scratchy against her sore ass. Once he was all the way in, he paused. And his tone was strict as he said, "Lieutenant, you need to learn to trust in your CO's. Trust that the orders and decisions they make are sound. I made the decision to fuck you without a condom. Did I make that decision on the spur of the moment? No. I verified with the infirmary earlier today that neither of us had any diseases we could give the other, and I also verified that you were on birth control injections. Now want you to think about that type of decision making process and what it means to the chain of command while I fuck you. I don't think this is going to be a pleasant ride for you, and frankly I don't care, you definitely haven't earned the right to come tonight anyway. You can cry if you want, or scream. Makes no difference to me. Now brace yourself up on your arms." He was much more well endowed than any of Laura's previous lovers and she was uncomfortable bordering on being in pain. His harsh words made her want to cry, because he was right, she didn't always trust her CO's decisions, she always thought she knew better than them. She tried to keep her breathing calm and breathe through the crampy feel of her body trying to stretch and adjust itself around the enormous cock he had pushed inside her. He gripped her hips tightly and slowly pulled himself almost all the way out of her before immediately pushing all the way back in. When he bottomed out, he whispered cruelly, "By the way, Lieutenant, I'm now officially number ten." Once John felt her body lubricate itself he began hammering his hips in earnest. John had never fucked a woman without worrying about her pleasure before, and it had also been a very long time since he had gone bareback with anyone and that was adding to the mix of sensations his dick was filtering back to his brain. Laura's pussy was vice-tight around him, whether naturally that tight or tight with fear and anxiety he didn't know. All he did know was that she felt amazing, and it was making his dick extremely happy. The lewd sounds of his cock going in and out seemed to fill the room and just when Laura hoped that the Colonel might be close to being done with her now that he was fucking her like a battering ram, he gathered a fistful of her hair in a repeat of his earlier fun and ordered her to arch her back. When she complied, he whispered cruelly in between thrusts, "That's it, just like that. Makes you look like a whore in some porno, Lieutenant. Do you feel like a whore? So your career is worth whoring yourself to me?" Laura wanted to cry and run away to her quarters and never come out. Why was he saying such humiliating things? He gripped her hips again and shifted his position and was able to get inside her a little deeper. He gave a particularly powerful thrust and Laura groaned. It was the first sound she had made since he began fucking her. John knew he was getting close, the blowjob earlier had certainly taken the edge off, but all the current sensations were just sending him into overload. He slowed his pace and pulled himself most of the way out, leaving just his cock head moving inside her. "I think you should say thank you to me for fucking you. For letting you be my little whore to save your precious career. Yeah, I'd really like to hear that. Say it, Lieutenant." Laura tried to pull air into her lungs so she could speak, but she couldn't. She couldn't believe he actually wanted her to say thank you. When she didn't speak, he gave a quick series of full thrusts and said coldly, "There's another hour. Now say it, Lieutenant, that's an order." Her words came out as a sob even as he pounded into her, "Th...thank you for... for fucking me, sir." His balls where high and tight and ready to explode, his hand found her hair again and she arched her back this time without being told. He gripped her hip and her hair tightly and through gritted teeth, ordered, "Say it again." Laura's voice was defeated as she complied. He came with a grunt followed by a roar just as the word "fucking" passed her lips. She could feel his hot come pumping into her, it was a totally new experience for her and she hated it instantly. She fell flat to the table, exhausted. He had let go of her hair and his current grip on her hips was gentle. He was continuing to move his hips, his still-hard cock making obscene squishing noises as it plunged in and out of her sopping hole. "Feel that, Lieutenant? All my come inside you? I'm going to be doing that a lot, just to warn you, it felt good." He pulled out and looked down at his cock, there were no signs of blood and he took that as a good sign considering how hard he had fucked her. He gently rubbed her back, and said quietly, "There's plenty of washcloths in the bathroom, go clean yourself up and bring me back one." Laura got up and staggered towards the bathroom, his come running down her thighs. She couldn't believe how slow the clock was moving, she still had fifteen minutes to go. She quickly mopped herself with a warm cloth, wishing desperately for a shower, and headed back out. He was standing near the couch, his cock soft and glistening a combination of her juices and his come. "Wipe me off, Lieutenant. She quietly did as she was told and when she was done he settled himself back on the end of the couch and again patted the empty cushion beside him. She lay with her head on the Colonel's thigh again, his hand lightly stroking her hair. He asked gently, "Were you bleeding at all? Did I tear you?" Laura swallowed hard and whispered, "No, sir." "Good. We're just about done for tonight, Lieutenant. You've earned two additional hours of counseling, which, in case you were wondering, is about average for a first timer." "Yes, sir." "As we progress, Lieutenant, you will earn rewards. Tonight you didn't get to come, in the future there will be nights here that that's all you do, over and over and over again. Sometimes I'll even let you decide on an activity. Now, here are some rules that are going to be in force until the end of your counseling. Are you listening carefully?" "Yes, sir." "Good. First rule, I am going to walk you back to you quarters every night. If something goes on with you in the middle of the night, like a crying jag or a nightmare or anything like that, you are to radio me and I'll get to you within minutes. It happens to everyone. Okay?" "Yes, Colonel." "Good. Second rule, people are invariably going to find out about your punishment an counseling and things might be said to you, about yourself or about me, anything. You are not to engage them whatsoever. You will document their names and pass them on to me. I will be the one to deal with them. Got it? "Yes, sir." His voice took on an edge. "Now you're not going to like these next two, and I don't care. Third rule, you will shower only in the mornings before your shift and in the evenings before you report here. You are not to shower after leaving my quarters, Lieutenant. You are going to smell like sex and my come is going to be inside you in all sorts of places and you will sleep like that every night. And the forth rule is simple, unless it's here in my quarters with me watching, you are not to masturbate. And I mean at all, Lieutenant. The only time you're going to come is when I give you permission. Am I clear on these two rules?" Her voice wavered, "Yes, Colonel, you're clear." "Okay, then, our time is just about up. Why don't you go get dressed now and I'll walk you to your quarters." "Yes, sir." --------------- They were standing at the door to her quarters, John's hands were in his pockets and his demeanor was kind and gentle. He could see that Laura was a wreck, physically and emotionally. Part of him didn't want to leave her but another part of him knew that she needed time alone to think and process. She opened the door and met his eyes a final time. "Remember, if you need me, just call. No judgments, no repercussions." Laura nodded and turned and walked into her quarters with the door closing behind her. John placed a hand flat on the door and sighed. He patted it a final time and turned to go back to his quarters. He knew he had to break her completely down to build her back up, But at what cost to her... and at what cost to him. --------------- the end.

Isaac Mendez’s Reed Street Loft New York City Adam walked the length of Isaac’s studio, his critical eye looking at every brush stroke, every use of color, and every technique. There was something foreboding in Isaac’s work, like a dark figure standing off in the peripheral, disappearing when you turned your head to look. It reminded Adam of works by Francisco Goya; there was that same subversive and imaginative element in Isaac’s work. He didn’t like to mix colors, often using the paint straight from the tube to the canvas. He smeared the paint with his fingers and hands, but he was able to paint incredible details when he wanted. The common theme in Isaac’s work was a dark realm of fantasy and nightmare. They evoked different kinds of emotions: fear, excitement, sadism, and dark pleasure. The seven large canvases leaning against the long wall of the loft were impressive and Adam knew exactly where he could place each work. “They’re brilliant,” he announced, turning to look at Isaac. The artist grinned at Adam, cleaning his paint brushes. “Thanks.” “I have a buyer in Oslo who loved your last two pieces,” Adam said, walking towards Isaac. “He’s been dying to meet you but I know you like your privacy.” Isaac sighed, setting his brushes on the table. “I appreciate that you keep the wolves at bay, Adam.” “But seriously, there’s only so much that I can do. You do need to make an appearance now and again. I know it’s crap but there’s an expectation for artists like you to mingle with the commoners.” They shared a look and Isaac laughed, shaking his head. Adam worried about him. Isaac wasn’t just his client, they were friends. He knew the demons that rode Isaac’s back but Adam had to draw a line because he couldn’t allow himself to be sucked into the kind of destructiveness that Isaac carried inside. This was doubly hard for Adam because he saw the beauty in pain; it drew him in, like into a black hole. Adam had spent more than enough time watching a loved one self-destruct. “I don’t know how you convince me to do these things when we both know I’m awful at it. I can’t stand art critics and pretentious art collectors.” Adam grinned, looking around the loft and back to Isaac. “They pay your bills.” And more often than not, they paid for Isaac’s heroin. “I know. I’m not ungrateful, I’m just…anti-social,” he said, laughing deeply. “Which is why I paint and which is why I have you.” “Isaac, I’m serious about making an appearance.” He paused, walking closer towards the other man. “And I want you to be sober for it.” “Don’t you understand that it makes me crazy to be in a room full of those people and be sober? Adam, you’re killing me here.” Adam grabbed him by the shoulder and looked into his dark eyes. “Isaac, I’m serious. You have to be sober. You can be sober for two hours and that’s all I’ll ask for.” “Yeah, okay,” Isaac said, shoving a paint-stained hand through his long, wavy hair. “Look, I’ll do a show, but I’ll only do it at your gallery.” Adam smiled. “Thank you.” Isaac sighed and rested his forehead against Adam’s shoulder for a moment. “I have something…different to show you.” That got Adam’s attention. He worked with about a dozen artists permanently and whenever they had something different to show, Adam wanted to have first look. He followed Isaac to the other side of the studio where three large canvases were covered with stained drop cloths. “They’re kind of…personal,” Isaac said, glancing at Adam. “I think all of your paintings are personal.” Isaac gave a soft laugh. “Not like these.” He threw back the drop cloths and walked to stand next to Adam. “What do you think?” Adam stared at the three paintings. He licked his lips and swallowed thickly, his voice coming out in a raspy whisper. “Holy shit. They’re…really personal.” “I can’t tell you why I was…compelled to paint these images. It’s like something took hold of me and I just…it was like I had to paint; like I had to tell this story. I didn’t have a choice.” Adam stared at the paintings. They were all in Isaac’s subversive style, almost kind of like life size comic book panels. In each of them, Adam was…well, he was fucking a very pretty brown haired man. In the first painting, Adam was holding down the young man on the dining room table, his hands wrapped around the other man’s wrists, pinning him to the table surface. They were kissing passionately, the other man’s leg wrapped around Adam’s back, the other curled over Adam’s shoulder. Adam placed his hand over his mouth. “He’s…flexible.” Isaac snorted. “That’s what I thought when I saw the finished painting.” In the second painting, Adam had the same brown haired man bent over the back of the couch. The other man was looking over his shoulder back at Adam, but the expression on his face was pure need, not fear. Adam noted that he had one hand wrapped around the young man’s wrists behind his back. Isaac had painted him with blue eyes that looked like they glowed. It was…monstrous and gorgeous and stunning. “You know, you are a toppy bastard,” Isaac said, chuckling softly. Adam made a noise. “This is…I can’t believe…” “I added glitter to the paint when I did your eyes,” Isaac noted, thoughtfully. “I don’t even own glitter; I must’ve gone out and bought it in the middle of painting this one.” Adam swallowed, fighting down his arousal. He stared at the third painting and he took a step back, blinking quickly. It was by far his favorite one of the three. In this one, he was on his back in what looked like his living room with the brown haired man sitting astride him, riding him. His head was flung back, every muscle of his body tense, and Adam bit his lip because Isaac had captured that moment right before a man came; it was so obvious that it was going to be explosive. “How—“ he said, his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat hard. “How do you know the other man?” “He’s lovely, isn’t he? It seems that he’s perfect for the Adam in the painting.” Isaac pulled out a pack of menthol cigarettes from his shirt pocket and drew it into his mouth. He fished out his lighter and lit the end, inhaling deeply. “I don’t know him. I’ve never met him before in my life.” “But you painted him as if you knew him…intimately.” Adam stole the cigarette and lighter from Isaac, lighting one for himself. He needed it after looking at the paintings. “I think I would remember seeing that man’s face,” Isaac said, grinning slightly. “But I honestly don’t remember, Adam. I could’ve been high at the time; I don’t know. And I don’t know why you are in the paintings, either. I know it must be creepy but I honestly don’t remember painting them.” “I’d like to buy them.” Isaac grinned, smoke curling out of his mouth. “They’re yours. Consider them a gift, Adam, for being such a good friend to me.” Adam couldn’t stop staring at the paintings. He stepped closer to the last one, his eyes drawn to the way that the young man’s face showed something like pain in pleasure, the arch of his back, the muscles of his chest, and Adam’s hand curled around the thick cock. Isaac was a genius to be able to capture this moment…a moment that never existed in reality. Adam recognized the young man in the paintings. Of course he did. The brown haired man was no stranger to Adam, but he was not a lover, though Adam desired him. The paintings showed Adam’s fantasies, but how would Isaac even know? They were close friends, but not the kind where Adam revealed his sexual fantasies. And it was strange that Isaac didn’t even ask if Adam knew the brown haired man or not. He couldn’t wait to get them back to his gallery where he could hang them in his private collections room and stare at them for as long as he wanted. *** The Adam Lambert Gallery Adam strolled into his gallery and nodded to his gallery manager, Brad Bell, as he headed straight for his private office on the second floor. After he left Isaac’s loft, he had called to have the gallery truck go to the loft to carefully package and transport all of the canvases back to the gallery for processing. He was reluctant to have the truck handle the three paintings that Isaac gave him, but he had no other way of moving the pieces across town. He sank into his leather chair and fell back, staring up at the white ceiling. He couldn’t stop seeing the paintings – the images were burned in his brain now, not that he didn’t have enough images of a certain brown haired young man to start with. But God, seeing the images on the canvas was startling and… He ran a hand down the front of his pants, his cock throbbing. “Adam.” “Shit,” he whispered, sitting up straight in his chair, hands on his desk. “Yeah, come in.” He watched as Brad sauntered into his office, his eyebrow raised. “I take it you had a good visit with Mendez?” Adam made a face and flipped open his laptop, booting it up. “Yeah. Seven new canvases. I’m thinking they’ll all get grabbed for private collections.” “I can’t wait to see his new work if it’s got you all frazzled like this,” Brad commented, sitting down across from Adam, looking at him with hawk eyes. “I’m not frazzled,” he said, pouting slightly. Brad ignored him. “How do you want me to set the sale price?” “Isaac’s work is valued twice the original selling price; so double it on the larger pieces,” he said, mulling it over. “Two million for the largest canvases; one-point-five million for the smaller ones.” “And the commission stays the same for the gallery?” “Yeah.” He turned in his chair. “We’re not greedy assholes.” Brad grinned. “Speak for yourself. Prada’s new fall line is to die for.” He paused for a moment. “So, you going to tell me the truth or play hard to get?” Adam really didn’t know why he bothered. Brad knew him better than most people; he was one of the first people Adam had loved and now they were friends, like brothers, and business partners. He could never hide anything from Brad anyway – but for some reason, the trio of paintings felt like a secret and he didn’t want to share it with Brad or anyone else. He snorted, rolling his eyes. “What’re you talking about?” “Baby, you forget that I know you used to be a tall, chunky redhead before you went all tall, dark and sexy and that means that I can see you blushing like a little girl,” Brad said, narrowing his eyes. “Who turned you on?” Adam hated that Brad could read him. He tapped in his password. “No one. It’s nothing; just a physical reaction.” Brad laughed. “That’s no physical reaction; you’re hard for someone. Who is it? Is it Mendez? He doesn’t play in the Village.” “It’s not Isaac,” he said, snorting. “He’s still pining for Simone.” “Well, we’re all pining for someone, aren’t we?” Brad drawled, giving Adam a pointed look. “Aren’t you supposed to be downstairs finding customers?” Brad stood up and winked at Adam. “Like taking candy from a baby. You might as well tell me what’s going on because I’ll figure it out anyway. Think about it, sweetie.” Adam grinned, shaking his head. “Punk.” Brad blew him a kiss as he left Adam’s office. He popped back in and smiled. “Oh, by the way, Kris called and asked what you wanted for dinner tonight.” “Thanks,” he said, staring at his keyboard. He looked up to see Brad staring at him, his face neutral, and watched him leave the office in silence. That was never a good sign. Adam leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on his stomach, a small grin on his lips. Kris Allen was staying with him for a couple of months, just until he got around to finding a place to live. He finally decided to move to Manhattan after living in Los Angeles for three years, ever since he won American Idol and went on to record three albums. Adam still teased him mercilessly about his time on Idol, but he was proud of Kris for winning and for pursuing his dream. His cell phone buzzed and he reached into his suit pocket, pulling it out to read the text from Drake. ETA 5 minutes. Adam took a deep, calming breath. The gallery truck was almost there; probably just a block or two away. He sent a text reply: We’ll be ready to meet you. It surprised him that he was nervous – mainly because Drake and Tommy would’ve seen the paintings that Isaac gave him. There was no way that they would’ve missed that it was Adam in those paintings. And that the brown haired lover was Kris Allen. *** Trump Tower Adam walked into his apartment, the sound of guitar chords banging it out greeting him. He dropped his keys on the marble table near the door and walked into the open space of the living room to see Kris standing by the picture windows overlooking Central Park, playing the guitar and wiggling his cute ass. Adam grinned, leaning his hip against the back of the black leather sectional, watching as Kris sang the chorus for Third Eye Blind’s “Jumper”. The tone of his voice was warm – Brad said it was “emo” but Adam disagreed and thought that Kris’s voice was subtle and honeyed; it wasn’t smooth or perfect, which was why his music was so lovely to listen to; but there was a sense of “something” there, something meaningful and relevant. “I wish you would step back from that ledge my friend; you could cut ties with all the lies that you’ve been living in; and if you do not want to see me again I would understand, I would understand—“ He leaned down on the couch and realized that this was where he had bent Kris over in the painting. His hard on was sudden and surprising. He gasped and bit off a moan. Kris turned around and smiled, blushing slightly at being caught shaking his behind. “Adam! Hey…” Adam grinned, shifting his jacket so that Kris wouldn’t notice his hard on. “Hey, that sounded good.” “I just like that song,” he said, pulling the guitar strap off his shoulder and setting the guitar on its stand. “So, how was work, dear?” He rolled his eyes. “Looked at pretty paintings and made a lot of money in commissions. How was your day, sweetheart?” Kris laughed, dropping on his back on the sectional cushions. Adam looked down at him, clamping down the instinct to fall on top of Kris, hold him down, and slide his hands under the soft looking gray tee-shirt to pinch and bite at his nipples. He really needed to get control over this; he had made it three years without making an ass of himself and he wasn’t about to start now, even with those erotic images playing havoc with his self-control. “Dude, I got to be honest, but I really don’t want to try and find a place to live in this city. I’m totally intimidated,” Kris said, making a face. “You know you are more than welcomed to just stay here for as long as you like. I’ve got plenty of room,” he said, nodding. “The guest room is yours for as long as you want it.” “Come on, man, I’m going to totally cramp your style.” Adam gave Kris a long look and raised his eyebrow. “I have a two-floor, four-bedroom corner penthouse in Trump Tower. If your plaid shirts don’t cramp my style, I doubt having you stay here indefinitely will be a bother.” “Thanks. Thank you, Adam,” Kris said, reaching up to grab Adam’s knee, giving it an affectionate squeeze. “I don’t want to overstay my welcome so if I start getting on your last nerves, I want you to tell me. I need a best friend more than I need a place to live. I’m more than happy to move into a hotel and take advantage of the 24-hour hotel service.” Adam chuckled. “You got a deal.” He rubbed his hand over the back of Kris’s hand. “You know, all that touring and living out of hotels spoiled you rotten.” “Pretty much,” he said, leaning back and tucking his arm behind his head. His brown eyes scrunched up as he smiled. “I think that’s why people want to be rock stars – nothing beats all that catering, you know? So, what’s for dinner?” “Well, if Mr Rock Star wants his dinner, he will get off his lazy ass and get into the kitchen to help me make it.” “Yay! Food!” Kris cheered happily, sitting up quickly and getting to his feet. “So what’re we having?” “Meatloaf.” “Again?” Adam glared at him and Kris laughed, covering his mouth with his hands. “I mean, I love it!” He smacked Kris on the ass as he got off the back of the sectional, heading up the stairs to his bedroom on the second floor. Kris took one of the smaller bedrooms on the main floor because it had its own bathroom suite. Adam heard Kris singing to himself as he walked into the kitchen. He sighed when he came into his bedroom. He needed to fucking jerk off or something; there was just too much tension and every single thing Kris did was driving him a little crazy. He stripped out of his suit and the rest of his clothes quickly, opting for a shower so he could jerk off, just imagining what it would be like to take Kris over the back of his couch, one hand holding Kris’s wrists behind his back, imagining the kind of sounds that Kris would make if Adam slammed his hard cock into his sweet, tight ass, the kind of things that Kris would beg for – ohhhh fuck! Adam groaned, squeezing his eyes hard as he came, his fingers fisting around the head and stroking himself off fast. He pulled his hand away, leaning his shoulder against the warmed tiles of his shower to catch his breath. He ducked under the hot water, letting it wash him clean, letting it soothe his nerves until he was ready to hang out with Kris, fighting to keep some kind of distance. It was a losing battle, though, because Kris obviously had no qualms about cuddling right into his personal space and demanding affection from Adam. And Adam, of course, never withheld affection from Kris. He didn’t know how. *** Isaac Mendez’s Reed Street Loft Adam knew he was kind of overbearing but he thought that if he didn’t check in on Isaac at least once a week, he would walk into the loft one day and see his friend dead on the floor from a heroin overdose. He was happy to see Isaac working; when he was inspired and the creativity flowed, Isaac never went for Junk. Adam understood that for artists, especially those who were dependent on chemicals, that sobriety wasn’t a desired effect. Sobriety was bland and boring compared to being high. And while Isaac promised to never take it too far, Adam didn’t trust him and he didn’t know a better way to help him besides locking him up in a basement and forcing him to go cold turkey. Adam thought that was still an option. And then there were days, like today, when Adam wished he never left Los Angeles. “Um…this is…unexpected,” Adam murmured, looking at the painting of a pretty blonde cheerleader with her scalp cut off, brains spilling on the ground, blue eyes opened and terrified, as a shadowed male figure stood in a backlit doorway. He looked at Isaac and swallowed. “Are you…feeling all right?” “I’m actually sober today,” he said, drinking down his water. “I saw that when I woke up this morning, freaked the fuck out, and didn’t take anything.” Adam looked at the painting again and closed his eyes, sighing. “Isaac, I think you might have a serious problem.” “I have a drug addiction, I know that! But that—“ he pointed at the painting. “That is not me! You know me! We’ve been friends for five years! I’m not a psychopath and I don’t have any kind of deep, dark desire to commit murder!” He nodded, pressing his fingers against his temples. “Okay, I believe you, I do; but…I want you to put yourself back into rehab. I’m not fucking kidding. This scares the shit out of me.” “How do you think I feel?” Adam dropped his hands and stared at the painting, making a face. “And we are not using this in your show at my gallery.” “You think?” Isaac grumbled, rolling his eyes. “I feel like I should rip it and burn it but…I think it’s a message.” “From what? Your sub-conscious? And what the hell is it saying? Go out and kill some teenage girl and chop off the top of her head!” Adam shouted, clenching his hands into fists. “I fucking swear to God, Isaac, I will take you to rehab, kicking and screaming!” “I said all right, fuck!” Isaac shouted back, getting right into Adam’s face. “I’ll fucking check myself in for 30 days! But after the goddamn show!” Adam opened his mouth to say something and realized that he didn’t know what to say. “Fuck.” “Yeah,” Isaac said, nodding solemnly. “I don’t want to paint shit like that anymore.” He agreed, sitting down in the nearest chair. He couldn’t stop looking at the painting, feeling a little sick to his stomach. “Fuck.” “Well, apparently, I painted two more canvases while I was in that—“ Isaac waved his hand at the painting of the cheerleader. “Zone or whatever the fuck I was in.” “Jesus, am I in it?” “Yeah,” he said, walking to two paintings facing the wall. He turned them around and Adam held his breath, a part of him didn’t want to know what Isaac painted. He looked at the floor for a moment, gathering whatever courage he had left, and looked up. “Ohmygod.” Adam stood up and stared at the two paintings. Thankfully, they weren’t gory or horrific, but they still brought out feelings in Adam that he tried to keep hidden. The first one had him holding Kris against the wall, his expression intense as he gazed down at Kris. But Kris was laughing, his mouth open, head tossed back. His hand was curled behind Adam’s neck. It was a lover’s embrace, fearless and full of passion. But the laugh on Kris’s face – how did Isaac capture that expression exactly? The second painting was a bird’s eye view of Adam’s bed. Under the dark blue sheets, Adam and Kris were on their sides, Adam curled protectively behind Kris, his long arm over Kris’s hip, the other tucked under his head. The shades of blue were peaceful, sated, and gorgeous. It made Adam want to cry and he hated Isaac just a little for showing him what he couldn’t have. “They’re so intimate,” Isaac murmured, sitting on the floor and chain smoking. He turned and looked at Adam. “I hope, with all my heart, you find the man in these paintings. I feel like he’s real, that he exists in our world, and he was meant to be yours.” Adam swallowed down the lump in his throat, looking at the image of Kris asleep against him. “I think these are premonitions.” “What?” Adam whispered, looking at his friend. He was afraid that Isaac was losing his mind. “One minute I’m fine, perfectly fine, sober and happy,” Isaac said, frowning. “And then all of a sudden, I wake up, covered in paint, and there are finished canvases all over my loft. Paintings I don’t remember starting – didn’t even think about starting. I lose time all the time. For hours. And when I wake up, I’ve finished three or four paintings. No one can paint that fast and not to this degree of detail or…perfection.” Adam agreed; these were some of Isaac’s best works. “Do you think it’s the heroin?” “I don’t know.” He walked towards his friend and knelt down beside him, putting his hand on Isaac’s trembling shoulder. “Please, Isaac, please. You need help. I think you’re sick. I don’t care about the show, I care about your life.” Isaac puffed on his cigarette and nodded, his mood pleasant and affable, but his expression stern and unhappy. “Yes, I am sick; sick in the head.” He started laughing. “What kind of man paints something like this? A dead girl in one and his best friend sleeping with a fantasy in another?” Adam hugged him. He closed his eyes. Isaac smelled of menthol cigarettes, bitter drug sweat, paint thinner, and hair gel. “It’ll be okay.” Isaac laughed, loud and unforgiving. “You don’t know that and this isn’t the end of things. I’ve seen Hell in my dreams. There’s always fire.” He pulled out of Adam’s arms and crushed the cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. “Well, what does it matter? We’re all going to be meat in the ground, right?” He waved to the two paintings. “Take them, Adam, they’re yours. Take your Kristopher with you.” Adam stared at him. “How do you know his name?” “I heard you say it,” he said, looking at Adam. “In my fucking head.” *** The Adam Lambert Gallery Adam sat on the leather bench seat in his private collection room, adjacent to his office. It wasn’t a particularly large room but it held Adam’s favorites, the ones that he didn’t display in his home or anywhere else. This room was just for him, a self-indulgence to his gluttony for beauty, his greed for possessions, his vanity and his pride reflected in his career – his sins, he admitted. He estimated that the paintings, sculptures, and jewelry in the collection room was close to $40 million now. He had to move around his artwork so that he could hang and light the five paintings sequentially. He called them the Kristopher series and he knew that one painting alone would be worth several million dollars. Who wouldn’t want an original Isaac Mendez of the Eros American Idol? He put them into a specific order – the first was of Kris laughing, then Kris on the dining table, then Kris bent over the back of the couch, then Kris riding him, and finally, Kris curled against him in bed. They took over one entire long wall of his collection room and Adam sat back on the bench seat, his cock hard under his dress pants, a low thrum of want humming through his body, as he looked at the paintings, one by one, lingering on the shape of Kris’s leg in one painting, the slope of his shoulders in another. There was always something new to discover and Adam would never tire of looking for them. “Just answer one question for me and I’ll drop it: Did you commission Isaac to paint these for you?” Adam turned to see Brad leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed in front of his chest. He waved for Brad to come closer, moving aside on the bench seat to make room for him. “I didn’t,” he said, softly. “Isaac said that he had a premonition and he created these paintings of me and Kris.” Brad sighed, sadly. “He has to get off the Junk.” “I know,” he said, nodding. “He promised to go back to rehab after the show.” Brad took a breath but Adam cut him off before he could start. “I told him that the show didn’t matter, that none of this mattered except for Isaac to get better, but he said that he’d go after the show.” “I wasn’t going to blame you,” Brad said, putting his hand on Adam’s shoulder and squeezing tightly. “I know you don’t care about the money or all this other bullshit. I wasn’t going to say anything like that. I was just going to say that this is weird.” “Yeah.” “But they’re gorgeous,” he murmured, leaning against Adam. “I’m almost just a little bit jealous.” Adam grinned, rolling his eyes. “No you’re not.” “Baby, Kris is living with you. It’s been, what, five months now? Any normal person would’ve moved into his own bachelor pad by now.” “Kris said that he was intimidated about living in New York and getting his own place.” Brad snorted. “Give me a break. There’s not much that intimidates Kris Allen. He’s bullshitting you.” “What?” “God, I can’t believe you’re this dense. He’s totally using it as an excuse to keep living with you, Adam. Hello, McFly. I don’t know why you like having so much drama in your life.” Adam stared at him. “Ohmygod, are you fucking kidding me? I like having drama in my life?” Brad laughed. He moved up to kiss Adam on the cheek. “You’re sitting all by yourself in a secret room staring at a fantasy when you have the real deal at home waiting for you right now. Going home and getting that adorable Pocket Idol to admit that he wants you, probably loves you, that’s what people do. Sitting here in the dark and mentally fucking him, this is drama.” Adam sighed, knowing that Brad was right. “What can I do—“ “He’s at home waiting for you.” *** The Adam Lambert Gallery Three Weeks Later Adam watched as the glitterati of New York City’s art crowd assembled in his gallery for Isaac’s latest showing. It was the usual crowd of snobby art critics and vapid gossip hounds, pretty rich girls in their Christian Louboutin stripper heels and rich boys living off their daddy’s credit cards and driving their Maseratis, the nouveau riche rubbing elbows with long established Upper East Side families, young Asian wives acquiring million dollar artwork to hang on the walls next to their Hello Kitty collectibles, and pretentious jetsetters flying into the Big Apple for the weekend to pick up a little something for their Lake Como homes. In this business, money was green and it only mattered if you had it. In the middle of it all, Adam watched as Isaac Mendez became the toast of the art world once again. He was clean and sober, for now, and he clutched Simone Deveraux’s hand like a lifeline. Adam liked Simone, she was an up and coming art dealer with a New York pedigree and about to open her first gallery. He contemplated “giving up” Isaac to her. It was painfully obvious to him that Isaac and Simone were in love, but she was hesitant because she didn’t want to mix business with pleasure. Smart girl, he thought, sipping his champagne, keeping an ear to the overly perfumed Grand Dame chattering in his ear. The professional photographer Adam hired stopped in front of him and snapped their picture. Adam smiled beautifully and then widened his eyes, silently asking for a rescue. “Mr Lambert, could I speak to you?” “Of course, Ian,” he said, putting on his business voice. He smiled and turned to the woman beside him. “Meredith, would you excuse me?” “Darling, you’ll abandon me?” She said, haughtily. “No, never!” Adam chuckled and took her arm, pulling her gently a few steps as the photographer gave Adam an apologetic grin. “Actually, there is someone that I want you to meet.” “Oh? I love meeting new people and you always know the best ones.” He led her to Simone and cleared his throat softly. She turned and gave him a knowing gaze, a professional smile on her lovely face. “Adam, this is such a lovely party.” “Thank you,” he said, settling Meredith’s hand free. “Simone, I’d like to introduce you to Meredith van Horne. Meredith, this is Simone Deveaux. She represents a number of young and up-and-coming artists. I’m sure she’ll be able to help you find some new pieces that no one has ever seen before.” “Oh, that sounds lovely,” she said, reaching out to take Simone’s hand. Simone gave Adam a quick and dirty look before she pulled out the charm, looking genuinely interested in Meredith. “It’s so lovely to meet you, Lady van Horne. I’ve heard that you might be interested in traditional artwork with a contemporary interpretation...” Adam gave her a grateful smile and made his escape quickly. He was so going to give her Isaac’s future commissions. He stopped a passing waiter holding a tray of champagne and dropped off his empty glass to pick up another one, nodding his thanks. With a quick look around the room, he saw Kris with Nikki Hilton, hands tucked into his dress pants, the fabric pulled tight across his gorgeous ass. Adam smiled to himself, sipping his champagne, enjoying the view. He remembered how Kris was always so star struck the first time he started walking the red carpets and giving on-the-spot interviews with various entertainment news channels. Whenever a celebrity came up to congratulate him, Kris would flutter his hands around and be all “ohmygod it’s you” and then promptly blush, caught in front of the cameras. But now, Kris was all smooth southern charm and shy smiles, flirty and cute. He was still star struck at times, but he had gotten better about hiding it. Adam had received many text messages with “guess who I met” and “so-and-so told me he/she liked my single” and “George Clooney gave me his number”. Adam had to admit that he was jealous about that last one. Brad waved his hand to get his attention, motioning him to come over and Adam looked to see who he was with before deciding whether or not to go. Beside Brad was a distinguished looking man with a gorgeous blonde woman on his arm. Adam took a sip of his drink and moved across the room towards them, wondering what Brad wanted. “Good evening, Senator Petrelli,” he said, smiling politely at the couple. “Adam, I was just telling Nathan and Jessica about Isaac’s work with conceptual art and I thought you would do a much better job of showing them his latest paintings and explaining the history of conceptual art,” Brad said, giving him an evil little grin. He held his smile and escorted the junior Senator and the woman, who was not his wife, towards two of Isaac’s best representative paintings, talking easily about conceptual art and giving anecdotal stories about Isaac and his creative process. He turned and gave Brad his best shark smile which promised pain, retribution, and possibly even dismemberment when this was over. Brad gave him a pretty look and shrugged. An hour later, he had placed the last sold sticker discreetly on the placard next to the painting and shook hands with Nathan and Jessica, directing them to Brad to finalize the sale. He looked around the room and didn’t see Kris anywhere. “Did he leave?” He whispered softly to Brad. Brad flicked his eyes to the second floor and Adam nodded, smiling. It wasn’t unusual for Kris to want to leave a party and go hide out somewhere for a little while. Since he moved to New York, Kris had attended a number of parties at the gallery and knew that he had free reign to hang out in Adam’s office until Adam finally dragged him home. Adam walked into his office, seeing the soft light coming out of his private collection room. Quietly, he walked towards the doorway and looked inside to see Kris sitting on the leather bench seat, staring wildly at the Kristopher series. He decided to stay hidden for a moment, watching Kris’s reactions to the paintings. Kris put his hand over his mouth and blinked quickly, looking from one picture to the next and just going back and forth between the five paintings along the wall. He dropped his hand and sighed, heavily, and tucked his chin to his chest to stare at the floor. Adam wondered what was going through Kris’s mind at that moment; what he was thinking about and what he was feeling. He watched as Kris stood up, walking slowly towards the first painting. He stood in front of it and examined it, looking at the different elements of the painting. Adam knew that Kris saw more and understood more than people expected of him. It was his way of just dealing with things. Kris was careful, but he was the kind of risk taker who went in knowing all the odds for success and failure. Kris walked from one painting to the next, but he didn’t give anything away. His face was neutral and he wore a small hint of a smile, but nothing that told Adam how he was feeling. He sat back down on the bench seat again and sighed, holding on to the edge and shifting his feet on the floor. “Are you just going to stand outside and look at me or are you going to come in?” Adam startled and caught his breath. He smoothed down his hair, nervously, and walked into the room to sit beside Kris. “I never knew you had this room. You have a pretty awesome collection,” Kris said, smiling at him. “Why didn’t you say anything about it?” Adam shrugged. “They’re all kind of showy pieces.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I think of them as trophies.” “So those paintings…they’re by Isaac Mendez, aren’t they?” “You recognize his style?” Adam said, pleased. “Actually…yeah, I do.” Kris smiled and looked at him. “I met him. He was kind of shocked to meet me. I guess I know why.” Adam took a deep breath. “Yeah, Isaac painted them. I call them the Kristopher series.” “Did you ask—“ “No, I didn’t ask Isaac to paint them,” he said, shrugging. “Isaac said that he saw into the future or something, but I think he did them when he was high. He must’ve seen you when you were on Idol or on TV or something and it was something in his subconscious that came out when he was on heroin.” Adam shook his head. “I was shocked when he showed them to me.” “And you have them.” “Well, I couldn’t let them get into the wrong hands, I mean, what with you being the American Idol and all,” he said, keeping his voice light and teasing. “It would be scandalous.” He watched as Kris grinned, his cheeks still flushed red, and he gestured to the Kristopher series with his head. “You think of those as trophies, too?” “Yes.” The least he could be was honest. He did consider them as trophies. “My prized ones. I moved my Monet and my Peter Blake to the other wall so that I could have them all lined up like this.” “Huh,” Kris murmured, looking at the paintings. “You know, a part of me thinks that it’s amazing how Mendez got so much right.” He stood up and walked to the first painting, the one of Adam pinning Kris against the wall as Kris laughed. “See, this one here, I like that I’m laughing in the painting. I mean, I think it’s kind of ridiculous that sex is always this intense, staring into each other’s eyes kind of thing. It should be fun.” Adam opened his mouth and just watched as Kris walked to the next painting. “And this one,” he said, laughing as he turned to look at Adam. “I don’t know what Mendez is doing to my legs but I am not that flexible.” Adam snorted, rolling his eyes. “That’s our dining room table, isn’t it? Dude, we’d never be able to sit down and actually eat on the table again.” Adam blinked. Kris said “our” dining room table. “I like the way that your eyes are so blue and kind of glowing or sparkling or something.” He stood on his tiptoes to get a better look. “Is that glitter?” Adam swallowed, watching how Kris on his tiptoes made his legs look longer, his perky ass under his dress pants flex and tighten. Kris turned and looked at Adam. “That’s one of my favorite positions. I like it like that, from the back, held down and have to take it, have to just feel nothing but pleasure.” He grinned, turning to look at the painting again. “Either Mendez has a seriously good imagination or he watches a lot of gay porn. I just don’t know how he knew about…any of this; about me.” Adam whimpered, squeezing his thighs together, his cock hard and throbbing. He bit his lip as Kris ran his fingers down the canvas, tracing the lines of Adam’s back. “Kris—“ “This one is really…I mean, I look like I’m about to scream,” he said, chuckling softly. “I’m not really a screamer, though.” “Ohmygod,” Adam whispered, shaking. “But this is the best one. It’s quiet and safe,” Kris looked up at the fifth painting, the one where Adam was spooning Kris in bed, both of them asleep. “Blue is my favorite color, you know.” Adam nodded. He knew. “And I like how you’re not crushing me or all over me. I like how real it looks.” He turned and looked at Adam and for the first time in a long time, Adam is speechless. He just stares at Kris, his eyes moving from the spiky tips of his short hair to the wrinkles forming on the corners of his eyes, to the way that he held his body loose and still, his chest rising and falling quickly, the way that the front of his well made pants bulged slightly, his feet slightly apart. Kris took his time looking at Adam and Adam stood, letting Kris see him, feeling the weight of his stare as he looked down Adam’s body. Adam didn’t know what this was, but he wasn’t going to lose this moment, this opening. He walked across the room to stand in front of his Kris, placed his hands gently on the side of his neck, and leaned down close to him, stopping to just breathe in the moment that he was there, that Kris wasn’t stopping him, and pressed his lips down on Kris’s mouth. It was the gentlest kiss that Adam knew how to give and he felt Kris’s lips move under his, parting slightly. He felt Kris’s breath across his cheek and the tip of his tongue moving along the line of Adam’s top lip. He blinked, pulling back just a little bit to look into Kris’s brown eyes, pupils blown black. “I think we should go home now,” Kris whispered, a hint of a smile on his face. All Adam could do was nod. *** Trump Tower Adam doesn’t remember how they made it back to their place. All he knew was that as soon as Kris unlocked the door, looking over his shoulder at Adam with that smug and knowing smile, Adam had to have him. He wasn’t in any mood to wait. He slammed Kris against the hallway wall, pinning him with his body and looking down into his face. Kris laughed, his hands curled around Adam’s arms. “What the fuck is so funny?” Adam hissed at him. Kris let out a giggle, looking up at him coyly. “It’s your face, man, you look like you’re going to eat me up or something.” Adam wanted to roll his eyes but he was feeling too…much, too powerful, too hard, too turned on. “I am, Kristopher.” That made Kris throw back his head and laugh again. “All right. Go for it. I’m game for anythi—hmmmmmmm-- Adam knew that would shut him up. He slipped his tongue into Kris’s mouth and took everything that he wanted, loving the way that Kris just melted against him, opening his mouth, giving Adam everything. He liked it, he liked that Kris was so hot for it that he was letting Adam take him there. He stripped off Kris’s clothes and let him kick off his dress shoes and tug off his socks. Adam got naked fast, without any finesse, without a care where he was flinging his clothes. They moaned when Adam wrapped his arms around Kris, feeling him bare and hard and sweaty everywhere. He kissed Kris and made their way further into the penthouse, banging against end tables and arm chairs – Adam was seriously going to have to redecorate their living space to make it easier for him to seduce and walk at the same time. Kris gave a little snort into the kiss and Adam pulled back, narrowing his eyes to look at him. “Are you laughing at me?” “No, never,” he said, brown eyes glinting with amusement. Adam narrowed his eyes and pushed him on top of the dining room table. Kris hissed, wriggling as his back and plump ass hit the cold surface. “Not the table! We have to eat on there!” “I’ll buy a new one.” “Jerk!” Adam laughed, moving over him and covering him, holding him down and letting out a pleased groan as Kris wriggled on the table under him. He admitted that he really liked being able to manhandle Kris like this. It gave him a deep sense of thrill that when they were intimate, Kris would just give in to him. “Adam! It’s cold!” “Well, I guess I have to warm you up.” “Lame, dude, real lame,” Kris said, cackling. Adam grabbed his wrists and tugged them up over Kris’s head, pinning his hands against the table. He grabbed one of Kris’s legs under the knees and bent it back so that it was slung over one of Adam’s shoulders, the other curling high against Adam’s side. He grinned at the way that Kris’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. Before Kris could say anything, Adam slipped his other hand between their bodies and curled his fingers around Kris’s hard cock, stroking him from base to tip. “Uhhhhhh!” Kris arched against him, arms and legs flexing and testing Adam’s hold. Adam gave a growl bore down on him with his weight, smirking at the way that Kris was so abandoned to his pleasure. “Yeah…” “God, I want you.” “What’s stopping you?” Kris said, licking his lips and looking up at him through slitted eyes. “Come on Adam.” Maybe in his fantasies or maybe when Kris was more experienced, Adam would take him dry and bareback, but this wasn’t fantasy, this was real, and there was no way that Adam would do anything that would hurt Kris. He let go of Kris and got up, taking Kris’s hands and pulling him to his feet. He curled his arms around the shorter man and kissed that mouth, all wet and dirty and tongues. He turned Kris so that he was leaning back on him and licked and sucked on Kris’s neck, hands stroking down his smooth chest to his belly, walking him to the back of the leather sectional in the living room. He bent Kris over the back and got to his knees, spreading Kris’s legs apart. He heard Kris gasp, his body tense for a moment as Adam trailed his hands down and over his ass, using his thumbs to pull his cheeks open to look at his small, pink hole. “Are you going to—ohhhhhhhh!” Adam licked him and licked him, getting his little hole so wet. He made a sound and traced around the rim as Kris writhed and jerked and wriggled against him. “Oh my Lord, Adam!” Kris whispered, reaching back to curl his fingers into Adam’s hair. “That is so…dirty!” Adam chuckled and spit in the hole, stiffening his tongue and pressing against his opening, slipping past the guardian muscles and flicking the tip inside. Kris mewled and thrust his hips back, nearly slamming against Adam’s nose. With a growl, Adam pushed Kris flush against the back of the sectional and pushed his tongue as deep as he could go, Kris’s flesh was warm and tight and soft against his tongue. He smelled and tasted musky and male. He closed his eyes and wrapped his lips tight over him, thrusting in and out, feeling him clench around his tongue. Kris let out a series of whimpers, tossing and turning against the sectional. “Adam…Adam, please!” Adam rubbed his chin on that thin piece of skin behind his balls and felt Kris’s legs tremble. He pulled away gently, licking and sucking and nipping his skin. He caught his breath and looked down at himself, his cock hard and red, slick trails of pre-come dripping down his shaft. “Fuck. Everything is upstairs,” Adam said, groaning. Kris chuckled against the leather, the sound muffled and soft. He raised his arm and waved towards one of the end tables. “Stashed…stashed…there.” Adam knee-walked to the end table and opened the drawer, finding a fresh box of condoms and lube nestled inside. He looked at Kris, laughing in happy surprise. “You put supplies here? When did you do this?” Kris hid his face against the cushion. “When I moved in.” Adam laughed, delighted. “Shut up.” He tore open the box and grabbed the lube, hurrying back towards Kris. “Sneaky naughty boy.” He slipped on a condom and took his fill of Kris’s gorgeous ass in front of him. Without a thought, he raised his hand and gave him a light spanking. Kris rose up slightly and gasped in surprise. Adam slapped the other ass cheek and Kris sank back on the sectional, limp. He made a pleased groan. “That’s what I thought.” “What?” Adam flipped the top open on the lube and squeezed a large drop on his fingers. He got to his feet and pressed his fingers inside of Kris, grinning when he made a little yelp and tried to climb over the sectional. He placed a firm hand on the small of Kris’s back to hold him in place, his fingers moving into him smoothly. “Fuck, Kris, I can’t wait.” “Then don’t wait!” Adam pulled his fingers from him and squeezed lube right onto the condom. He dropped it on the floor and smoothed the lube down with his fingers. He wiped the excess lube on Kris’s ass, both of them laughing softly, and he watched as the tip of his condom-covered cock squeezed inside Kris, slow and steady. “Oh my Lord! Oh my Lord!” Adam bit back his laugh, his hands squeezing around Kris’s small waist, and pushed his hips strongly so that he was buried inside, so goddamn tight, all the way in so that his balls pressed against Kris. He took a small step back and pulled Kris with him and took a deep breath. He let out a shocked whine when he felt Kris’s inner muscles squeeze and release and squeeze around his cock. “Fucker,” he hissed out as Kris laughed. He grabbed Kris’s wrists and pulled them back, anchoring his wrists at the small of his back. Kris groaned, looking over his shoulder at Adam, eyes wide with want and mouth dropping open as he let out a series of noisy moans. Adam smirked. “Yeah, that’s what—“ Kris laughed, tucking his chin against the back of the sectional, as Adam’s legs nearly gave out when he squeezed around his cock. “Yeah, that’s what I thought!” He growled and ground into him and then pulled all the way out to the tip only to slam into Kris again, rocking them both on the sectional. Kris cried out and lurched back against him, shifting his hips so that the next time Adam moved into him, he was rubbing across his prostate. Adam bit his lip and closed his eyes, with every thrust listening to all the lovely sounds that Kris made – half grunts and muttered curses and whimpery moans. He let go of Kris’s wrists to grab his hips, fingers squeezing him tight enough to leave bruises. He watched as Kris gripped the edge of the cushions, pushing back against Adam frantically, gasping out the same word over and over again, “yeah, yeah, yeah…” And Adam wanted to see; he wanted to know that they were doing this. Clenching his jaw, he pulled all the way out, hands tightening on Kris’s hips. “What—why!” He turned Kris and they both fell to the carpet, Kris kneeling over him now. He stared up at Kris, met his glazed brown eyes, saw the look on his face that showed him that he got it, and Adam moaned, falling back against the carpet, as Kris reached behind him for Adam’s cock and sank down on him, shifting slightly on his knees, finding the right angle. He pressed his hands on Adam’s shoulders and started to sink down on him hard and fast, muscles clenching and clenching. He stared down at Adam, intense, panting loudly, moving mercilessly on him. Adam grabbed hold of Kris’s thighs and thrust his hips up, meeting Kris’s downward strokes, and just groaning mindlessly. It had been a long time, a very long time, since he was able to just let go with someone. But Kris wasn’t just “someone” and this wasn’t just a hook up. He sucked on his bottom lip and opened his eyes, looking up to see Kris staring at him, his bangs sticking to his forehead. He raised his knees and braced his feet on the carpet, beyond panting now – gasping for breath as he felt his entire body light up with heat and pleasure, Kris’s hot weight holding him down as he rode him hard and wet. Adam grabbed hold of Kris and arched under him, Kris holding his shoulders down, and threw his head back on the hard floor as he whimpered, straining for the pleasure that was coiling inside of his belly, just a couple more thrusts and Adam’s body froze in the air, lifting Kris high on his knees, letting out a deep, guttural sound that was part pain and part ecstasy. He shuddered and then fell back on the carpet, looking up to see Kris smirking down at him. Fuck! “Fuck,” Adam said, groaning. “Jerk yourself off.” Kris pushed off of Adam’s shoulders and sank back against Adam’s raised legs, grabbing hold of his knee, and curling his hand around his cock. Adam moved up to his elbows, not wanting to miss a single thing. He watched the way Kris stroked fast, rough and hard, his head thrown back, muscles straining everywhere, and a red flush moving all the way down to his belly. Adam bit down on his back teeth, the tight squeeze of Kris around his sensitive cock crossing into discomfort but he wasn’t going to stop, not now, not when Kris was so close, so close, reaching for his own pleasure, just like this. “Come on, baby,” he murmured as Kris grunted deeply. Adam shuddered under him, feeling his cock thicken, his balls tight, and thrust his hips up as he came. Kris rode him through it and Adam squeezed his eyes shut, everything too intense. He heard a low moan and he looked up to see and feel the moment when Kris started to come. His hand squeezed right under the head and the muscles of his ass seemed to flutter. He watched as Kris swallowed once and gasped, letting out a throaty moan that Adam thought was more of a throaty scream – hah, he wasn’t a screamer, huh. He watched as the come spurted and dripped over Kris’s fingers. Kris let out a pleased huff and just sank down on Adam, limp and smiling. He opened his eyes to look at Adam, lips curling into a smug smile. Drenched in sweat, breathing hard, and smug smile – Adam had never seen Kris look more gorgeous than right now. “Jesus, come here,” Adam said, falling on his back, reaching for Kris. With a soft chuckle and a pained groan, Kris slipped off of his semi-hard cock and sank down on top of him. He wrapped his arms around Kris and pressed kisses anywhere he could reach. “Did this really happen?” “My sore ass says yes,” Kris murmured, his teeth against Adam’s shoulder. “Ohmygod.” “Hmmm.” Adam blinked at the ceiling. “OHMYGOD!” Kris raised his head to look at him. “What is it?” “We…we did everything that was in Isaac’s paintings!” “Well…not everything.” Adam stared at him like he was nuts. “Um. I’m pretty sure it was everything.” “Nope.” “What are you talking about?” Kris sighed and curled against him. “My favorite painting in the series; the one where we’re in our bed and you’re curled against me, we haven’t done that one yet.” Our bed. “Our bed?” “Yup. Our bed.” Kris yawned, giving Adam a sleepy grin. Adam held him tight and sighed, staring up at the ceiling again. *** Kris drifted off to sleep first, which was fine by Adam because it gave him a moment to just sit on their bed and look at him. He grinned to himself, his body truly exhausted. After Kris pulled him off the floor, they took a hot shower together and Adam couldn’t resist pressing Kris against the wall and having him all over again (hey, Isaac didn’t see that one). He lifted the sheets and tucked in closer against Kris, curling behind him. Kris made a soft humming sound and wiggled closer against Adam, grabbing his hand and pulling it around him, tucking it under Kris’s chin. Tomorrow, they’d have to talk and figure things out. Tomorrow, they’d have to face reality and see if they could make a relationship out of their friendship. But that was tomorrow. For now, Adam was happy to just cuddle Kris and close his eyes and sleep. He totally needed to send Isaac a fruit basket or something. *** Somewhere in Odessa, Texas… A pretty blonde teenager wearing a cheerleading uniform was climbing to the top of an abandoned factory. She looked down at the video camera, the stand pointed at the ground right below her. Taking a deep breath, she jumped off the building and landed on the ground, a cloud of dust forming around her, a sickening crack of bones – all recorded dutifully by the video camera. After a moment, the girl sat up slowly, untwisting her body, her injuries closing and fading away to night. She sighed, looking at her arms, and looked into the video camera, her face a mixture of awe and fear and confusion. She stood up and walked to the camera, turning it off. The End.

All right, so it wasn't the classiest place on this stretch of coast. But it was the type of bar where the motorcycle I had borrowed wouldn't get a second look. Or my scrounged leathers. Or, hopefully, my newly minted ID. Two years wasn't that much of a stretch, and it wasn't as if I was looking for more than a bar stool and a beer and the opportunity to imagine, in peace, that I really was nineteen. Usually shore leave was my chance to do something fun, be just a kid, or hang out with the guys without the barriers that duty and rank tended to put up. This time it seemed to grate though, being treated like everyone's little brother, the fifth wheel. Maybe it was because eighteen was so close I could taste it. Maybe it was because I had seen and done more than most people twice my age. Maybe I was just tense from never being able to completely relax in private, worrying about whether my roommate was going to come back or, when I was desperate, if he was going to wake up. Wasn't there some law that said that teenage boys were required to have their own room so they could jack off in private? Maybe that was the other thing that was bothering me. The need to keep everything so hidden. Even though the UEO had regulations guaranteeing equal treatment regardless of race, gender, sexual orientation, blah, blah, blah, a submarine was still very much a "don't ask, don't tell" environment. And I was in a precarious situation. A civilian--a civilian under the age of majority--who could easily be booted off, no explanation required. I was pretty sure that the captain wouldn't care less that my experimentation with girls hadn't resulted in any of the more socially acceptable responses. But the wrong words in the right ear.... Things could become uncomfortable. Yet, it wasn't really the secret that was tiresome; it was the lying. The need to have to find some girl to gawk at when out with the guys. Being teased about my supposed crush on Henderson. I liked Lonnie; she was nice, easy to be around, she didn't set all my nerve endings on fire like...some others. That was the same reason that I hung out with Dagwood and Tony so much. I'd gotten to know Tony well enough so that the irritation overrode any chance of attraction. That had been the case pretty much from day one with him. Everyone else remained at just enough of a distance to still seem-- Damn! The point of getting off the beaten path was to get my mind off of the crew, away from the boat. I redoubled my efforts to focus on a more general brood. But when you speak of the devil.... The bartender placed a bottle in front of me just as the outside door opened. The gust of cool air was accompanied by the sound of an unmistakable voice. I would have crushed that glass with my bare hands if I could have. Instead, my hopes of an enjoyable night shattered. "See, I told you that was the bike I saw him leave on this afternoon," Tony called over his shoulder as he spotted me from the entrance. Of course Tony wasn't alone, and they zeroed in on me, looking as if they were doing me a huge favour. Maybe they thought they were-- sailors, like fish, always travelled in schools. There might be a sociology paper in there somewhere. "Hey Luc, nice ambiance. Post apocalyptic can always be counted on to attract the chicks." Tony slapped me on the shoulder as he walked by to take a seat farther down the bar, closer to the lone waitress. "New outfit?" Miguel whispered in my ear as he appropriated my beer. He grinned at me before wrapping his lips around the mouth and taking a long sip. Such a fucking cocktease. I was sure he knew; he was the only one who didn't rib me about girls. Miguel found other, far more insidious ways to torment me. Brody took up position against the bar right beside me. Not too close. They'd pissed me off and when that happened I seemed to be able to clear a large area of personal space. Only the captain had the nerve to enter it on a regular basis. Brody was on the edge though and had had just enough to drink to find it amusing to play fraternal mentor. "It's a good thing we found you, Lucas. A place like this can get a bit rough, especially when you're not trained to defend yourself and.... Well, you don't really look very imposing." He leaned in closer with a lopsided smirk that made me grit my teeth. "Someone could decide to take you on simply for a little light entertainment." Miguel showed his support by nodding at all the appropriate places. He returned the bottle to the exact spot he had found it, using that reach as an excuse to drape himself all over Jim. The man was a sadist. A heavy bottomed glass thudded onto the bar beside my now empty beer. Usually I would have glared at anyone foolhardy enough to dare invade such well-marked personal territory, but as Brody's taunting lecture came to an abrupt end, I froze as well without turning. I took in as much information as I could about who was behind me from what I could see. The hand now resting on the bar was clean and clear, no sign of any gang markings. The leather of the sleeve was worn, but well cared for. It surprised me to realize that it was his scent that was making the strongest impression. There were no obvious perfumes; it was warm and rich. The oiled leather maybe? With an underlying metallic tang. Then I caught a hint of whiskey as I felt his breath on my cheek. "I could take you away from all this...noise." Soft and smooth, not the kind of voice that you would expect from someone who could intimidate Jim Brody into silence, though the last word had contained enough of a growl to cause Tony, who had abandoned his pursuit of the waitress in favour of solidarity, to take a small step back. I would have loved to have seen the expression that had produced that reaction, but I was determined play it cool. Impress not only the stranger, but educate my crew mates. Dammit, I was tired of being thought of as seaQuest's mascot, always being dragged along but never being allowed to play. "Is this quiet oasis far?" I asked. There was a breath of a chuckle at my shoulder, but it was the sight of panic on the guys' faces that made me have to squash a grin. Not surprisingly, Miguel seemed to be the first to catch on to where this was leading. "Lucas, I don't think--" "Straight behind you and against the wall," the voice said from a little further away. He must have stepped back a little to allow me to move. I pushed off from the bar, turning so that the man I was playing this really stupid game with remained behind me. I didn't see the point in worrying about what he looked like; I wasn't backing down. No way was I going to flinch in front of the guys. I spotted the empty table easily, a calm island in the increasingly busy bar. It was is if he had marked out his territory and everyone knew to stay away. Unless invited. The idea seemed dumber by the moment. Again Miguel called, "But Lucas, he's--" "A he," Tony finished with incredulity. Trust Tony to get right to the heart of the issue and beat it with a sledgehammer. I pivoted to find myself facing an expanse of black leather. The man had been right behind me and I hadn't had a clue. That was creepy. But at least I got the chance to get a look at him as he faced down the trio at the bar. Tall, around six feet, with what was likely an average build, maybe on the lean side considering how much bulk leather tends to add. His hair was dark and fine, and pulled back in a neat tail--what there was of it: the sides had been shaved to expose his tattoos. What kind of person tattooed their scalp? One that could make experienced UEO personnel think twice about pushing an issue. "If only that were all he had to worry about," he said. I hadn't the vaguest idea what that meant. And it could have been very unnerving if it hadn't been said with such good humour, but something made the guys step back anyway. Did the tattoos extend over his face? The ones on his head were interesting. Abstract. If this pattern continued onto his face it might look all right. Or maybe he had a scar. A scar would be cool. I flashed the guys a grin, hoping it conveyed that things were going exactly the way I wanted them to. Then--on some insane impulse--I squeezed the leather clad shoulder in front of me before turning back to the table. I tried to gain control of my panic as I found my new seat. I had just wanted an escape hatch, not to start anything. The man lowered himself into the opposite chair and waited silently as I gathered the nerve to look up. Everything in appropriate numbers and where they should be. Deep brown eyes. Neatly trimmed beard. Full lips. No tattoos, no serious scars on the fair skin. Nice in an intense kind of way. I quickly bit back the sigh of relief--that would have been very uncool. It must have shown anyway if the size of the man's grin was any indication. The bartender's arrival postponed any conversation as he delivered a full glass and another beer. My rescuer set the bottle in front of me. "Thank you...." "Evan," he said. "Evan." Good name. Normal name. What were a couple of tattoos between friends? "Part of me feels that I should argue that I didn't need rescuing. But I'm glad you did." I saluted him with my beer and took a sip. "I didn't rescue you. I claimed you. Very different thing." The direct stare and soft declaration started a chain reaction. My throat closed up, which was okay because my lungs had stopped working anyway. The butterfly wings that tickled my heart into pumping at double time moved down and took up residence in my stomach. Though a few managed to work their way lower. I found myself squirming a bit in the chair. And since when did fear produce that response? "Claimed?" I managed to croak out after clearing my throat. "You haven't noticed that all those eyes that have been heating up your tight little ass since you walked in the door, have now found something else--anything else--to look at?" Don't blush! Don't blush.... Hell. "All...what...eyes?" Evan reached over and ran a single finger over my cheek. It seemed to focus all of the heat in my face along that line. "How delicious," he said. "I haven't prepared veal in a long time." All that blood rushing to my head must have overheated my brain. Or something. "You're a chef?" "With the right ingredients." That feral grin jump-started the synapses again, and I wanted desperately for the floor to open up and swallow me. Unless Evan would prefer to do it. That random thought took a few moments to completely register. There wasn't as much blood available for the next blush. Evan seemed to take pity on poor, pathetic me and leaned back in his chair. He didn't say a word until I had regained the nerve to look at him again, then he asked, "What are your friends up to? I feel like my back is about to break from the weight of their stares." The purely conversational tone settled some of the butterflies in my gut. "Jim and Tony are having an argument, but keep checking over here. It's Miguel who looks like he wants to feed you to sharks." "The dark one?" The expression that spread across Evan's face was one of pure amusement. When I nodded, he leaned in and said conspiratorially, "That's what he gets for waiting too long." "He hasn't been waiting," I said with more bitterness than I intended. That disappeared as the raised eyebrow, the small smirk, and the way Evan waited, made me quickly expand on the comment. "I'll bet he never thought about me in that way, not seriously, before the moment you walked up." "Really?" He turned his head just enough to take a glance at the bar, then grinned like a madman as he relaxed further into the chair. "Shame. The boy sucks on a bottle like a pro." I couldn't believe I was having this conversation in such a conversational manner. This was so great! "So it wasn't just my imagination!" I said in a loud whisper. Evan's laughter brought everyone's attention to the table. I was so preoccupied with their reaction that I didn't see him move. Suddenly his chair was beside me, his hand on my face again: this time not just touching but holding it still. His mouth was soft. And hot. And gone. That kiss was much too short. I leaned in and the next time his mouth was not soft. But it was so hot that I was sure that I had started to melt. My head seemed heavy resting in his hand. My jaw released. Everything relaxed except for my hands clutching at his arms and my cock making it very clear that there were good reasons for my jeans always being a size too big. He tasted everywhere, gently, thoroughly, with such determination that he managed to devour my breath as well. I struggled for enough control to take small, panting gasps, and finally understood the meaning of the word ravished. Very good word. Then everything stopped. I opened my eyes to see Brody, Miguel and Tony standing right behind Evan. I started, but the tension of Evan's hand held me against him and I felt a small smile against my lips before he slowly moved back. He spread himself out as he turned in his chair, not only making it seem as if he didn't consider the guys a threat but making himself seem more of one at the same time. Dr. Westphalen had been a good tutor in behavioural science. Then he smiled. It couldn't have been more of a challenge if he had thrown down an actual gauntlet. I'd been claimed, and Evan was not going to give up his territory easily. His challenge radiated through the whole room and the fight-or-flight instinct rushed through me on a flood of adrenaline. My body might have been ready to run, but my mind never considered leaving an option. And the thought of trying to fight Evan.... Suddenly my mind wasn't alone in wanting to stay right here. I had to get rid of those guys! "Was leaving the bar too subtle a hint?" I asked while getting to my feet. "Lucas, you don't know what you're doing." God, I hated being told that! Miguel knew it, too. "Dammit, you're not even eighteen yet." Evan grinned up at me knowingly. He must have seen the bartender accept my ID. "A multitude of talents hidden in these hands," he purred. He took two of my fingers into his mouth. It looked as if he was simply sucking on them but I could feel his teeth. All of them. It reminded me of the large dog my mother's housekeeper had for a while. The feeling of all those sharp teeth pressed into my skin, the knowledge that it could take my hand right off if it decided to stop playing--it had been an addictive sensation. Now the danger had blended with the erotic. It took an effort, but I stopped staring and removed my fingers from Evan's mouth. "Please. Go. Away," I said, meeting each friend's gaze in turn. I would not have to worry about these guys haunting my fantasies for a long time. "I'm on liberty until 2am. I'm over the age of consent according to UEO regulations." "I don't recall asking for your consent." "Not helping!" I snarled down at Evan. The light that came into his eyes let me know that he enjoyed risking teeth as well. "Bastard," I muttered under my breath before turning back to my friends. "This is none of your business." "You're right," said Brody. "You're on liberty, and as long as you don't end up in jail, it is none of the UEO's business how you spend it." "Jim...." Miguel stopped Brody from turning away; he was not about to give up that easily. "But it is your friends' business, Lucas." "That's very nice, Miguel." I picked up the beer bottle and attempted an imitation of Migs' earlier antics. From the way he averted his eyes, I managed well enough. "Though I don't recall having much influence over who you choose to fuck." He had the decency to wince. With Miguel having struck out, it looked as if Tony was going to try his luck, but Brody interrupted him. "It may not officially be the UEO's business, but I can't help but wonder what the captain would say." Now I had a good idea what all the debate had been about over at the bar. All I needed to do was give a little push. "You're going to tell on me?" The tilt of Brody's head provided the answer. "Now wait a minute, Lieutenant." Predictably, Tony balked at the idea of playing the snitch, and this time Miguel joined into the debate. For a moment, all of my attempted babysitters were occupied--it was now or never. "Is there anywhere...?" I asked low enough so that only Evan could hear me. He nodded and rose to his feet. He moved silently and was out a nearby door almost before I noticed. I managed to keep up with him though. The passenger door to a nondescript sedan had been opened before the alley door closed behind me. Suddenly, the game became far too real. I hesitated. "I'll bring you back to your bike," he said. "Promise?" And just when you think you can't get any dorkier. Evan looked at me strangely, intently, so that it made me forget my supreme mortification for the moment, my adrenalin spiking again. He skimmed his finger over my cheek, just like the first touch. "I promise, Lucas." "All in one piece?" That made him laugh harder than I thought it should have as he walked around the front to the driver's door. He grinned at me over the roof. "Yes. All in one piece. Get in the car." I saw the alley door open as we pulled away, but made a point of not looking. Even though the guys had pushed me into the acquaintance with Evan, the decision to get in the car was all my own. To acknowledge their presence would somehow make it seem like I was doing this out of spite, to make a point. I didn't want it to be about them. I wanted it to be about me. I don't think Evan would have bothered to claim me--just the thought of that word sent heat to my groin again--if he hadn't been interested in the first place. And I couldn't pass up the opportunity to make some of my fantasies reality. Even if the face wouldn't be the same. A small inconvenience that I was minding less and less. We drove in comfortable silence for about ten minutes before pulling into a small parking lot beside a three story apartment block. Walking around to the main door on a quiet side street, I was struck by something I could see on the larger cross road only a couple of lots away. I sent Evan a questioning look. He grinned at me as he looked for the right key for the door. Almost convinced that my suspicions were correct, I jogged to the corner to look down the busier street. The son-of-a-...! I returned to the now open apartment block door with an expression that I hoped conveyed the disgust that I was feeling. Evan just grinned wider. We were three blocks from where we had started. "Just making sure we weren't followed," he said. "I hate uninvited guests." Evan led me down a half flight of stairs to a corridor with only two doors. "You get a view," he indicated up the stairs, "or you get space. I like room to move." He opened his door and stood aside. I walked into a tiled entry that joined a large living room that ran the length of the building toward the street. There was a table at the far end near a window with a view of the sidewalk, and the hint of a corner kitchen just out of my line of sight. A short hallway ran off the other side of the entry, and my assumptions of what was at the end of that hall had me wondering again at the wisdom of this decision. It was infuriating, but I couldn't help but hear "not yet eighteen" echo through my head and wonder if they were right. Could I do this? I turned as I heard the lock click into place and found myself enveloped. Evan surrounded me: he stepped one leg between mine, wrapped his arms around me, and smothered any lingering doubt with the thoroughness of his kiss. There was an urgency that hadn't existed in the bar, or maybe had just been tightly controlled. It was a pressure that made me want to match it, push against it, and for a time I was the one doing the kissing. Though I was barely aware of it--so lost in the feel and taste of him--he peeled the leather jacket just off of my shoulders, leaving it to hang on my arms so that it pulled my spine into just enough of a curve to put me off balance. He caught me before I righted myself, and replaced the garment with his own fingers clasped around my wrists. I had no doubt that they would instantly tighten if I tried to pull free. Not that I wanted to. With his attention returned to the kiss, I was sure that his grip was the only thing holding me up. When he released my mouth my head fell back, naturally continuing that curve. From the pleased noise he made, that was just what he had wanted. He basted my throat with his tongue then tenderized it with open mouthed bites. If he had used enough pressure to leave marks, I would have been covered from jaw to collarbone. As it was he had me squirming against him, trying to arch into his mouth to feel more teeth. It was frustrating. A little disturbing. Very messy and very hot. His wet lips brushed over my ear, drawing a full body shiver from me before he said, "I think this is the point when I tell you that you should have listened to your friends." His accent--from somewhere in Eastern Europe if I had to guess--seemed to fluctuate in intensity, but when it appeared it gave his voice a low rumbling growl that set my bones humming in sympathetic resonance. He rubbed his cheek against mine, the scrape of stubble and the tickle of his beard similarly sensitizing the nerve endings in my skin. The effect spread through me like ripples in a pond while Evan waited for a response to his comment. This was too good. I wanted to come up with something clever, suggestive, seductive, but I think my brain was oozing out my ears. I settled for going with my first instincts. "Because you're a homicidal maniac with cannibalistic tendencies?" Evan let go of my hands, an expression of mock dismay filling his face as he straightened. "Someone told." I couldn't help but grin as I shook my head; he did a great job at looking crushed. "I'm a very good guesser," I said solemnly. With Evan no longer touching me, I found that I had regained some control over my own movements. I took a small step back, almost tripped on the edge of the carpet and ended up slouched against the wall after hitting it with a mortifying thump. It took the breath out of me for a moment and I ended up just blinking at him. Smooth Wolenczak. Very smooth. He was only a few inches taller than me but from that viewpoint Evan seemed huge. He had shrugged out of his own coat and it had hit the floor with a solid thud. I really didn't want to think about what might have caused that sound, and fortunately I was given enough distraction so that it didn't become an issue. He braced his hands on either side of my head and leaned in. Every panting breath I took brushed my chest against his; it was more intimate than the tight clinch. So was the light caress of his face against my hair. I heard him take a deep breath. "Uh-huh," he said and nuzzled at my ear. "Very." He dropped a whisper of a kiss on my lips then stood up to pull his shirt off. I had felt the lean muscle pressed against me but the sight of all that skin made it impossible not to touch. I slid my hands under his arms and over his shoulders as he leaned in again. "Very good." "You took the words right out of my--" That mouth! Oh God, that mouth was going to be the death of me. The spine melting kiss shut me up and shut down most of the other voluntary anatomic functions. Most. Nothing could have stopped the movement of my hips rubbing my cock against him. Or so I thought until Evan's evil chuckle feathered across my cheek and the half step he took pinned my hips against the wall with his thigh between my legs. Then he rocked. A slow roll from his knee to his hip that pressed my balls up against the base of my erection and proved that my cock hadn't really turned to stone. Yet. It left me looking mutely at the tiny smile on the generous lips and the dark eyes continuously scanning my face. It was torture. It was agony. It was perfect. Then he suddenly released the pressure. I whimpered. Evan caught the sound like a blown kiss, grinned, then dropped to his knees, pushing my t-shirt up as he mouthed the skin just above my waistband. I took the hint and pulled the shirt over my head. In the fraction of a second that I was blinded, he pulled me forward. My belly hit bare skin--hard--and the room spun. Then inverted. "Hey!" I put my hand down to steady myself and met...nice denim covered ass. I dropped the t-shirt as we went through a doorway and then I was flying. It took three bounces before I stopped. While I settled on the bed and tried to calm my stomach, Evan removed his boots, then mine. He was grinning like a shark. Or a wolf. Something with a lot of teeth. My boots were tossed back down the hall. He stripped off his jeans then started on my leathers. I didn't mind the presumption; it gave me a chance to simply look. Tattoos and scars--it was strange that the markings seemed such a natural part of his pale skin. But then Evan didn't have the type of body that would have been sculpted in a gym; his had been shaped by life, and sometimes life had bitten deep. There were lines of various depths and sizes scattered over his body, most of them fine and white but some made me wonder: the claw marks on his arm under the bulge of his shoulder, but I decided that I didn't want to know what had made them; the deep gouge that ran over his hip and down his thigh; the bite, the arc of large teeth just above the knee that rested on the bed. What kind of life would leave these kind of marks? What kind of man would be formed by that life? The kind that would keep my cock trapped in these damn pants until he had my full attention, that's what kind. The hand that had been pressing on the bulge under my fly, subtly massaging it, squeezed hard as Evan noticed that my focus was back where it should be. The fastening on my pants had been undone so he simply skinned the leather off me in one smooth motion. The sudden change in pressure made me hiss, but I hardly had time to adjust before he was back between my legs and my cock was in his mouth. Teeth. He made sure I felt all of his teeth again. Never quite biting, not exactly scraping but always there. So much for the theory that good head requires covered teeth. Soft, hot, wet tongue and cheek, harder palate, then the press of a sharp edge into skin that really shouldn't be anywhere near--oh God, breathe Lucas--sharp edges. And the slide of lips down the length until I felt his beard brush up against my balls Then back up, the head of my cock dragged along the backs of his teeth until only his lips held me, and down again. I was oblivious to anything but the frustrated tension caused by fear interfering with rhythm and pleasure, until his teeth closed in an almost painful bite just under the head, his tongue drawing lazy circles around the slit. The circles became wider and the bite released as his eyes narrowed; I hadn't even noticed that he had been watching me. He moved down again, no edges, just softness and heat and the pressure of his tongue. The absence of danger froze my breath. Then he sucked and everything ended very quickly. "Sorry," I managed to say when I had the strength to prop myself up on my elbows again. Evan looked up, interrupting the long, soft licks with which he had continued to bathe my groin. "Why?" It seemed a genuine question, and one I couldn't answer. Somehow it had seemed the thing to say. As a distraction from my embarrassment, I gently touched his scalp, tracing the dark patterns there. He shifted up my body a bit and turned his head so that I could get a better look. "Are they new?" I asked. "Just had them inked. The design is very old though." "How old?" "From Babylon." I couldn't help the snicker at the gullibility of some people. But if that's what he wanted to believe, who was I to dissuade him? "That's old." From his expression, I hadn't managed to keep the condescension out of my voice. He didn't look mad, but I thought it wise to retreat to a slightly safer topic. "I've always wanted a tattoo." Evan sat up. His legs had been tangled with mine and he didn't bother to move them, he simply shifted up onto his knees so that he straddled my thigh, his cock pressing heavy on it. He didn't seem to notice. It was as if he had suddenly found something far more interesting to occupy himself with, something that allowed him to push the demands of his body aside. I understood that feeling. In a way. Occasionally. His hands ghosted over my skin--arms, thighs, torso--testing, assessing. The touches weren't meant to be arousing, they were almost professional, but the possessiveness of them made my skin start to heat. "No," Evan finally decided. "Ink won't suit you. I know of something much more to the taste of your delicate skin. Turn over." I moved without a thought. The second and third ones crowded in fast though as I found myself on my belly in the middle of the bed. I remembered the hard ridge I had felt against my leg. Panicked, I raised myself onto my elbows. "Evan, I--" "Shhhh." He pushed me firmly back onto the bed. His hands renewed their long, soothing, arousing strokes along my back, shoulders, down my sides, up my legs and over my ass. The most obviously pleased sounds came when he touched my back. I felt as if I was being sculpted, moulded into something he was imagining. What he desired. It was thrilling to be the focus of that much attention. He extended my arms across the bed, carefully noting with his fingertips how slight movement changed the canvas he was preparing. When he seemed satisfied, Evan moved to the side of the bed. The cord he slipped around my wrist came as a surprise. "No!" My struggles were smothered by the weight of Evan's body. He didn't do anything, say anything, just breathed in my ear until the warmth and the pressure and the pulse relaxed me just a fraction. Then I noticed the very subtle motion of his hips, the press of his cock against my ass, my own beginning to answer it in kind. His lips barely touched my skin as he moved his mouth to the nape of my neck and bit. The jolt of the bite went through me, but then every muscle relaxed. I remembered why coming with him had seemed so appealing. Sharp edges. A well considered promise. I uncurled my arm from under my body and stretched it out across the bed, and felt his smile against my neck. With my other wrist secure, all I could do was hear his movements, the sound of footsteps moving away from the bed. "Evan?" I wasn't sure what I wanted to ask, what I wanted to know. "Right now you are mine." That whole claiming thing now struck a different note, but it produced a similar reaction. I could feel my cock filling again; this time though, I think I understood. Before I had thought of it as desire, a very flattering compliment but nowhere near as powerful as the show of dominance that it was. My random thoughts from the bar returned; given the choice, the fight and flight had turned to submission. Had I really been given a choice? Yes, but it had been made long before the rope slid around my wrist. And it had been made as a symbol of my autonomy. It would be fun to see Wendy try to psychoanalyze this situation. I tried to relax and listened carefully to what was going on. Most of the sounds were too distant to determine what Evan was doing, but it was enough to know that he was still in the apartment. Then there was a closer sound of water running. And then the slide of something across the carpet. I turned my head farther over my shoulder to try and see but Evan was already crawling onto the bed. Up my body. He touched me just enough to remind me that he was there. His breath and the burn of his beard along my spine. His chest hair tickling my ass. His cock, still firm, sliding up the inside of my leg. He leaned down on one elbow so that his dark eyes could look into mine. I had seen pleasure, amusement, lust, but this was the first time I had seen anything approaching excitement on his face. "Beautiful boy." Evan caressed my cheekbone with his thumb. "Let's improve on perfection." The feeling of something slick being drizzled over my ass wasn't what I had expected. Though I don't know why not, sex was what I came here for, but Evan had seemed to have been distracted from taking a direct route to that goal. That was still the case, for instead of spreading my legs Evan straddled my thighs, his solid cock snuggling into the greased cleft as he settled himself. Again he stroked my back as if reading something from the skin, the shift of his weight sliding his groin through the oil. Oh, that was a good idea. I pushed up against him and gave a low hum of approval. Evan replied with a chuckle. "Anxious to get started? Always willing to oblige." He placed a hand firmly on the top of my spine and a line of fire fell over my shoulder blade. He was cutting me! I found I couldn't breathe. Until the second slice and then I gasped a deep breath and had to bite my cheek to keep from crying out. The fourth cut brought the taste of blood and the sixth a mournful sigh from Evan. He shifted to lie beside me, turning my face away from the bed with a finger under my chin. I couldn't meet his eyes, not with tears clouding mine. I had agreed to this. Well, maybe not to this, but to be claimed. I had wanted to be marked. I wasn't a child that would give up when things got tough. I could do this. I could. "Don't deny me, boy," Evan chided softly. The gentle tone brought my eyes up to his, dislodging a tear to run down my nose. He smiled at that, catching the drop with his thumb and licking it off. When he lowered his mouth I would have backed way if I could; I didn't want him to know what I had done. He worried, licked and teased at my lips enough to have tasted the blood from when I bit though my cheek. I relaxed into the kiss then, allowing the pleasure to soothe the ache and sting of the cuts and the bite. I was sure that he would soon dismiss me as not worth his time. What I got was a taste of a passion that complemented the pain--challenging, demanding, almost overwhelming. "Don't hold back," he breathed, pulling back just enough to speak. "I want you. I want all of you: your tears, your blood, your voice." He gave me another quick, hungry kiss before he moved back up to his seat on my thighs. "Scream for me," he snarled. And I did, as heat--sharp and liquid--traced a sinuous path under my shoulder blades. I felt a trickle down my side and then the pressure of Evan's tongue meeting the escaped drop. His rumbling purr startled me. I though I had made myself deaf with that cry, but the sound of the requested gasps and whimpers and moans that followed showed me that mistake. I also thought I could feel nothing but the pain--that was proved wrong, too. The slide of Evan's cock against my ass may not have been as vivid as the slide of the steel, but like the bass line in music, it brought the rest into more brilliant relief. Amazingly, my own erection started to distract me. Evan must have understood the subtle squirming for he sat back and reached under me. He shifted my cock to a more comfortable position, giving it a few strokes with his hand as the blade cut another deep line in my flesh. I didn't need a prompt for the scream this time. It was closely followed by a contented sound from Evan, and I suddenly realized that I wanted him to see me like this. To see me-- screaming, groaning, feeling. I often had the impression that I was trapped, covered in a skin that wasn't mine, the clothing of kid, geek, son, genius; all of them with their own allowed set of emotions. This experience was beyond being nude. Evan didn't know--didn't care-- about all that other stuff. He said he wanted me. I tried to let the rest go. The next pass of the knife was barely a scratch, one that I would have usually borne in silence; this time it produced a sigh and a shudder and a slight arch into the blade. "Very nice," Evan said. The next mark was deeper, the next longer, the next... I don't know. I stopped thinking about the individual slices and my reactions to them, and let the waves of sensation take me. They were the only thing left as the rest of seemed to float away. I don't know how long it was between the time Evan stopped and when I realized that he had. He was beside me, his missing weight the lightness that I was still feeling. One hand had gently fisted into my hair; it guided my face up off the bed as my eyes regained focus. He rested his forehead on the tear-soaked sheets, his chin at my shoulder, then slid the other hand under my chest and lifted me up enough so that he could get under me, kiss me deeply. From this twisted position it seem as if I should be the one that was kissing him, except I could have never created the heat of this exchange. I envied him, the man who was mutilating my flesh, for his ability to allow himself to want so completely, so unreservedly and not to be afraid to ask for what he wanted. My needs had always had to be negotiated, scheduled, accommodated, and so in my guilt at inconveniencing the world, I tried so hard not to need so much...or want at all. One last lick along my bottom lip and Evan moved away, and I finally saw the knife: long, narrow, with what looked like a surgically sharp tip. The once shiny steel was now stained red. With my blood. The concrete evidence sitting on the sheet stunned me so completely that it wasn't until I felt my body being pierced again that I realized what Evan was doing. More oil had been poured over me and likely spread on him, but there wasn't any of the polite preparation that I had heard about. He went slow though and I did my best to relax. My breath roared in my ears only to be breached by my own whimper of pain. It made me feel slightly ridiculous after what I had just been through. He stopped then though, holding still in me a few moments before almost pulling out and adding more oil. The next stroke advanced a little quicker until resistance was met and then it was back to the slow, undeniable assault. Again an addition of oil, but the third time Evan's entry into me was the just the warning. The rest of his body followed, pulling on the wounds on my back, sliding in the blood until his mouth reached my jaw. He worried the knob of bone under my ear then moved onto my neck, sucking, biting, licking across the nape and over to my far shoulder. All the while his hips moved in a maddeningly erratic and lazy rhythm that seemed determined to press against my prostate just enough to make me crave more direct contact. He turned my body into one dull, throbbing ache, the worst being the one I was lying on. Satisfied when my whimpers turned to groans of frustration, Evan lifted himself from my back. "Oh. I smeared it," he drawled softly in my ear. God, he was good at that. It was as if he did most of his talking this close, this intimate. He didn't whisper, but it was so quiet, so low that there was none of the intrusion that often happened when someone talks too close. With Evan it was as if he wanted his voice to be a physical touch, and he succeeded. I tried turning my head to kiss him, desperate to touch that voice again, but he gently prevented me from moving; he stroked my hair while purring soothing noises then placed a kiss along my cheek bone. That was almost as good and I closed my eyes from the seduction of it. "Such beautiful eyelashes." He feathered his finger along the damp tips. Then he sat back, adjusting my hips as he did so, folding my legs up under me. I was as pliant as clay under his hands. My cock wasn't happy with the loss of pressure and my body started to complain from the absence of stimulation after such a deluge. Evan was still in me and I canted my hips in encouragement. The harsh laugh wasn't the response I was looking for, but I was appeased as he settled into a better position. "Demanding little pet, aren't you? Can't have you drying with this mess though." I felt the drag of a damp cloth across my back and then...lightning--bright, brilliant, outlining every slice in my skin. I howled and bucked, impaling myself up to the hilt of Evan's cock. The new pain caused another moan and I shifted myself off only to slam back again as another swipe of the cloth brought renewed agony to my back. There was never any pattern to it, I was simply a worm squirming on a hook, writhing between the ache in my shoulders, the sharp torture on my skin, and the dull throb in my ass. I was pinned like an insect with outspread wings. Finally, Evan set the cloth aside. "Perfect. More than beautiful." He dragged rough palms against my chest as he curved over my back. I expected more lightning to flash along the lines he had made but all he did was set brief touches with lips and tongue in the spaces in between. I missed it. I found I missed the keen agony, the focused intensity. He was barely shifting within me, but it was steady, a regular beat. I could feel a tension in him that hadn't been there before. My cock firmed. It had softened as Evan had polished his creation, but the aftereffects of adrenaline were doing their work. As were the long caresses he lavished along my chest, sides, down my legs. And the brief, tight grips he took on my hips before moving on again. And the worship that he continued over my skin, accompanied by a litany. I didn't recognize most of the words, I couldn't even recognize most of the languages, but just the sound of his voice.... "Please!" I hadn't meant to say it, and certainly not as the sob that it came out as. He froze. His stillness made me aware of my own movement. I was shaking. It wasn't from pain or shock or fear; it was as if I had been overcharged. I needed.... I wanted. Evan leaned down on one elbow, threaded his fingers through my hair and looked into my eyes. He searched for something; I have no idea what he was looking for or if he found it, but he pushed himself off of his elbow, his hand leaving my hair and reaching around me. His calloused fist surrounded my cock, producing a measure of the bright torment again but this time I welcomed it. I dove into it and Evan dove into me. Every stroke of hand and cock brought me to the edge of pain until it blossomed, exploded like a supernova, slow motion destruction. Liquid heat coated my skin again, not red this time. I screamed again...I think. I really don't remember much until startling at the low hiss Evan inhaled through clenched teeth as his fingers made bruises on my hips. Reshaped again. My legs were unfolded though still spread wide over the bed. Evan lay on his hip between them, his legs tangled with one of mine as he traced whirls on my ass and thighs. Occasionally he dipped his finger into me like I was an ink well. I wondered if I would be able to distinguish the design by the tightness of my skin as the pattern dried. He shifted suddenly and I felt heat and teeth. The pain was there too, but it didn't repulse like it would have before. I pushed into it and was rewarded with a purring growl hummed against my flesh. I saw the reddened lips as he came up beside the bed to untie the ropes, evidence of the artist's signature placed in the crease where my ass met my right thigh. He didn't smile. I couldn't, didn't have the energy. Had to use it all to untie the other knot, he had only freed one hand before disappearing from the room. I curled around to work on the binding, not quite ready to leave the security of the mattress. This was beyond the typical post-orgasmic languor, no warm pleasant afterglow here. The knot gave me something to focus on other than my own emptiness. I had been stripped, completely drained...and was ready to be refilled again. The lingering sadness dissipated with that thought, and the lethargy fell away with the bindings. I rose to my knees on the bed with a renewed sense of power. What I had endured...experienced...I couldn't put it into words yet. But it was a good. I knew that. "Lucas." The silence had been so complete that the sound of Evan's voice startled me. I looked up to the bedroom doorway in time to see him toss me a damp cloth. He had pulled on his jeans and cleaned his face, but a mottled stain still reddened his torso down to the waistband. I remembered the weight of him. So did my cock. The few moments I took to clean up allowed my body the time to reconsider its unreasonable demands before I got dressed. The borrowed leather pants still had my underwear conveniently inside. Good thing, too, Jeremy wouldn't have appreciated the leathers being returned sticky. I caught the sight of myself in the mirror. The ropes had been snug, not tight, and my struggles had left burns around both wrists. I'd have to wear extra long sleeves for a few days; fortunately, that wasn't out of the ordinary. Otherwise, I really didn't look all that much different than I would have after a restless night's sleep. But if I turned.... I didn't. I knew the lines were there. And those were only the ones on the outside; the ones that made the strongest impression, a far more permanent one, were inside. It's not as if Evan had remade me, no matter how pliable I had felt at times, or had given or taken anything from who I was. All he had done was show me where the lines were, how to find the edges of the vague assumptions and suspicions I had about myself. I had a much better idea of what I could do, what I would do, than I had just a few hours ago. I had the strangest feeling though that every once in a while those lines would have to be smeared in order to sharpen them again. Sometimes you had to feel the pain as you crossed them in order to know where they were. There was a red smudge near my shoulder and I wet my thumb to rub it off. Evan deflected my hand and used his tongue instead. If I hadn't seen him come up behind me in the mirror I would have jumped out of my skin. Damn, the man was quiet when he wanted to be. It was interesting to watch his face as he admired his work. There was a wistfulness as his fingers traced the lines he had carved into me. "In a few years, likely only the deepest lines will be easily noticeable." He met my eyes in the mirror as he leaned in closer to my ear. "Though anyone with the inclination to be observant should be able to make out the details." "Or maybe someone who already knows they're there?" I was a little shocked at my own boldness, the new boundaries I had found still unfamiliar, but he was the one who had showed me how to want. I turned to face him as I slid my hand up his body, intending on finally releasing his hair and pulling that sinful mouth down to mine. I didn't make it that far. Evan grabbed my wrist, twisting cruelly over the tender abrasions, and moved my hand from his chest. My t-shirt was shoved into it before he let it go. "Next time, I won't be able to promise all in one piece." So that was the look that could silence a room. The same instincts that had prompted me to go with Evan now did a 180. This was not going to end with a date set for next year. Or even with a warm kiss and promises that we had no intention of keeping. This was going to end now. Right now. With me grabbing my boots and jacket on the way out the door and not looking.... Okay, I looked back. Evan had followed me down the corridor and had leaned against the entryway wall, far too close for me not to have heard him, likely capable of slicing me up into little bits and putting me in a stew pot. And still as sexy as hell. Fuck. I closed the door and managed to shrug into my jacket and stuff the t-shirt in a pocket before having to sit on the front stoop to put on my boots. A quick inventory of the rest of my pockets gave me no excuse to go back. Not that I wanted an excuse to go back, oh no, I liked being all in one piece. Particularly now that Evan had shown me some of the variations found in that piece. A block away I gave into the urge to look back again, though I was thankful that none of the windows were his. The huge sigh--relief--regret--split some of the scabs, and the needles of pain made me shiver. One day soon, I'd catch my reflection in a mirror and marvel at the artistry. And the gift he had made me by letting me survive it.

There are several things that Cauthrien enjoys during battle. Falling into a ditch with a screeching hurlock is decidedly not one of them. They roll, thrashing, one over the other, until they come to a stop with limbs tangled and its weight on top of her. Her sword isn't in her hands and she struggles to get her arms between her and the darkspawn, driving her knee up. It connects with soft. Stomach, she thinks, and rolls away as the creature howls and arches up. She tries to scramble to her feet but falls again as it grabs hold of her ankle with too-large, gnarled hands. She curses and kicks at its head with her free foot and it ducks and pushes forward and her leg catches on its shoulder. She can't free herself from where her armor snags on one of the ridges on its pauldron quickly enough, and in another breath, all she can smell is rot and blood and blight. Its eyes are too large and too glossy, its nose just gaping holes that pulse with each inhale. It has scars along its face and before she gets the leverage to drive her fist into its head, she makes out patterns, swirls, something that looks like pigmented ink and too much like tattoos. Her fist connects and the hurlock screeches again, letting go of her ankle to reach for her throat. She kicks, then catches its leg with one of hers. Its hands close around her throat just as hers close around its and she rocks hard to one side. They roll. She's on top and manages to knee its gut once more. Its hands slack around her throat. She snaps its neck. Cauthrien stumbles back to her feet, gasping for breath. She takes only a moment to shake her head and clear it, and then she runs, vaults out of the deep gully alongside the road, grabs up her sword, and heads back into the fray. The lone emissary in the group, a squat genlock with a staff that looks as if it's been cobbled together from the bones of various animals, goes down beneath a laughing, taunting blur of tan and gold. Cauthrien's lips curl into a fierce, grim smile, and she turns her attention back to the bulk of the band, now thinned. The blood of two darkspawn slicks her armor and sword and her fingers haven't yet forgotten the snap of the fourth's neck. She catches the belly of a fourth, another genlock focused on one of the mercenaries and oblivous to her. It falls, sputters, dies. The mercenary - the almost-Chantry Sister - throws up a fist towards her in thanks and turns back to the fight. There's a howl behind her and she whirls into guard, hilt of her sword clasped at her hip. She thanks the Maker that battleraging darkspawn are nothing if not noticeable. Cauthrien has never seen darkspawn as wielding anything aside from clubs or the most basic of swords, but this one has found or made a poleaxe and is advancing fast for her. It has its weapon lifted up above its head, hands spread far apart on the haft, and she swears and swings out of Pflug[1] with her metal-clad left hand shifting up to grip the blade of her sword. She catches the head of the axe before it comes anywhere near her, metal on metal between her hand and the crossbar of her sword. She steps with her left foot, pushing her blade right as she moves. The poleaxe head is now safely away and she's right up close to the hurlock. It howls as she surges forward, hooking her left leg around its right, pulling her blade back sharply to give her the leverage she needs to throw it back and onto the ground. She follows it, twisting and dropping to one knee to bury her blade in its face. That makes five. She's back on her feet, her left hand shifting to right below the crossbar to help tug it out of skull and earth, turning back to the battle- but there's a sudden quiet. There are no darkspawn left. There are only her traveling companions, some crying, some swearing, some silent. All are alive. And there's Zevran, standing a safe distance from her, covered in blood and with a satisfied grin on his face. He claps, slowly, as he shakes my head. "Ah, querida, true proof that we have you back at last!" She rolls her eyes and shoulders the Summer Sword. They're three days, maybe forty miles, out of West Hill, and they had been making good time towards the main bridge across the River Dane before they'd stumbled upon a band of darkspawn. It's the first sighting of darkspawn they've had since setting out from Denerim and with any luck, she thinks, it will be their last. It's difficult fighting with her eyes narrowed and her lips clamped shut, wary of any injury or any spray of blood that might find its way into her body and corrupt. Zevran comes to her side, pursing his lips thoughtfully as he looks down at her handiwork. "I was informed several times and with great solemnity that the best thing to do with dead darkspawn is to burn them." He looks up at her and shrugs. "But... that would take time, and I know that we rarely did it, even with mages about to help. Your thoughts?" She looks around the field. One hurlock in a ditch, seven on the field, and three genlocks scattered around. "It might not be feasible." They're surrounded by scrubland, the only trees short and sparse. "I hate to bury them and taint the land they're under, but..." "Blight wolves are unpleasant," he finishes, nodding. "And there are no farms that I can see," she adds, turning away and making for the rest of the team. -- There are three shovels in the wagons and they take shifts in digging the large pit, almost out of sight from the road. Cauthrien and one of the men carry the bodies, careful not to smear any more blood on their faces than is already there. When they'd first heard the darkspawn, Zevran had recognized the sound immediately and sent up the cry- do not let their blood anywhere near you, if you can help it. Everybody appears to have listened and been lucky. The sun is beginning to close on the horizon and the sky is creeping towards brilliance when Cauthrien tosses the last of the bodies, the hurlock she'd snapped the neck of, into the pit. She stands back as Janine, the almost-Sister, and a few others begin to shovel earth over the dead. She doesn't notice Zevran until she feels his elbow bump hers, but she's too busy to jump or strike out. She looks down at him to find him gazing back up. "I would like to say," he begins, his words tinged with that seriousness that still seems so foreign and yet so arresting, "that I am glad you did not- well, that you are not a death seeker." He looks away. She blinks. "You... thought that was a possibility?" "For a time, yes." He shrugs. "I have known others to turn that way." "The Lady Cousland?" Zevran hesitates, then shakes his head. "No. I meant to say, I have known the impulse." "You-" "It is why," he continues, rocking back onto his heels, "I failed your lord. I was too caught up in-" He waves his hand. "Well, you are familiar with it, to a point, I suppose. At any rate, I am glad not to have found you like that." For some reason, she feels more flattered by his praise than wounded by his previous judgments, and a smile tugs at her lips. Not the grim one from before but the genuine, small one that's been creeping back as the miles fall away behind them. "Well," she says, turning to face him fully, "... Thank you. I'm-" Finding the words is an awkward and difficult task and she taps a booted foot anxiously. "I'm glad- that I didn't end up that way. And that you've never been terribly good at achieving what you set out to do." Zevran bursts into laughter, reaching up to clap her shoulder. "Well said, querida! Yes, I think this is the leader we've been waiting for. I can convert one of the wagons into a lounge now, yes? You'll take care of me and all the others? My feet do so ache, after all." -- It seems oddly fitting that, when they arrive, the River Dane has flooded its banks. It will be at least a few days before the waters recede enough for the bridge to be passable. They had arrived the evening before, pushing to make the rive by nightfall so that they could cross first thing in the morning, at Cauthrien's instruction. She sets a more demanding pace than Zevran had, but she knows how to rest animals and men in a way that a year traveling with the Wardens doesn't seem to have taught the assassin. Now, though, it's mid-afternoon and she's contemplating if it would be better to wait or head north to where the river branches into the delta that connected it to the Waking Sea. The day is muggy and she's shed her usual mail in favor of a fitted leather jerkin and breeches and a linen shirt, unlaced at the throat. Zevran, of course, has decided to forgo any clothing above the waist. She's in the shade of one of the wagons, leaning into it to look at the map that they've brought along (one no doubt sent with Zevran at Anora's direct orders, if she knows her lord's daughter; it's one of Loghain's, his handwritten notes bold and unmistakable, and when she's not thinking, her fingers idly trace the words). She knows he went off earlier to gather firewood (she'd ordered it), then later went down to sun himself on the broad stones dotting the riverbank (he'd informed her and invited her to join him; she'd declined). He seems to be delighting in the break. He keeps speaking of aching feet and she's beginning to suspect he's trying to goad her in to offering a massage. She's heard of that, foot massages. The practice seems ridiculous; soldiers can just as easily massage their own feet. Besides, marching for long days even in the limited heat of a Ferelden summer, with the inevitable rain and mud, left feet... particularly uninteresting. Perhaps it's an Antivan thing, she muses. Perhaps it's a Zevran thing. She frowns, focusing back on the map, gauging distance. To march north would add another two days at minimum, and then there would be the problem of getting the carts through the marshland. She remembers dry stretches, even at this time of year, but she'd last been there a long time ago. And marshland seemed like a likely place to find more darkspawn. The encounter the other day has not left her feeling particularly excited about ever seeing those monsters again. Cauthrien leans back, peering over at the brilliant flashes of sun reflected on the water. She purses her lips, trying to calculate, trying to decide. It doesn't come; the sun is too bright and the grass here along the shores too green and inviting. It's been a long time since she's just sat, and after folding up and storing the map and fishing out a hunk of hard cheese and her waterskin, she finds herself a spot on a springy patch of clover and settles down. She still watches the river. Two days to travel north, she thinks, nibbling on the cheese, another few to cross the delta, the chance of darkspawn or cart damage, and another day to regain the main road towards the pass. But potentially worth it, if the river stays high for weeks. The Hafter River, she knows, floods for weeks on end during the summer; her father's farm relied upon it, situated as it was at the westernmost bend. But she's less familiar with the River Dane. She leans back in the grass and closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. And then, tense and nervous, she tries to recall the sound of Loghain's voice. He knew the River Dane. He knew it for many, many reasons, but it was easiest- safest- to focus on when he'd told her about the battle where he'd made his name, where he'd taken his armor. For the first time in - what was it, months now? - she not only allows herself to hear his voice but actively seeks it in her memory. I need you again, she thinks, a warm shame creeping up over her throat and into her cheeks. "Thinking of me, Ser Cauthrien?" Her eyes snap open into a glare and there's Zevran, standing close by but not in her sun, not casting a shadow over her that she would notice, bare-chested and barefooted. There's a hint of dark tattoo curving over one of his shoulders and around his other side. She focuses on his face instead. "I don't appreciate you sneaking up on me." "Ah, but it is what I do! And I feel as if you have recovered enough that I do not need to handle you with kid gloves, hm?" "I'm recovered enough to take your head off if you surprise me when I'm armed." She stares him down, or tries to, but he just laughs and stretches, his arms lifted and hands behind his head. "I am a Crow, remember? Clever men, yes? And handsome." His flirting has returned to its original intensity and then some, especially since she set him at ease in the wake of the darkspawn attack, keeping order and taking control. In truth, she's had his growing respect again since Heathfield when they only lost Nicholas and the other translator who had stayed by his side. They hadn't lost anyone else; the cartwright was safely with them. But it seems that something about how she'd handled her sword and her men has sparked him recently to greater acts of gentle lewdness. She finds it unsettling that, though his words are often flavored with the obscene (especially when he tells her stories of his exploits in Antiva, as he has begun to do with increasing frequency), when they are directed at her they are only descriptions of himself and are always open invitations- never demands or judgments. It's oddly pleasant (and flattering, though she's reluctant to admit it), and far more bearable than what she has endured at times in the army. That doesn't mean she quite knows how to respond to it. So she just looks up at him expectantly. He grins. "You may gaze as much as you like." "I've seen more than enough shirtless men in my life," she reminds him (and herself), looking away and taking another bite of cheese. She hears him drop into a crouch nearby and knows that he's letting her hear it. She glances over and inclines her head in thanks. He reaches out a hand and she breaks off a decent-sized piece of cheese, passing it to him. "In Antiva," he says, shifting so that he sits beside her instead of crouching, angled so that he faces her and that their legs are stretched roughly parallel to one another, "we usually eat soft cheese. Fresh goats' and sheeps' milk. Yogurts, too- like cheese, in a way, or milk, but tart." He sighs. "Yogurt with honey and salt- it would be perfect for a day like this. Ah, well." "Do you miss Antiva?" she asks, taking a drink from her skin and then passing it to him. He smiles and drinks deeply. "Oh, yes," he says when he hands the skin back, making sure to flutter a finger against hers. She ignores it. "I had not even left Antiva City itself before coming to Ferelden, but she has enough to offer for a lifetime. A lifetime, I might add, that I have technically experienced." She had been about to ask why he hadn't returned yet, and her mouth hangs open for a moment as she reorients herself. Of course he can't go back - he failed his contract, and what little she knows of Antiva has to do with the integrity, danger, and cost of its assassins. But she can't imagine what it must be like and a sympathetic jolt of longing runs through her. If she were to never set foot on Ferelden soil again- "How do you manage it, the being away?" she asks, pain audible at the edges of her voice. He chuckles and bows his head. "Ah, but of course you know what it is to have a place as your lover! But I have things enough to interest me here, and one day, I intend to return. I will simply enjoy my dalliances until then, yes?" Zevran winks, then takes another bite of cheese. He frowns. "I must admit, though, I am getting quite tired of subsisting on stews made of tasteless grains in order to feed a multitude. And the cheese is-" "The cheese is very good." "The only redeeming factor!" he continues smoothly, smirking. "True Fereldan cheese, yes?" "Yes." He laughs again, the sound rich and full. She watches how the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkles and realizes, perhaps for the first time, that he is at least as old as she. There are small lines that aren't tattoos that mark him, lines softened by his heritage but still there. "Though," he says, as he quiets once more, "I have been thinking that perhaps we should send a few enterprising souls to filch some cabbage or carrots or whatever it is you Fereldans grow in abundance this time of year?" All humor leaves her face and her expression hardens. "... Or not." "The people already are struggling with food shortages, between the Blight and the civil war." Problems, she thinks with a twinge, that she and her lord were responsible for in so many ways. She pushes the thought away, but it lingers, tensing her shoulders. She watches as Zevran lifts his hands, palms exposed to her. "I apologize, cariña. I did not consider my words." Cauthrien hesitates a moment, then shrugs. "You're forgiven. Just know that until we begin to starve, I will not allow anything like that. I wouldn't let you steal from my family's farm- I won't let you steal from theirs." She gestures to the land stretched out around them. "Ah, yes, you are a farmer's girl." "And you are a city boy who's used to having his food show up in the market every day," she says, finishing off the last of her cheese and shaking her head. She reaches up with her now-free hand to work at the muscles in her neck and shoulder that have tensed from spending the better part of the afternoon bent over her map. "Alas, it is true," he agrees, watching her. He drums his fingers on the grass, then pushes himself up to his knees. She finds herself momentarily watching the play of muscles under his skin with the movement; he's built differently from soldiers, wiry and lean, but with a strong chest and arms - likely from climbing and the acrobatics she sometimes catches him practicing. She can see snaking lines of ink curving from around his back. She drags her eyes away and meets his gaze. "Yes?" she asks, when he doesn't speak immediately. "I can give you that massage myself, if you like," he suggests. "I assure you, I have learned from the best in all of Antiva!" "Somehow, I don't think I trust the Crows' method of relaxing muscles." That draws another laugh from him. "No, no. You see, I was born into an Antivan whorehouse- I did not mention it? Ah, I forget what I have told people. But yes, born there, and among the many things I learned, I learned the art of Antivan massage. And so, I offer it to you." "I'm not interested." She knows the ways her muscles knot well enough, and while the angle is awkward, her own fingers do the job nicely. "Ah, well, you cannot say I have never offered." "I've never attempted to claim that." Another laugh, this one slightly rueful, and he moves to sit back down. "Well, I- ow!" he hisses, and she sees his face contort for perhaps the first time she's seen it into a curled up expression of pain. "What's wrong?" She frowns and sits forward, now the one to rise to her knees. "Ah, the problem seems to be with my neck, now. Just a twinge." Cauthrien holds back a laugh; he's genuinely uncomfortable, she can see, rubbing at one of the long muscles that connects the base of his skull to his shoulders. "I thought," she says at last, "that assassins were supposed to be supple. … Bendy. At the very least, not prone to getting cramps." "Yes, well. Perhaps it is your martial tempo you set, hm? I told you, one of the wagons must become a lounge! It is the only way to ensure my good health, you see?" "I can't imagine how Cousland put up with you for so long," Cauthrien sighs, but she can't help the amused smirk that twitches at the corner of her lips. "She is a strong and powerful woman, querida." "Just so." She watches as he prods at the affected area, presses into his skin, rolls the tight muscle- and grimaces. "Oh, come here." "What?" He looks up and she thinks the surprise there is genuine, too. "I will give you a massage. Over here." He breaks into a smile and maneuvers (carefully, she notes, his motions more visibly considered than usual) to sit beside her. "Ah, finally! You succumb to the desire to stroke my perfect skin!" "Either you shut up and I touch you, or you keep talking and I hit you," she threatens (albeit with a note of amusement in her voice), then adds a muttered, "Churl," that makes Zevran's shoulders shake. "Both are acceptable, querida, after a fashion!" "Do you ever stop?" "Only when I sleep." His skin is sun-warmed and surprisingly smooth beneath her hands as she settles them against the afflicted side of his neck, choosing to ignore anything that comes out of his mouth that isn't a cry of pain. She expected perhaps more scars, little ones that were hard to see, but while she can make out faint lines of old wound across part of his back and tracing down his arms, he's on the whole remarkably intact. His skin is traced instead with bold lines of dark brown that move between fine detail and unavoidable swatches of rich color. She purses her lips and tries to focus only on his neck, brushing his hair out of the way. She slides one hand around his shoulder to brace him and begins to work the fingers of her other hand along the cramped muscle, starting at the base of his skull and working downwards. Heavy armor worn for too many hours, day after day, leaves nobody unaffected, in her experience. Various members of every band she marched with had taken it upon themselves to help the others. She remembers the few times when it had been Loghain momentarily submitting himself to her touch. Zevran at first hisses, then sighs, leaning into that touch. He mumbles something; it's flirtatious but the words themselves are meaningless, as his often are. "If you are half as successful as you seem to think you are," she comments, idly, eyes fixed on how the muscle bulges when she manipulates it, "Antiva must be full of your bastards running to and fro." His shoulder shakes even before the laughter is audible. "And oh, would the world tremble at their coming!" She rolls her eyes. "But no, I do not. Though it is not for lack of trying- or a surplus of prudence and available herbalists." Her fingers still. "Oh?" "Yet another thing to teach you of the Crows! A secret, this time." "A secret like the secret of the wagons of hay?" He tries to look back and grin, but winces as his neck twinges again. She rubs at the muscle's attachment on his shoulder and he relaxes again. "No, this one, it is one I will have told only to you." "I shall hold it in strictest confidence, then. And not believe a word of it." "You wound me, Ser Cauthrien!" She digs a finger beneath his shoulder blade and he squirms. "Fine, fine. I swear to you upon- well, my mother had no honor, but the honor of a mother who possesses it, that I speak only the truth." "Go ahead." "You know, of course, how the Chantry keeps its templars without families? No templar children running around in clanking armor?" She nods, then voices her assent when she remembers he can't look. "The Crows operate in a similar fashion. Families are... distractions. And children, inconvenient and possibly costly. But unlike the templars, our jobs often include the more hedonistic of pursuits, hm? In fact, to be a Crow is to be plied with luxuries, among them men and women as your desires trend. So they can hardly forbid us from pleasure. Instead, when we have been accepted into the ranks, the men, we are- how shall I put this- snipped?" She leans forward, her eyes immediately go down to his breeches, and he laughs, the sound just a breath against her ear. She stiffens and looks at him. "Everything is in working order, but- no children. An elegant solution, if a painful one." "And the women?" "More complicated, requiring herbalists and mages and all sorts of unpleasantness that I never had the misfortune to have to participate in." She sits back after a moment, considering. Her fingers begin to work again, pressing in lazy circles. "Have you ever regretted it?" There were nights where she had felt a sense of loss, knowing she would never be working in the fields with her children running around, shouting and squealing and scaring away the birds and pests, but her choice was at least, in theory, reversible. "Hm, only once, and only in a very vague sense. There was- a woman." He pulls away from her, his hand sliding hers from his skin. He leans forward and grabs up the waterskin, then drinks deeply. She watches him. Even when he turns to her, leaning forward to rest his elbows against his bent knees, he doesn't speak immediately. She soon isn't sure if he'll continue at all. But he does, after a brief tensing of his jaw. He wrests himself from a blank gaze off beyond Cauthrien. "Another Crow. Her name was Rinna. Somewhere in me, I must have thought about the possibility. But- it did not work out." "She didn't reciprocate?" He hesitates and his voice is oddly soft when he says, "I killed her." There's a long stretch of silence, then, and Cauthrien finally stands, stretching and looking out over the rushing water not one hundred yards away. He rises to his feet as well, holding the waterskin out to her. She takes it. The leather is warm from the sun now, too, and it weighs almost nothing- empty. "It was a tragic misunderstanding," he adds, finally. His voice is soft. "One that I regret." "And so you went death-seeking?" she suggests, remembering for just a moment the first time she'd seen the assassin, all business and distant eyes, nothing like the man she encountered at Fort Drakon, let alone the man standing beside her now. She'd attributed the change to his failing his mission, and she is perhaps not wrong. But the distance is more meaningful now than the professionalism ever could be. "And so I took a job I knew that I could not complete," he agrees. "And now I am here, eating your wonderful Fereldan cheese and getting to know beautiful women who wield gigantic, sexy swords. I believe I am quite lucky, yes?" She nods, slowly. He offers a smile, a peace offering, a You didn't know. She takes it and returns a smile of her own. For the first time, she doesn't think to glare at the word beautiful on his lips. -- The River Dane recedes enough to cross after five days of waiting. She never suggests that they try striking north, and the skin of her face and hands has darkened a little from days sitting in the sun, watching the water, and remembering with slowly increasing ease the Loghain she knew before the Blight and pushing away her guilt for a man who'd changed so much. There are no more pauses, for battle or nature alike, between there and Gherlen's pass. They climb into the Frostbacks and though the air grows chilly, it isn't cold enough to require woolen cloaks. As the days pass, Zevran tells her more about the woman, Rinna, and she in turn tells him bits and pieces about her life, about Loghain. She tells him about how she met her lord, seeing him set upon by bandits and rushing to his aid with only a hoe, and how her help was, ultimately, completely unneeded. She even laughs at the memory; it doesn't sting nearly as much as it had when all she'd had to tell it to were empty bottles. There are moments when she thinks she might genuinely like the Antivan, and, on occasion, words like thank you for saving me try to find her lips. She never says them, though. And he, inevitably, does something absolutely ridiculous and demonstrative and she finds herself rolling her eyes, biting out harsh words, appending churl (though now more to soften the blows of her words than to add to them, as he seems to find the word amusing). When they draw near to the branch of the pass that would take them to Orzammar, Zevran spends an entire day telling stories and attempting to entice her with the promise of roasted nug. There's a woman, he says, that he knows- Nadezda, fascinating, a Carta enforcer turned whore by necessity- that he wants to drop in on. She almost gives in- but then he goes on to talk about how claustrophobic it is beneath the earth, how tight and close, and though she thinks he's trying to make it sound sensual and seductive, she shakes her head and presses on. "Perhaps on the way back," he says, and she shrugs. There are a few waystations in the pass this time of year, places with semi-permanent structures where merchants stop for company, entertainment, and drinks. They take advantage of them, though at the first two they pass, Cauthrien doesn't drink. She remembers the anger of all those miles ago and forgoes what will be, at any rate, cheap and thin beer. Each time they stop, she feels Zevran's eyes on her, testing, watching. He's always cheerful the next day, though he never claps her on the back and says, "Well done!" It's not a matter of well done, and they both seem to understand it. The third waystation, however, is a day's travel from the Orlesian border. They stop for two days to make sure that everything is in order. Zevran finally begins to sketch out a plan. Comte Albret Lorraine is also a Chevalier, and that, she tells Zevran, is why the name makes her teeth clench. Thirty years ago, he held control over the lands by the western bend of the Hafter River. Her mother's memories, her father's, are her own in meaning if not in truth. She hates the man as much as they ever did even though he was gone before she turned five years old. She does not tell him that. Zevran takes her hatred as deeply cultivated national pride and anger and leaves it. He says the first order of business, upon reaching Jader, will be to send out their translators to listen, to confirm reports of the Comte's favorite haunts before they move any further. Meanwhile, the rest will find and create safehouses for if the mission goes sour, and for hiding out in the aftermath. Comte Lorraine will be dead by the time they leave Jader. Cauthrien frowns and asks Zevran why he doesn't simply sneak in, slit the man's throat, then leave. Zevran shrugs and says, "Her Highness thought you would want to be involved." Cauthrien is grateful but only shows it in a nod. -- Their last night in the pass, Cauthrien drinks. She sits with the mercenaries, the translators, the cartwright, and she drinks small sips of ale. She listens to stories, laughs with them, commiserates with them over the current state of home. She apologizes and they tell her that it wasn't her fault, that the motions of the great men and women are beyond them. She does not say that that is not how it should be, not in Ferelden. She drinks alone, too, once the others have left the benches of the lean-to tavern for the fire by their wagons. Then, she drinks more deeply- but not quickly. There's an element to the alcohol that isn't the same. It doesn't soothe the same aches or stoke the same fires. She wonders if that means she's recovered. She wonders if that means she's atoned. It's strange, she thinks, how quickly having another job and being on the move have worked upon her. She counts back the miles when the days run together. Two months, at least, since Zevran dragged her out of her bed kicking and screaming and made her remember what she is, what she's always been. She still hates him for daring to come to her in Loghain's armor, and with a pang she remembers it's still on the line for this job. But it's not in the wagons and so she assumes that it is safe with the queen. She relaxes. "Might I make an observation?" Zevran, of course, and he slides onto the bench across the table from hers, glancing between her and her tankard. "Will anything I say stop you?" "Not likely, no." He grins, leaning forward on his elbow. He reaches out with a finger and drags the tankard towards him with a slight touch. She watches curiously. "I," he says, eyes locked on hers as he steals away her ale, "don't think you drank very much before you ran from the world." She flushes. "... And what makes you say that?" "How easy it's been for you to give up on it. A few days of need, yes, but then it passed away, and there have been ample opportunities for you to break the rules and find a drink- or even change the rules, now that you're in charge. But you don't. And so I am forced to conclude that drinking has never been an everyday sort of thing to you." His words draw a small, rough laugh from her. "You're observant." "But of course! It's a useful trait to have, in an assassin." "I suppose so." He lifts the mug and takes a sip, then grimaces and sets it down. "Or, perhaps, you simply have more discriminating tastes, if this is all that's been on offer." "No, you're right," she assures him. "A few nights a week with the men, a few times a month without them." "I'm glad! Though I suppose it means that I am not quite as skilled of a healer as I perhaps thought," he says, with a grin. Then he stands, offering the last of the booze to her. She shakes her head. When he strides off with a beckoning glance, she follows, leaving coin and tankard on the table. It's become a habit, these evening walks into whatever land surrounds their camp, though he seems to initiate them more often when it's trees than brushland or rocks. He hasn't pushed her into any ponds or rivers again, and when they stop to talk she keeps distance between them. There's something in the way he looks at her that's gone from being irritating to being strangely enticing, and she's caught herself increasingly remembering how his skin plays over his muscles or dwelling on small details in the stories he's told her of his kills, his conquests. She doesn't always like the glee he takes in recounting tales of manipulation and betrayal, but there are other parts she finds she likes perhaps- too much. "Are you ready?" he asks, and she looks over at him, brow furrowing, wondering if she's missed something he's said. He smiles. "To play spy with me in Orlais. We shall be children playing at a master's game! Always exciting, yes?" "Foolish," she supplies, "seems a better description." "Well, our Comte shall not see us coming. Or perhaps he will. I'm still deciding." Zevran laughs; he's found what he always seems to seek, a tree broad enough that he can lounge against it, his feet at different heights propped on roots that break the soil. She stays standing nearby. She's dressed in the same clothes she wore at the River Dane; she abandons armor when they rest, now, a habit she's not entirely sure where she picked up. "Do you always wait until the last moment to plan?" "But of course! Things change so quickly. People are not who we think them to be." He looks pointedly at her, raising his brows and inclining his head. "For instance, I believed you to be an angry soldier with nothing to her besides loyalty to a paranoid man." Her eyes narrow and he raises his hands. "And I have been wrong," he adds. "About the woman and the man in question." "And so, what am I?" "A leader of men, as I have told you before. And a good one, at that. And I dare say that you fight better than our Georgiana, though she is more frightening." She feels herself flush with the praise. His gaze on her is- warm. Affectionate. And there's that edge of want and need that she thinks never completely leaves him. He simply puts it away sometimes. Now, though- She clears her throat. "Well, ah. Thank you. I'm- for a while I think I was just as you described." "But people change! And so, we adjust our plans." Her eyes slide down his body, and he seems so different from the man she watched meeting with Loghain and Arl Howe, different even than the man who confronted her at her door and plied her with a name that made her blood boil. Though not so different, she thinks, from the man she'd had naked underneath her for the briefest of hazy moments. "Do you like me more, now?" she asks, and there's an unfamiliar, hoarse note to her voice. He responds to it, shifting his weight, drumming his fingers against his arm. "Oh, yes. Undoubtedly." "More willing to," and here her tongue trips over her words. The drifting buzz of the alcohol sets things right after a moment where her cheeks turn pink. "More willing to be under me?" She frowns. Her first thought had been to ask if he was more willing to assume a position beneath her, but she'd thought that was too suggestive- but this is hardly better. Zevran is smiling a pleased, predatory smile when she manages to look at him. He pushes away from his tree and walking languidly towards her. She takes two steps back as he advances, stopping only when she nearly stumbles over a root and feels her back connect with rough bark. She swallows and he comes closer, looking up at her with a raised brow, a half-realized smirk. He doesn't touch. "What was that you just said?" Zevran asks, and there's that purr again, that same purr that's been slowly invading her thoughts and making her- "N-nothing," she breathes, frowning. Her cheeks are hot and heavy, the skin feeling too-tight and bare. Her breathing is shallow. She realizes distantly that he's making her feel like she hasn't felt in years, since the last time Loghain sparred with her and threw her to the ground and- She swallows again. His eyes dip to the bob of her throat. "... Should I leave?" he asks, voice quiet and surprisingly gentle. She bites at the tip of her tongue. Yes, he should leave- he is not Loghain and she is not a woman moved by passions. And yet there's ale on her brain, just the slightest touch of fog, and she remembers the feel of his skin beneath her hands, the feel of his body stretched out beneath her, and for one of the few times so far in her life, she feels her body stir. Her throat feels dry. Her lips part again, involuntarily, and her tongue darts out to wet them. He waits, head tilted slightly to one side, eyes fixed on her. His hands stay at his side for a long moment. And then he reaches out and places one of his hands flat against the trunk of the tree beside her waist. It's an invitation, either to tell him to go and possibly strike him down or to let him come closer. There's a brief span where she thinks of bending to him, taking his lips or letting him take hers, but then she reminds herself, firmly: He is not Loghain. So instead, she straightens her shoulders, closes her eyes, builds up her courage, and says, "Get on your knees." When she opens her eyes again she can see him grin. He's laughing, softly, and once she's watching him again, he shifts his hand from the tree to her side. She can feel the touch, light at first, then firmer, heat radiating through the linen. "I will say yes to a great many things," he says, leaning in and raising on tiptoe to breathe in her ear. "All you must do, querida-" and that word is now tinged with something else, something extra, something he's been toying with and hinting at but never pressing until this moment, something heated and spiced and tantalizing- "is ask nicely." There's a flash of irritation that goes through her, but it's not the same as every other time he's taunted her. It's (and she struggles to understand it even as she's feeling it) a playful sort of irritation. It doesn't make her want this any less, doesn't cool her body at all. She aches in a way she hasn't in years and though he is not Loghain and is not the one she wants to kiss her and seduce her and take her on the land beneath them, there are other things she can have. Things she can want. "On your knees, churl," she whispers. He laughs again, grin widening. "I was truly beginning to suspect you'd never ask," he purrs, settling back onto his heels and nuzzling against her throat as he does and sending shudders running through her. He takes his time traveling down her body, both of his hands now trailing lightly along her sides as he moved into a crouch. He tugs up the fabric of her shirt, tucked into her pants, and slips his fingers up underneath. She jumps at the skin to skin contact, then leans back heavily against the tree. She watches him through half-lidded eyes and the dim of the evening forest, her heart pounding in her ears and her belly, as he takes the first set of laces of her pants in his teeth. His hands have slid around to her back and are settling at where the tops of her hips crest, touch still light. She hears a small mewling noise, then realizes, headily, that it came from her throat. Zevran grins and nuzzles at her groin, drawing another of those sounds from her. His teeth and tongue are as nimble as she's ever seen his hands be and he's soon working on the second set, then the third. His fingers trace soothing patterns on the small of her back as she begins to twitch, gasp, grit her teeth so as not to beg him to go faster. All the heat of him against her is suddenly replaced with an unexpected rush of summer evening chill and she moans at the contrast as he touches his lips gently against her smalls. He's pushed her pants down only enough to gain access and she's able to lift one of her legs and hook it over his shoulder. Another chuckle and she glares down at him. "Zevran-" "I am not mocking you, querida," he assured her, his voice a heated rumble against her body. Her head falls back against bark and her fingers claw at it. "I just never thought to see you so- eager." He lets go of her back with one hand and instead traces her outline through her smalls. She can feel the fabric try and cling to her growing wetness and she squirms at the touch. He pulls his hand away, then, instead reaching up to hold and caress her thigh even as he leans against it and presses kisses along the soft skin there. "How long has it been?" he murmurs, and she looks down in time to see him gazing up at her. She catches her tongue between her teeth again, then pulls it free and whispers, "Never, for this." She thinks she sees surprise, but then it passes. "And for anything else?" "Years. … Over ten," Cauthrien confesses, and looks away from how his eyes widen and he pauses in his ministrations. He doesn't laugh and she sags in relief. Instead, he presses another, firmer kiss to her leg. "A shame," he murmurs, or she thinks he murmurs, and then something else- "Mereces algo más.[2]" She's about to ask what those words mean when he leans forward again and mouths her through the linen of her smalls. Words flee and she's left twitching and moaning, eyes falling closed. Her toes curl in her boots and her fingers scrabble for purchase. One finds his head and tangles in his hair. He doesn't seem to mind, his tongue tracing lazy lines and small circles. Even dulled, the sensation is almost too much, too new, too- everything, and she whispers, "N-not so much-" His mouth stills and she tries to focus only on how his breathing feels, the way he presses his closed lips against her and gives her only pressure and heat. When her leg still planted on the ground supporting her begins to still, she nods. "Now?" he asks. "Yes-" His tongue traces one last meandering line upwards to the side edge of the fabric, where his teeth catch on it and drag it away from her, baring her without ever letting go of her body. She nearly screams when his mouth finds her without the barrier of fabric between them. He goes slowly, avoiding her sensitive nub except to kiss it lightly, focusing more on the stretch of skin between it and her entrance until she begins to rock her hips and whisper nonsense syllables. She arches as he takes to licking, nipping, suckling and she thinks she might come apart right then, but just when she begins to twitch and writhes, he moves to other areas, dipping his tongue into her by degrees. She groans his name, hand twisting in his hair still tighter, and it seems to spur him on. His hand on her thigh leaves its perch and she whines at the loss of touch until she feels one long digit toying at her entrance. Then she whimpers and cants her hips still more towards him. "Please," she whispers. "My pleasure," he responds, voice throaty, and slides his index finger inside of her. She rolls her hips with more urgency, movements driven far more by instinct than by any distant experience, and all she knows is that she needs this, wants this, and that he knows without learning her nearly every thing that can make her scream. He knows her body better than she does, knows when to add another finger, when to crook them, when to remove them entirely and tease along her, when to lift his head and kiss at her stomach, her thigh- Somebody's crying out, moaning and begging, and she thinks it might be her. It doesn't matter. The heat and pleasure is overwhelming, washing away everything else, and nothing matters when she finally crests, body and mind seizing as she clutches Zevran to her, helpless to let go, helpless to do anything but sob. She knows that soon he lightly touches her hand and she releases, knows that he returns his slicked hand to her waist and pulls her down into his lap. He cleans her up, refastens her clothing. He holds her against his chest and brushes loose strands of hair from her forehead. He doesn't try to kiss her. When Cauthrien is truly aware again, she's taking in a deep, shuddering breath. Zevran is stroking her upper arm. It's soothing and for a moment, she feels as if she could sleep right there- but then she realizes what she's done, how loud she must have been, the chance that somebody back at camp heard, and her cheeks burn. She struggles to sit up. She bats away his hands when he tries to help. She struggles, panting, to her feet, her legs unsteady. She stares down at him. He gazes back up, head canted. "I-" she tries, then falters. She swallows, trying to remember what happens now. She doesn't know; the few other men she's been with are distant memories, quick trysts where she never saw them again or, at least, never spoke to them again. The only thing she can think to say is, "Thank you. … Do you- need-" "If it pleases you. Or, I can take care of myself for tonight. I certainly have enough to think about." He grins and inclines his head, then reaches out for her. She takes his hand and helps him to his feet, then gazes back towards camp. He laughs. "Yes, querida, I do believe they heard you from here. Perhaps next time, we should walk a bit farther out?" Next time. She frowns, uncertain. He notices, shrugs. "If there is to be a next time, that is. I, for one, am up for a next time." "I'll- keep that in mind," she murmurs, frown easing slightly. "But of course, oh gallant commander! Lead on." He grins and she shakes her head. "... And would you help me with my... tension? Perhaps another massage?" "Perhaps next time," she says after a moment spent staring at him, blushing. He laughs and bows deeply and she relaxes in turn. When they make their way back towards camp, she walks two steps ahead and he follows in the shadows. -- [1] Pflug, "plow guard", from Liechtenauer's German longsword (two-handed sword) fencing system. Assume German is "Alamarri", i.e., the original language spoken in Ferelden before they began speaking... what do we call it, Common? :) [2] Mereces algo más, "You deserve more."

His estate is four stories high and doesn't sprawl nearly as much she would have expected, even warned by the maps. There is no curtain wall like there would be in Denerim; it's all one building with what look like towers at each corner poking up just a few floors above the roof. The first floor shows no windows and what windows there are are small, and the whole building is made of stone. The gate to the front courtyard and other seemingly random spots are carved intricately with scenes from the Chant of Light and higher up are gilded designs. Gargoyles stare down from the roof and Cauthrien thinks she can see jeweled eyes glinting in the afternoon sun. The whole thing is ostentatious and arrogant. Denerim is just as crowded as Jader, and yet the Arl of Denerim's estate is still walled and purely practical on the exterior. The front gate is lowered and she frowns at it from where she and the mercenaries are camped across and down the broad thoroughfare. "He's not going to let us all in," she mutters. Janine, at her elbow, laughs grimly. "You thought he would?" "I thought he'd at least have the gate open." She taps a gauntleted finger (she's borrowed a few pieces of armor from the other mercenaries) against her chin. "We'll have to force it once a few of us are through, and he won't like that. We'll be showing our hand a little early." "And I still think he would know what we were planning the moment you marched the eight of us through his front door." "He's arrogant. It was possible he could just be intimidated." She shrugs, then turns to survey to group. Apart from Janine, she has seven other mercenaries to draw on. Three are light infantry in leathers with quick weapons. The others are like Janine, walking bulwarks with weapons that crush. She falls somewhere in the middle, itching for her usual mail and plate. She pulls Janine in to what will amount to her guard (she hates the sound of that), as well as an archer, a quick and nimble elven swordswoman who eschews even a shield, and a man who towers over even her and carries a hammer. They look a motley bunch, but there's no helping it; even if she took all of her mercenaries in heavy armor, they would be mismatched and awkward, personal armor and weapons of varying ages and styles. No, she builds for versatility. Janine had earlier suggested she stay behind and lead the second band, but Cauthrien simply shook her head and said, "Mages." So that gives her one just-as-good-as-a-templar, an imposing wall who can break walls, a distracting and fast little woman who would fill Zevran's role, and an archer whose claim to fame was being able to scale a three-story building in under three minutes. It would do. She lays out plans quickly and calmly, slipping into her commander's voice just as Janine falls back into attentive subordinate. She's grown close to the woman over the last few days and they've taken to bantering, but here, now, is no longer the place. "The five of us will attempt to walk in the front gate. If the rest stay out of sight, there's a chance that he won't lower the gate immediately. If the opportunity presents itself, take it; otherwise, we will attempt to both end the engagement quickly and open the gate as soon as possible from the inside. There's no knowing how many guards he'll have with him, or if he'll even receive us if I don't come alone. If he's shy, then we force the encounter. "Taking down Lorraine is top priority. Finding Arainai follows directly on that. There is a chance that he is already dead. If not, he is injured and likely unable to fight. He's been in there three days, and the Comte does not strike me as a gracious host to assassins who hold their tongues. If Arainai is dead or dies in the conflict, I will personally ensure that the Crown pays each and every one of you. I expect loyalty in this last push. "From what we know, there's a stable just off the main courtyard. When the job is done, we will take on the responsibility of liberating all of those well-bred Orlesian steeds. The Fereldan cavalry could use some new blood." There are a few laughs among the group and her lips curl in a thin smile. "And if anybody sees my sword, I'd appreciate it back." More laughter. If these were soldiers, she might have felt awkward admitting her lost equipment, but here it's the sort of joke that makes her seem real and approachable. She just hopes that whatever Zevran has promised them is enough to keep them with her. "Maker protect us all." They break just as the Jader chantry begins ringing the bells that mark the hour. Janine comes to her elbow and says, lightly, "Seems like a good time to start singing to Him, huh?" "If the others want it, go right ahead." "You don't?" Cauthrien purses her lips, then shrugs. "I don't want to waste the time, but if more people than just me want it, I'll certainly kneel." "Ah, good to know we have a reasonable Andrastian leading us in." Janine's small smile widens into a grin. "The Maker, in my experience, greatly favors pragmatism. "And you think my plan of rush the enemy until he's dead is pragmatic?" Janine shrugs. "He also favors boldness. Let's just hope you've got the right mix going." -- It takes twenty minutes for Lorraine to open the gate. Well, Cauthrien thinks as she watches the metal slowly rise, it took him twenty minutes to choose to open the gate. She can see through to the front door of the estate; it's up a short set of steps from the courtyard and standing at the top if Lorraine, dressed in- Her breathing stops. He's wearing full Chevalier plate, plate that went out of style three decades ago but is as familiar to her as the weight of a sword in her hands. It's not his- it's not- and she keeps repeating that to herself as the gate winches up into place and she and her impromptu guard step through. It's not Loghain's; the pauldrons are reversed, and she notes from how he wears his sword that he's left handed. Well, that will make things interesting. She has her composure back as they stride into the courtyard. A quick glance around tells her that the majority of Lorraine's men stand before him. There are two archers up in the windows facing the courtyard, but their bows don't appear to be nocked. Not yet. She stops a ways back from the center of the courtyard yet, unwilling to cut herself off entirely. The gate behind them remains open. "Ah, Ser Cauthrien!" Lorraine calls when she stops moving. She meets his gaze but does not respond, and he chuckles, lowering himself one step. "I see you did not take my advice on your attire. A pity." Cauthrien frowns at his use of Common; he intends to embarrass her, she thinks, letting her guard understand. But it makes this easier and more pleasant for her, even as her shoulders tense and her chin rises in indignation. "You already know that I am not a whore. It would-" she pauses, considering just how much she wants to bait him. (A lot, she thinks, but really, the question is how much she should-) "It would be shameful, coming here in a disguise we both know is false. I am much more comfortable in this." "Ah, but it's not yours! I think you would look better in your own armor, my dear." "Then hand it over." "Hah! Of course, my dear Cauthrien- but only if you strip out of those rags first." It seems her time with Zevran has given her at least one advantage: she does not blush. She does, however, narrow her eyes and say, "Must I repeat myself in Common to make you understand? You are too familiar." He laughs again, wrinkled skin creasing further, and beckons her towards him. "Come now, don't be like that. I'm sure that we can come to a... pleasant enough arrangement. My offer still stands, and I'll even give you back your little elven toy!" He is not a toy is replaced before she can speak with, "He is not mine, Lorraine." He flinches at the lack of title but hides it well. "Oh?" he asks, lightly, taking another step down towards her. His guards part. She hears Janine shift at her right. The gate has yet to lower again and Cauthrien can only hope that the remaining mercenaries have sidled up to the building and are close to the entrance. "I have no claim on him except that he works for the same employer," Cauthrien says, levelly. She itches to have her sword in her hand, but to walk in with weapons drawn or to draw her weapon now would be impolitic and, more importantly, dangerous. So she crosses her arms over her chest instead, eyes never leaving the Comte. "The marks on his throat would suggest otherwise. He was quite happy to boast of their provenance, even if he wouldn't give me your name. How did you find my gift, by the way? Was it... stimulating?" "A great conversation piece, surely," she responds, voice dry. She will have to tell Zevran not to brag about that sort of thing in the future. She doesn't know how many more bits of his body he can spare. Lorraine frowns, seemingly at a loss for words. Finally, he sighs and shrugs, holding out his armor-clad hands. "Cauthrien, lovely little Cauthrien, do you really delight in games like this? What will it take to win you? Our retaking of Ferelden?" He grins. "Is that just the sort of thing to bring you to your knees? I will have you there, make no mistake." Cauthrien grits her teeth and fights not to respond, her eyes narrowed to slits and the muscles of her jaw and throat jumping. Her right hand twitches, eager to take up steel. She sees red at the mention of invasion, red at his arrogance, red at his obsession with a Fereldan farmer's daughter who stands not for something unobtainable but something that is to be crushed and conquered and taken. She wonders if Zevran's spies told him that much. A fetish for Ferelden. "You know," he continues, taking the final step down to the ground, now with only two guards between him and her, "without all of your paint, you look familiar." No. No, she will not give him the time to remember her aunt, to place her any more than he already has. There's the softest mess of sounds behind her and she can make out leather and metal and breath, and so she lifts her chin. "I'm not interested in reliving your good old days," she says, simply, and then reaches back to unharness her sword, her other hand raising up in a fist as she bellows the order to attack. Lorraine has come too far down the stairs and he scrambles to put his guards between her and him, but she's fast and the guards are surprised at how soon the courtyard fills with armed men and women, and she manages to push through the guard and unbalance two of them so that they tumble down in a crash of armor. Lorraine has his sword drawn and raised by then, and he edges back towards his open door. The landing they're on is too small to maneuver and so she can only force him into the interior, getting herself through the doorway at a crouch in case there are any strung traps waiting. There aren't, and the moment she straightens he's on her, sword cutting low and shield pushing to her right, attempting to catch her sword before she can bring it into guard. She's forced back into the side wall but gains enough space and leverage to push his shield away and bring her sword before her. It's like sparring with Loghain, only a mirror image who is far more out of practice and far more intent on doing real damage. At first she attempts to mirror her own moves, but that proves too complicated on the first real engagement. From then on she forces herself to ignore the similarities in size, in armor, in weapon. They fight differently, she realizes in the back of her mind, and she can use that to her advantage. He will not unsteady her with a gleaming flash of thirty-year-old metal. He growls something in Orlesian, but she can't hear it above the roar outside of pitched battle. It begins to spill into the building as she forces Lorraine back across the entry room. The two great front doors are mirrored directly across the room and are propped barely open. He ducks between them and she follows. Those doors open on to a grand ballroom, its furniture covered in white sheets and carpets laid down to protect what must be a floor of polished, inlaid wood if anything she's heard about Orlais is true. Their footsteps are muffled as she presses forward and then is pressed back. He won't let her get close enough to catch and throw him down, and she circles warily. Her eyes flick towards one of the curving staircases leading to a balcony above just as Janine runs full tilt up it, not pursued and not pursuing. And then Lorraine darts in from her right, faster than she'd expected, and while she brings her sword up in time to stop his, he slams his shield hard into her chest and she goes down. He laughs and hisses, "Enfin je t'ai à mes pieds, salope fereldaine![1]" She gasps for breath as she rolls onto the curve of her back and kicks up, driving her booted feet into left knee. He howls and she has just enough time to get back on her feet and circle around, blade poised. There are others in the room now, seemingly all of his guards and all of her men, and she sees more metal flash up the stairways. She growls as she barely parries a downward cut towards her shoulder courtesy of Lorraine before side-stepping a pike thrust towards her side by a guard. She's pushed away from Lorraine just enough that he falls back and joins his other men on the stairs, while she catches the pike on her half-sworded blade and closes enough that she can unbalance him and take him out in echo of the same way she did the hurlock all those weeks ago by West Hill. And then it's her turn to take the stairs two at a time, as she shouts out orders behind her. "Hold the stairs!" she cries, and the mountain of a man in armor crashes his hammer into the skull of one of the Orlesian guards before taking up position at one end of the staircase. One of the other heavy mercenaries who followed in the second round takes the other end. An arrow flies past her and lodges in a guard's throat and she kicks the body down behind her as it falls. Lorraine comes at her with sword raised and shield in front of his chest. She brings her blade up and around and meets his from the left, pushing in fast and catching his shield on her shoulder. He may still practice, may still know how to handle a sword, but she's taller than he is, and younger. She's stronger, too, and she forces his shield arm against his chest as she steps her right foot around him and forces his sword up and back. She lowers her sword, pommel towards his head, and as he brings his sword back down and around on her left, she catches her right arm across his throat. Her left hand grips the blade of her sword and she forces her right knee up as she pulls back. He tries desperately to crash his shield into her face but she ducks and completes the throw, rolling him over her leg as she turns. She completes the spin with her sword pointed at his gut and stabs down just as he rolls away. She follows but it's hard striking him on the ground, and he stumbles away far enough that another of his guards intercepts and she's forced to parry and engage. She tries to keep one eye on him as he scrambles to his feet, anger twisting his face, but she has to look away to stay alive, to maneuver out of a hold, to drive her foot into the guard's gut with enough force to send him tumbling over the railing. By that time, Lorraine is halfway to a small door around the horseshoe of the balcony, two more guards falling in to place to cover his exit. He snarls as his eyes meet hers and shouts, "Tu vas baiser ma cravache alors que tu suces ma bite parce que je suis chevalier, et tu es pire qu’une chienne, conasse fereldaine! Je vais te punir![2]" The moment he's through the door, Cauthrien stalks forward with her sword held out behind her in Nebenhut[3]. There's a flash of memory and she remembers Janine streaking through that door not five minutes before. Her pace quickens. Another arrow finds one of the guards and sends him sliding down the wall with a scream that falls into a gurgle, and the other expects her to go right when she goes left and ends up with one less head than he started with. She's panting for breath as she pushes into the dimly lit, narrow hallway that leads off the balcony. She closes the door behind her before advancing slowly, eyes darting to each side. Each room she passes she looks in to, then closes when she's sure it's empty. It's slow going and in the growing quiet as the noise of the ballroom falls away, all she can hear is her pulse and the whisper of you're going to lose him. She can hear something ahead of her down the hall, but she can't make out what it is besides metal on metal. It could be Janine or Lorraine or both. She picks up her pace, clearing rooms as fast as she can. One of the last rooms before the hall ends in a large, ornate door is dominated by a large stone sarcophagus with its lid toppled off the side and leaning barely propped. She barely notices except for a glimpse of red, and then she slows. Three dead mages ring the box. Janine. She enters the room and hurries to the sarcophagus, but there's nothing there except a few smears of blood, a few pale, blonde hairs. She takes a deep breath and then runs from the room, to the ornate doors, and out them. A long staircase winds down into a garden, and she can see a glimpse of metal through carefully manicured bushes and trees. Cauthrien forces herself to descend slowly and watch her footing, but as soon as she's on the ground, she slinks along paved pathways, looking around for any sign of Lorraine. There's harsh panting and she turns in its direction. It leads her into a circle-shaped plaza with a labyrinth set into the stone below her, and there is Lorraine, clutching at his chest and glaring hard at her. "There you are," she says, advancing. "Stand down," he hisses in Common, as if she will be more apt to listen to him if he speaks in her tongue. "I don't know what you want, but-" She doesn't reply, merely darts forward with her sword cutting up, and he shouts, parries, and manages to catch her gauntlet on his shield and force her arm up. She loses her tight grip on her sword and he uses the opportunity to unbalance her and knock her to the ground. Her sword goes skittering across the paving stones, and she grabs his downward stabbing blade in time only to deflect it, the edge cutting across her jaw in a searing line of heat. He's ended up balanced on one knee to drive his blade down, and she keeps hold of his sword as she hooks a leg around his waist and pulls, rolling them. She crashes her elbow hard enough against the weak underside of the elbow joint of his armor and he hisses, grip relaxing enough that she pulls his blade from his hand and turns it on him. He tries to throw his shield up in front of him again, but she drives her other shoulder onto it. It leaves her awkwardly bent over him, her legs and hips holding his down, her upper body pinning his shield, the sword caught between the neck of his armor and his jaw. She presses down. Lorraine swings his unpinned arm up and his fist connects with her jaw but she falters only on her grip on his sword. He curses as she slips and draws blood but does not press hard enough to kill. She's shifting back, grasping for his free wrist desperately, when she hears a low chuckle. Zevran drops to one knee at Lorraine's head, and she watches as his left hand- whole, undamaged- presses a dagger to the line Cauthrien has created. Lorraine's eyes widen and he thrashes, leaving Cauthrien to pin him down, abandoning the sword to better hold him. "You told me," Zevran murmurs, eyes flicking up to her, "that I was to never steal your kills or come to your rescue again. So, here we are. You may have the honor." And he twists his hand so that she can easily take the hilt of his knife. She stares down at Lorraine, then shakes her head. "No. I think you had better go ahead." Zevran makes a pleased little sound, one she's heard in bed and conversation, and he draws the blade almost tenderly across Lorraine's throat. He leans in close as Lorraine's pupils dilate and his body bucks up against Cauthrien's. She hears him whisper, "Éso es para ponerme en esa caja.[4]" And then he sits back, watching as Lorraine thrashes and fights as the blood slowly drains out of him. Finally the man falls still, eyes going glassy and breath falling to a wheezing whisper. Cauthrien pushes herself up from him and to her feet, standing back. Her gaze only grudgingly leaves the old Chevalier's face to look at Zevran, now standing as well with only the faintest of smirks touching his otherwise hard expression. It's the tip of his right ear that's missing, and his index and middle finger of his right hand. He looks haggard, his braids coming undone and his eyes ringed in dark blue. There are bruises, too, everywhere she looks, and cuts. But he's standing steadily, and when he catches her gaze, he smiles. "Well, querida. A job well done, yes?" She feels herself smiling in return, though it feels awkward and lopsided. "... there are still two things left to do." "Oh?" "My sword-" There's a rattle of metal and Janine is leaning over the balcony up to the hall Cauthrien has just come through. She holds a set of chain and plate and, more importantly, a two-handed sword taller than she is with a diamond-patterned hilt. "You two!" Janine calls, jerking her head toward the door. "Come on, we've got them on the run! We're going to have Jader guards coming down on her heads before you can blink!" Cauthrien starts for the steps while Zevran crouches again and begins to unbuckle Lorrain's gauntlet. Zevran slides the metal off and uses his dagger to lop off the same two fingers he is now lacking, pockets them in a pouch attached to his belt, and comes after her. They're halfway up the steps when Zevran catches up and says, "and the other thing?" Cauthrien shrugs. "I hope you know how to ride." -- "You know, I never asked." They're six hours of frantic riding outside of Jader, just drawing up on the trio of familiar wagons. Cauthrien swings her leg over and dismounts, regretting the lack of time to properly saddle the horses. Her entire body aches; riding for so long just after a brutal fight with no time to change clothing or even catch her breath has left her exhausted. Still, their triumph and Zevran's safe return have her in a good mood and she's almost smiling when she takes the reins from Zevran while he deftly slides down from his perch. "Asked what?" he asks when his feet touch the ground and she passes the reins back. "Why the queen sent us after Lorraine in the first place. I didn't care, at first, and then I forgot that I didn't know." He shrugs. "He has been petitioning the Empress of Orlais to reclaim Ferelden, citing, I believe, that the Blight had been handled badly. Odd, that, when it was the shortest to ever happen." Cauthrien stops walking and turns to face him. "... Well." "Well?" He smiles and passes by her, his horse snorting. "Well, it's a good thing he's dead, then," she says, shrugging. Zevran laughs and she hurries to catch up with him on long strides. "What?" "Vengeance is a fine reason to kill, you know. I do not judge! We do not all need glorious excuses like It is the archdemon or I am getting paid a handsome sum." He waves a hand. "Just keep in mind that vengeance should not dissuade planning, and I think we shall be good. In fact, I should remember that." Cauthrien doesn't say anything, the wild thrill of victory fading quickly. Instead, she takes the lead of his horse and walks them both to the first wagon, tethering them. They've made camp alongside a stream and the horses amble down to the water. Cauthrien watches. Zevran sighs, just behind her left ear, and she startles. "Querida," he says, and she blinks at the endearment, confused, "do you know what foolish thing I did? Do you know how I decided to throw our plans to the winds?" "I assumed that Lorraine's men were waiting for you at the brothel," she responds, turning to him and leaning against the side of the wagon. "Oh, no. No, I was far more foolish than that." He sits down at her feet, leaning back on his uninjured hand and smiling up at her. That smile unnerves her; it makes so little sense with what she knows, what she remembers, but it's as genuine as the smile he gave her the night in Ghislain's pass when he made her scream. "No, I went straight to our friend the Comte. Did you know, the man had a fleet of small dogs- only a foot high at the shoulders, and they all looked like miniature mabari? Saw them all in a herd through a doorway at one point. "Anyway, I snuck in the back door, waltzed up the steps, traipsed about his gardens - such lovely gardens, aren't they? Though I suppose you did not have the time to appreciate them - and straight into the arms of his guards. Many of them. I did not even come close to my goal. "No, I was too distracted, thinking about how I could not trust you and how, just a little, I would have liked to make him suffer in return for what he paid you and your family. I am a generous man, yes? But a foolish one, there is no doubt." He sighs. She wonders how he can talk about this as if nothing has happened. Two and a half days of imprisonment and he comes out of it missing bits. At least, she thinks, he came out of it to the team's success. At least he came out of it. Perhaps that's how he moves past it. Or perhaps, as she's beginning to understand, he simply is a superb actor who does not show much on the surface besides lecherous good nature. "Lorraine sent me a letter," she says when she realizes he's stopped speaking and is looking up at her. She'd burned the thing before she and Janine had left the safehouse, but now regrets it - she would have liked to see Zevran's reaction to it. She turns from him to fish in the back of the wagon for a waterskin, which she drinks deep from. Cauthrien is just about to toss it to him when she remembers his only free hand is injured, and then she leans forward to hand it to him. He takes it with a grin. "Oh?" "Yes, it said you were quite... uncommunicative." Zevran laughs, that rolling, rollicking sound she's gotten quite used to and noted the absence of only too sharply these last few days. "Hm. Yes, I suppose that is a good word for it. Oh, I talked and talked when they asked me to! Just not about what he was interested in, I'm afraid." "And that's why..." She motions to his hand, his ear. Zevran shakes his head. "Oh, no. No, they tried the more usual tactics. Half-drownings, the rack, lashes. You are familiar with them, yes? I recall you mentioning that sometimes such things are necessary." Her jaw clenches at the thought. It is true, though - even if this was not such a situation. "At any rate," he continues, "we Crows, we are put through training much like that. I do not think our friend the Comte appreciated me laughing as if I were being tickled." He grins, waggling a brow. "You are in high spirits," she comments, taking the waterskin when he offers it back and taking another large swallow. She glances up as one of the translators calls a greeting, lifting her hand in return. There will be more time for full reunions later, though, once a fire is going and food is ready. For now, she returns her attention to Zevran. "I didn't expect to find you like this." "Ah, but fresh air is so good for the soul, cariña! Especially after you have spent a day trapped in a tiny little stone box." Here his expression falls and he pushes himself back to his feet, turning from her and drawing his blade. He plays with it in his uninjured hand, twisting it and twirling it. She can see just barely how the muscles in his neck tense and relax. He's thinking. She does not press. "Did you see it?" he finally asks. "See what?" "The sarcophagus. He took great pride in telling me where it came from. Grand Nevarra! Yes, a relic from before the Pentaghasts came to power. He wove such stories, that man. I did not listen most of the time; they were all boring. Of course, when one is being shoved into such a tomb and the lid is being slid into place with magic, one is a bit more attentive." He turns just a little and he catches the hard set of his lips, the slight furrow in his brow. "The Crows teach you how to hold up under most tortures. They do not, however, teach you much about how to hold up under nothing." Cauthrien frowns. "What do you mean, nothing?" "Just what I said," he says with a sigh and a roll of his shoulders. She can see now how he keeps moving even more than normal, puts his joints through their full range of motion, steps lightly and rolls on the ball of his foot. "No light, no sound- no movement. Nothing but yourself. You spent a great deal of time with nothing but yourself, Cauthrien- imagine if you had not been able to soothe it with alcohol or with pacing or with whatever else it was you did to pass the time?" She goes cold and still at the thought. She has tried to put that behind her, those shameful weeks spent with nothing but bottles, wallowing when she could have been watching for a subtle sign of order or favor from her queen. And she has only the regrets of a year. When she looks at Zevran, she realizes she has no idea what he may have had to relive and sink into in that darkness. "And so," he says finally, shaking whatever bleak memories have resurfaced, "I enjoy the fresh air now. The man responsible is dead, I am free, and I am only a little worse for wear." He summons a grin, seemingly from the Void itself, and she watches as the tension melts from his face. Still, she glances back to his injuries once more. They're something she can't forget and can even less forgive herself for. If she'd only been faster; if she'd only stuck to the original plan. "Your hand-" "Unpleasant, but manageable." He chuckles. "You and the Orlesians do have a few things in common, you know. For instance, you grip your swords with your first two fingers. Ah, but in Antiva-" He shifts his sword to his injured hand, and she sees how his last two fingers sit on the hilt, controlling it with a light touch. When she reaches out and tries to push at the blade, he's able to keep it in place. "I will lose some of my strength, but it is not final." "... And your ear?" Zevran's grin remains in place as he leans in and sheathes his sword. "He has found perhaps one of the few elves who does not feel much attachment to his people. I am Antivan, not an elf- and I shall wear the notch as a battle scar. The ladies love battle scars!" She flushes faintly at the abrupt shift in topic, though it is welcome and familiar and a reminder that, despite the tension and fear of the last few days, they are still the same people who entered Jader. "You have plans for going out carousing again?" "As soon as we return to Denerim! Unless-" He pauses and quirks a brow in question, sidling up to her until there is only heat between them. "Unless that would make you jealous, Ser Cauthrien?" "It-" She frowns, then pushes him away. He laughs, dancing back. "I have no claim on you." "Ah, but if you would like to, I'll offer it up! For a time, at least." "After all... of this?" she asks, waving a hand back in the direction of the city. "Oh, I did not say I would care to work with you again. But bed you? Tease you? Dodge your very muscled arms when you try and punch me? Oh! I could get used to that." She can't help but look at him disbelievingly and snort. She, at least, can't forget how she'd driven him directly into Lorraine's maw. He shrugs again, languidly sidling up to her once more and dropping an arm around her waist. "If you like, I could punish you. Do they do lashes in the Ferelden army? I would be happy to play disciplinarian. If you'd like. Or even if you say you wouldn't like but actually would. You may be as coy as you wish!" "You are an unhealthy little man," she says, flatly, though there's color rising to her cheeks. The determination of his pursuit is overwhelming. That he could still be interested after everything her actions have led to only cements her opinion that he has a truly obscene fetish for women like Georgiana Cousland. And, it seems, herself. "Unhealthy! I assure you, Wynne has checked me over several times. I take very good care of myself." "I mean in that head of yours," she says. Her voice falters when he takes her hand with his uninjured one and brings it to his lips, playing his mouth along her fingers. She snatches it back and he grins. "Is it the lashes? We can forget about the lashes." "No, it's-" Cauthrien pauses, coloring still more strongly at the implication. "I'm not interested in the- lashes, but what I meant is-" His hand snakes out again and takes hers, this time without protest. He pulls the tip of her index finger into her mouth and touches his tongue to it. She stops talking. "I do not think," he says, slowly, when he pulls his tongue away, "that it is up to you who I pursue, only in the way you let me do it, yes? Do not question, and I can assure you a lovely time back to Denerim. And by then, who knows- you may have finally killed me, I may have sated my appetites, or..." She doesn't want to hear whatever might come last, and so she grabs him close and presses her lips to his. This isn't the grand love she sometimes still dreams could have been between her and Loghain. There are no maps sprawled out beneath them, no armor gleaming in the practice yard, no bellowed orders adoringly obeyed. She will eventually grow unable to stand him, or he her, and yet- A trip back to Denerim, pausing the sit along the banks of the River Dane and complain endlessly about the Orlesian penchant for ridiculous face paints and equally ridiculous lap-sized mabari-like dogs sounds lovely, and she looks forward to it with a lightness she hasn't felt since before the order to retreat came at Ostagar. -- [1] At last I have you at my feet, you Fereldan bitch! [2] You will fuck my riding crop while you suck my cock because I am a Chevalier, and you are no better than a dog, you Fereldan bitch! I will tame you! [3] Nebenhut, "near ward", from Liechtenauer's German longsword (two-handed sword) fencing system. Assume German is "Alamarri", i.e., the original language spoken in Ferelden [4] That is for putting me in that box.

"No. Absolutely not." Cauthrien crosses her arms, gaze focused on Zevran. She pointedly does not look down at the sprawling bed between them. He grins. "Oh, my dear Ser Cauthrien, there's no need to pretend to be embarrassed! I will not judge you!" Her expression doesn't change. "I hate you with every fiber of my being, Antivan." She hasn't had occasion to call them that in weeks, but the epithet falls from her tongue easily. The room is too small and close, and despite the barrier the dark wooden bedframe poses, with its gauzy red curtains and excessive pillows, he's far too near to her for his own safety. Uncaring of the fire in her eyes, he chuckles. "Now, now, do not flatter me too much." He moves lazily to sit on the edge of the bed, then recline against a gold-threaded bolster. He's changed for the occasion, his leathers abandoned for tight-fitted trousers tucked into his beloved Antivan boots and a high-collared, dark shirt with red embroidery. She thinks he looks ridiculous. But the fabric he has laid out for her, the opalescent scraps- "That? That does not count as clothing. I am not wearing that." "Well, we can walk you in naked, yes? Perhaps it shall be even more effective!" Cauthrien growls, hands now clenching into fists at her sides, trying desperately not to strike out at him. It's difficult. Zevran purses his lips a moment before sitting up and leaning over to settle a hand lightly on her elbow. She jerks away and he sighs. "Look, querida. This will be our best chance." "I refuse to believe that this is the only option you could come up with. Sneak into his estate on your own! We can cause a distraction at the door. I'm not going to-" "It would be needlessly dangerous," he interrupts, shaking his head. He beckons, as if she would actually sink onto the mattress with him. She bats away his hand. "Then I challenge him to a duel. You challenge him to a duel." "He will refuse." She throws her hands up. "Then get one of the other girls! Janine?" "She does not speak Orlesian. And he does not go for blondes." "Well, one of the translators." "I don't know them well enough to trust with something this important. And they would be at risk if he turned violent. Look, it is only a night, two at most, if our information is correct. You have survived worse, I'm sure." Cauthrien groans, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes. She's ensconced in the protective shell of her armor and has rarely been more thankful for it. They're standing in one of the back rooms of a Jader brothel; there's a press of heat and smoke and sex around them, and while Zevran seems more at ease than she's ever seen him, she's tense from head to toe. Bad enough to be thought a patron. Zevran wants her to pretend to be one of the girls. My friend, he'd told the madame, my friend wishes to play the whore for the night! Oh yes, she's possessed of strange proclivities. Do not be dissuaded by her martial appearance - she plays roles like an actress. Yes, yes- and she does not ask to keep the pay! And here, a bonus for your troubles. Strange proclivities. She had wanted to snap his slender neck. And she'd been forced to translate between them, his Common too florid and fast for the madame and the madame's Common too businesslike to express her interest and acceptance. She thinks her skin must still be on fire from that. "Cauthrien," Zevran murmurs, his voice softer and closer to her. She drops her hands and looks over to him. He isn't touching but he is holding out his hand to her, expression less mocking than before. "I would not ask this of you if I did not think you could do it." "It isn't a matter of ability," she says, voice equally soft. "It's a matter of pride. I-" Zevran looks down at the costume he's found for her. "Loghain would not approve, yes?" She nods, the motion hesitant and jerky as she thinks clearly for the first time how her lord (or her father or her mother or so many others) would have reacted. To see her reduced to an Orlesian whore- She pales with the feeling of the word constricting around her. "I will not do this." "Two nights, querida. I promise, and then it is done. You sit with him, you giggle, you smile, you bring him back to the room- and he takes a knife to the back of his spine. He is killed by his lust for a Fereldan farmer's girl, yes? Poetic. Think of that. And I will be there. You only have to look the part." He takes her hand lightly and pulls her to sit on the bed. She allows it, perching on the edge. "Two nights, and if he has not shown himself by then, our information is wrong and we look for another way." Cauthrien swallows hard, teeth clenched- then nods again. She closes her eyes, shoulders sagging. "... Fine. I'll- try." "That is all I ask. Now, change, yes? And then I'll apply your paints." She grunts assent. "Then get out." He inclines his head, then pulls himself from the bed. "Of course. I'll return in a moment - wet your hair, too?" "Get out." He bows when he reaches the door. And then he's gone and she's left alone with the twisting feeling of the anticipation of battle mixed with shame and wounded pride, the scent of the perfumed sheets cloying and overwhelming as she lets herself fall back against the pillows. -- They arrived in Jader almost a week ago. The wagons and oxen are outside the city gates, watched over by their bullocky. She hates to leave Loghain's map behind, but they have been moving often between inns and taverns, and after tonight they will likely be holed up in a small safe house. It would have gotten lost in the chaos of the mission. She groans inwardly at the thought of what's to come. Her costume sits on her uncomfortably. She isn't built for silk and lace, a corset nipping in her waist, her smalls bared to the world and covered in ruffles. Janine, the almost-Sister-turned-mercenary, and the others are scattered around the city. A few of the hired swords will be coming to join them at the brothel once night falls. The rest are relaxing or keeping track of Lorraine's movements, listening for rumors and scouting out his local estates. Zevran had finally decided on this ploy of his only a few nights before, leaving the two of them alone, the rest of her people too far away to command. It grates, being dragged from her element. She's sitting now with strips of fabric holding her hair in curls as it dries, Zevran kneeling between her legs and leaning forward to paint careful lines along her face. He's covered her skin from her hairline down to the tops of her shoulders in white paint, smudged at the edges to blur into her natural color. Now he lines her eyes with some sort of shimmering blue-green pigment. It flashes gold when he tilts the small pot. She fights to keep her eyes open, her gaze up towards the ceiling. She fights not to flinch. To keep her mind off of the tickling swipe of the ox-hair brush, she asks a question that's bothered her since the first lilting words of Orlesian reached her ear, before they'd even reached the walls of Jader. "Tell me again why that Orlesian bard companion of yours isn't on this job? She would be the logical choice. She speaks the language and has the connections. And she could dress up like- like- ... this." Zevran hums thoughtfully. "Well, Georgiana handpicked me for this mission. And she doesn't like Leliana anywhere near as much as she likes me." He drags the brush along her lower lid, then up and out in a curling line along her temple. Face painting is in season, he had told her - playful mimicry of the masks so popular among the upper classes these days. The sliding touch makes her nose wiggle. "You know, I don't believe that." He lifts his brush from her skin. "Haha! Well. There may have been occasions where the two would sing and dance, tempting and taunting poor Alistair." "And you," she says, taking a deep breath before he moves to her other eye. "... And me, perhaps. On occasion," he confesses with a smile she can see at the edges of her vision. "But- no, the real reason is that Georgiana sees me as the assassin and spy, Leliana as a singer and performer. I keep trying to tell her, you know the woman is a bard, not a minstrel, but no. Georgiana will not listen. And Leliana, well, she is basking in court while she talks of returning to the Chantry. Claimed bad blood between her and other members of her Game when I asked her to come along. And, to be quite honest, I think I prefer you dressed, as you say, like this." He sits back on his heels, surveying his work. As he screws a lid back onto the blue-green pot and sets it aside, drawing the brush along his palm to blot the remaining pigment, he purses his lips. Thinks. Then he bends to picks up another jar of another color. It looks like a smooth, rosy pink, then shifts to green as he tips the glass to one side. Orlesian paints are not natural, she decides, sighing and nodding. "I look ridiculous," she mutters as he leans forward again, now adding color to her eyelids and the designs along her temples and along the bridge of her nose. She closes her eyes at a light touch. "Oh, I beg to differ. You look delectable. I know many men who would be unable to walk, if they were to see you like this." She blushes, the heat oddly tight from the weight of paint on her cheeks. "This isn't me." "No," he concedes, and there's a rattle of jars. Another color. She doesn't look to see what it is. "No, it is not you. But it is attractive." The cool press of the brush to her skin is slowly growing comforting. He works smoothly, thoughtfully. There's another rattle and then his fingers are on her skin, rubbing small circles on her cheeks. "I don't want to know what I look like." "Then I will not describe you. But rest assured, it would all be flattering." His fingers brush her shoulders now, those same circular motions, and she relaxes somewhat. They've assumed a careful distance since that night in Gherlen's pass, but his touch easily brings back memories of the woods, the feel of bark against her back, the sight of him beneath her. She ignores thoughts of the awkwardness that followed. Yet another rattle; she hopes it will be the last. "Open your mouth, cariña," he murmurs. It draws an unexpected shiver from her and she complies. The brush, cool and smooth, touches the center of her lower lip. He's covered even her lips with the white paint, and now he repaints her smile - a small circle on the bottom of her lips, two small, rounded peaks on the top. The shape he paints isn't even half the width of her mouth. It feels ridiculous, but the slide of paint is oddly, intensely sensual. She shifts in her seat, fingers clenching around it. He chuckles, his hands trailing up her shoulders, her throat, coming to rest in her hair where he begins to unknot the rags, letting down soft sausage curls. He murmurs in her ear: "Keep your lips parted a moment longer, while it dries. And then, I think, it is time for your debut." -- Cauthrien thinks she might scream from the weight of all the eyes on her. Zevran whispers to her that it's because she's the new girl, it's because she's gorgeous, but she's sure it's more that everybody can see that she doesn't belong. The real workers can't appreciate that she's here supposedly on a whim, because she thinks their life is sensual, erotic. They certainly can't appreciate, if they've heard, that she's letting the madame take all of whatever she makes. She hopes to make absolutely nothing, of course, but they don't know that. Zevran assures her that she's just being paranoid, but he can't understand the whispered (and sometimes not whispered) comments. Soon, though, it's only the patrons watching her. Everybody else has exhausted their supply of amused or distrustful or outright hateful looks while she sits only with Zevran on a small couch. He's arranged her so that her legs are draped over his lap and he's removed one of her heeled shoes, fingers idly playing with her ankle, her heel, the ball of her foot. After a few moments of ticklish tension, she's relaxed into it. His hands and heat are familiar and are the only reason she hasn't fled. Foot massages, she thinks, wryly. She drums her fingers on the upholstery, then leans back against the arm of the couch, her head falling back as she looks up at the ceiling. She tries to remember to smile. She tries to look languid. She tries to ignore the feeling of what seems like a hundred men and women, staring at her barely-covered breasts and the exposed line of her throat. How long have they been there? Hours? Only minutes? It seems like an eternity, though, especially when other men come close and begin speaking to her - sometimes in Common, sometimes in Orlesian, always with a smile that sets her teeth on edge. She doesn't know how to flirt and so she tries to remember how Zevran behaves. How she's seen women behave around Zevran. She looks up through her lashes, smiles, makes noncommittal comments. Zevran usually intervenes to say that she's taken for the evening. His fingers, on occasion, dance up along her legs and her eyelids flutter for a moment, her lips parting slightly. She twitches in his lap and he laughs in return. She kicks lightly at him and he catches her foot again, fingers kneading and massaging until she relaxes again. It goes on like that, interminably, until the door to the brothel opens and the madame crosses the floor in a bustle of skirts. Cauthrien hears greetings to a lord, a Comte, and she looks over. Zevran does as well. It's him. She has never seen him and he's thirty years older than the last time either of her parents did, but Zevran has caught a glimpse and their contacts more. Albret Lorraine is in his sixties, his long hair gone grey and restrained in a single braid that is festooned with feathers and golden trinkets. He doesn't wear a mask, not here, but there is paint around his eyes, fading slightly into the wrinkles surrounding them. He is tall and lean, his shoulders broad - built like a soldier, like the Chevalier he is, even if he no longer fights. He wears purple silk and an identifying silver sash that fastens with the emblem of his house, a lapwing and twinned stalks of wheat. "Time to go to work," Zevran purrs to her, nudging her to sit upright. She takes a deep breath and drapes herself over the back of the couch, eyes fixing on Lorraine. She tries to smile as she feels the couch bow slightly, then rise, as Zevran stands up. As he walks around the couch, he reaches out to play with a lock of her hair and she shivers, eyes falling half-lidded. Lorraine notices. His eyes meet hers from across the room for half a second, his lips curving, before he turns back to the madame. Zevran, too, goes to speak with the madame. He has no reason to speak to Lorraine, not yet, but he can certainly ask the owner about the price of a night with Cauthrien with a wink and a languid smile. Lorraine listens, his gaze finding Cauthrien again. Cauthrien bites at the tip of her tongue to keep from hiding or rending the upholstery clenchedbeneath her fingers, the motion parting her lips. Lorraine turns to the madame and Zevran, speaks with them for a moment. Zevran looks frustrated, put out- but the madame looks quite happy. When Zevran returns to their couch, Lorraine is at his side. "Querida," Zevran purrs, sliding back onto the couch with her again, "I'm afraid I've been outbid!" "Oh," she says, eyes flicking to Lorraine, who settles down in the armchair arranged to face their couch. "That's a shame, serrah." She nudges him with a stockinged toe. He strokes her ankle and then sighs, withdrawing. "I will suffer only watching. If that's alright with monsieur?" He stumbles slightly on the pronunciation. Lorraine laughs, leaning back and gesturing to Cauthrien with crooked fingers. "I don't mind," he says. "Not as long as I have a pretty little thing. Come here, would you?" Cauthrien flushes. She's never been called a little thing; she's nearly six feet tall and is taller still with the damnable heels that Zevran has just strapped her back into. She slowly slips from the couch, coming over on slightly trembling legs that she attempts to disguise with an exaggerated sway to her hips. His hand finds her waist as soon as she's close enough and he tugs her towards him. She bites down a surprised shout and colors to her ears, falling against the Comte. Zevran laughs behind her as Lorraine purrs, "Careful, careful," his hands sliding down to her hips and pulling her close. As soon as he has her settled on his lap, he switches to Orlesian, his accent rolling and fluid and, she's certain, partially affected. The man isn't actually from Val Royeaux as he claims- she hears a hint of Jader there, and something else she can't identify. "Ah, quelle délectabilité, et avec ces yeux si beaux, si fonce.[1]" His lips curl into a self-satisfied smile as he leans back in his seat once more. Cauthrien shifts to sit awkwardly on his knee, legs pressed tight together and lips set in a firm line that disrupts the enhanced pout of her lip paint. All of her relative ease from being draped over Zevran evaporates. Lorraine chuckles. "Tu n’as pas de sourire pour moi?[2]" She glances over at Zevran, who arches a brow expectantly. Void take him. Cauthrien takes a deep breath and manages a faint smile, one she hopes comes off more as shy than grim. With any luck, the thick paint on her face will help. "Je crains que je suis un peu timide.[3]" He laughs again, one hand coming to rest on her waist, drumming along the thick layer of shaped fabric that confines her. She feels teetering and awkward, balancing, and he tugs her closer along his thigh. It is a... steadier seat, at least. "Tue es nouvelle ici, non? Surement je n’ai jamais te vue auparavant.[4]" His hand slides up from her waist to trail along the scraps of silk Zevran has claimed make an appropriate breast covering. She shies away but manages to keep the absolute disgust off of her face. "Mm, t’as des… talents spécifiques, ma petite oiseau?[5]" Her mouth drops open for a moment and he leans in, eyes fixated first on her lips, then the line of her throat, the curve of muscle in her shoulders. His wandering hand comes to rest on her upper arm. He meets her eyes again. His lips twist to something more secretive, more testing as his fingers traces the curves of muscles. She searches desperately for something she can offer him, something that won't have him dragging her upstairs already. She doesn't think she could handle it; she can barely handle the feel of his hands on hers, every inch of pressure and degree of heat a reminder that this is the Chevalier who tormented her family, her people. A talent. She must have a talent. "Je peux chanter,[6]" she finally offers, crossing her legs now, trying to ignore how that bares one of her hips as her stocking pulls away by tension, trying to ignore how his gaze dips to the expanse of skin. "Ah! Tu dis que tu peux chanter. Nous verrons. Montre-moi.[7]" She knows a total of two songs in Orlesian, both taught to her by her mother. One is undoubtedly appropriate for the situation. The other? Decidedly less so. Cauthrien looks Lorraine in the eye, willing herself not to flinch. To challenge him as her mother, her father, her lord would want. She starts to sing the second song. Her voice is one trained in fields and in camps, rough and taking liberties with notes and melodies but able to carry a tune. She bats her eyelashes and twists her shoulders coyly, emboldened by the words in her throat. She is not a spy; she is direct and blunt and if she has to sit on this Orlesian bastard's knee in paint and silk and lace, she will sing the words she wants to sing. It isn't a lilting song, not by nature, and she has to tame it into sensuality. The tone doesn't echo the words and heads begin turn. Zevran watches, head tilted, a smile teasing at his lips. He doesn't know. He doesn't notice, because he's fixated on her like he hasn't seen her before. It gives her a little boost of confidence, of pride, of you still don't know me after all. It's her turn not to notice; Comte Lorraine is grinning at her and when she reaches the end of the song with a triumphant lift in volume, he snakes an arm around her shoulders, buries his fingers in her curled hair, and tugs her down so that his lips are inches from hers. "Ma petite oiseau fereldaine! J’avais pensé que j’entendais l’accent.[8]" She flushes beneath her thick paint, heart beginning to hammer. She has nearly fallen against him, catching herself with a hand against his chest. He glances down at it. His grin widens. She can hear, behind her, the sound of movement- Zevran, shifting, no doubt perking up at the sound of her nation's name. He wasn't supposed to find out - but as long as he still takes her to bed, it shouldn't matter. "Tu es une petite coquine audacieuse, pour tout ton timidité. Devrais-je te approvoiser?[9]" His words and how he rests his free hand on her thigh make her bristle, and all thoughts of going upstairs with him turn from horror to outrage. She catches the tip of her tongue between her teeth to still her hiss, and after a moment, responds with as much calm as she can find, "Vous êtes trop décontracté.[10]" He chuckles. "Ma chérie, tu es une pute… n’est pas? Ou est-ce que ton masque se glisse, ma petite fereldaine avec les bras d’une soldate? Je croix que je sens le chien mouillé autour de toi, même au milieu de tous tes parfums sophistiqués.[11]" His lips brush her cheek as he leans in still further, bypassing her mouth by only a breath. "Ça ne me derange pas. Viens se coucher avec moi, hm? Je vais voler cette chanson-là de tes lèvres avec le plaisir. Je peux meme t’enseigner quelques nouvelles.[12]" Cauthrien takes a deep breath, slow and calming, and her hand slides up from his chest to his throat, his cheek. She knows Zevran is watching. She can't simply pull away from the man, turn him down, flee. So instead, she drags her lips across his skin, feeling stubble, smelling sweat and wine, smoke and perfumes. Her lips brush his and her stomach twists and writhes in disgust as he chuckles, his fingers kneading the flesh of her thigh. He relaxes the hand gripping the back of her head. "Try," she whispers, body trembling from the effort of keeping herself in check, keeping herself to a single word and not a long-winded, angry taunt. His lips curl. She smirks back. And then she draws back just enough to headbutt him hard. He shouts and falls. She lifts one leg and drives her heeled foot hard into his stomach. His grip loosens and she all but throws herself out of his lap, dancing away as Zevran surges to his feet, shouting something in Antivan that doesn't sound at all flattering. Zevran grabs her wrist and tugs her down hard as a knife flies past them. He's fishing blades out of pockets she didn't know he had, eyes darting around the room. "What was that?" he hisses when he finally lets go and she reorients herself. Her makeup has been smeared off of her forehead, an island of pink in a sea of white, and she can feel the press of the room on that bare patch of skin. It doesn't help that her head is throbbing; her technique is rusty. "Fereldan rebellion song, from the war," she says with a grim smile as she stands up, heels kicked off. "Seemed appropriate." He stares at her for just a moment, then whispers, "Querida, you are a horrible person. And a horrible spy." It is not said kindly. Then there's only noise and movement. Her hands itch for a sword but they turn to fists easily enough; she's trained and she's broken up more bar fights than she'd like to remember in the name of keeping peace between her soldiers and the local farmers. She tries to find Lorraine, but he's fallen back behind his guards- men in light mail or leathers who must have slipped in while she and Zevran were distracted in courting him. She wants nothing more than to feel his skull crumple beneath her hands, finish the mission in an inelegant but effective way, but she settles for protecting herself and beginning to clear a path towards the exit. As she hooks her arm around one of the brothel's guards and throws her over one hip, Cauthrien admits (grudgingly, and only to herself) that this has been one of the worst tactical decisions she's ever made. She would have done better to at least attempt to snap his neck. But it had been a momentary spike of pride and hatred, a need to make a fool of him before she killed him, to let him know what was coming. She is not a woman moved by passions, except for where her country is concerned. She likes to think she can hear Loghain's sharp bark of laughter (though it would be followed, no doubt, by a lecture. He hadn't lectured her in years, not since he'd first begun to involve himself in her training, but this- this would have earned one). She may be tarted up and painted within an inch of her life, but she's shamed one of the few Chevaliers who escaped Ferelden, has twisted his tastes into a weapon. She doesn't know where Zevran is when she stumbles out the side door of the brothel into the streets, cursing her lack of shoes as gravel bites into her feet and tears at her stockings. Two of the mercenaries are there waiting for her; that leaves two inside, and she's just about to rush back in, shout orders and lead them out, when Zevran peers down from the roof and calls, "Cauthrien, up here!" The last two mercenaries stumble out of the room and slam the door closed. One stays holding it shut, the others look to her. She takes a deep breath and tries to look the part of the leader. "Split up. Wait two days to make contact." They scatter and she looks up to Zevran, who's waiting with a scowl plastered over his features. He points to a stack of crates and she nods. She scrambles up and catches onto a ledge he indicates. He leans down and hauls her the rest of the way up. When she can no longer see the alleyway beneath them, she hears the last mercenary let free the door, followed by the soft thudding of booted feet on packed earth. "Zev-" "This way. Move quietly," he hisses. He leads her tripping over rooftops, moving fast and quiet. She has trouble keeping up and not sliding on tiles or angled roofs. She pauses a moment to tear out the bottoms of her stockings to get her better tracking, and then struggles to catch up once more. He does not wait long when she falls behind and he brings her to jumps that she can barely make. He's quiet in a way that unsettles her deeply. She should feel foolish, flouncing about on the tightly packed Jader rooftops in nothing but silk and her smalls, but the further they move from the brothel, the more distance Zevran puts between them, the more she wants simply to be reach him and be done. Her muscles begin to ache and she stumbles once, twice- and then Zevran catches her, one hand around her arm, and makes her stop. His eyes meet hers, hard and distant, and then he points to a ladder propped against the building they're atop. She clambers down as Zevran drops lightly to his feet, fishing out a key and opening the door of the nondescript little building. It's a safehouse she hasn't been in before that, in its general form, is a lot like the hovel she spent all those weeks in. There's one bed, smaller than the one in the brothel room they prepared in, and not much other furniture. A wash basin, a table. Two chairs. She looks it over as he closes the door behind her. The lock clicks, and Zevran says, low and dangerous, "A Ferelden rebellion song." She turns to face him. His eyes are narrowed and he moves forward with catlike grace. His clothing is skewed and torn, she sees, the collar of his shirt caught and ripped downwards, exposing tanned skin flushed from exertion. There's blood on his face, too, and dotting his hands and wrists. "Seemed appropriate," he continues. "We had him- he was absolutely prepared to carry you off, even after your little song. And then, what? You decide you are too good for my plan? Explain yout thoughts to me. I certainly do not understand them. He begins to circle her and she goes from stunned to angry. Defensive. Her fists clench at her sides. "I didn't want to do this to begin with." "And yet, you nearly managed it! Just a little more, just another bashful laugh, an apology, something, and he would have been fighting the urge to throw you down onto the floor and have you there!" "You couldn't understand what he was saying," she hurls back, and begins to circle him in turn. "So? What was he saying, that your legs were pretty? That he'd like to kiss you?" "That he'd tame me." "Ah, so the prideful princesita returns in all her splendor! You were to be the picture of a whore for a night, Ser Cauthrien. That was all I asked of you-" "I am a soldier of Ferelden," she growls, and she presses forward, sick of the dance between already. He lets her come close, not shying or flinching. "You are a failure to your queen," he corrects, quietly. He smirks and she halts, breath catching in her lungs. "We might never get close to him again after tonight. And then where shall we be? Crawling back to your lady queen and Georgiana Cousland to beg forgiveness because you are a soldier of Ferelden? A soldier without an army, who fails at the first job given to her-" She's not sure how hard she throws him against the wall, only that he laughs and is beginning to push himself away from it when she presses hard against him, her hands trapping his, her body flush against his. The contact makes her head spin, the soft and yielding reminder that she isn't in armor and neither is he. She bends her head down to his, trying to push aside thoughts of a night she leaned against a tree and cried out for him so loudly that everybody mocked her for it in the morning, but her blood is thudding in her veins and the thrill of battle is still spiraling through her muscles and mind. Her voice is a whisper. "I am not a failure." "Then what are you?" he returns, chin tilted up, mouth close to hers. He moves his knee against her leg, stroking, and it might be to unbalance her. To embarrass her. To make her cringe away and hide. It makes her shudder. "I-" she says, words catching in her throat, sticking to paint covering her lips. Her hands tighten around his wrists, crushing them to the wall beside his shoulders. His fingers knead intothe inches of her arms that he can reach. "Made a mistake," she finishes in an exhale. She grimaces, trying to regain the offensive. "I am not a failure and we will find another way." Cauthrien means for the way she suddenly presses even harder against his body to be emphasis. She doesn't mean to gasp unsteadily at the contact or lick her lips. "And you are so convinced of this? When you have headbutted our mark and made him quite sure of our faces?" he asks, and there's a note of purring in his voice. This time, it's dangerous. There's an edge she's never heard from him, not really, that's something like his earlier anger but- twisted. He rises onto his toes so that his lips are a breath away from hers. She can't ignored how her pulse strengthens and quickens, how heat pools in her stomach, fighting with the ache of her stays for dominance. They combine into something else, something that makes her grip on him relax. "I'm sure. The Crows only hire very clever men," she whispers. He jerks against her and, at first, she thinks he's fighting- but it's a laugh, a laugh that starts deep and rolls through him. His slight smirk grows. "I see that sometimes, you do listen. Just not always when I'd like." He pulls against one of her hands. She releases him. His hand finds her waist and she almost groans in frustration when he drops back to standing flat on his feet. But then he pushes forward and she gives, rolling, and soon it's him pressing up against her, his other hand sliding from hers to pin her to the wall. He rises onto his toes again, stretching himself out against the length of her, and she finally registers the press of his erection against her thigh when he slides his knee between her legs. His mouth grazes the line of her jaw- and then he tangles a hand in her already-falling curls and drags her lips to his. The kiss is soft at first, and his hold is gentle. She can break away and for a moment, she stiffens and doesn't respond, too confused by the sensation on soft on soft, even broken as it is with the layer of dry paint between them. Thirty-two and it's her first kiss since she was a child, playing at stories of romance. She'd never intended to let him, to ask him, to- But it stokes the twisting fire in her stomach and she leans into it, coming to life again. There are so many things she thought had ended, that she would never do, when she let the Warden through the doors into the Landsmeet. Zevran seems determined to bring all of them back. She groans and captures his lower lip between her teeth, clumsily. He growls in return and corrects her with bold movements, his tongue and lips practiced, and in return she sags against the wall, sliding down until she's half-supported on his bent knee. The change in angle gives him more access and his free hand slides along her cheek, nails scraping through the paint, before it coasts over her neck, her shoulder, her breast. He pulls the fabric aside and she gasps, arching into his touch. She rocks against his thigh, tensing, and her hands rise to tangle in his hair. He pulls away long enough to drag her with him, to turn them to the small bed, to give her the smallest nudge that makes her release him for the moment it takes to fall back onto the hard straw mattress. He follows her down and the height difference stops posing problems from the moment his lips find her throat, nip down along the line of a muscle to the jut of her shoulder. He doesn't seem to care about the taste of paint in his mouth and it smears in his wake. Cauthrien's hands clutch now at his back, at the sheets, at anything she can gain purchase from and use to leverage herself up against his body. She's dragging breathy laughs from him with her every response and anger floods through her, only to be replaced with an equally fiery surge of need as he leans up and away just to slide one hand into her smalls. She bucks into his hand and he nips at her ear. She doesn't understand why that's pleasant, but it is, and her hands rise to tangle in his hair again, keep him close. She even, when he turns his head just so, takes the pointed tip of his ear between her lips and licks along the line of it, gently, remembering comments she'd overheard from other people about sensitivity and those delicate points. Zevran pauses and pulls away, quirking a brow. "I will never understand," he says, softly, "why you humans all think that our ears are sex organs." Cauthrien colors and he catches a glimpse of it through her smeared paint. He grins and kisses quickly at her nose, then dips back to nurse at the spot just below where her ear curves to meet her jaw. She whimpers and arches, hands sliding down his back and pulling his hips flush with hers, his one hand still trapped between them. "I never thought you'd want this," he breathes against her skin. She shivers. "I never thought I would." He rocks against her and she mewls and spreads her legs, wrapping them around his hips and holding him close, muscles taut. When he slides down along her body far enough to capture her nipple in his mouth, she shudders. His tongue flicks; her eyes go wide and she groans, arching. Zevran lifts his head again and she glares even as she gasps for breath. "Do you want this?" he asks, and whatever predatory edge his voice had earlier, there's only concern for just those words. He doesn't move; he goes still and watches. She swallows beneath his scrutiny, and while she wants to just cry Yes, yes, yes!, she makes herself think. She thinks back to what has always stopped her in the past, to why she's so rarely wanted this before, but all she can find is Loghain's face, his touch, the lingering promise of closeness that was never fulfilled. His words scrawled over a map she's left outside the gates of Jader. His imagined approval as she threw the mission. That's not enough to stop her, not anymore. "Yes," she says, at first a whisper, and then she repeats it again as she meets his gaze and stares him down. "Yes." Zevran nods, that smirk returning. "Just checking," he purrs, and his fingers still nestled in her curls beneath her smalls twitch, slide, then delve and curl, pressing into her. They slide in easily as she lifts her hips against his, keening his name. While his fingers work into her and his mouth returns to suckling at her breasts, it's all she can do to work at the buttons of his shirt, peel the fabric from him, rub her thumbs across the little splotches of blood dotting his skin. They flake away at her touch and she wants to kiss the skin that's been revealed, mimic his movements though she's never felt the need to kiss and touch and explore before. He has the advantage, however, and he keeps her mind spinning with every twist of his hand, with every touch of his teeth to sensitive flesh. Her mouth can't reach him and her hands become anchored around the waistband of his pants, unable to get between them to unfasten their laces. Finally, when she's incoherent and whimpering and dancing along the edge, he pulls away and sits up, back on his heels. She has to loosen the vice grip of her legs around his hips and she whines at the loss of tension. "Comehere-" she hisses, and he laughs. "Relax, querida." His fingers danced across the laces, and he is more clever with those than he's ever been with his tongue. He frees himself quickly, then slides his palms across her thighs, around her hips, against her back as he lifts her body and pulls her smalls just enough out of the way to bare her, like the night in Gherlen's pass. She twitches, suddenly eager to take the offensive, to regain control, to be on top, but then he presses into her and her mind goes blank. "Oh," she says, and there's that soft chuckle again. He lingers a moment, only just inside, until even the arch of her foot begins to relax- and then he fills her in a rough, hard stroke. His mouth finds hers to swallow her cry, and then he mumbles against her lips, "Querida, it is my solemn duty to inform you that you well and truly ruined today's mission." He thrusts again and her eyes flutter between staring open and languidly half-closed. Her toes curl and she grinds against him. "I know-" she tries to growl, though it comes out more as a needy whine. "Good." He nips at her lower lip and then leans back enough to take the better angle once more. She grasps at his shoulders and tries to pull him down, but all she can do is arch her back, straining against the stays of her corset as she groans his name, and rock against him as he grips her hips and buries himself in her again and again. There isn't enough to roll, to turn him over, but soon it doesn't matter; she lets him have the match, relinquishing herself to the bursting pleasure of writhing against him, unpracticed and acting wholly on instinct. He corrects with hands that alternate between pressingly rough and achingly tender, and eventually, he covers her body with his again and presses kisses to her lips, her eyes, her throat, her jaw. She comes undone beneath him and it's unlike whatever stolen, shameful moments she's had in the past. The faint memories of ten years ago are replaced with every touch, every stroke, every feeling of being overwhelmed and yet not given enough. Her cries reach the same crescendo as before, terrifyingly loud and needy, and he swallows them with kisses even while he continues to move, riding out her end and then pushing her further, bringing her back down instead of letting her fall, until he tenses, whispers her name, and spills within her. The aftermath is quiet, soft; there's only the sound of breathing. She closes her eyes and feels him breathing. It feels good. -- Zevran is stretched out naked beside her, his fingers toying with the upper edge of the corset she still has yet to shed. She's settled along him, mind still blessedly silent, taking in the ache of him and of the night's excitement. "So," he says, the first words he's spoken since they'd come to a shuddering halt twined around one another, "why were you singing a Fereldan rebellion song in the first place, querida? Did you set out to sabotage me? Rather, us?" She mumbles something unintelligible, stretching out and rubbing at her eyes. She doesn't remember words just yet, and it takes a few pops of her joints for her to retrieve them. "He asked me if I had any talents." Her lips twist with disgust over the last word, remember the slight pleased slur to Lorraine's voice. "I said that I could sing." "Not what he was asking, I don't think." Zevran shifts, turning carefully to resettle on his stomach, his upper body propped on his forearms. "Probably not." "Also not what I would have advertised." Cauthrien rolls her eyes. "I am not you." "Yes, I think we've established that very nicely," he concedes, considering her paint-smeared lips for a moment. "... But that was the only song you knew in Orlesian?" She hesitates, considers lying, but whatever anger there was between them seems to have dissipated again. "No. I know two." She thinks she sees a ripple of tension in his shoulders, but the light is dim. He'd risen earlier to set up a lamp on the lone table; she'd tugged him back down beside her as soon as he was within reach. "And was the second one any more appropriate?" His expression turns dark. Cauthrien bites back a groan, not ready to go back to arguing. She pushes herself up, then stands, beginning to tug at the laces of her corset. "... Perhaps a little," she says with her back towards him. She hears him sit up, thinks she might feel heat against her back as if he's reached out to touch her- but if he has, he pulls away. "Sing it for me?" She pauses in undoing the knot at the small of her back, licking her lips and considering saying no. But what reason does she have, aside from pride? Aside from not wanting him to know what she could have done if she had chosen to behave? So she takes a deep breath and, for the second time that night, begins to sing. These words practically call for a lilting tone, and lilting comes easier than sweet, despite that being how she first heard the song[13]. There's no disparity between voice and meaning and she relaxes into it instead of glorying in it. Her fingers resume their work, and the corset loosens enough that she can slide it over her hips, shimmy out of it. She sighs at the release, even as her ribs take up ache in a thudding tempo. Zevran shifts on the mattress behind, quiet except for a small, pleased hum. When she bends to roll down her stockings, she realizes that somehow, she's ended up stripping as performance. She hesitates a moment before she lifts her foot to pull the now dirty, damaged fabric down and off, revealing scrapes and bruises she hadn't noticed before. Then she turns back to Zevran so he can watch as she rests her other leg on the mattress and bends along it to bare it. His lips curl appreciatively. She would never have believed she knew the song well enough that she can continue singing it even while her cheeks burn as she begins to undo the side ties of her ruffled smalls. Zevran's gaze is transfixed on her and she stammers and rolls her hips just a little. He grins. With the last verse, she holds her smalls on while she twirls, stumbles over her words and almost laughs with embarrassed delight, and finally lets the last of her clothing fall. Zevran laughs and calls his approval. She's singing Orlesian songs about taking life slowly and stripping for an Antivan Crow. How far she's come from standing beside Loghain Mac Tir- and yet this all feels like a relief, even when it feels not-quite-her, not-quite-real. She comes back to the bed and Zevran reaches out to take her hands. He pulls her down on top of him and she kisses him without hesitation before stretching back out alongside him. He drapes an arm over her. "That would have been a better song," he murmurs, nuzzling against her cheek. "Probably." "Especially if you did that little dance." He winks. Cauthrien shifts, embarrassed all over again. "I'm never doing that again." "No? But I enjoyed it so! We can practice a different sort, with you wriggling out of your armor and into my tent at night, yes?" The mental image draws a choked laugh from her. "I don't think so." "Well then- I have seen something rare and wondrous. I shall cherish the memory always." Cauthrien rolls her eyes, then focuses on the bruise blooming over his upper arm, undoubtedly from the brawl. She reaches out to brush her fingers over it, wondering if it would have been better to have played her part. "What now?" she asks, looking up and watching him across the short expanse of bed between them. Zevran hums thoughtfully and she quirks a brow, catches his leg in the crook of hers, squeezes. "Well?" "Adando se acomodan los melones,[14]" he says, looking first at his fingers, splayed out across her waist, and then up to her confused expression. "And that means-" "Improvise, querida, and things will work themselves out." His hand slides up along her flank and then captures her fingers where they rest against her shoulder. He pulls them to his lips, takes the tip of one into his mouth and lathes it with his tongue, before murmuring, "After all, the Crows employ only the very clever- and so does our Lady Cousland." "Are you saying I could be a Crow?" she murmurs, eyes falling half-closed. His answer is a laugh as he covers her body with his own once more. -- [1] Ah, quelle délectabilité, et avec ces yeux si beaux, si fonce - Ah, what delicateness, and with eyes so beautiful, so dark! [2] Tu n’as pas de sourire pour moi? - You don’t have a smile for me? [3] Je crains que je suis un peu timide - I fear I’m a bit shy. [4] Tue es nouvelle ici, non? Surement je n’ai jamais te vue auparavant - You’re new here, no? Surely I’ve never seen you before. [5] Mm, t’as des… talents spécifiques, ma petite oiseau? - You have [informal, the t’as is tu as slurred together] any… specific talents, my little bird? [6] Je peux chanter - I can sing [7] Ah! Tu dis que tu peux chanter. Nous verrons. Montre-moi - Ah! You say you can sing. We’ll see. Show me. [8] Ma petite oiseau fereldaine! J’avais pensé que j’entendais l’accent - My little Fereldan bird! I thought I heard the accent. [9] Tu es une petite coquine audacieuse, pour tout ton timidité. Devrais-je te approvoiser? -You are a bold little hussy for your shyness. Should I tame you [like a wild animal]? [10] Vous êtes trop décontracté - You are too familiar. [11] Ma chérie, tu es une pute… n’est pas? Ou est-ce que ton masque se glisse, ma petite fereldaine avec les bras d’une soldate? Je croix que je sens le chien mouillé autour de toi, même au milieu de tous tes parfums sophistiqués - My dear, you’re a whore… right ? Or is it that your mask is slipping, my little Fereldan with the arms of a soldier? I believe I smell the wet dog around you, even in the middle of all of your sophisticated perfumes. [12] Ça ne me derange pas. Viens se coucher avec moi, hm? Je vais voler cette chanson-là de tes lèvres avec le plaisir. Je peux meme t’enseigner quelques nouvelles - That doesn’t bother me at all. Come to bed with me, hm? I will steal that song off your lips with the pleasure. I could even teach you some new ones. [13] The song that inspired this scene is Tout Doucement, if anybody's interested. [14] Adando se acomodan los melones - "The melons find their place with the movement (of the cart)" or "improvise and things work themselves out."

PROLOGUE: It was a long shot, but THRUSH was expert at estimating the odds, and this particular gamble would have a worthwhile payoff, if they could just pull it off. Angelique was the advance scout, playing a delicate game of truce with the target, and all the pieces fell beautifully into place. Beginning with the Black Knight. She watched from the doorway, black scarf disguising her platinum hair, sleek body dressed for disappearance in stark black slacks and sweater. Narrowed eyes followed the urbane figure as he locked the door, set the alarms, looked discreetly in every direction at once (a useful skill for a spy to have, and one he had perfected years before) and walked with deliberate grace toward the corner. He didn't make it that far. One quick word hissed into an unobtrusive communicator, and her minions fell into place. Six burly men, strong and quick with it, surrounded Napoleon Solo and closed in on him with silent intent. He fought well, he always did, and four men fell. One would never walk quite right again; shattered kneecaps tended to heal awkwardly. One wouldn't handle a truncheon again for some time; every bone in his right hand was broken. Another stopped breathing altogether; crushed ribs tended to shred lungs like tissue paper. The fourth was lucky; a mere skull fracture that would eventually heal leaving little discernable loss of intelligence. The other two managed to subdue him, and less than five minutes passed from the initial attack until the mop up of the aftermath. She smiled into the gathering dusk. It was good to have such a wonderfully entertaining enemy. And the session to come in the lab promised to be even more enjoyable. ACT ONE : It's A Party and the Gang's All Here His head hurt. Come to think on it, which also hurt, so did his neck, his right shoulder, the left side of his ribcage, his stomach, both knees where he'd landed when he'd gone down, and his left hand, which burned from scraping across the concrete. It was not an altogether promising way to wake up. Taking a relaxing breath, Solo concentrated on listening. There was much to be learned if the enemy thought one was unconscious. Unfortunately, in order to learn anything, the enemy actually had to be in the same room with one, and preferably spilling secrets like the happy little talkative megalomaniac birds most THRUSH agents turned out to be. This tree was empty. Not hearing anything beyond the thunder of his own heartbeat in his sore head, he gradually cracked open one eye. As suspected, he was alone. And strapped down. On a table. In a lab. With a rack of strange looking metal devices on a nearby tray, looking a little like a dentist's array just waiting to inflict pain and agony. Definitely THRUSH. He wondered how long he'd been out. From the taste in his mouth and the throbbing behind his temples, at least overnight. Hopefully by now Illya would be leading the cavalry in a rescue. It had only been a few months since his last working-over by the dedicated sadists at THRUSH, and he wasn't really in the mood to repeat the experience. Besides the nightmares, the hospital food and the crutches, it was hell on his wardrobe. Before he had a chance to react and feign unconsciousness again, the door swung silently open and his old friend Angelique swayed in. "Oh, wonderful, darling, you're finally up! I was afraid you weren't ever going to join the party," she cooed at him. He dredged up what he hoped would pass for a flirtatious smile and winked at her. "You know me, I'd never miss one of your parties." Unless I had fair warning and a head start, he finished in his head but kept behind his teeth. "To what do I owe the honor of this particular fete?" The interest was unforced. If he could get her to crow a little and spill her plans, he'd have at least a small chance at thwarting them. And he lived to thwart THRUSH plans. "Just a little cocktail our chemists have cooked up, darling. We couldn't leave you out of the fun now, could we?" Wonderful was the word, all right. Another serum. Great. Scramble his brains a little more and see if there was anything left to put back together when they were done. He hated needles. He manfully held back his sigh and smiled blindingly at her. "What a lovely idea. I'll do my best to be the perfect guest of honor," he offered gallantly, mind busily wiping itself of any important operational details THRUSH might like to get their greedy little claws on. The more confused he could make those details before the drugs were administered, the better chance he'd have of spouting gibberish once they took hold. It had worked more than once. Trying to hide them didn't work at all -- it was rather like trying not to think of a pink elephant -- but mixing them all up often worked a treat. Mid-thought, and mid-flirtatious by-play, the door burst open unceremoniously. Two patented hulking THRUSH thugs trudged stolidly through, Illya Kuryakin suspended between their beefy bodies like an alley cat dangling between a pair of junkyard dogs. He did not look happy. More resigned than anything, actually. Napoleon closed his eyes and let a tiny sigh escape. So much for that particular cavalry. "Welcome to the party, Mr. Kuryakin." Angelique sounded torn between pique and delight. It sat well on her. Solo opened his eyes again to see her advancing on poor cornered Illya. If the Russian had possessed a tail, it would have been thrashing. As it was, his eyes were narrowed distrustfully and he stared up at the taller woman as if expecting her to reach over and bite him. Knowing Angelique as he did, it wasn't too far off the mark. She reached out with one lacquered claw and ran it delicately along his cheek. Solo didn't actually see a shudder, but he knew it was there. Kuryakin wasn't one to allow casual invasion of his personal space, and Angelique was nothing if not invasive. Before he could think of a witticism to draw her fire, she laughed softly. This time he felt the shudder himself, and saw an answering ripple run through his partner. It wasn't a very nice laugh. In fact, it made his skin crawl. "Always so very disapproving, Mr. Kuryakin. So cold and disdainful." She leaned in toward him and he involuntarily flinched back, but she didn't kiss him. Instead she bit him, very gently, on the tip of the nose. "We'll have to see what we can do to … loosen you up a bit." She grinned at him. He didn't appear to appreciate her offer. Pausing in her little tormenting game, she glanced over at the thug on the right. "Is it here yet?" He gave her a perfectly bovine look of complete incomprehension. Obviously bred for brawn, not brains, and she shrugged, equally obviously not surprised by his lack of knowledge. Waving to a spot on the floor by the table, she patted Kuryakin's shoulder consolingly. "We'll have to finish this delightful conversation in a little while, my dear. I have to go see to the party favors. Mustn't be such a bad hostess for my two guests, now, must I?" "Don't hurry on my account," Illya spoke for the first time since being carted into the laboratory. She grinned wickedly at him again, and he settled for raising one brow at her. Then the thugs hefted him into the corner beyond the table and dropped him ungently onto the concrete floor. With his hands tied behind his back he had to break his fall with his chin, which didn't improve his mood in the least. Napoleon heard at least three decidedly filthy Ukrainian curses spit out in a soft hiss before Illya managed to right himself. By then, Angelique was blowing kisses from the doorway, and the thugs followed her out like the well-trained apes they were. After the door slid shut behind them, he arched up as high as he could in his bonds and tried to peer down at his partner. "Illya? Are you all right down there?" "Perfectly fine, Napoleon. Other than a dislocated shoulder and tooth marks on my nose." A scuffling noise told the older agent precisely what his partner was doing, and he began to ramble to cover the sound of escape in progress. "I don't suppose they've left you any handy dandy toys to help us out in our predicament?" Twisting his wrists and pulling with his ankles wasn't doing any good in loosening the leather straps clamped around his limbs, but he didn't stop working them. He just talked louder, and hoped Illya was less restrained than he was at the moment. "An extendo knife from your tie tack? A miniaturized blowtorch in your shirt button? How about a handsaw from the heel of your shoe?" Under the imaginative commentary, he heard a small, pleased grunt, followed by a wriggle he knew of old. His partner had a hand free. He kept up the patter to cover the sound of Kuryakin slinking under the table, and was soon rewarded with nimble fingers working away at his wrist restraints. As the second strap was sliding away from his hand, the door swung open again. Angelique led the way, a small jar of what appeared to be talcum powder balanced carefully in her well-manicured hands. As she and her small entourage of thugs came in clear sight of their intended victims, they noticed two things simultaneously. One of the victims had apparently vanished, and the other one wasn't nearly as tied up as he was supposed to be. Before Angelique had a chance to order the attack, reflexes sprang into action on the thugs' part, with unfortunate effects for all concerned. One thug went for Napoleon, only to get caught in the ribs with a rapidly freed foot. The second thug was caught by a side-swept foot from the hidden UNCLE agent under the table. He rolled with the kick, attempted to compensate for his new position, and ended up wrapped in Kuryakin's arms, not a pleasant place to be when Kuryakin was fighting for his life. Solo finally got his other foot free, just in time to take up the cudgels with the first thug. As the four men thrashed, jolted and wrestled all around her, Angelique performed a strange sort of dance, yelping, screaming orders and warnings, and growling at the same time that she was juggling the jar of powder, desperately trying to keep it safe. The fight ended as quickly as it began, with one thug careening into Angelique, knocking her over and out as Kuryakin finally shook him off, the other thug tipping headfirst over the table as Solo finally threw him off, the lid flying off the jar in the fracas and powder dumping in a dense cloud over both UNCLE agents, and an escape that was marred only by the fact that the escapees resembled nothing so much as a couple of bakers who had been in a food fight over the bread mixer. The citizens of the streets of New York barely blinked. ACT TWO : Truth be told … It took a decadently long shower and three shampooings before Illya felt like he was clean. The fine grained powder had gotten all over everything, but most of it had dropped off in their precipitous flight, and by the time they got to UNCLE headquarters for the lab boys to take samples, there hadn't been much to scrape off and put on the slides. Adding insult to injury, the technicians complained that what they had managed to slough off into the test tubes was contaminated with such inconvenient substances as sweat and blood, and hadn't they managed to maintain purity in ANY of it so UNCLE would have a decent sample to analyze? Manfully biting back any number of retorts about keeping the chemicals clean the next time he was fighting off THRUSH enforcers the size of tanks, he had exchanged one meaningful glance with Solo and gone home to sleep. Now that the night was gone, and he'd managed to get some rest, he didn't feel any more the worse for the wear than he usually did after a sortie with THRUSH. Muscular aches, a joint ache or two, a mild headache, some fuzziness in his thoughts that could no doubt be chalked up to too little sleep and too many thumps the night before. And his nose was slightly sore. Angelique hadn't had to bite down quite so hard when she'd nipped him, but then he'd always known she was a carnivore. Now maybe when he told Napoleon she was a man-eater his partner would listen to him. By the time he got through the tailor's closet and into main headquarters, headed for Mr. Waverly's office, he felt much better. In fact, he felt very good indeed, in a better mood than he had been for some time. Unable to pinpoint the reason for his unusual good cheer, he ignored it for the moment and started into the room. With one hand on the knob, he paused, listening intently. Something very odd was going on in there. For one thing, Napoleon was both whining and giggling. Not unexpectedly, Mr. Waverly was doing neither. Peering around the edge of the door, he was startled to see his boss standing in the middle of the floor, eyes popping, pipe hanging loosely from his hand, looking rather as if he'd been pole-axed. Napoleon perched on the edge of the table, hands flying, mouth flying faster, eyes bright with mirth. He was bubbling over about something in Paris, or perhaps Persia, it was hard to tell exactly. Illya shook his head to clear it of some of the annoying fuzziness, and slipped into the room. Waverly didn't notice, all his attention fixed on his primary agent, for all the world as if he expected the young man to explode at any moment. "It's not as if they give us any credit. Every time I turn around we're rescuing someone's fat from the fire. But do we get so much as a thank you? No! I have Sicilians trying to marry me off, hit men trying to kill me off, THRUSH muscle trying to beat me off … up … whatever, maniacs trying to bump me off, and every chance they get they tie me up! And what do I get from you? Of course you're feeling better, Mr. Solo, now go out and save the world again. And fly economy while you're at it. You’re getting spoiled, needing that extra seat for the full body cast, surely they can put joints in it, it's only a ten hour flight. "What do you mean you need a new suit? UNCLE paid for three entire suits last year, never mind that I lose an average of one entire suit every month between idiots trying to feed me to crocodiles and blast me away in wind tunnels and dump me out of airplanes. And do I get any sympathy? Ha! Kill this one, bed this one, lie to this one, eat Illya's cooking, steal from this one, impersonate this one, don't worry about that close escape, there are three more scrapes for you to settle as of yesterday! And where is that paperwork? "I've been injected with things no human should have swimming around in his bloodstream, talked my way out of and into situations no sane person would come anywhere near, flirted with every breathing female body in the western hemisphere and gotten lucky much less often than one would suppose or I would prefer. And what's the word I get? Keep going, Mr. Solo, wind him up and let him loose, he's virtually indestructible and after all, if we lose a few spare parts, there's still enough of him to go around. Deserts, boxes, dumpsters, sewers, towers, submarines, flying saucers … "And the water! Every time I turn around, someone's dumping me in water. Venice, assorted South Pacific Islands, even in the middle of the desert they'll find an oasis and dump me on my butt in the water. I do NOT look good spouting water like a seal. Not to mention what it does to my wardrobe! Silk never recovers from it, and wool stretches right out of shape. And I never get enough back on my expense reports to cover the damages. I have a reputation to keep up!" Illya opened his mouth to say … something … anything … to end the harangue before Mr. Waverly stopped turning puce and actually shot his number one agent (if only to shut him up). Unhappily, his tongue started working before his brain could catch up. "Yes, and we all know what that is. Truth be told, Napoleon, I don't know why you worry about your suits, when you don't keep the zippers up and the trousers covering you long enough to know you even put them on." His hand clapped over his mouth instinctively. Where on earth had that come from? Napoleon rounded on him so quickly he nearly lost his balance and came tumbling off his precarious perch on the table edge. "How would you know? You might as well not even have zippers for all the good you put them to!" "When would I have time?" Illya's mouth was moving, and words were coming out, but for the life of him he couldn't tell where they were coming from. And he couldn't get them to stop. It was embarrassing. "You talk about the water and the deserts and the boxes, but who is it who always ends up doing the dirty work? Fixing the engines, baiting the bullies, crawling about in the bushes, being dragged through the mud, swimming through those sewers? Twisting like a pretzel to get out of ropes while tied upside down from meat hooks, climbing more drainage pipes than a city rat? While you're off playing Don Juan, I'm out in the rain getting my nose bitten!" Completely out of breath, Illya stopped and stared at his partner. Napoleon stared back, then grinned widely. "She likes you." "She's insane." "Because she likes you?" "No, because she sleeps with you." Before it could degenerate any further, Mr. Waverly finally found his voice. "Gentlemen!" he thundered, casting them both a thoroughly disgusted look. "What on earth is the matter with the two of you?" "My head hurts." "My nose hurts." "I tore my pants on that stupid table." "I didn't sleep at all well last night." "I can't seem to stop talking." "My eyes are still clogged with dust, even after showering until I ran completely out of hot water, which is a ridiculous waste and I never do that, but I did this morning." "And nothing I'm saying makes any sense -- well, it all makes sense -- a great deal of sense actually -- but I certainly would never SAY it-- out loud, anyway --" Their voices flowed out, overlapping one another, and Mr. Waverly stared back and forth between them like an observer at a manic tennis match. One of Kuryakin's words seemed to click, and Mr. Waverly straightened and pinned the young man with a glare. He raised a hand to halt the torrent of complaints, but before he said a word he noticed the rapt and increasing audience at the wide-open doorway. Stalking between his still-complaining agents, he gently but firmly slammed the door on several disappointed faces. By the time he'd returned to his seat, his top team had finally run out of steam and were staring at one another in dismay and disbelief. "This, er, discussion has brought to light a number of interesting points, but the foremost in my mind is the mention you make of the dust, Mr. Kuryakin." "Of course it wouldn't be the suits," Napoleon inserted irrepressibly before Waverly and Kuryakin's combined glares shut him up again. "It would appear that there are some unexpected side effects from your dousing in powder last evening, gentlemen. You are to report to Medical immediately and be completely tested." He waved them to the door, settling into his chair. Illya's last glimpse of his employer before he shut the door behind them was of a pensive lion, staring into his pipe. He was not to know that Mr. Waverly only managed to hold the pose long enough for the latch to click before he laughed himself half sick. Illya was too busy biting his tongue, rubbing his nose, and plowing through the crowd in his partner's wake. Napoleon had also gotten somewhat of a guard on his tongue, but muttered imprecations about looky-lous and nothing better to do and he could too keep his zipper up could be heard floating on the air in an undertone. Behind them, the rumors began to fly. By mid-day, the secretarial pool had managed to convince themselves that Solo and Kuryakin had been replaced by moles. Why, when that divine Mr. Solo had returned from just hours in the medical labs, he hadn't flirted with a one of them. Surely that showed right there that he couldn't possibly be the real Mr. Solo? And he wasn't sick or the doctors wouldn't have let him go. The entire communications section had come to the conclusion that the number one agent at UNCLE New York had lost his mind, having been privy to the truly bizarre session to which Solo had subjected Mr. Waverly that morning. As for Kuryakin, Mr. Stoic never complained, ever, even with broken bones and massive blood loss, so the whining he'd done about getting dirty and having his nose bitten showed that he, too, had fallen right over the edge. Intelligence section were all for it being a set-up, a triple think operation designed to promote confusion in the ranks of UNCLE, but after tossing increasingly far-fetched scenarios around until even they couldn't figure out where they were coming from, they gave it up as a bad deal and did what all intelligence officers inevitably do … sat back to wait and see what happened, so they could nod wisely and say they knew it would happen all along. The personnel section sent a nicely worded reminder to Mr. Waverly about the length of time it had been since Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin had taken vacation, being firmly convinced that the stress was finally getting to the men, and Security agents looked nervously at one another and hoped like hell they wouldn't have to subdue either one of them. Altogether it was a busy little grapevine at UNCLE headquarters all day long. One particular pair of beady eyes and sharp ears gathered all the grapes up, stomped out a lovely batch of home-made wine from them, and took the bottle home to his masters. THRUSH was very happy with this particular vintage. ACT THREE : Wham, Bam, Thank you … Sir? In the solitary splendor of his office, Alexander Waverly finally subsided from muffled howls to weak chuckles, and immediately began to plot how to use the recent unusual events to his (his being UNCLE's) advantage. Pulling a series of folders from a locked cabinet drawer, he began flipping through them. Every once in awhile a satisfied whuff of air signified that he had found what he was looking for, and the folder would join a small, select pile on the corner of his desk. Three hours later, as Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo were finally being allowed to dress and leave the avid clutches of the doctors down in the Medical section, he had narrowed his search down considerably. Staring along the line of papers, one narrow forefinger pausing often to tap a line, trace another, he grunted softly in satisfaction. There was indeed a pattern. It began some time before, ran in a twisted, faint trail through several sections' work and multiple operations, and peaked at times of highest THRUSH activity. It had coincided with the loss of some key personnel, and the unexpected failure or too-narrow success of an UNCLE operation. The conclusion was inescapable. There was a mole in UNCLE. And he knew just the men to flush it out. Tamping fresh tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, he puffed determinedly for a few moments, eyes losing focus as he looked past the surface of his paper-strewn desk into a maze of plans and counter contingencies. He could pull it off. They could pull it off. If they'd just stop talking long enough to listen. Hands absently sorting and tidying the papers, he began to weave a plan. A quick call down to Medical assured him that his pest control agents were up for the job. A runner was sent, and less than two minutes later a pair of harried, wide eyed, tense about the mouth agents presented themselves to him like errant schoolboys approaching the headmaster. "Ah, gentlemen. Have a seat." They did, gingerly, not looking at one another. For a moment he wondered what tests might make them sit so lightly, then decided it was better not to know. Passing them each a single sheet of paper, he gave them a moment to digest the contents before seating himself and addressing them. "We have as yet been unable to ascertain precisely what the chemical composition of the powder was, or its intended effect. We shall play upon your demonstrated lack of inhibition, then, stage a small act and see if our little rodent bites. Then we shall follow the trail of information and see where it may lead." "Are you serious? Sir?" Obviously, Solo was still having a problem with tact. Waverly ignored the rampant disbelief in the question and nodded once. "Quite serious, Mr. Solo. Mr. Kuryakin. I trust you two will be able to handle this particular assignment?" "Menya tashneet." Kuryakin actually looked rather ill, too. "Suck it up and live with it, tovarisch." Solo wasn't the least sympathetic. "If I can do it so can you." "Zipless wonder," Kuryakin muttered under his breath. His partner started to rise and head toward him, but Waverly employed his seldom used 'command voice' and stopped the little spat before it developed into something larger and diverted them all from his purpose. "Save it for the cameras, gentlemen." He gestured at the papers in their hands, then pointed toward the table top incinerator with the stem of his pipe. "Thank you." They fed the instructions to the fire, and slowly headed out of the office. Waverly watched them go, content to leave the precise manner of the entrapment to his agents. They were highly imaginative fellows, after all, and he was certain they would come up with something … noteworthy … to spill for the mole to eagerly snatch up. Humming softly to himself, he turned his mind to the recent troubles in Cuba, and let nature take its course. Solo and Kuryakin were silent all the way to the lab. Napoleon had started to head for his office, but his partner ignored him and kept going straight ahead, so he'd shrugged and gone along for the ride. There was a certain Russian stubbornness that manifested itself at times in Illya, and he'd long ago learned that those were the times when it was best to give in gracefully. A very few moments later they were inside the quiet, deserted lab where Kuryakin spent all his time when he wasn't in the field. Solo propped himself up against a handy counter and watched his friend pace, eight steps up, whirl, eight steps back, whirl, and repeat the maneuver. He looked like a cornered cat, once again, and on a flight of whimsy Solo wondered where all the feline comparisons were coming from. Maybe it was the hair. Or the hunched over shoulders, and the narrowed eyes, and the fierce little frown. Maybe it was the controlled fury in the swing of those narrow hips … tearing his eyes away with sheer force of will, he cleared his throat. Might as well plunge in feet first and see what happened next. Kuryakin reacted to the semi-verbal cue with a quick look around the lab. There were no overt signs of anyone spying on them, but that, of course, meant nothing. Solo nodded to him, his signal to start the action, and he stilled, staring up at his slightly taller partner. What to say, what to say … how to convince THRUSH the powder, whatever it might be, had done its job, and the UNCLE agents were now somewhere in cloud cuckoo land … Before he could formulate a decent opening strategy, Solo jumped in and pre-empted him. "Zipless? Zipless? Since when have my sexual habits been any of your concern?" The slightly disdainful tone set all his hackles on end. "Since I've been the one getting pounded into the pavement, or the mud, or the sludge, while you sit in the back seat of the car and snuggle with all the beautiful women, that's when! And that's all the time. Face it, Napoleon, you have the self control of a rutting tom cat and you are continually on the prowl." "And this is a problem?" Sincere disbelief. Illya gritted his teeth. "It can be, yes. But then, you'd never know, because any time it might be a problem you've got your head buried in some woman's lap and miss everything going on around you. Not to mention the number of times trouble could have been avoided if you hadn't gone out of your way to attract it!" "What do you mean by that snide little crack?" Tempers were wearing thin on both sides, and any normal control they usually had (in abundance) was notable by its complete absence. "Angelique." Kuryakin pushed a world of disgust into three syllables. "You're just jealous." True, it was juvenile, but Napoleon was getting distracted. It seemed to be heating up in the room. Even Illya the Iceberg was starting to break out in a light sweat. "Of that black widow? Why would I want to have anything to do with a carnivore who kills her mates? I have better things to do with my time." "Like what? Hide out here in your lab? You're a man, not a robot, Illya, and you should remember that once in awhile!" Illya growled. It took him by such surprise he stopped even breathing for a moment, but then he realized it felt so good he did it again. Napoleon was staring at him in shock, never having heard such an odd sound coming from his usually unflappable partner. Just for effect, Illya growled again, deeper this time, low in his chest. A dim voice in the back of his mind reminded him that, if he was attempting to convince an observer that he had lost his mind, this was a good way to do it, but most of his higher reasoning had shut down, and he was operating on instinct. Unfortunately, he didn't have a lot of practice using any instincts other than flight or fight, so any attempt at controlling the baser ones was doomed to failure from the outset. By this time, he was growling continuously, with each exhalation, much like a large cat purring, and Napoleon had lost the shocked look in favor of bemused fascination. Illya decided that such a look sat very well on the American, as it took something truly unique to render Solo both speechless and fascinated. Of course, he wasn't to know that Solo had never seen his partner sweaty, growling, out of control and advancing on him, and was in the throes of a rapid re-evaluation of his own sexual orientation and bounds of acceptable experimentation. While the internal debate was still raging, Illya tossed all caution to the winds and pounced. He didn't really have a plan for what would happen post-pounce; it just felt like the thing to do at the time. Solo instinctively reacted defensively to suddenly finding himself with an armful of Kuryakin, but they had wrestled and trained with one another long enough that no real harm was done. Instead, he twisted, Illya followed the movement, several rows of test tubes and a microscope were sacrificed to the concrete floor, and Kuryakin found himself on his hands and knees, pinning his supine partner to the table, arms and legs akimbo, head thrown back, eyes wide as saucers. "Now that you've got me, what are you going to do with me?" Re-evaluation complete, Solo had come to the conclusion that if it felt good, he was all for it, and this felt very good indeed. Illya stared down at him. "Damned if I know," he answered with typical blunt honesty. "I have a few suggestions," Napoleon offered, and with a quick tumble and a quicker save to compensate for the narrowness of the counter, their positions were reversed. It had been a long time since Illya Kuryakin had found himself in this position. The last time it happened, he was still a youngster serving on a ship in the Baltic. He'd decided then that it would be a cold day in hell before it happened again. As his shirt and undershirt were efficiently stripped from him, followed by his belt, then a skilled hand tugged at his zipper, he spared one last clear thought for the current temperature in Purgatory. Then trousers and briefs made the journey south to tangle around his ankles, long fingers curled around his quite interested penis, and all rational thought seeped out of his ears as his brain melted. Absently, he parted his lips, meaning to protest, or question, or at least take a deep breath to scream in pure unadulterated ecstasy. Halfway into the inhalation Napoleon thwarted his efforts by the simple expedient of closing his own mouth around Illya's. It felt so good he forgot about screaming. Protesting was completely out of the question. He was invaded, over-run, conquered and utterly subjugated without so much as a token struggle. So much for virtue unassailable. From the sounds Napoleon was making and the enthusiastic hand working at him, the tom cat was a real swinger, because there wasn't so much as a pause for reflection. Illya was vaguely aware that his wandering hands had clamped around Napoleon's hips and were drawing them together, as his own hips thrust himself into the steel band of his partner's fist, but it was so unexpected, and so intense, that it was all over much too quickly. With a soft sigh of completion, he bucked one last time, arched, and shuddered against Solo. Prying open eyes he didn't remember shutting, he was treated to the sight of Napoleon Solo licking semen off his fingers with an inquisitive tongue. That's when he realized that he was still hard, because the jolt of arousal went like a bolt of lightning directly from his eyes to his groin. His hands were still clamped around Napoleon's buttocks, and he realized with a shock that while he was very nearly naked, Solo was still completely dressed … he hadn't even loosened the knot in his tie. Illya felt … wanton. Not a self-image with which he was particularly familiar. Determined to level the playing field, he forced his mind off all the mental visions of what he'd like to do with his erection, and concentrated on getting his partner into an equal state of undress as himself. They nearly rolled off the counter twice before he lost his patience, pulled Napoleon upright, propped him back against the counter and stripped him off. What he found made his mouth water. Solo was a big boy. Everywhere. He was on his knees without making a conscious decision, swallowing as much as he could on the first gulp. There was a satisfying shiver along the entire frame under his hands, and the cock in his mouth pulsed twice. It liked the attention, so he gave it more. Several long moments of sheer oral bliss later, he realized that the hands tangled in his hair weren't guiding him any more, they were doing their best to pull him off. Looking up into his partner's face, Illya was impressed with the control he saw. It was hanging by threads, but it was there. Allowing himself to be pulled away, he asked, quietly, "Yes? No? Tell me what you want, Napasha." "A taste," came back to him through gritted teeth. The threads were fraying quickly. He pulled himself to his feet by the simple expedient of climbing up Solo's body, so that by the time they were face to face the tenuous hold the other man had on his restraint was nearly gone. Illya found himself tossed up to sit on the cold counter, and he reacted by pushing his buttocks away from the chilly tile. This resulted in his thrusting his erection directly up into Napoleon's lowering mouth, a satisfactory arrangement for both men. Illya was caught between strong hands and devouring face, writhing between the two as Solo did his best to suck his soul out of his body. By the time he came for the second time, he was so sated he slipped right off the counter into his friend's arms. Napoleon took advantage of his utter relaxation to turn him around, bend him over the counter, slide down his legs and kiss him in a place Illya seldom touched himself. The first touch of tongue and teeth would have shocked him rigid, if he'd had any adrenaline left after two stunning climaxes. As it was, the most he could manage was a ringing … endorsement. The "What are you doing?" somehow translated to "Dear God, Napasha, yes, more, please!" Perhaps the white powder worked on the language portion of the brain, making one say any manner of things one never expected to say. Before his brain could get too diverted into the possibilities of chemical mutability in the brain, Napoleon slid his tongue out of him and his fingers into him, and the endorsement was repeated, with flourishes. By the time the fingers finally left and a thick cock took their place, words had degenerated into panted moans and incoherent whimpers. He couldn't quite manage another erection, but he didn't care -- he was riding into heaven on a rail, and he never wanted it to end. Of course, Solo had been waiting longer than Kuryakin had, was an orgasm behind in the count, and was more highly sexed, so it didn't last as long as either man would have hoped. It did make up in intensity for what it lacked in duration, however. Finally collapsing over the counter, the edge digging into his belly as he was half smothered under Napoleon's weight, Illya wondered if he had, indeed, gone insane. Trying to think of a way to phrase the question that wouldn't sound utterly ridiculous in their present circumstances, he was distracted by the sensation of loss as his lover slipped from his body and slid down his back. Straightening up with some difficulty, he peered over his shoulder to see Solo, looking like a truck had run over him, staring back up at him. Acknowledging the humor and disbelief in the look with a slight smile, he shrugged, extricated himself from the now-limp embrace Solo had on his knees, and reached for his trousers. As he leaned past his partner to rescue his hopelessly wrinkled shirt, Napoleon whispered, "If that doesn't stir up the hornets, nothing will." He couldn't stop the grin at that, but contented himself with silently handing Napoleon his pants. ACT FOUR : Maybe, Maybe Not. Mr. Waverly didn't ask what his agents had done to set the grapevine a-twitter, and the gentlemen didn't offer. Of course, he knew, since he had ears in the walls, and eyes in the curtains, but he was of an era where such things were not actually verbalized, and he preferred to leave it that way. He did have a recovered sample of the powder sterilized and delivered to his apartment, but that's another story altogether. All the activity had precisely the effects he had intended (along with a few he hadn't expected but was steadfastly ignoring). Happily, things moved quickly, before the secretarial pool could arrange a lynching for either man, depending on their own preferences for blond or brunet, or a viewing, depending on their individual levels of voyeurism. Within the hour, a certain security camera was taken off-line for a moment, causing a particular red light to flash in Mr. Waverly's office. Solo and Kuryakin, along with a hand-picked squad of six, were immediately deployed to observe and trace. A palm-sized film canister moved from a private office connected to the labs, to a side entrance of the tailor's shop, to a certain white Corvette, to an easily recognized individual whose appearance caused at least one member of the team to stifle a growl. Another member of the team heard the growl and stamped down on a reactive frisson of pleasure. A new signal was added to the repertoire shared by the top UNCLE team, without a word being spoken between the partners. The Corvette led the way for the uninvited entourage to a high rise apartment building in the heart of Manhattan. One would think that after losing one satrap in the neighborhood, THRUSH would have known better, but they didn't learn well from their mistakes. There were no life sized killer zombie women to come after them, but there was a detachment of THRUSH thugs to get in their way. It was a brief, bloody, loud, and lively rumble. Illya came in low, Napoleon came in high, the back up troops came in from all sides, and it was a rout, in UNCLE's favor. They caught up with Angelique just as she was developing the film. Staring at the dead and wounded bodies lying along the hallway, squinting briefly up at the bright overhead light that was obliterating what had promised to be an erotic and highly effective tool for blackmail, and sighing wistfully for what Might Have Been, she swung a fist, knocked the pan of chemicals into the oncoming UNCLE invaders, and slipped out the hidden back entrance. By the time the tangle of men had sorted themselves out and shaken the solution out of their faces, she was long gone. But the film remained, ruined and useless, and the mole was trapped. Back at UNCLE headquarters New York, one Vincent Soeldt, second assistant section head for research and development, was unaware that his real masters were currently being invaded. Mr. Waverly watched on the internal security cameras as agents from Section Six, Security and Personnel, arranged for the permanent retirement of the erstwhile double agent. It was a sad and disappointing day for Mr. Waverly. Traitors were an occupational hazard, but seldom did someone with thirty years on the job turn out to be the worm in the heart of the apple. Thankfully. His somber thoughts were interrupted by the chirp of the communicator. "Open Channel D." Mr. Solo sounded tired. Not surprising, considering the day's activities. Mr. Waverly ignored that improper thought as well and concentrated on the matter at hand. "Here. Report, Mr. Solo." "All secured on this end, sir. One escaped, but we know where she lives --" "Sleeps." They both ignored the sotto voce comment in the background. Mr. Waverly did note that Mr. Kuryakin sounded worn as well. "-and she won't go far." "She never does," the disgruntled voice added. "From the sound of things, the effects of your unfortunate encounter-" he ignored the assorted snorts and stammerings his wording provoked, "-are still noticeable. Go home, both of you, and sleep it off." He raised one brow at the stifled laughter that met his command, and simply said, "Mr. Slate can make the report." Thumbing off the microphone before any further double entendres could be extracted from his words, he sat back in his chair with a sigh. Reaching for another switch, he began to listen in on what was buzzing through his headquarters. Bets were being taken in Intelligence on how long it would last before Solo got bored and/or Kuryakin killed him. Four secretaries were crying together in the bathroom, over Mr. Kuryakin, surprisingly enough given their respective reputations. The rest of the secretarial pool was evenly split between wondering how long it had taken the Ice Prince to melt and making guesses at how long the Great Seducer had taken no for an answer. Security was simply relieved not to have to try to lock them up, and two of the upper level enforcers were wondering aloud when Kuryakin might be back on the market. Opinion was evenly divided between the idea that the whole thing had been a set-up to catch Soeldt, that the sex had never actually happened, that of course Solo and Kuryakin were lovers and had been for ages, that Mr. Waverly had ordered them to do it, and that it was all a THRUSH plot to put UNCLE headquarters in a tizzy so they could sneak in while UNCLE wasn't looking and take over Cuba. Mr. Waverly smiled to himself. By next week, they'd all be convinced that none of it happened, everything was going along as usual, and it was all a master plot to catch a spy, and his reputation would grow another notch brighter. It was good to be king. EPILOGUE : Cocooned tightly around one another, skin slipping together with a mixture of bodily fluids that made a mess of the sheets and put giddy smiles on both their faces, Illya and Napoleon cuddled sleepily and stared up at the handkerchief tacked securely to the wall. "I never knew there was a camera in your bedroom, Napasha." Illya's voice was sleepy, rich with satiation, replete with satisfaction. If he were indeed a cat, his whiskers would have been dripping with cream. As it was, there were some suspicious traces of white around his lips, but they were much too salty for the average traditional cat. It didn't appear to bother him in the least. "You've never been in my bedroom, Illyushka," Napoleon reminded him. "It's better than the lab counter," Illya conceded with satisfaction, patting his partner's chest before laying his head down on the human pillow to get some much needed rest. As he gradually fell asleep, he could hear Napoleon listing all the different places they were going to have to test before his curiosity would be satisfied. He took comfort in the fact that it was a very long list. finis Overheard in a satrap somewhere in Lower Manhattan: "Not again." "Again. What do you have to complain about? At least you can move." "Three inches. Forward and back. Head only." "When do you think they'll be back?" "Not before morning." "Three inches, hm?" Rock. Shake. Groan. Zip. Smothered oath. "Plenty." "Smartass Russian."

Adrian looks at himself in the hotel room mirror. He adjusts the angle of his bow tie beneath the stiff, starched collar of his pristine white shirt, then runs his hands down the satin lapels of his formal black tailcoat. He takes a step back, turns to check the fall of the tails, then nods at his reflection, satisfied. He's just putting on a black wool overcoat when a knock comes at the door. One arm in and one arm out of his coat, Adrian opens the door and chuckles at the sight of Timo in knitted silver chain mail and moulded grey plastic armour, with a helmet trailing a long red plume tucked under his arm. "My knight in shining armour," Adrian says with a grin. "Where's your date?" "She's probably in the girls' bathroom shrieking about lipstick and nail polish with your date." Timo gives him a disdainful look and pokes at the tailcoat. "What the hell is this? We agreed to dress up for Rosenmontag." Adrian wriggles into the overcoat. "I am dressed up." "As a concert pianist!" Timo laughs at him. "You're so lame, Adrian. Everyone else has made an effort and you just pull on any old thing from the back of your wardrobe." "It's not..." Adrian stops the rest of the sentence. There's no point in admitting that the suit is only hired. Timo wouldn't believe him. Adrian wonders if it'll always be this way, if he'll always be considered a paddock joke. He has the feeling that, even if he won the WDC, people would still point at him and say, "There's Adrian Sutil. He plays the piano." He pastes a smile on his face and ushers Timo into the corridor. "Let's go find the girls." Timo brightens. He puts on the helmet and lifts the visor to peer at Adrian, then strikes a heroic pose, knocking a gloved fist against the breastplate of his fake armour. "Then we can start drinking!" Adrian sighs. It's going to be a long evening. They share the lift with the owl and the pussycat. The owl is drunk already and slumps against the pussycat, burbling incoherent endearments. Timo watches, openly amused. Adrian looks at the tips of his polished shoes. He's relieved when the lift doors roll open, and they emerge into the hotel lobby. People dressed as sunflowers talk to people dressed as peapods. Pirates flirt with cowboys, and a guy on a space-hopper bounces around a group of women in colourful, glamorous outfits. He spots Sebastian first. It's hard to miss him, the princess to Timo's knight. Sebastian looks self-conscious, wearing a medieval-style blue velvet dress with wide sleeves and a little train. The neckline of the dress has been padded, unsuccessfully, with wodges of toilet paper that stick out at odd, crumpled angles. Sebastian can barely move his head under the weight of the long blonde wig, and his gaze is tired beneath the thick false eyelashes. Adrian waves to him. "There's your date." Timo snorts with laughter. "Oh, God. Poor Seb. Mark would piss himself laughing if he could see this. Have you got your phone with you? I'll send him a picture." "No, sorry, I left it in my room." Adrian looks around for his own date, wondering what outfit he chose. He scans the lobby, his gaze returning time and again to the girl talking to Sebastian. Her back is turned to Adrian, but there's something familiar about the shape of her hips, the curve of her arse, the length of her legs. Timo nudges him. "Check out the hot blonde Princess Seb's managed to pull." Realisation slams into Adrian. "It's Nico." "Oh man!" Timo reels sideways, laughing, but Adrian can hear the note of surprise in his voice. Sebastian murmurs something to his companion, and she—no, he—turns. Adrian's belly lurches with a strange kick of lust and admiration. He's aware of Timo babbling behind him but pays no attention as he strides across the floor, his entire focus on Nico, on the woman he's become. Nico lifts his chin and smiles. It's not a welcoming smile. It's cool, knowing, the smile of a vamp who's conscious of her ability to ensnare hapless men. And Adrian feels helpless, hopeless, his mouth open on unspoken words of astonishment as he takes in every detail of Nico's transformation. Black suede pumps with a kitten heel, fastened by a single button. Stockings—or at least the nonsensical, filthy-minded part of Adrian hopes they're stockings—glossy and seamed up the back. A skirt-suit, 1940s style, in a light shade of lavender, the skirt stopping an inch above the knees, the jacket boxy and nipped in at the waist, the hem flaring at the hips. Beneath it, an ivory satin camisole. It's an outfit designed to flatter, to conceal and flaunt at the same time. The structured lines hide Nico's chest but cling to the firm, rounded shape of his arse. Dazzled, Adrian stares at the patch of smooth skin above the camisole and realises with a shock that Nico must have shaved or waxed or whatever. He looks up, studying Nico's familiar yet unfamiliar features. His hair has been styled into loose waves, presumably with the addition of hair extensions, though Adrian can't tell for sure, and the cut and colour softens the masculine angles of Nico's face. His eyebrows have been pencilled dark, a frame for the smoky make-up around his eyes—liquid kohl tilting a line, Cleopatra-style; plum and grey and silver shadow artfully blended. His face is pale, matte with a dusting of powder, a mask so thin Adrian can see the skin beneath. Nico's lips are painted the shade of dusky rose, and when his smile widens, Adrian sees a fleck of lipstick on his teeth. It makes him human, and Adrian breathes again. Timo shoulders Adrian out of the way. "Damn, Nico, you look fine!" He mock leers at him, tongue hanging out, then bows to Sebastian. "Your Highness." Sebastian rolls his eyes and takes Timo's arm. "Six peapods have tripped over my skirt," he announces. "What took you so long? Nico and I were ready fifteen minutes ago, and we're girls." Adrian chuckles and turns to escort Nico. When Nico slides his hand through the loop of his arm and presses close, Adrian tries to dismiss the instinctive tightening of his body. Adrian notices the gleam of nail polish and inhales a surprised breath of feminine scent, something rich with floral and musk notes, something head-spinning and not at all the sort of fragrance he associates with Nico. But this is not Nico, he reminds himself, turning an uncertain smile down on his date. This is Rosenmontag, this is not real. Adrian lifts his free hand, wanting to touch Nico's cheek, but instead contents himself with brushing back a lock of soft platinum hair. "You've got lipstick on your teeth," he murmurs. A flash of annoyance breaks Nico's composure. He drops his head and scrubs a fingertip over his teeth, for a moment a self-conscious man in drag. When he lifts his gaze again and smiles, revealing perfect white teeth, the illusion returns. Adrian nods. "Good," he says, and they follow Timo and Sebastian out into the crowd of partygoers on the street. * * * * The club is packed. Hot jazz, cold beer, a sweaty crush of revellers. On the dance floor, the crowd is jumping, and Adrian weaves his way from the bar, four bottles of beer clutched in his hands. He drops into their booth at the back of the club and distributes the alcohol. Sebastian groans. He's face-down on the table, his blonde wig askew and the trailing ends matted with beer and food. Timo takes Sebastian's beer and drinks it for him, winking at Adrian. Nico doesn't touch his drink. He's still got two vodka mixes in front of him, ice cubes melting slowly in the glasses. His gaze is unfocused and he sways to the beat of the music, but he's not drunk. He's high on excitement, his body trembling. It's like desire, like being held on the edge of orgasm, and Adrian knows the feeling well, responds to it, because the music is like quicksilver through his veins. Timo steals Nico's beer, but Nico doesn't care. He shifts along the leatherette seat and rests his head on Adrian's shoulder. Perfume and sweat and heat combine, filtering into Adrian's head, toying with his control. "Dance with me," Nico whispers, and Adrian shivers. Maybe it's their proximity, maybe it's the touch of Nico's breath against his neck, but Adrian feels a hot, urgent strike of inappropriate lust. He stands quickly before he gets a hard-on and offers Nico his hand. Nico touches him, takes his hand, and Adrian stifles a groan. He spins Nico around before he can get too close, and they edge onto the dance floor. Nico slips into the rhythm, hips swaying, his weight balanced through the balls of his feet. He avoids grounding himself, dancing like a woman. Adrian laughs in appreciation and lets go of his self-consciousness, dropping into the beat, second-guessing the music. He half closes his eyes, singing along, and encroaches into Nico's space. They dance together, just two bodies moving in time. Sweat glistens on Nico's top lip. His eyes flash. He laughs, his head thrown back. He shimmies closer, caught in the tempo, and Adrian draws him in. It's fun, it's a sense of freedom, and if there's a seduction going on, it's mutual and it means nothing. The music segues, one style into another, and Nico insinuates himself into Adrian's arms. Nico looks up, his gaze assessing, thoughtful. "You never said if you liked my costume." "That was wrong of me." Adrian slides his hands down the back of Nico's jacket and cradles his hips, drawing him closer. "You look amazing. Like a movie star. Grace Kelly. Marlene Dietrich." Nico laughs, delight shining from him. "I knew you'd wear this," he says, smoothing his hands along the lapels of the tailcoat, "so I wanted to pick something that would complement it." "What do you mean?" "Oh." Nico's eyes seem too bright in the glare of the strobes, and he looks away. "I knew you'd dress like this." "Boring, you mean?" Adrian doesn't intend for his words to sound so defensive, but he suspects mockery, and he doesn't want to justify himself. Nico looks surprised. "It's not boring. Who told you it was boring?" Adrian doesn't answer. Nico was always too sharp, too quick to know when things were fragile, when moods were breakable. They're silent for a while, moving to the music, their bodies fitting together naturally and without awkwardness. "It's unfinished business," Nico says at length. He flits from Adrian's arms, spins around him, then comes back, his hands flat against Adrian's chest in an almost-caress. "Your costume isn't really a costume. It's who you are, who you could still be." He dances away again, and this time Adrian reaches out and grabs him, reeling him in. "You're drunk," he says in accusation, but knows it's not true. Nico shakes his head and smiles. "You're in denial." "I know what I am. Who I am." Adrian captures Nico's hands and holds them tight against his sides, forcing them to dance closer. "Anyway, if your weird analysis is right, what does that make Timo and Seb? What does it make you?" "Timo wants to be a hero and Seb is content with being a princess. And I don't mean that in a negative way. Think about it." Nico twists his hands free as the music changes from an up-tempo beat to a slower tune. He loops his arms around Adrian's neck and leans into him. "As for me..." "Yes?" Adrian tilts his head down, wanting to hear Nico's explanation. Instead, Nico laughs. Adrian stares at him, bemused and exasperated and full of affection. "You idiot." "Dance with me, Adrian." Nico's eyes glitter. He holds on tight, tucking his face into the curve of Adrian's neck, but his voice emerges full of passion and command. "Dance with me." * * * * They kiss soon after that, during a husky-voiced blues song. Adrian doesn't remember who initiated the kiss. He just knows it feels right, the warmth of Nico's lips beneath his, the caress of his breath, the gentle nibble of his teeth. They kiss in the centre of the dance floor, and Adrian wonders why they haven't done this before. He touches Nico's cheek, slides a hand into his hair, lowers his head for a deeper embrace. Nico tastes of beer and lipstick and the spike of vodka, and Adrian kisses him harder, wanting more. Someone jostles them, breaking them apart. It's sudden, shocking, and Adrian feels bereft and angry. Nico takes a step back and touches his fingers to his mouth, as if surprised by the intensity of their kiss. He lifts his gaze and stares at Adrian. "We should... we should probably..." Adrian gestures in the vague direction of their table, but when he looks for Timo and Sebastian, they've gone. "Where...?" Nico tilts his head. "Does it matter?" "No." Adrian's mind goes blank. "Do you—" He stops, uncertain of what he's asking for, then continues, "Do you want to go back to the hotel?" "Yes." This time Nico pauses, and then he laughs. "God, yes." Adrian reclaims his overcoat and they leave the club, walking back through streets littered with the detritus of Fasching, curled paper streamers and domino masks, the emerald-faceted spill of smashed beer bottles, puddles of sour-smelling vomit, torn posters advertising party nights. Couples embrace outside U-bahn stations and make out in shadowed tram stops. A man in a peapod outfit sits slumped in a doorway, oblivious to the raucous laughter from a group of women dressed as superheroes clattering along on high heels. Nico walks fast and holds Adrian's hand. The night is bitter with frost, the sky above the city a deep velvet blue, and Nico's breath emerges in a cloud. Adrian lets him set the pace, lengthening his stride to keep up. Within two blocks, he realises Nico is shuddering with cold. Without a word, Adrian disentangles his hand, removes his overcoat, and settles it around Nico's shoulders. "Thank you." Nico gives him a grateful glance and snuggles into the warmth of the heavy wool. The sight pleases Adrian, and he doesn't feel the cold as they walk the last few blocks to the hotel. They're silent as they enter the lobby and take the lift to their floor. They walk down the corridor and stop outside Nico's room. Nico leans against the wall and slants a look at Adrian, half defiant, half hopeful. Adrian stares at him. The curiosity he felt earlier still feeds his blood. He wants to know if Nico's wearing stockings under that skirt. He wants to know if a kiss now will feel as right as it did in the club. The cold night has chased off any drunken thoughts, and now they're both sober. There's no more laughter, no more flirtation. This isn't a game. This is real, even if Nico maintains the illusion of being a woman. The silence stretches between them. Nico becomes nervous, his tongue-tip moistening his lower lip. The dusky rose lipstick has almost gone from his mouth, left imprinted on glasses and bottles and Adrian's shirt collar, kissed away, licked away. There's still a smudge of colour though, and Adrian fixes on it. He moves forward, feeling the push of tension like a physical barrier. Nico's gaze flares; his lips part. Just before Adrian kisses him, Nico makes a tiny sound. Adrian swallows the sound, takes it into himself. He recognises need, tastes it from Nico's lips. He shoves Nico back against the wall, his actions at odds with the tenderness of his kiss. Nico responds, biting at Adrian's mouth, sucking on his tongue. They wrestle closer, Nico grabbing at the lapels of Adrian's tailcoat, Adrian pushing open the borrowed overcoat to run his hands down Nico's tailored skirt-suit. They keep on kissing, breathing the same air, fighting to gain control. Adrian thrusts a knee between Nico's thighs, unbalancing him, forcing him further back against the wall. Nico laughs, excited and breathless. He splays his legs, tilting his hips in blatant invitation. Adrian takes what's offered, striping a line of wet kisses down Nico's neck and into the dip of the camisole, sliding one hand up beneath Nico's skirt. He touches the nylon mesh of the stocking pulled taut across smooth, muscled thigh. Adrian gasp-laughs against Nico's throat: "You shaved your legs." "I wanted to look good." "So fucking vain." Nico pulls him up by his hair. "I wanted to look good for you." Adrian stares at him, and then, because he can't find the words, he kisses Nico again. He moves his hand, caresses Nico's knee, feels the rough edge of a fingernail snag on the nylons. He rubs his thumb over the inside of Nico's knee, then ventures higher, stroking the warmth of his inner thigh. A stifled moan escapes Nico's lips. He holds on tight, trembling a little as Adrian explores. They're not kissing any more, but their mouths are close, their breath mingling. Nico moans again, his breathing becoming short and staccato as Adrian moves his hand still higher. Adrian keeps his touch feather-light, zigzagging the path his fingers take up the inside of Nico's thigh. He's wearing stockings, Adrian realises with a flash of lustful triumph as his fingertips encounter a thicker band of fabric at the top. He traces up and over, finds the fastener holding the stocking to the suspender belt, and then touches bare skin. Nico's soft moans stop. His breath catches. He tries to speak. Adrian's mind short-circuits. He's oblivious to everything but the feel of Nico's thigh, that patch of skin between the stocking and whatever he put on as underwear. Adrian wonders if Nico is completely naked beneath the suit. The idea makes him swallow hard. He has to know. He burrows his hand higher, pushing up the skirt. Nico struggles a little, his head moving from side to side against the wall, but his protest isn't real. He gasps and sighs, his face flushed with pleasure, and Adrian kisses him at the same time as he reaches up between Nico's legs. "What the fuck?" The exclamation shatters over them. Adrian pulls his hand back and half turns, shielding Nico with his body. He tries to tug down Nico's skirt, but Nico pushes him away and directs a haughty, challenging look at the man who's interrupted them. Timo stands staring at them, shock in his eyes. His knightly costume has been swapped for jeans and a shirt. He weaves on his feet, drunk but not quite drunk enough that he'll forget this. He shakes his head, blinking as if he could somehow see things differently. "Are you guys...?" Nico claws his fingers into Adrian's shoulders, then shifts his gaze from Timo and looks up, his expression bright and hard. "Are you?" Nico asks. "Yes," Adrian says without knowing what he's agreeing to. Nico sighs and moves, a sinuous undulation that brings him away from the wall and into Adrian's arms. He turns in the embrace, one hand reaching down to catch Adrian's wrist, the grip possessive. Nico fixes Timo with a look. "Want to watch?" "Shit," says Timo, surprise going through him like a wave. "No. Yes. I mean..." While Timo tries to formulate a coherent response, Nico unbuttons his jacket and withdraws a keycard from an inside pocket. He swipes the card through the lock and the light flashes green. Nico tugs at Adrian's arm, casting him a look over his shoulder. Adrian allows Nico to pull him forward into the room. He glances at Timo, not sure if he wants an audience for this, not even knowing what 'this' is. Before he can tell Timo to fuck off, they're inside the room and the door's closed behind them. It's only Timo's stunned expression that makes Adrian feel he has the advantage here. Nico drops the heavy woollen overcoat onto the floor and fits himself against Adrian, demanding his attention. He lifts his head, lips parted, and kisses Adrian with a ferocious hunger. Outclassed but unwilling to give up, Adrian responds. He plays dirty, grasping Nico's curvy round arse with both hands, dragging up the skirt to give Timo an eyeful of Nico's stocking-tops. "Fuck," Timo says, and there's awe in his voice. "You two..." Adrian ignores him, too intent on devouring Nico, who laughs into his mouth. The vibration of the laughter goes through them both, making Adrian smile. They sway together, almost a dance, bodies straining tight as the kiss flickers through them, over them, consuming them both. Nico pulls away, his fingers busy with the buttons on Adrian's tailcoat. He whimpers as it opens to reveal a dove-grey waistcoat, and when Adrian looks at him, he's startled by the raw desire in Nico's eyes. Lust softens his features, his mouth a wanton pout, his gaze slumberous. Adrian shrugs out of his tailcoat and hooks it over the end of the bed. He moves to undo the single button fastening his waistcoat, but Nico stays his hands. They kiss again, Nico on fire against him, rubbing close, grinding nearer. He lifts one leg and shifts it up Adrian's thigh to his waist. Adrian puts his hand on Nico's hip then hesitantly moves it down, stroking along the length of stocking-clad thigh. He hesitates over the rucked-up skirt, wanting to burrow beneath it, wanting to touch bare skin again, but instead he hooks his hand beneath Nico's raised knee and angles him even closer. If Nico were a woman, Adrian would want to crawl inside her right about now. The idea taunts him. His confusion is a tangible pain, a physical shot of anguished yearning. He doesn't know what to do, what to think. "It's all right," Nico whispers against his mouth. "It's all right to want this." "Is it?" Adrian murmurs, the words almost lost to their kisses. "Yes. I promise." The reassurance is as seductive as Nico's movements. "Don't think. Feel. Do what feels good, and it'll be good." Adrian breaks the kiss to look at him, and Nico wriggles free. He steps back and sits on the bed, stretching out his legs and pointing his toes in the black velvet pumps. He poses for a moment, aware of his power, then bends to undo the shoes. "Wait." Adrian goes down onto his knees in front of Nico. He takes hold of Nico's right ankle, unfastens the button and lifts aside the thin strap, then slides off the shoe. Nico wiggles his toes. Adrian cradles his heel, stroking his free hand over the arch of Nico's foot then dancing his fingertips along the sole. He finds pressure points and digs in, and is rewarded with a wavering gasp. Nico slumps back onto the quilt, his body arched. "This should be pay-per-view," Timo says behind them, and Adrian starts in sudden surprise. He'd forgotten their audience, and from the flush on Nico's face, so had he. Adrian tries to sink back into the moment. He runs his fingers up one leg and down the other, enjoying the tickle of the stockings against his skin. He unfastens the left shoe and lets it fall, then stands and watches Nico squirm back across the bed. "You just want to look up my skirt," Nico says, breathless, pulling at the hem. Adrian crawls onto the mattress. "I want to do more than look." Timo groans and moves closer, his gaze avid, his mouth hanging open. Nico's eyes are bright with anticipation. He reaches for Adrian, spanning his shoulders with his hands, pressing his palms flat against the cut of the waistcoat. He murmurs soft words of encouragement and shifts his hips, helping Adrian to tug up his skirt. This time Adrian lifts the cloth to his waist, revealing stocking-tops and a cream-coloured suspender belt beneath ivory satin French knickers. Adrian spends some time fingering the scalloped edges of the knickers, running his hands over the flimsy lace decoration. It's sexy, feminine, subtle, not the kind of garment he usually likes on a woman, but things are different tonight. Heat and musk surround him, so different to a woman's scent, the smell hard and demanding rather than liquid and sweet. He breathes it in, pressing his face against the satin knickers, mouthing at the shape of Nico's erect cock through the delicate material. Nico shudders. The French knickers are high-waisted, hiding the head of his prick, but a telltale wet stain of pre-come darkens the fabric. Adrian draws away, aware of his own aching erection. He cups his cock through his trousers, then unzips the flies to relieve the pressure as he edges up the bed. The lacy French knickers match the camisole, and Adrian pushes open Nico's jacket. Even under the muted hotel light, he can see a dusting of dark hair in the centre of Nico's chest beneath the thin satin. His nipples are hard, rubbing at the silky fabric. Adrian strokes his thumb over them, feeling Nico's body tense beneath him. Thinking his touch is too light, Adrian pinches Nico's nipples, at first with the pads of his fingers, then with the added bite of his nails. Nico jerks up from the bed, a cry of pleasure-pain torn from him. He writhes in response to the torment, squirming and gasping. Adrian wants to explore further, but an extra weight dipping the mattress makes him look up. Timo stretches out along the headboard amongst the pillows. His jeans are unbuttoned and his cock is in his hand while he watches Adrian and Nico. Adrian stares at him. "Sorry." The apology is blatantly insincere. Timo doesn't stop his strokes, which are slow and leisurely, as if he intends on taking his time and enjoying the show. "You guys are too fucking horny together." "The pillow. Give me a pillow." Adrian needs to regain control of the situation. This isn't for Timo's voyeuristic pleasure. It's for him and Nico. He catches the pillow Timo flings at him and folds it beneath Nico's arse. "His hands," Adrian snaps at Timo. "Hold him down. Do it one-handed if you have to." Timo whistles in surprise but does as he's told, seizing Nico's wrists and bringing them over his head, gripping them both with one hand. Nico doesn't struggle, but allows Adrian to position him until he's stretched out and vulnerable and exposed. He remains still, his breathing shallow and rapid, as Adrian climbs on top of him. Aware of Timo's hungry stare on them both, Adrian lowers his head and wets the camisole with his tongue. He sucks Nico's nipples through the satin then uses his teeth, dragging the wet cloth against the sensitive nubs and making Nico buck and mewl in reaction. Timo mutters something incoherent. Adrian ignores him, watching pleasure flash across Nico's face, reading his body's responses with the same instinct with which he feels the change and pulse of music. He scratches a delicate line up the inside of one thigh and slips his fingers inside the satin knickers. Nico jerks against the restraint of Timo's grasp and spreads his legs wider. Adrian locks gazes with Nico as he explores, his fingertips brushing through thick curls of pubic hair and over the heavy sac of his balls. He finds the patch of skin behind and strokes across it, and feels Nico flinch and tremble. He burrows further, worming a finger into heat, probing within the cleft of his buttocks. A look of desperation crosses Nico's face. Adrian crooks his finger, pressing against the ring of his anus. "Want more, baby?" Nico's eyes close, surrender in every line of his body. At the head of the bed, Timo makes a sound of excited shock. "You're going to fuck him?" Adrian doesn't reply. Withdrawing his hand, he focuses on Nico, rolling him onto his front and adjusting the pillow. He slaps Nico's flank, a command for him to get on all fours, and Nico obeys, kneeling forward, arse lifted high, taking his weight through his arms. The suspender belt and stockings make the perfect frame, and Adrian wishes he had a camera. Timo yanks open the drawer in the nightstand and roots around. He throws a handful of small objects at Adrian. "Better suit up. You never know where this slut's been." Nico shivers in response, a low, throaty moan breaking from him. Excited, terrified, Adrian tears open the foil-wrapped packet and rolls on the condom. His cock pulses, hard and thick and hot. He opens the bubble packs of lube and slathers it along the full length of his prick, gasping a little at the chill of the gel, then he positions himself behind Nico. Adrian keeps a firm grip around the base of his cock, and with his other hand he pulls down the French knickers. His breath catches at the sight of Nico's strong, pert arse. He can't pretend this is a woman, not even if he lifts his attention to the spill of platinum blonde hair over the jacket collar. His gaze focuses on the tight buttocks in front of him, at the dark hair in the cleft. With lubed fingers he traces the seam, finds Nico's anus, and pushes against the resistance of muscle. Nico hides his face against his arms and eases back. Adrian's fingers slip inside, and the sensation makes him swallow a sound of surprise. Following his instinct and the movements of Nico's body, Adrian thrusts a few times, stretching Nico's hole, getting him accustomed to the pace and rhythm. Only when Nico starts driving back onto his fingers does Adrian stop. He scrambles upright, guides his greased cock into position, and leans forward. Nico groans, says Adrian's name in a breathy, desperate voice, and takes him in. Adrian almost comes. His eyes close on the sensation, on the tight heat that grasps his cock and squeezes. He sinks deeper, forgetting rhythm, forgetting everything but this pleasure that seizes him, starting at the base of his spine and wrapping around him, drugging him with need. "Adrian," Nico gasps. "Please." Adrian pulls back then drives into him to the hilt. Nico cries out, his body jerking forward. He growls and thrusts back, impaling himself on Adrian's cock, and Adrian grinds deeper into him. "Holy shit," Timo says, his eyes wide and glazed with lust. He grabs for his cock and starts jacking off. Adrian fucks Nico, or perhaps Nico is fucking him—he can't tell; he only knows that he's not controlling this, that it's all done by pure instinct and feeling and emotion, and that it feels good—oh, so good—and that Nico is trembling and crying out, his hair hanging in his face and heat pouring off him. Adrian remembers the way they danced together in the club, that hypnotic drop into the music, and he finds the pulse again, falls into the rhythm, taking Nico with him. They stop fighting, stop the struggle for dominance, and they move together as one, perfect and harmonious. It's so good, Adrian doesn't care when Timo comes all over the quilt. It's so good Adrian doesn't want it to end. Nico glances back at him over his shoulder, his eyes shining, and Adrian feels the sudden head-rush of orgasm approach. He tries to hold back, tries to last longer, but then Nico laughs and squeezes and Adrian snarls and shudders and comes in a glorious crescendo. Nico pulls away from him, the wet sound of their bodies disengaging making Adrian quiver again. Turning onto his back, Nico puts a hand over the silky knickers and grasps his cock. He jerks at it, bringing himself off through the satin, the wet stain spreading as he reaches a sticky, messy climax. Exhausted, Nico smiles at him. Adrian manages a smile in return. His cock softens, and he ties off the condom before he can re-spill his seed. He wipes himself on a corner of the quilt and hides the used condom on the floor. He stretches out beside Nico, looking at him, staring at his beautiful face flushed with heat, at the ruin of his make-up, at the tangles in his hair. Adrian feels his heart contract, a solid punch of emotion driving the breath from his body. Now it's over, he wants to kiss Nico, kiss him and hold him and do all those stupid, wonderful things lovers do in the aftermath, but he doesn't do any of it. He just lies there, watching Nico watching him, until Nico shuts his eyes and turns his head against the quilt. All three of them remain together in silence, then Nico gets up—gracelessly, stumbling a little—and goes into the bathroom. The door falls shut, and moments later comes the sound of the shower running. Adrian listens to the patter of water against the tiles, notes the change in rhythm and tone when Nico steps into the shower. He drifts, his head full of water-music, his thoughts eddying: Nico, naked beneath the spray; Nico, so hot and tight around his cock; Nico, his friend—his lover... Adrian jerks awake. He blinks up at Timo, who's sliding from the bed with a hunted, slightly embarrassed expression. "I'm, uh, I'm going now," Timo says, and blushes. "See you later." "Yeah. Sure." Adrian watches him go. He's relieved when the door closes. The shower is still running—how long has Nico been in there?—and Adrian sits up. Maybe he should follow Timo's example and creep away. Maybe Nico is taking ages in the bathroom because he's waiting for them both to leave. But then again, maybe Nico is confused or upset or—and Adrian starts to panic at this one—maybe he hurt Nico. Adrian doesn't know what to do. He eases himself from the bed, zips up his trousers, and collects his tailcoat. The material is soft and slippery beneath his hands, almost alive as it slithers against his skin. Disturbed, he drops it onto a chair and paces around the room. The bed looks untidy: pillows dented, the quilt askew, sheets rumpled. He grabs a handful of tissues and wipes at the wet stains, his nose wrinkling in disgust. Ten minutes ago, he didn't care whose spunk was on the bedcovers. Now he wonders if he's scrubbing up his own leavings, or Nico's, or Timo's. He throws away the tissues and straightens the bed, turning the pillows and plumping them, erasing all visible traces of what happened there. Next, the window. Adrian opens it, struggling a little with the latch, and then he breathes in the frosted breeze of early morning. It clears his head, scouring away the scent of sex, and he feels clean. He stands there, inhaling the cold, then shuts the window with a bang. When he turns back, the room seems small and stale and full of creeping shadows. He tries to shake off the sense of guilt, but only succeeds in making himself feel even more unbalanced. Panic blossoms in his throat, and suddenly it's difficult for him to draw breath. Adrian grabs his overcoat and flees across the room, then at the door he turns back to collect his tailcoat. The bathroom door clicks open and Nico steps out. He's naked but for a towel slung low on his hips. His hair is wet, scraped back from his face, the soft, flattering, feminine length gone now. The paint and powder has washed away, and when Adrian's gaze drops to Nico's chest, he sees the roughness of hair delineating the muscles. The illusion of femininity was always fleeting, but now it's gone. Nico is still beautiful, but he's a man. Adrian feels a pang of sadness, a strange, indefinable yearning he doesn't quite understand or want to understand. They stare at each other. Nico's expression is unreadable. Adrian is certain his own emotions are written all over his face. He was never any good at prevaricating. Tension builds, rolls around the room, becoming a tangible force. Adrian wishes he knew the right thing to say to break the mood, but the only thing running through his head is a stupid, jaunty tune the brass band played earlier during the carnival. Nico holds his Fasching clothes bundled in his arms. His grip tightens for a moment, then he lifts his chin. "You're not staying?" Adrian hesitates. He doesn't know how to respond. Finally he shakes his head; a tiny movement, almost imperceptible. Nico laughs, a soft sound on a single exhalation. He sorts through the clothes and throws something at Adrian. "Here." He catches it and holds it up. One of Nico's stockings, cold and wrinkled, the fine nylon mesh laddered. Adrian tosses it onto the floor. He smiles. "Thanks, but I think I'd rather have your knickers." Nico drops his head forward and snorts, his lips twitching. He pulls out the ivory-coloured French knickers and offers them out. Adrian goes closer and takes a handful of satin. Nico holds on, and for a moment there's a pull between them, a tug of attraction and need and understanding, and then Nico lets go. He turns away, tumbling the rest of the discarded clothes onto the bed. "Have fun," he says, and there's a thread of playful amusement in his voice. "I will." Adrian folds the silky knickers inside his tailcoat. He watches Nico tidy his clothes, watches the water droplets slide down his naked back, and thinks he must be stupid to walk away from this. Then again, he'd be stupid to stay. "Goodnight," he says, and retreats to the door. He waits, but when Nico makes no reply, gives him no further sign, Adrian slips out into the grey of early morning.

~ OLYMPUS ~ "Morpheus," the voice was rich, throaty. Female but it's unlikely anyone would ever describe it or its owner as feminine. "What do you have for me?" "Greetings, my queen." This one was male. He spoke softly, sounding sly and perhaps just a bit nervous. "I'm not sure... I think I've discovered something you can use, but..." "So tell me then. What does Zeus' bastard dream of?" "Ah, well... *He* dreams of his dead family. The dreams themselves are pleasant but he wakes to sorrow for their loss." "Sorrow? Is that all?" "I have already taken the liberty of nudging those dreams into nightmares. Now he revisits the moment of their deaths each night. I hope this pleases you?" "It's a start but I don't see anything I can use in it." "No, I agree. It wasn't *his* dreams I was thinking of." "Whose then?" "Do you remember his friend, that little blond whose always getting in the way?" "Iolaus." "Yes... His dreams were more interesting. It seems that he is in love with Hercules. He dreams of telling him. From there the dreams take an erotic turn." "Well, I suppose that explains his loyalty. But what *use* is it?" "You know how *moral* Hercules is. How do you think he'd react to finding out that his best friend wants to fuck him?" Hera smiled. It was a terrifying sight. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ~ A SMALL LAKE 2 DAYS NORTH OF ARGISSA ~ "Wow," Iolaus gasped still struggling to catch his breath. "That has got to be the most intense dream I've ever had!" Now that he was awake, the hunter felt a little embarrassed by it all. It had been quite a while since he'd come in him sleep. "It's a good thing Herc's not here. I'd hate to have to try to explain this to him. I never could lie to him." He sat up grimacing in distaste at the sticky dampness inside his codpiece. Getting cleaned up was now his first priority. The lake's proximity made this an easy task. He simply waded in as is. After splashing around for a few minutes, he skinned out of his clothes and gave them a more thorough wash. Once he was satisfied that everything was clean, he spread them out on the grassy bank to dry. While he waited, he swam for a bit then decided to switch to fishing when his stomach started growling. With all the splashing he'd been doing he had to move to the far side of the lake if he really wanted to catch anything. He packed all his things with him. Leaving his clothes behind, he knew would practically guarantee that someone would come along and take them. He spent the rest of the day fishing quietly from the lakeshore. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ~ ARGISSA ~ Hercules stopped just inside the tavern, giving his eyes a moment to adjust to the lower light. The pause was more than adequate for the innkeeper to identify the new arrival and scurry forward to greet him. "Hercules, welcome back to Argissa!" The man's voice was raised to carry throughout the room. He wanted everyone to know that the Great Hercules Himself chose *this* tavern to dine in. Thereby completely ignoring the fact that he owned the *only* tavern in the village. The demigod smiled indulgently. He had long ago gotten used to this sort of behavior in others. He wished people would just treat him like anyone else but he accepted it as part of his fate. Accordingly he allowed his host to steer him to a prominently placed table. He had just started in on his meal when he was suddenly joined by three women. 'Suddenly' as in they materialized out of thin air. Hercules was startled but quickly regained his composure. "Ladies," he nodded a greeting to the trio. "What brings you here?" The women were beautiful in a remote, untouchable way. They were clearly sisters, almost identical in appearance. The differences between them were born more of attitude than any actual physical variance. The woman to Hercules' right was the sternest looking. Her dark hair was pulled tight in a severe, no nonsense style. Her clothing matched that attitude. It served its function, nothing more. Her black eyes measured Hercules and clearly found him wanting. The second, to Hercules' left, couldn't have been more different while still having the same features and coloring. Her hair hung loose, dancing about her shoulders when she moved. Her calm eyes gazed with serenity at the world before her. The clothing she wore was simple but beautiful in its simplicity and made her appear younger than her sisters. Between them, directly across from Hercules, the third sister struck a balance between the other two. Her hair was neither loose nor rigidly contained. Her clothing was practical but attractive. She had about her an air of patience as though she was waiting for something but there was no sense of anticipation to her vigil. It was she who spoke first. "We're here to help you, Hercules." The demigod couldn't contain a derisive snort. "Right. Hera's handmaidens are here to help me. Sorry, Dike. I'm not biting." "That's not fair, Hercules!" Said the woman to his left. "Hera raised us. We owe her loyalty but we do have minds of our own." "Eirene, I'm sure *you* mean well." The emphasis Hercules put on the word 'you' made it clear that he held no such opinion of the other two goddesses. "No offense, but every time the gods try to 'help' me I end up worse off than before." "Fine," the third member of the trio said. "I told you this was a bad idea. Let's get out of here." "Patience, Eunomia." Dike place a restraining hand on her sister's arm then turned back to her half-brother. "Hercules, we came to give you some information, nothing more. What you do with it is your affair. Do nothing if you think it's best. We won't interfere." The demigod sighed heavily. He wanted nothing more than to send them on their way right now but he couldn't risk it. He'd have to hear them out first. If he didn't, he'd probably regret it. Of course, he'd probably regret listening to them as well but at least he wouldn't be left wondering. "All right," he said. "I'm listening." "Hera's got a new plan to cause you pain." "Wait," Hercules couldn't help interrupting. "You expect me to believe you'd betray Hera! Why?" The question was directed to all of them. Dike answered first. "It isn't right what she's doing to you. She seeks to punish you for a crime committed by our father. That's not justice." Hercules nodded. "It never has been, but you've never tried to help me before." "We weren't in a position to do so before. Make no mistake, Hercules. We will never openly oppose Hera. If it ever comes to battle between you the best you can hope for from us is that we will try to stay out of it. We are simply offering you information now and we only do this because Hera did not explicitly forbid it." "Okay," Hercules said then turned to Eirene. "What about you?" The goddess shrugged. "I just want things to be peaceful. I don't like these constant battles. I don't expect you to be friends with Hera but it would be nice if you could just ignore each other. That will never happen if her schemes to torment you work." The demigod turned to the last member of the Horae. "Eunomia?" "I was out voted," she replied with an impatient snort. Hercules was silent for a moment trying to decide if he could afford to walk away from their information. He wanted to, he didn't trust them, but he knew he couldn't. "What's she planning?" He asked finally. "We don't know exactly," Eirene began. "All we really know is who the target is." "Target?" They had his full attention now. "Yes, it's your friend Iolaus." "When? Do you know?" "She's already started," Dike supplied. "Iolaus... I've got to go!" He was halfway to the door before he remembered to thank them. Dike nodded and the Horae disappeared. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ~ THE LAKE ~ It was the smell of burning fat that finally woke him. Tired eyes opened to discover his meal turning black. Iolaus pulled the rabbit from the fire hoping to salvage something. He only managed to make it worse by dropping the hot meat in the dirt. "Damn, I was really looking forward to that." He retrieved his meal and cleaned it up as well as he could. The outside was completely black and inedible. A quick check showed that the interior wasn't much better. He gave up and disposed of the carcass. Returning to camp, he pulled some stale bread from his sack and tore into it grumpily. He'd been doing that a lot lately, dozing off. The problem was that he wasn't sleeping well at night. He kept having these all too vivid dreams. Every dream featured Hercules in a prominent and passionate fashion. He couldn't understand it. He'd had dreams about the demigod before but never this intense. Something had to give soon. He just hoped it wouldn't be him. This was driving him nuts. It didn't take long to finish his unsatisfying breakfast. That left him wondering what to do with himself. It was late morning, not the best time for fishing. Iolaus really didn't feel like it anyway. Fishing gave him too much time to think and he'd had enough of that lately. He'd spent a lot of time trying to figure out what was going on with his dreams. He'd yet to come up with a single useful idea. So, no fishing. He'd already reset his snares but there was no point in checking them yet. The rabbits weren't likely to come out of their burrows again until dusk. He could make a spear and try a bit of hunting. After a moment's thought, he decided that sounded too ambitious to suit his mood. "I could just sit here and sulk," he told himself disgustedly. He fell back with a frustrated cry and stared up at the sky. "If this is some kind of joke, Aphrodite, I have to tell you it's not funny!" Iolaus sighed deeply. He was hungry, tired, frustrated and even a little worried. Finally, since he couldn't think of anything else to do, he decided to take a nap. He settled in the shade of a nearby tree and was asleep in moments. He never saw the strange peacock eyes watching him from the clouds. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ~ ON THE ROAD NORTH OF ARGISSA ~ He wanted to run, but it would be too easy to miss something if he did. He settled for walking as fast as he could. That was at least pretty fast and he was making good time. For once all the local bandits were cooperating by staying out of his way. Actually, he was a little worried about that. Normally Hera would have thrown obstacles in his path to keep him from arriving in time to rescue his friend. The lack of opposition suggested that he was already too late. He couldn't take it anymore; he started running. Hercules was heading toward a small lake that was supposed to be their rendezvous. They hadn't planned to meet up for another day or so but it seemed like the best place to start. If there were no sign of Iolaus at the lake, he'd just start working his way back to the hunter's last known whereabouts. Whatever it took, Hercules would find his friend. He had to. He *needed* to. It should have taken two days to reach the lake. Hercules got there in one. He found the remnants of a campsite. From the condition of the ashes, Hercules could tell that it had been at least a couple of days since there had been a fire. There were no signs of a fight or struggle. It just looked like the person camping here had packed up and gone on his way. "If Iolaus was here two days ago, where is he now?" There wasn't anyone around to answer that question for him. He'd just have to keep looking. He set off around the lake intending to continue northward. He kept to the cover of the trees. If anyone was lurking nearby there was no sense in advertising his presence. Surprise was too useful a weapon to throw it away carelessly. He was all the way around the lake when he heard it. It was a moan, a low throaty sound. Despite the strange tone, Hercules recognized the voice. He'd found Iolaus. He'd never heard such a desperate note in his friend's voice before. All he could think was that they must be torturing him - whoever 'they' were. The demigod moved forward carefully, scanning for signs of traps or lookouts. Nothing so far. He was too big to be good at sneaking but he was motivated today. "Not much further," he told himself, trying to be patient. A moment later he crested a small rise and in so doing spotted Iolaus. The hunter lay in the shade of a tree, alone. Hercules was puzzled by that. He stopped where he was searching the area carefully. Nothing. He started forward again cautiously. Iolaus moaned and appeared to be writhing about a bit. Hercules could see that the blond's hands were touching his own body. It looked like he was... Hercules froze in place. He'd just gotten close enough to see what Iolaus was doing. The demigod was afraid to move. As close as he was, Iolaus might hear him. That would be too embarrassing. He was a bit frantic, searching for a graceful way out of his dilemma. He looked at Iolaus trying to decide if he should chance moving. His friend chose that same instant to intensify his actions. He began bucking up into his hand and a moment later he cried out his climax. That cry turned Hercules' whole world on its ear. When he'd gotten close enough to see that, far from being tortured, Iolaus was in fact pleasuring himself, Hercules had been embarrassed and, to be honest, a bit aroused. That had been disturbing enough but when Iolaus brought himself to completion calling out Hercules' name... The demigod stood rooted in place while Iolaus panted for breath on the other side of the clearing. Finally the hunter calmed down enough to deal with the mess. He started stripping off his clothes. The vest went first. He shrugged it off as he sat up. Then he reached for his boots. Once they'd been dealt with, he stood up to finish disrobing. As he did so, he glanced up and saw his watcher for the first time. "Hercules? How... how long have you been here?" He asked the question but the stunned expression on the big man's face had already answered it. "What? Oh, uh... not long," Hercules lied badly. "I... um, Iolaus, I..." "Hold that thought, Herc. I'm going for a quick swim. Be right back." The hunter bolted for the lake. Dropping his pants at the last moment, he dove in. He surfaced again near the middle of the lake. Iolaus turned around and searched the shore for Hercules. He was still there. It didn't look like he'd moved at all. "Not good, Iolaus," he told himself. He decided to stay in the water for a while. This would give Hercules a chance to leave if he wanted without the need for explanations or awkward good-byes. He could only hope that this wouldn't be the last time he ever saw his beloved friend. He dashed the tears from his eyes with an impatient gesture and started swimming. Hercules stood staring at the untidy camp. He was still trying to decide how he felt about this unexpected turn of events. He wasn't getting very far though. He shook himself out of his stupor and began gathering up Iolaus' scattered possessions. He moved slowly, lost in thought. Once the camp was in order, he headed for the lakeshore to retrieve the rest of his friend's clothes. Iolaus was still swimming. He was too tired for this really but nervous energy kept him going. He was afraid to stop. He couldn't face Hercules yet, couldn't face the rejection he was sure was coming. So he kept on swimming. He was in the middle of the lake when he felt the first warning twinge. He barely managed two more strokes before the cramp hit full force. Hercules was just stooping over to pick up Iolaus' discarded pants when he heard a startled yelp. He straightened up and scanned the water. There was a disturbance in the middle of the lake and Iolaus' blond head was right in the center of it. The demigod dove in without hesitation to rescue his friend. As he approached, Hercules submerged again. He'd planned to go after whatever was attacking Iolaus but he couldn't find anything. He surfaced next to the still struggling man. "Cramp," Iolaus managed to gasp out between breaths. Hercules put an arm around the hunter and started hauling him to shore. Iolaus was still trying to dig his fingers into the muscles of his leg. The effort was making it difficult for Hercules to keep hold of him. "Iolaus, quit wiggling!" Fortunately the lake was small. They reached the shore quickly. Iolaus immediately went to work two-handed trying to massage out his cramp. A moment later, Hercules batted his hands away and took over. He seemed determined to wrestle the cramp into submission. "Ow! Easy, Herc. I'd kind of like to keep the leg you know." Hercules looked like he was struggling not to say something. It was a struggle he lost. "Iolaus, that was a damn stupid thing to do!" He said, still roughly massaging the cramped leg. "What if I hadn't been here? You could have drowned!" With the pain distracting him, Iolaus didn't think before answering. "If I was alone, I wouldn't have needed to..." At that point his brain kicked in and told him to shut up. "You were hiding from me?" "Maybe," Iolaus answered defiantly. They fell into an awkward silence. Hercules was still rubbing absently at the hunter's leg. Iolaus' body noticed the gentler touch before the rest of him. When it finally registered, he jerked his leg away and draped his arms across his lap in an effort to hide his reaction. He could tell by the look on the demigod's face that he hadn't moved fast enough. So, he did what he always did in tense situations; he joked about it. "Guess the lake wasn't cold enough." Hercules wasn't buying. "Iolaus, we need to talk." "Can't we just forget about this, Herc?" "I don't think I can and... I'm not sure I want to." Hercules sounded like he'd surprised himself with that last comment. "What do you mean?" Instead of answering, the demigod asked a question of his own. "How long have you felt this way?" "A while," was the evasive reply. "Iolaus, please? I'm not angry. Surprised maybe, but not angry." "I've felt this way, more or less, for a long time. Happy?" Once again Hercules ignored his friend's question. "Longer that just the last few weeks or so?" "Oh yeah," the hunter said with a bitter laugh that suggested it had been a *lot* more than a few weeks. "That's a relief." "It is?" Iolaus looked and sounded thoroughly perplexed and perhaps just a little angry. "I'm sorry. I know that doesn't make sense to you but I can explain." *** Hera was furious. This was all wrong. Hercules was supposed to be horrified by Iolaus' lust. He didn't seem to mind at all. He should be demanding explanations; instead he was offering them! She'd seen enough. Subtle didn't work. It was time to be direct. *** There was no warning, no way to stop it. Hercules had just started his explanation his attention all on his friend, when there was a sudden flash of light in the sky. He began turning to look for the cause. In the same instant a fiery bolt arced down and struck Iolaus squarely in his chest. The force of impact knocking the blond several feet away. "Iolaus!" Hercules knelt beside the too still body. He laid a hand on the hunter's throat, checking for signs of life. Nothing. He wouldn't accept it. He tried again, searching carefully for even the faintest pulse. The demigod's concentration was broken by the sound of laughter, female laughter. Hercules looked up and saw the peacock eyes gazing back at him. "Damn you, Hera!" The demigod's anger only increased the goddess' laughter. Satisfied at last with the results of her scheming, Hera turned her attention elsewhere. Hercules was left alone with his grief. He carefully gathered up his friend's body. Never a tall man, Iolaus seemed even smaller now, delicate. The demigod settled his burden carefully, mindful of the dreadful wound on the hunter's chest. He was somewhat irrationally afraid of causing the dead man further harm. Obeying a sudden impulse, Hercules leaned down and gently kissed Iolaus. "I wish I'd done that a long time ago. I wish I'd known you wanted me to Iolaus." Once started, Hercules found he had a lot he needed to say. "I guess you were afraid I'd be repulsed or something and that's why you never told me how you felt. I'm not. We've been friends for so long. I'm closer to you than I have ever been to anyone else. You know things about me... you've seen the darker side I hide from the rest of the world. You're my best friend, my partner. I could never be repulsed by you. I love you too much. Oh gods, I *do* love you Iolaus!" Hercules hugged the blond close and rocked gently. His tears fell unheeded as he lost himself in grief. So lost was he that it took some time before he realized someone else was there. He scrubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand and looked up warily. "Dike." "Hercules, I'm so sorry about all this. It isn't justice and it isn't fair." As she spoke, the goddess knelt across from her grieving brother. She reached out a hand to smooth back the hunter's hair. "No!" Hercules pulled back carrying Iolaus with him. "Don't touch him! Don't *you* dare touch him!" "I'm not your enemy, Hercules. I'm here to..." "I know why you're here," he interrupted. "You're Hera's handmaiden after all. Well, when you tell her how much this hurt me, tell her something else. Tell that bitch that she's destroyed the only person that kept me sane through all her persecution. There's no one holding me back now and I *will* destroy her. That is justice Dike. Hera destroyed me first!" "Hercules, Hera doesn't know I'm here. Truly. I'm not here to spy or even to commiserate. I'm here to help." The demigod gave the goddess a hard look. "Be careful, Dike. Hera's at the top of my list but there's plenty of room for more." "Brother," the goddess sighed. "I do understand really I do. Will you allow me to speak, to explain why I came?" Hercules nodded his assent but his expression remained wary. "I know Zeus has told you before that even gods have rules. Knowing him, that's probably all he told you. Well one of the chief rules, and the one that applies here is never interfere with another god's schemes. It's a rule that gets broken all the time actually, but as king of the gods, Zeus has to be more careful. If he broke the rules as often as Hera, Ares and some of the others do, there'd probably be a revolt. In this case it gives us a loophole to work with." "What do you mean, 'loophole'?" "Killing Iolaus was never part of the plan. She expected you to be horrified when you found out how he felt about you. You upset everything by being understanding." "So she killed him?" "So she killed him," Dike nodded. "And that's where she made a mistake. You already know that Iolaus felt this way for sometime but had been hiding it from you. Morpheus has been invading his dreams, bringing all his feelings out into the open where he couldn't ignore them any more. He did all this with Hera's approval but it was his idea in the first place. So when Hera killed Iolaus, technically she disrupted Morpheus' plan. Since she broke the rules already, anyone can get involved now." Hercules felt the first stirrings of hope. "Anyone?" "Anyone," Dike confirmed with a smile. "Zeus?" "He certainly owes it to you." The demigod carefully set his burden down. Rising to his feet, he turned his face to the heavens. "ZEUS!" A moment later, the king of the gods appeared in a flash of light. "I was wondering when you'd call on me. I'm sorry son. You know I can't undo the work of another god." "That's not how I heard it, farther." Hercules made that last word an accusation. Dike stepped forward at that point. "I've already explained the situation to him, dad. I know you don't want to cross swords with Hera, but this," she gestured toward Iolaus. "Isn't just." "Daughter, you're not going to make this easy for me are you?" "Why should I? You've never made it easy for any of us." Zeus ignored her comment turning back to Hercules instead. "Son, you have no idea how much trouble this will cause." "I don't care! She murdered my wife and children and you did nothing! I gave up my strength in order to marry Serena and you stood by while Strife killed her. And all because of your damned rules! Well, father this time the rules are on *my* side." "Hercules, son... I know he's your friend, but..." "Don't," the demigod interrupted. "Don't you dare belittle him or my feelings. You don't have the right." There was a moment of silence then as both men tried to martial their thoughts. Dike wisely kept out of the argument. She contented herself with watching. "Father," Hercules began quietly. "If you don't give him back to me, Hera really has won. I don't see any reason why I shouldn't just follow him to the Otherside." "He means that much to you?" "Yes." The king of the gods looked closely but could only see sincerity in his son's expression. He turned with a sigh and approached the hunter's still form. Catching sight of Dike, he smiled. "Daughter, I think I'll let you tell Hera about this. I'll be too busy explaining it to Hades after all." The goddess turned pale at the suggestion. "But, dad..." "Now, now, Dike. You chose to get involved," Zeus said shaking a finger at her. "Zeus," Hercules prompted impatiently. With another world-weary sigh, Zeus waved a hand in the air over Iolaus. Instantly the hole Hera's bolt had burned into the blond's chest disappeared. Nothing remained but a slight pinkness and a little soot. In the next instant, Iolaus took a deep shuddering breath and opened his eyes. Hercules rushed to his friend pushing Zeus aside in his haste. "Iolaus, Iolaus," he whispered pulling the somewhat confused hunter into his arms. Zeus stood next to Dike. Both were silent for a time watching with fond bemusement as Hercules checked to make sure Iolaus was really all right. "You know," Zeus began in conversational tones. "Hera's going to give me a lot of grief over this. I really ought to punish you for meddling." "But you won't, will you?" "No?" "Nope. And you can cut the act. You're not fooling me." The king of the gods raised his eyebrows in apparent surprise. "Whatever do you mean, daughter?" Dike smiled fondly at Zeus. "We both know I just gave you an excuse to do what you wanted to do all along." "You, young lady, have been spending entirely too much time with Aphrodite." Dike just laughed at that supposed rebuke. "Come on, dad. We've got some ruffled feathers to smooth and I think these two would like some privacy." Zeus nodded and both deities vanished in a characteristic flash of light. *** Hercules hadn't heard a word of Zeus and Dike's conversation. All his attention was focussed on Iolaus. "You're sure you feel okay?" He asked, brushing his hand across the fading pink mark on the hunter's chest. "Herc, I'm fine. Honest." The demigod's only reply was to pull his friend into another hug. He clutched the blond to him somewhat desperately. The anxiety and upsets of the last couple of days left him in need of reassurance. "Hercules," Iolaus' voice was soft. "Are you crying?" "Sorry, Iolaus. That was just too close. I almost lost you, my friend. I *did* lose you. You were dead." "Again?" The hunter grinned ruefully. Hercules laughed shakily. "Yeah, again. It was worse this time though." "Worse?" "Much." Iolaus pulled back so that he could see the big man's face. One look confirmed the true depth of Hercules' feelings but Iolaus was afraid to believe what he saw. It was so like his dreams. He was sure he was imagining it or reading too much into things. "Herc?" Hercules saw the uncertainty in Iolaus' eyes. Leaning forward, he settled the question with a kiss. It began gently but emotions were running too high for that to last. The demigod was amazed at how right this felt. He moved instinctively, flicking his tongue out to lightly caress Iolaus' lips. The hunter sighed, opening his mouth in invitation, an invitation that was gladly accepted. Hercules pressed closer and sent his tongue exploring. Iolaus melted into the strong arms of his beloved. If this was just another dream, he didn't care. He'd been telling the truth when he said he was all right. He felt fine, physically. Emotionally, though, he was still a bit of a mess. It was comforting just having Hercules hold him. The kisses were a nice bonus, very nice. As Iolaus relaxed he settled back pulling the demigod down with him. They ended up with the hunter flat on his back and Hercules lying half on top of him. It was a position that suited the big man's protective instincts. Those instincts were still on full alert after all that had happened and they signaled him at the first sign of trouble. It was just a little thing: Iolaus squirmed. Hercules' instincts told him that the smaller man was uncomfortable. He pulled back immediately, releasing Iolaus. "I'm sorry, Iolaus. I shouldn't... I just assumed and well... I'm sorry." "Shh. I'm fine and I, umm, liked what you were doing. Honest." He reached out trying to pull Hercules back into his arms but the demigod resisted. "Unless... do *you* want to stop?" "No!" The vehemence in Hercules voice surprised both of them. "It's just, a lot has been going on. Hera's been messing with you somehow or at least planning to. And she did kill you. You're back, okay... You are okay, right?" The hunter nodded, bemused by the flood of words coming from his normally taciturn friend. "I'm okay." "So, if you're okay and you want this, why were you squirming like you were trying to get away?" "Oh, that." "Yes, that." "Herc, I wasn't - no actually, I suppose I *was* trying to get away, but not from you. It was those darn rivets in your belt. They were digging into my hip. Probably left a bruise or two already." "Well we'd better stop then. Wouldn't want you getting all bruised." Hercules tried to play it serious but his relief was too great. He couldn't contain his smile. "Or," Iolaus countered. "We could just get rid of the belt." "But Iolaus, then my clothes might fall off." Hercules teased. The blond responded by pushing the bigger man over on to his back and attacking the offending belt with a passion. He moved on to the rest of the demigod's somewhat complicated clothing making short work of it. It occurred to Hercules to wonder how Iolaus had gotten so good at removing other peoples' clothes. Then he realized he probably didn't want to know after all. In no time, Iolaus had removed everything except Hercules' breechcloth. Here he hesitated, afraid of going too far too fast. Hercules settled the question by removing this last piece of clothing himself. Iolaus sat back on his heels openly admiring the view. He watched as Hercules blushed from the intensity of that frank stare. The hunter reached out and gently, reverentially placed his hand on the demigod's thigh. His eyes closed briefly in blissful appreciation. When he opened them again, his gaze locked with that of Hercules. "I love you, you know." The words were soft, serious. Hercules smiled. "I know." He reached up and pulled the hunter down for a slow, thorough kiss that left them both momentarily breathless. The demigod recovered first and hugged Iolaus close, nuzzling the bright curls. "I love you too, Iolaus. I only just realized that today but then I've always been slow." "Slow is good," Iolaus commented, illustrating the point by running his hand slowly down the demigod's side. He kept the touch light, teasing, and smiled when he felt Hercules shiver under his touch. He drew random patterns with his fingers, gradually working his way across the big man's torso. Turning his head, he pressed a kiss into the hollow at the base of Hercules' throat. Then he began nibbling his way along the collarbone out to one shoulder. Hercules lay still, enjoying everything Iolaus was doing but unsure how to reciprocate. If Iolaus were a woman, he'd know exactly what to do, but... The demigod's lack of response finally registered with Iolaus and he paused, pulling back to look. "Are you really all right with this, Herc? I mean, you want to do this?" "Yes," the big man smiled. "Oh, yes, Iolaus. I want to do this. I'm just not sure what, exactly, to do." "Anything you want, Hercules. Anything you want." "I want to touch you." Iolaus' smile was incandescent. "Then touch me." Hercules pulled the hunter up and over so that the smaller man lay sprawled across him. He was startled by heat of Iolaus' erection pressing into his belly but quickly decided that he liked the sensation. He especially liked knowing that he was the cause of Iolaus' arousal. He ran his left hand up his friend's smooth back and buried his fingers in the soft blond hair. He then used it to pull Iolaus down for more kisses. His other hand ran up and down the broad back in slow lazy stokes. He explored every inch, every bit he could reach. Once he was satisfied he'd completely mapped that area; his hand moved lower encountering the firm buttocks. He gave that flesh an experimental squeeze. Iolaus' moan encouraged him to continue. He dug his fingers in, kneading solid muscles. Iolaus had not been idle all this time. He'd been caught off guard when Hercules had pulled him over but it hadn't taken him long to adjust and begin taking advantage of the position he found himself in. He unconsciously copied Hercules' movements, combing the fingers of one hand through the demigod's thick hair while running the other up and down Hercules' side, caressing and massaging every bit he could reach. He began rubbing his feet along the big man's calves. The movement caused his weight to settle completely on Hercules. The pressure on his trapped cock wasn't something he could ignore any longer. He began moving, rocking his hips into Hercules. It was too one-sided. He straightened his legs trapping his lover's erection between his thighs. Now when he moved, they both benefited. It didn't take long for Hercules to catch on. He matched Iolaus' rhythm with movements of his own. He rocked his hips, sliding his cock along the tight space. He could feel the muscles in Iolaus' thighs flexing as he moved, tightening and relaxing around him. His actions grew, as did his arousal. The rocking motion became bucking. The big man's movements threatened to dislodge Iolaus, so the hunter shifted his grip. He locked his arms around the demigod's neck and stretched his legs out so that his toes were pressing down on Hercules' feet. Balanced between these two points, Iolaus rode with his lover. His own needs were temporarily ignored as he concentrated on Hercules. This new position took the demigod's mouth out of reach. Iolaus switched his attentions to the strong throat, nuzzling and sucking at the sensitive flesh. Hercules threw his head back, neck arching under Iolaus' mouth. 'It's too much,' he thought. 'Oh, gods! Too much.' "Iolaus!" The demigod shouted as he came. His back arched almost painfully as he thrust up hard against his lover. Moments later he collapsed blissfully sated. Hercules' arms encircled the blond's broad back, holding him close. When the hunter shifted, he tightened his grip thinking Iolaus meant to roll over and not wanting him too. He wanted to fall asleep just like this. It felt so good, so right. The hunter moved again. Hercules was about to complain when he realized what the problem was. Iolaus had yet to reach his climax. The demigod loosened his grip, giving the other man room to move. His hands slid down the length of Iolaus' back. Hercules gripped the blond's ass, digging fingers into soft skin and hard muscle. He flexed his arms, adding his strength to Iolaus' own movements. That last action pushed Iolaus over the edge. He'd been nibbling gently on Hercules' neck when his orgasm swept over him. The intensity of the feeling caused him to bite down a bit hard but he was too lost in sensation to notice. His muscles clenched almost painfully. As the last spasm faded he relaxed, sinking into the demigod's embrace. "Love you," Iolaus whispered. "I love you too," the big man replied. The hunter somehow managed to snuggle closer and Hercules sighed contentedly. One hand rose to play with the yellow curls nestled against his throat. He had no idea what tomorrow would bring, how the change in their relationship would affect things but for now, life was good. They were happy and that was the most important thing. Whatever challenges the new day brought, they would face them together. And that's how it should be.

"Dief, would you please stop complaining?" My look at Dief is very close to a scowl, I'm afraid, but Diefenbaker has been trying my patience for more than an hour now. "You know you need more exercise. You're not supposed to live on a diet of donuts, you know. Even if Ray is setting a bad example." Dief huffs quietly and pointedly ignores me, as usual. My wolf is getting soft. But I can't find it in myself to blame Ray for slipping him the occasional donut here and there. I very much can't be angry at Ray for anything at the moment... The next passerby looks at me strangely for a moment, and I realize that I must be wearing a pretty silly grin on my face. My face gets warm in embarrassment, but for once, I don't care. I stop at the shop entrance to my right and politely hold open the door for the overwrought-looking woman with the heavy shopping bags trying to slip out of her grasp, allowing her to step out on the street. She gives me a half smile and a short "Thank you." before she hurries to the bus, managing to press herself through its doors only a second before the vehicle screeches away again, leaving a little cloud of exhaust fumes that makes me sneeze. Dief whines. I turn around, exasperated. "Seriously, Dief, you can't just have donuts, you have to take the rest of Chicago along with them. Yes, it is pollution, and yes, it's not healthy. Neither for you nor for me. But you decided for yourself to accompany me to this city instead of staying up north, so please don't complain. I'd give a lot to see snow again, too." Diefenbaker is still sitting on his haunches on the pavement and looks at me darkly. "Alright, I'm giving up." I throw my hands up in disgust. "You win -- I'll get you something to eat at the canteen, too. Satisfied?" Dief jumps up, his tongue lolling. And I'm sure I'm not imagining the smirk on his face. He's by my side in an instant, eagerly trotting forward. We're meeting Ray for dinner directly after work. I promised to call for him at the 27th precinct and ...well... persuaded him to join me for a meal at the new canteen that's opened around the corner a week ago. Ray eats much too irregularly for his own good -- he's far too skinny. Try as he might, he won't be able to convince me that five to eight cups of coffee, flavored with M&Ms, a donut and a sandwich (if he's lucky) constitute a healthy meal during the day. We've been eating mostly pizza in the evening, at Ray's apartment. Ray having the number of the delivery service as his number one speed dial speaks volumes about his regular eating habits... and he can't cook. He's been trying incessantly to convince me that takeout is the American custom for dinner, but somehow I rather doubt that. I've carefully offered to do the cooking myself, but Ray let me tell him a little about the ingredients I intended to use, and cut me off in the middle with a horrified exclamation. Somehow he refused to adapt to the idea that vegetables, nuts and fruits can actually be meshed rather enticingly to create a tasteful dish -- and I can't, for the life of me, eat another pineapple pizza. Dief has a contrary opinion, I'm afraid. Oh well. So the idea of trying out the canteen came up after talking with Detectives Huey and Dewey. They assured me they went there a lot -- several times a week, to be correct -- and that it was actually quite delicious. Even qualifying that statement (and talking to one of the employees there yesterday) encouraged me to bring Ray there today. Four meals to choose from, a salad bar, soups and... "Yes, dessert, Dief. I understood you the first time, don't worry. But sweets aren't good for you so this time, you'll have to abstain. Don't look at me like that. I already conceded to let you have some of the main course, but here I do draw the line." Dief doesn't dignify this statement with a response, instead setting off to the entrance of a building he knows very well. Oh, we've already reached the station. I nod to Sergeant Merrill and hold open the door for her to pass, then I step inside and try to find Ray amidst the customary chaos of the squad room. "You looking for Vecchio?" Leftenant Welsh doesn't even wait for my confirmation; he just brushes past me in a hurry and jerks his hand towards interrogation room three, indicating I'll find Ray there. I doubt he can still hear it, but I utter a "Thank you kindly, sir." nonetheless. Francesca catches up with me before before I'm even halfway across the squad room. "Francesca, can I help you?" She smiles at me, brushes a stray lock of her hair behind her left ear and puts a restraining hand on my sleeve. "Fraser, Ray's busy right now. The jeweler break-ins? You remember?" "Ah. The robbery case." I nod and clear my throat. "They got one of the guys, but the Lieutenant thinks he's not gonna talk. But Ray wanted to try until his lawyer arrives." A hustle in the background, and an indignant voice speaking up loudly, demanding to see Leftenant Welsh, makes it clear that the lawyer in question has indeed arrived. Francesca just rolls her eyes exaggeratedly and takes her hand away from my arm, looking for the Leftenant. "He went downstairs just a minute ago." I point out helpfully and breathe a secret sigh of relief as she sets off in search of him. Her attention still manages to make me flustered, I'm afraid. Ray thinks it's hilarious, and afterwards gleefully likes to point out how much he enjoys me blushing, 'keeping in style with my uniform', he tends to say. I flush a little bit more at that thought and crack my neck embarrassedly before continuing my way to the interrogation rooms. And right on cue, Ray steps out of it, looking irritated, tired and more than just mildly annoyed. Elaine smiles at him apologetically as the lawyer hurries past her and pushes past Ray to join his client. "Couldn't keep him away from you for longer, Ray, I'm sorry. Didn't want to wait for Welsh, didn't want a coffee, and knew right where the interrogation rooms are." Ray just rubs his eyes and mutters: "Well, good luck for the guy. Perp did his best imitation of a clam or whatever. Didn't get his mouth open -- not a single word in an hour. Threatened to pop him one, but the guy just didn't budge." He sighs disgustedly, and then he sees me. I see the delighted smile he barely keeps in check -- his face reveals nothing, but his eyes shine at the sight of me, a warm blue that makes me shiver. Twelve hours without him, and all I've been able to think about has been him. It's still so new, the thing between us. Like a newborn infant, as fragile, tender and heartbreakingly beautiful. It's like it shines, the emotion pouring out of his oh so expressive eyes, and I'm positive that my eyes would reveal at least as much if anyone were looking for it. Thankfully, though, so far no one has. Ray's eyes crinkle at the edges, and the corners of his mouth rise slightly. It has been three weeks as of today, and I still can't get enough of Raymond Kowalski. Not nearly enough. Never. With a huge effort, I manage to tear my gaze away from his inviting lips, the strong jaw and the blonde beard stubble that feels so enticing against my tongue... I'm sure I must be blushing again, and curse my fair skin, but Ray just smiles a little bit wickedly, the amusement in his eyes telling me he knows exactly what I've been thinking about. I smile back, exhilarated, and want nothing more than to touch him, but we're at the 27th precinct, and besides, I promised myself I'd get a good meal into Ray tonight before attempting anything else. He agreed, and I fully intend to keep him at his word. He is far too slim for his height, although I love the feeling of his pelvis bone so close under his smooth skin... "Frannie, tell Welsh I'll be back tomorrow morning to get the paperwork done. Figure that suit'll get Manzetti off anyway, and besides, it's Tom's case. He just wanted me to try to crack that guy. Wish it'd have worked." Ray yells at Francesca over the noise in the room, grabs his coat and drags me to the door. I shake my head, dazed, and just lose myself in the touch of Ray's warm, reassuring hand on my arm, allowing myself to be led out of the room, out of the building, and into the street. "So, Frase, where is this great canteen you've been blithering on about?" Ray smiles at me. "How did you know I was going to suggest...?" "Ya know the Duck Boys. Dewey has a big mouth." Ray grins unrepentantly and does a little dance-step in the middle of the street. I clear my throat unsuccessfully and manage a little gesture to the next block of houses southwest of the station. Just where Dief is heading, ignoring me, as usual. Oh dear. I just remembered that it's prohibited to bring dogs into the canteen. Standard legal requirements. Diefenbaker will have to wait at the entrance -- and he certainly won't like it. I sigh and look over at Ray. He has put his hands into the pockets of the blazer he's wearing, a light charcoal grey and quite fetching, I might add, and seems to be lost in thought. His dark blonde hair is sticking up as enticingly as always, apparently having a mind of its own although I know now that the seemingly casual, windblown style is, in fact, carefully arranged. And despite it looking spiky and, ah yes, 'rebellious', it is, indeed, soft and... wonderful... to touch. Ahem. I readjust the collar of my uniform and usher Ray closer to the entrance of a tall brick building. He squints at the small sign, almost hidden from view, that disclaims that this canteen, originally belonging to the office building next to it, is indeed open to all customers. It also makes it clear that smoking, cell phones and, yes, dogs, are banned from the premises. Dief makes a protesting sound deep in his throat and looks at me reproachfully. I sigh again and kneel down next to him, taking his jaw and speaking directly into his face, enunciating clearly: "Yes, Dief, you are correct -- dogs aren't allowed here." Ray makes a funny noise behind me but otherwise, stays quiet. "I understand, and I apologize. I wasn't aware of that fact until shortly before we arrived here. No, of course I will not require you to wait here at the entrance next to that sign and the water dish. I know you are perfectly capable of returning here in... let's say half an hour. And yes, we will bring you some food from here -- even if I forgot, which is quite unlikely to happen, I assure you -- Ray wouldn't let you go hungry." Dief looks at Ray who winks at him, a small smile hiding in the corner of his mouth. "No, I'll make sure personally that Fraser don't forget you, Dief." Diefenbaker arrogantly overlooks the yipping Yorkshire terrier at the water bowl and takes off, walking casually back into the direction we came from. Surely some interesting scents he ignored in his eagerness to accompany us here. Ah well. I turn back to Ray again, puzzled by his uncharacteristic silence. Oh dear. Suddenly I'm not getting enough air, excess lung capacity none withstanding, and feel my face getting warm, no, hot. His look... He's watching me like there's no one in the world apart from the two of us, and the sheer, unadulterated desire in his dilated dark blue eyes makes it impossible to breathe. I'm drowning in his intense gaze, helpless to resist, and, like in a dream, feel myself reach out to him. Firm, warm, finely-muscled flesh under my fingers -- his arm -- and I'm tugging him with me, up the stairs which are thankfully empty, but before we reach the head of the staircase, his arm is moving under mine, his hand turning, gripping my forearm instead, hard and insistent, and I let myself be led. Instead of ducking behind the hall-stand like I expected him to do, planning to do the same myself just moments ago to steal a kiss from those tempting narrow lips, he drags me into a smaller room with white tiles and a long line of sinks and towel dispensers. The washroom. Dear God. I groan almost imperceptibly and try to resist for a moment, but he's far too determined. Through another open doorway into the second room we go, the urinals (unoccupied, too, I'm grateful to add) on one side facing a row of stalls on the other. A short glimpse tells me that their doors close almost level with the white-tiled floor, and I feel one of them slamming into its lock behind us before I can utter a single word of protest. And Ray's mouth is on mine only a heartbeat later. At first, only our lips touch, deceptively soft despite the urgency behind it, but almost immediately, Ray's hands come up to cup my jaw, he angles my head to his liking and his tongue enters my mouth. I bite back a groan and involuntarily arch into his touch. I feel him grinning against my lips and find enough self-restraint to prevent our kiss from getting even more intimate. Ray takes his hands away from my face and looks at me, hurt quickly hidden in his expressive eyes. "Frase?" Though he means the word as a question, his husky voice makes my name a sensual caress. I look at him, still dazed, and instinctively lick my lips, still able to taste his intoxicating flavor. Desire flares up in my gut like a wildfire, and I can't speak, only stare at him, helpless, motionless. I watch his eyes first get wide in sudden understanding, then dilate even further so that only a tiny ring of blue is left, and he takes a determined step forward. Now he's pressed against me again, only this time, he doesn't make a move to kiss me. He just presses his forehead against mine. I feel his warm breath on my face and inhale deeply. I feel him swallowing. "Ben, ya got no idea how it turns me on." I have to swallow before I can answer. "What?" Oh, I'm monosyllabic. Oh dear. "That big-eyed Mountie look. That little tongue action. Oh god, Frase, everything about ya turns me on, and, fuck, ya know it!" "I'm... I'm not doing it on purpose, Ray, I assure you..." "I know.", Ray whispers emphatically before resorts to the simple method of kissing me again to prevent me from more talking. I exhale into his mouth, curiously light-headed, drugged by the addicting taste of his mouth, the feel of his hot, slick tongue stroking mine... He breaks away again, cupping my jaw and locking our eyes as he backs me up against the wall to the right. I feel a hard, cold ledge bite into my back and grunt a little in discomfort. The window-sill. Ray took the toilet stall to the right which has a window (thankfully stained glass, I might add) that faces the court yard, two floors down... My brain registers all those facts before I maneuver us a little bit more to the left. I now feel the cold tiles against my back -- oh, and something else. Against my leg, I feel... "Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray." "Ben. Yer sayin'?" "N-nothing, Ray." I close my mouth and bite back the groan that's rising in me at the feel of the hot, hard length of his cock, pressing against my thigh. I swallow convulsively. All the moisture in my mouth seems to have evaporated. "Good. 'Cause I want you." Ray's grin is blinding in the dimly lit stall. I stare at him, transfixed -- he's clearly almost painfully aroused, eager to... Oh. Now I can interpret his unusual silence. "You've been holding this back since we left the station, haven't you, Ray?" Now that I think back, he's been walking here not with his usual loose gait, but rather tense, the hands in his jacket pockets disguising any telltale -- bulge -- in his jeans. He just nods, jerkily, and the smoldering fire in his eyes flickers up even more. He moves again, more slowly this time, carefully regarding my face. This... desire... between us is still so new. He must be scared I'd reject his advances in public. My mind is in turmoil. I know the right thing -- the proper thing -- to do would be to tell him regrettably, but firmly, that this here is neither the place nor the time for... how did he call it? Some 'hanky-panky'? Oh yes. And if my father were here -- and I offer fervent prayer to whatever deity's watching us that I'll be spared his appearance right now -- he'd tell me the same thing. I can almost hear his dry tones. Ray's face shuts down as I whip away from his embrace and frantically look around the stall. No flash of red serge, no fur-hat, no 'helpful' suggestions, no dry wit, no ghost - in short: no Robert Fraser. Thank god. Ray's fingers are already feeling for the lock on the door. He jerks back in surprise the moment my hand covers his. "Fraser, what the hell are ya doin'..." More protests are smothered in our next kiss. Something barely tamed struggles in my chest, trying to get out, and I let some of that wildness escape as I frame Ray's face and move him back into the middle of the stall. I tilt back his head a little to get even better access to the hot wetness of his mouth and take my time to taste, really taste him. Flavor explodes on my tongue -- cinnamon, a hint of chocolate and coffee, and a spicy taste that's uniquely Ray. I moan into his mouth and touch his tongue with mine. The softness of the inside of his lips, the smooth surface of his teeth, his palate and finally, the agile roughness of his tongue. I feel the uneven texture of his beard stubble against my palms and moan again, stroking along his jaw line, the whiskers stimulating the pads of my fingers. Finally, Ray seems to have shaken off his paralysis and begins to respond to my oral caresses. His lips begin to move, and his tongue reciprocates my hesitant explorations. Suddenly, his hands are gripping me tightly around the waist, allowing full body contact. This time, we both moan. His lean, lithe body is warm, no hot through the thin t-shirt and the open jacket, and even two layers of wool and cotton can't prevent me from feeling that heat flare. Or from shuddering in reaction to his erection pressed even more firmly to my own groin now. I feel myself react and groan into his mouth, stumbling a little, but I soon regain my footing and turn him a little. He follows me, dazed, our mouths still locked together. It's like on the Henry Allen. My hands are on his face, and we're sharing our breath. Back then, I wished nothing more than for it to be a real kiss instead of a simple act of friendship to save his life -- even back then, I loved him... How could I say no to Ray now? No one sees us, in fact, the whole washroom is deserted. I back Ray against the window-sill and move my hands from his face to his waist. He clearly has no idea what I'm about to do -- his breath huffs out a little in surprise as I lift him bodily onto the sill. But he gets it immediately. I feel his lips curve under mine; a smile and an assent. Still, he tries to follow me with his mouth the moment I reluctantly release his lips. "Ben..." His eyes are huge and dark and fixed on my face. He reaches out with a trembling hand, the bracelet glimmering silver in the spare light, and caresses my face. From brow to nose, lips, chin, just touching me, softly, tenderly. I smile at him, all my barriers down, and he inhales sharply, a whole world of meaning in his intent gaze. Love, trust, happiness, passion. All for me. My cut-off breath sounds like a sob in the sudden silence of the room. The next sound is metallic. His zipper, opening, parting down. Almost detached, I watch my own hands, opening his jeans carefully, reaching inside to prevent the teeth from catching his underwear, and easing it all down to his ankles. My detachment disappears in the eruption of fire in my gut at the feeling of the soft, warm skin of his belly under my hands. At the sight of his nakedness, the expanse of golden skin revealed to my hungry gaze. "Ray..." My voice is nothing more but a breathy whisper. He nods jerkily and I watch his adam's apple bob in the long, smooth arch of his throat as he leans his head back against the cold pane of the window behind him. I stand between his spread legs and admire the soft glitter of gold that leads from below his navel to his groin, the bush of soft pubic hair and his erection, already wet and shiny, that's just waiting for my touch. Long, slender, elegant, just like the rest of him. Dusky, and dark red at the tip. My finger reaches out to caress it. Running it along the hot, soft, incredibly silky skin, I swallow once more. The former dryness in my mouth is now replaced by a sudden rush of saliva. I can't wait to taste the feast spread out in front of me. Ray's eyes spring open again as I run my hands up his belly to his chest, carefully ghosting over his nipples under the t-shirt. His ragged indraw of breath sounds like a sigh, and I feel the small nubs of flesh under my fingers pebble into hard points. I feel a smile curving my mouth at his responsiveness. Tugging and playing with them soon has him panting, his eyes locked on mine, tenderness and fire combined in their fantomless depths. The next sound of his mouth sounds suspiciously like a whimper. My mouth stretched around his cock, I can't smile this time, but the small sound above me makes my heart sing. My neck crinks painfully, but I mustn't lose visual contact. I need to see the wordless pleasure on Ray's face... His right hand burrows almost painfully into the short hair at my nape. I feel the warm metal of his bracelet against my sweaty skin, and shudder in reaction. The other hand unclenches from where it's been clutching at my shoulder, leaving me feeling bereft. The tiled floor is cold and unforgiving under my knees, but right now, I couldn't care less. I only feel a flush of intense heat run through me. I watch with hot eyes as Ray trembles even more and moves his left hand to his mouth, biting the cloth of his sleeve to prevent further sounds from emerging. His eyes beg, urging me on. How could I resist? I take him in until he touches the back of my mouth, relishing the taste and the feeling of silk over steel pressing against my tonsils. I told Ray two weeks ago that it only takes determination and conscious relaxation of your jaw and throat muscles to do this, and I'm right -- it's no difficulty to swallow him down. From above me, a muffled groan escapes. Ray's eyes look totally black now, I notice, but the faint current of amusement is almost immediately replaced by hunger, and, yes, want. I move my mouth up and down on his penis, licking and sucking, always swallowing deeply at the end. I want to see him lose all restraint, I want to hear him yell my name in the throes of passion, I want to bring him to climax, I want to taste his seed... The door to the washroom creaks in its hinges. We both freeze, Ray on the sill, me on the floor, our eyes conveying our mutual panic at being discovered. I open my mouth and let his erection slip from my mouth, reflexively licking my lips. Ray takes a shuddering breath and moves his arm, wincing a little. The imprint of his teeth is clearly visible in the cloth of his sleeve. He holds his index finger to his lips and I nod. Frozen in mid-movement, we barely dare to breathe. A faucet is turned on. Sound of water running, then of paper towels being ripped from the dispenser. The jet of water ceases. Rapid steps in the direction of the door. The door creaks again and falls into its latch. The man has left. Simultaneously, Ray and I breathe again. The amusement in his eyes quickly fades again to desire as I resume my movements from before and take him into my mouth again. He is cold and has wilted a little, but my next swallow remedies that. I bring up my right hand and start to caress the inside of his thighs, luxuriating in the soft, warm skin beneath my fingers before I move them up to stroke his testicles, hot, swollen and already close to his body. Ray's close, and so am I. I sigh a little around the wet flesh in my mouth, move a little on my knees and try to adjust the hardness between my legs. Standard RCMP-issued trousers are comfortable, even 'baggy', but even those can only stretch so far. Ray's eyes haven't left mine, and he has to raise his arm to his mouth again. His testicles tighten even more, and I feel a warm spurt in my mouth. I taste his semen, swallowing hungrily, relishing in its taste, already eager for more. His eyes widen, the pupils expanded to their maximum, his breath hitches in helpless rapture, his jaw locks so hard I see his the muscles in his cheeks bunch together, and he comes in my mouth in hot, scalding bursts. I swallow again and again. An almost incomprehensible word presses past the barrier of cloth. My name. 'Ben', not Fraser. I smile. My own erection is so hard it hurts, but this can wait. What can't wait is the indescribable tenderness in Ray's eyes. There's no trace of the tough attitude he likes to show to the world, none of the insecurity he expresses around State Attorney Stella Kowalski, no sign of the disillusionment that often colors his every action on the street. Here and now, he is mine. Utterly and completely, and I'm happier than I've ever been in my life. I clean his penis with long, tender licks, then I can't resist and bury my face in his groin briefly, addicted to the smell and the warmth of the tender flesh. "Jeezus, yer like a cat sometimes, Fraser. But hey..." I look up again, my eyebrows raised. "Ya know, I like cats. A lot. And even more when they're all dark, shiny pelt, big blue eyes an' tender paws. Oh, and... hungry." His voice trails of suggestively, he winks at me and suddenly, once more there's not enough air to breathe in the stall. "Ray...", I whisper thickly. My throat closes up at the mixture of passion and tenderness on his face. "Whadda ya want me to do, Fraser?" He has slid from the window sill and is now only a hair's breadth away from me, his jeans still open, his t-shirt rumpled, his voice quiet but incredibly hot. "Want me to kiss ya? Stroke ya? Lick ya? Or..." He trails of suggestively and gives me a delighted grin at my predictable blush. I forget all about our environment. The dangerous situation we are in, here, in a men's room in a public canteen. Forget about the possibility of discovery -- forget about everything but this volatile, insecure, endearing, strangely gentle man in front of me. He has told me he loves me five times now, counting today. At first, he couldn't say the words; I was similarly inhibited. My past had taught me to guard my heart, to keep my emotions in check. Only twenty days, and Ray has managed to crumble all my carefully erect walls. From the very day we met -- the day a stranger embraced me in front of Ray Vecchio's desk -- I couldn't really keep him out, although I tried for a long time. He's closer to me than anyone else on this Earth. He has touched my heart and my body in ways I had never envisioned, never expected. I didn't think life had that much in store for me. After Victoria, I had been sure that I would have to live my life without love... But now, I do have love. I have Ray. I can still taste his climax in my mouth, and his nearness is intoxicating. I can't resist the sensuality that radiates from him. Don't want to. And now, I know what I really want. Him. "I want the 'or', Ray." "Huh?" His brows are wrinkled in confusion, and he stares at me hungrily, uncomprehending. His fingers have somehow gotten underneath my tunic and are now stroking the skin at the small of my back. I shudder in reaction and press closer against his hand. "I want you to..." My face is warm again, and, despite trying, I still can't get the words out. I think I see what you describe as 'dawning comprehension' on his face, but just to make it abundantly clear, I turn around, towards the wall next to the window, and lean against it with my forearms supporting my body, shifting, broadening my stance. Showing him with my body what I can't put into words. Suddenly, his face presses against my neck, and I can feel him swallow. "Not very comfortable, Ben. Sure ya want that? That way?" His renewed erection is pressing hard against my backside, but he's still offering me a way out. The insecure note in his voice is still there as well -- like he told me two weeks and three days ago, he is still "so not used to gettin' to see behind that Mountie mask ya wear all the time, Frase", as he put it. Perceptive as usual. I haven't told him about Victoria. Not yet. Perhaps not soon. But one day, I will. What I foolishly took for love on her part made me first aware of that wild, untamed part of me that needs to connect to another person on the deepest level, the part that's reckless, egotistical and incapable of caring about consequences. But Ray doesn't feed that part. Oh, he loves me reckless and untamed in love-making, but he hasn't got that darkness inside that almost made me ruin my best friend's career, family, home and reputation. It's safe for me to let go. And so I do. Not often, but now and then the need overwhelms me, and right now, I'm glad to let myself be overwhelmed. Desire, lust and tenderness crash over me in waves. Ray's mouth is against my neck, biting me softly, then harder. Below the hairline where my collar will cover it. Even now, he's thoughtful and considerate. I tremble against the cool tiles on my face. His hands have opened my tunic. He doesn't try to remove it completely -- he knows here's neither the time nor the place for it -- but pushes aside my suspenders and the henley I'm wearing underneath. I don't know how he succeeded in opening my Sam Browne, but my passion-glazed brain doesn't even care. After all, Ray wore Turnbull's uniform once -- he must know how the snaps and buckles open... My trousers are at mid-thigh now, and Ray groans in frustration because he doesn't succeed in getting them further down. My boots interfere. His lips curve against my now sweat-slicked neck in a reluctant smile. I smile myself, equally mute, communicating just the same. He gives up and nudges my legs apart as much as the bunched amount of cloth allows. I feel a cold current of air against my backside and groan. Ray's mouth leaves my neck, and I strain a little backwards to resume contact with him, but encounter only air. A second later I do know why. Ray kisses... my backside. From the place where my spine flows into my buttocks down the cleft, separating my cheeks and exposing me first to cool air (I shiver again), then to the hot, wet warmth of his tongue. I shudder against the wall, wondering how I can possibly stay on my feet at this sensation. "Like that, Ben?" His voice is smooth and silky, in it layers upon layers of feelings... I can only nod and open my legs wider, mutely begging him to continue. He rubs his face against the skin of my buttocks, and I bite back a moan of delight at the rough texture of his beard stubble, caressing my tender flesh. Somehow I find my voice again. "Ray. Please." He presses a kiss against my left cheek in wordless reassurance and, thankfully, stops teasing me. I hear him rummage in the pockets of his jacket and then the sound of a small tube being opened. 'Always prepared, like the boy scouts'. Oh yes. The first touch of the slick gel against my anus makes me bite my lips in a desperate attempt to keep back the scream that lodges in the back of my throat. I tremble in anticipation. Ray's fingers quickly warm it and begin to circle my opening, light and teasing. I push back against his flirtatious hand, wanting, needing deeper contact. Just -- like this. Yessss. The slow, careful entry of one finger is pure torture. I try to deepen the penetration, but Ray holds my hips firmly, not allowing me to move. My own erection is positively painful now, pressing against my belly. I feel light-headed and out of control. It was heard enough not to climax with Ray's penis in my mouth, smelling, tasting his excitement... and now, with him touching me in such an intimate way... I angle my hips a little. The short brush of my heated flesh against the cool tiles makes sure my bodily needs don't vanquish my wish to have Ray come inside me. Two fingers, sure now and steady, raking across my prostate. I hear a soft, vulnerable sound in the air, almost a stifled sob, and realize I've uttered it. "Please." Barely audible. He just feels so good. Opening me up, preparing me, stoking the flames higher and higher, burning me, swallowing me whole. No need for further preparation. It's a conscious thing to do, to relax the relevant muscles, although Ray claims it's unnatural to have that much control over autonomic reflexes. I press back against him, impatient, and he understands without words. Yes, we are a true duet now. A rustle behind me, and I feel his hot, renewed arousal rub wetly against my loosened opening, sending a sharp, jagged shard of desire through me. His mouth is back on my neck; his panting in my ear cause shivers to run down my spine. Ray wants me! Twenty days, and I still can't believe it. The heat between us warms me to the core. No more ice inside my heart. I'll never be cold again. The first careful push against my anus comes almost as a surprise. This time, I can't hold back the moan, and hear Ray echo it behind me. Heat, and kind of a burning sting, despite the lubricant, then his hard, swollen penis is pushing into me. I feel so many things at once: The throbbing hot length that's slowly entering me, stretching me, filling me, the tickling sensation of his pubic hair against my testicles, the rasp of his zipper against my buttocks, the overwhelming urgency in my groin that screams for release -- and everything takes second place to the overwhelming rapture of experiencing him moving inside me. Slow, but hard, determined push inside me, at just the right angle, hitting my prostate over and over again, back out half the way, then returning, again, again, again... I bite the inside of my cheek with each thrust. Ray is whimpering with each movement, barely audible, but oh, so damned hot. I don't know if I can say it, but I want to. So much. "Harder, Ray. Fuck me harder." Just a murmur. Is this husky whisper really my voice? He loses it. Just like I thought he would. He's thrusting almost brutally into me now, hard, fast, furious. Delightful. The smell of his musk surrounds me; I breathe in deeply, drunk on the smell. The friction inside me makes me lose my mind. Clumsily, I try to touch myself, but I still can't move lest I lose my balance against the wall. Ray is close now, so close to the brink, but he can still read my mind. One of his slim, elegant hands releases my hip and goes around my body. Touches my slick erection, strokes it urgently in time with his thrusts. Tight and wonderful, incessantly. Moving rhythmically, perfectly in sync with his thrusts, just like the dancer he is. His cock deep inside of me hits my prostate again, and at the same time, his thumb touches the tip of my penis. Now I lose it. I can't help myself. My whole body jerks and shudders, my arms and legs threaten to give out, but I stay upright due to pure self-control. I feel myself spasming in Ray's tight, warm grip, and, incredibly, a second time when his teeth sink into my neck close to my shoulder. He gasps my name, almost soundless, breathless, just a bare ghost of a word, and begins to jerk inside of me. "Benny." Does he know what it does to me, this verbal caress? Ray Vecchio 'invented' this form of my name, an affectionate version of the too formal 'Benton', he told me, but he never said it with this wealth of meaning. For him, it was just a nickname for a good friend. For Ray Kowalski it is a baring of his soul. He never says it in public; even only uses 'Ben' when we're alone. Only when our bodies and souls merge, I hear it, like he can't help himself, and by the sound of it, it's more intimate for him than 'I love you'. I feel hot, rapidly cooling wetness run down the inside of my thighs, and shudder in response as Ray pulls carefully out of my body. It hurts a little, but I don't mind. On the other hand, my trousers-- I yerk around in panic, frantically reaching for the roll of toilet paper. Dear god, I'll have to wear this uniform for the rest of the day, or at least until I reach the safety of my own bureau at the consulate. Bypassing numerous people on the streets, Constable Turnbull on Guard Duty and, most dangerous of all, the sharp eyes of Inspector Thatcher. Any telltale stain, and I'd rather die of embarrassment than leave this room. Ray touches my arm softly, quirks one eyebrow and hands me a tissue. I clean myself clumsily, then close my tunic. My hands are shaking. A close inspection reveals no sign of our recent activities; even the knees of my trousers are spotless. A very clean washroom, thank God. I breathe a huge sigh of relief. Ray has been watching me closely and is right now fastening his jeans. My eyes are automatically drawn to the slowly disappearing vee of bright white cloth and perhaps ten centimeters of smooth golden skin. The rasp of the zipper is loud in the silence. He corrects the fit of his jacket and simply looks at me. A little bit tender, a little bit sad, a little bit triumphant and a little bit challenging. "Ray?" I don't know why my voice sounds so insecure. "Ben, sometimes I just wish..." His voice trails off, sounding wistful. "What? What do you wish?" I'd give it to him. Everything. Everything he wants. "Sometimes I just wish I could mark ya where everyone'd see. Or love ya like this without hafta worry 'bout yer uniform." He sounds unaccustomarily sad, but resigned. I open my mouth. "No, Frase, ya don't hafta say anything. 'S not yer fault, I know dat. Ways of the world an' such." Oh, how I wish we wouldn't have to follow the stifling rules society insists upon. But Ray is policeman, and so am I. We simply can't risk to expose our relationship to the prejudiced eyes of the Chicago PD. Or the whole Western world, for that matter... I know all that, he knows all that, but sometimes, it still hurts. So I just nod and reach out to caress his jaw. He closes his blue eyes a bit in pleasure, smiles a little and I smile back, seeing the sadness in his steady gaze disappear. We still have so much time before us. And who knows how much the world might change in all that time... The main door creaks again; footsteps approach. Not again. I share a look with Ray that's half panic, half resignation. We hardly dare to breathe, even less move, before the unseen man leaves again -- it would be more than just a trifle suspicious to leave a toilet stall together. Moments later, Ray grips my biceps and whispers into my ear: "Everything clear, Fraser?" I strain to hear whether we are alone in here or not, but can't detect anybody else's presence. "Yes, it would appear so." He reaches around me and unlocks the door. We step out before anyone else enters. Cleaning our hands at the wash-basins, we share a conspiratory look. We're both still breathing faster than normal, and Ray looks exceptionally good with the flush of color on his angular cheekbones. He runs his fingers through his hair to spike it a little bit more neatly, then looks at his watch and grins. "Fraser?" "Yes, Ray?" "Sorry, no lunch in yer canteen, buddy. We have ten minutes before Welsh starts to scream for me again." I confirm that with a look on my own wrist and groan almost imperceptibly. So much for my good intentions -- Ray didn't even get a sandwich, and Dief will kill me. Oh dear. "Just a second, Fraser." The door bangs shut behind him. I step out more slowly, still a bit overwhelmed with my own recklessness. Making love in the washroom. Dear God. I still can't believe it. Stepping out into the hallway, I start looking for Ray. He is back a second later, three wrapped packages under his arm. A challenging look. "Here -- a chili burger for me, a steak sandwich for Dief, an' a chicken-salad-sandwich for you. An' no complaining, 'kay?" "That's very thoughtful of you, Ray." Indeed it is. "Thank you." "Yer welcome." His smile is conspiratory and he walks close enough to me so that our shoulders brush on the way down the stairs. He's unwrapping his sandwich while stepping down the stairs, a definitive spring in his step. Diefenbaker is waiting for us at the entrance. The small terrier is no longer there, and the water bowl is empty. I brace myself inwardly and open my mouth to explain why I couldn't keep my promise (or rather, bribe, Ray would point out gleefully). Once you let a wolf save your life, he's going to make you pay and pay and pay... But Ray is faster and steps between us before Dief can do more than tilt his head and look at me reproachfully. "Dief." He kneels down next to him and enunciates clearly: "Sorry, Dief, it's totally my fault. See, I kept Fraser from gettin' lunch. We got... distracted. Yeah." Dief whines and manages to sound not only suffering, but also knowing. Only three weeks, and he can read us perfectly clear. Ray produces the third package with the air of a magician. "But look, I brought ya something to eat. Steak sandwich. An' ya know, the Mountie didn't even complain, so take it before he remembers yer not s'pposed ta eat dat." Dief only hesitates a second before he snatches the sandwich out of Ray's grasp and unwraps it in a heartbeat. Disquieting skill he has developed. "An' I kept the right one for yer, Fraser." Ray grins totally disarmingly and hands me the last sandwich which is indeed chicken, with lettuce and sprouts, of all things. He knows me well. Actually quite tasty, and even remotely healthy. If only I could convince him to adopt my nutritional habits... Ray is tearing into his sandwich like a starving man on the way back to the station, so our conversation is limited. For this I'm immensely glad, although it's not the food on my part that's preventing me from talking. I bite into my sandwich, but I don't taste it any longer. No, I'm rather focused on a totally different sensation that isn't connected to my stomach or taste buds. The RCMP-issued trousers are comfortable under normal circumstances. They don't restrict movement. They offer plenty of room. They don't chafe. And yet... I'm intensely aware of my nether regions. No, it's not that -- I did a pretty thorough job with cleaning myself, and although Ray was a little bit rough (on my urging), it's not him I feel now, and I surely won't have any problems with sitting down behind my desk at the consulate. Alright. It is him. But in a different way. Walking the short distance to the 27th precinct, I feel Ray Kowalski's semen slowly leaking from my anus, feel my underwear cling to the cleft of my buttocks and rub against the sensitized flesh there. It's irritating, it's embarrassing, and it's arousing as hell. I stop Ray before the station house. "Ray." "Huh?" Distractedly, he looks up from munching his sandwich, so endearingly unknowing of my predicament. His eyes widen slowly as he gets a closer look at the carefully banked heat in my own gaze. He swallows hard, and I feel myself drawn, again, to the long, elegant curve of his neck, just begging to be kissed. Licked. Claimed. "Ben. Take the key." He presses a small metallic object into my hands. I stare at it incompehendingly. "To my apartment. I'll be there'soon as I can. One and a half hours, tops. 'Kay?" He starts to look concerned when I can't answer him at first. I shake myself, hard. I am a Mountie. I can do that. Back to the consulate. Change of clothes. Walk to Ray's apartment. Wait for him. Yes. "Understood, Ray." Only after he's given me an incandescent smile and stepped into the precinct do I realize that we've both entered totally new territory. He gave me a key to his home. And my heart sings all the way back to the consulate. Please consider leaving feedback. read comments @ lj | post comment @ lj | e-mail

Conflict of Interest, a Without a Trace/NCIS crossover by Glacis. FBI NCIS FBI NCIS FBI NCIS FBI NCIS FBI NCIS FBI NCIS He fit a little bit a lot of places and nowhere completely. Martin stared up at the night sky outside the townhouse and listened to the sounds of laughter and argument from inside. Dinner had been wonderful; it was always good to see his mom, and his dad had kept the digs to a minimum for a change. But it was hard to pretend that everything was fine when every way he turned someone undercut him. If not because of his last name, then because of his background; if not because they thought he was a lightweight, then because they thought he’d only gotten where he was by hanging on to his father’s coat tails. If they only knew how little his father knew him, and how hard he’d worked to make his own way… not that it mattered. Respect had to be earned, he knew that, but there were days when he didn’t think anyone would ever look past the name and the accounting degree to see the man behind them. If only they’d listen and hear him, instead of an echo of their own preconceptions. The last case was a perfect example. His gut told him the man was a terrorist. Jack listened, but gave his words no weight; the others thought he was show-boating for the JTF head. God, if there was anything he wasn’t, it was a brown-noser. It would be so easy to coast… but he wasn’t about to do it. He knew what he wanted to do, and if that meant he had to throw himself head-first into the brick wall of their disbelief to do it, then he would. He just hoped more people wouldn’t have to die before they accepted that he was as dedicated to finding the truth as they were. A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, and he looked up to see his father’s measuring eyes and disapproving expression. As usual. “Brooding again, son?” he asked. Martin shrugged, a rueful grin curving his lips. “Enjoying the night air.” “Well, enjoy it later. Come join the family now. We see little enough of you as it is.” Allowing himself to be led back into the lights and noise and curious eyes, Martin sighed silently and put on his family face. A few hours of smiling and listening and surface conversation and his family would be reassured that all was well with the Martin they knew. They never guessed that the Martin they knew was only one very small part of the whole. It was just as well. By Saturday morning he’d had as much as he could take. He made excuses, work to catch up on, and knew by the look in his father’s eye that the older man didn’t believe him. Didn’t call him on it, though, because his dad had done the same thing too many times himself to risk pointing the finger at Martin. Restless, itchy, not wanting to return to the silence that fell when he entered the office or the silence that reigned at his apartment, he took a detour, stayed on the road and was in Manhattan by dinner time. His feet found the old way by instinct, and before he consciously knew where he was heading he was there. He hadn’t been to the Rectory since before he’d transferred to the Missing Persons Squad. It wasn’t the kind of place a respectable FBI agent visited. It wasn’t the kind of place any kind of respectable man went. It was the kind of place a man went to find another man for a night of anonymous sex. It was the side of Martin nobody at work and nobody in his family would ever know about, if he had any say in the matter. Martin was responsible, respectable, pristine to the degree of dullness usually associated with dishwater. Specializing in accounting would do that to a guy; so would being a member of a prominent DC family that was continually in the news. Martin had learned the value of discretion before he could spell it, much less need it. You didn’t disgrace the family; you didn’t pee in your own backyard; you didn’t fuck around where anyone would find out about it. The Rectory was nothing if not discreet. The manager recognized him, although it had been over a year since his last visit. He smiled at the bouncer standing watch at the doorway and walked in, feeling the man’s eye on his ass all the way down the hall. Blood started to rush through him, warming his skin, heating his body, as the outer façade thawed away and the inner predator came out to prowl. The club was dimly lit, quiet, tastefully decorated, the antithesis of the popular concept of a gay bar, but the men who came cruising here weren’t looking for your average pick-up. To get in the door you had to be known; anyone you left with, you knew had as much to lose by being noticed as you did. It catered to high-powered businessmen, closeted politicians, the highest ranking military and law enforcement officers in the country. A time or two Martin recognized a face sweating above him, or twisting beneath him. Not by a flicker did he ever acknowledge it. If anyone recognized him, he never knew. It was exactly what he needed. And so was the tall, lean, broad-shouldered man leaning up against the side of the bar, watching the ebb and flow around him. Messy brown hair lit with gold under the low lights, classically handsome features, something innate about him that screamed ‘cop.’ Martin walked up to stand beside him, close enough to indicate interest but not close enough to be perceived as a threat. Blue-green eyes looked him over, professionally the first time, more slowly and with a personal glint the second time. “Redbreast straight,” Martin ordered, letting the man look his fill. By the time the bartender put the whiskey down in front of him, the man had relaxed his stance, leaning far enough toward Martin to indicate interest returned without being pushy. Yeah. This was what he needed. “Irish?” “Yeah.” Martin took a sip, savored it, turned to face the man. Up close he was even better looking, with laugh lines around his eyes and a mouth Martin couldn’t wait to feel wrapped around his dick. “Have to stick to the home team, you know?” The man looked over at him through his lashes, and Martin felt himself start to harden. God, if his instinctive reaction was any indication, this was going to be a night to remember. “Guess that’s why I’m drinking Disarono.” The man hefted a glass half full of amber liquid and ice cubes. Martin raised his glass and saluted him. “Salute!” “Cheers!” the man answered, grinning. Another sip, another moment to look, to linger, and the itchiness was back. Martin shifted on his barstool, and the man licked his lips. Feeling half-horny and half-ridiculous, Martin blurted out, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” “Back room,” the man answered immediately. “Now.” God, yes. “Now would be good.” Now would be great. FBI NCIS FBI NCIS FBI NCIS FBI NCIS FBI NCIS FBI NCIS He hadn’t expected much. A few weeks before, he’d heard Abby make some crack to Gibbs about meeting a “new girl” in church, and when they’d left, Ducky was still laughing. Tony’d drifted over to find out what was keeping him so amused. “Church,” Ducky told him cryptically. Ducky being one of the three people on the planet who knew he was queer, Tony felt comfortable enough to smirk at him in an invitation for more information. Ducky chuckled harder, then dug into his desk, pulled out a notepad with his personal letterhead on it, wrote an address on the paper and passed it to Tony. “Next time you’re in New York… stop in at church. You just might find God.” He refused to say more. Intrigued, the next time Tony had a weekend off, he took a road trip up the coast and checked out the Rectory. The bouncer glared at him for three whole seconds until Tony showed him the paper. When he saw Ducky’s name, like everyone Tony’d ever met who knew Ducky, the burly man grinned, said, “Any friend of the Duck’s” and waved him in the door. The following hour had been instructive to say the least. It was the fanciest cruise joint Tony’d ever been in. There were no prices on anything, and he knew on his salary he’d better stick to two drinks at most. On a chance, he’d asked for an import he knew and seldom splurged on; it tasted as good as he remembered. A few men had given him signals, but none of them had done much for him. Older guys, for the most part, power players, sharks; Tony was hungry, but not that hungry, and he wanted some meat with some muscle to it. Then a man walked in the door. Not as tall as Tony, but damned cute, with a way of holding himself that said he’d break anybody who dared to call him cute into many very small bloody pieces. Built solid, wide shoulders, narrow hips, strong face, bright blue eyes that oddly reminded him of Ducky, only the twinkle in these was muted. Sadder than they should be. Tony kept looking out the corner of his eye as the guy saw him in turn, and headed directly across the floor to stand next to him at the bar. All Tony’s nerves started to sing at once, and they were singing a mating song. He wanted this guy. Conversation, such as it was, was brief and to the point. Didn’t really matter what they said, because what they were saying underneath the words was ‘let’s fuck right now.’ Very soon, the unspoken was made explicit, and Tony heard the guy say, “Now would be good” before turning on his heel and marching toward the back hall in a move and at a clip that would make a Marine envious. Tony was right on his heels. Peripherally he noted the surroundings; long hall, sconces inset against dark wood and burnished copper, a series of anonymous doors, no immediate exit, no sounds coming from the rooms so they must be sound-proofed. Then the man in front of him opened one of the doors, led Tony in, reached around him and locked it behind them. He stayed there, pressing Tony against the door, leaning in to lick the side of Tony’s throat, and Tony couldn’t hold back a groan. Busy hands worked at his tie, slid his jacket off, and he shrugged, tugged and shook his hands to get them free and return the favor. The whole time the man stripped him, he kept sucking and licking Tony’s throat, along his jaw line, down to his collarbone, then slid further down, following the trail of exposed skin as he opened Tony’s shirt. Straining to keep his balance as that voracious mouth went at him, Tony gave up trying to undress the man and put his hands flat against the door behind him, concentrating on staying on his feet. His knees were shaking, so he shifted his legs apart, trying to keep his balance. The man took it as an invitation, swiftly unbuckling Tony’s belt, unzipping his trousers and sliding them as far down Tony’s thighs as he could get them. A hard hand behind his knee urged him to move, while the other hand caught his trousers and pushed them down, and wicked teeth scraped delicately at his erection through his shorts. Tony gave a sound closer to a whimper than a groan and absently lifted his foot so the man could free him of his trousers. A muffled noise of approval huffed over the wet stain on the front of his shorts where the man started sucking at him. Tony bucked at the sensation, fingers curling uselessly against the wooden door. “God, please,” he ground out, hips moving uncontrollably. “Shit. Fuck. Please!” It wasn’t very comprehensible, but the man understood, because he slid his fingers beneath the waistband of Tony’s shorts and delicately peeled them away. Tony would have voiced his appreciation but he was too busy trying not to scream like a girl as the man sucked him all the way down to the balls in one slurping gulp. Son of a fucking bitch. He couldn’t remember the last time somebody’d sucked his cock so… enthusiastically. He humped forward, trying to control himself and failing. Slick, and hot, and more intense by far than he’d expected; it dawned on Tony that he had his hands wrapped around the man’s head and was fucking the man’s mouth relentlessly, so he tried to pull back. In response, the man took everything Tony gave him, humming his appreciation around Tony’s dripping cock, digging his hands into Tony’s hips and pulling him even closer. He was coming before he wanted to, and he couldn’t do a damned thing about it. Trying not to drown the poor guy, Tony kept himself as still as he could, given the involuntary whipping of his hips. The man growled around him, reaching behind him to work a finger into his ass, and Tony gave up the notion of control completely. By the time the stars stopped flashing in front of his eyes and he could take a breath without wheezing again, he was flat on his back on the floor in front of door, and the guy who’d blown his mind along with his cock was pushing Tony’s knees back and kneeling between them. Sometime before Tony’d regained his senses, the guy’d put a condom on, and he cozied up between Tony’s thighs, leaning down to nip at the inside of Tony’s left knee, making him jump. “This okay?” the guy asked, voice a little raspy, probably from Tony ramming his cock halfway down his throat. Tony didn’t bother trying to talk. He just nodded, head bobbing up and down frantically, and waved one hand languidly in the air in a vague ‘get on with it and fuck me’ motion. The guy gave a short laugh, a surprisingly sweet sound, and leaned over him. Relaxed as Tony was from coming so hard he nearly passed out, it still took a little work for the guy to get in. Tony hadn’t taken it up the ass in a long time, but right then, with this guy, for some reason he couldn’t begin to explain, he wanted it. Hard. Deep as the guy could go. He licked his lips and swallowed a few times to moisten his mouth so he could speak, then grunted, “Do it. Come on, fuck me. I’m not gonna break. God. Push it in me. Do it! Yes! Harder! Fuck! Fuck me, goddamnit!” With every word, the guy moved a little faster, pushed a little harder, until by the end he was balls-deep and panting like a long distance runner. He wasn’t that long, but he was thick, opening Tony up and keeping him that way, and Tony found himself pushing down to meet the thrusts in. They moved together like they’d been doing each other for years, and Tony’s breath caught in his chest at how good it felt. He didn’t get completely hard again, but it didn’t matter. It was enough. The guy braced his hands on either side of Tony’s hips and worked at him, shoving and pulling out and shoving in again. Tony dropped a hand down to his cock and stroked a couple times; still sensitive from coming the first time, he found himself coming almost immediately, a long drawn-out climax that pulsed in time with the cock rocking into him. He found himself in a kind of fugue state, come spurting out in little dribs and drabs every time the guy pumped into him. Everything narrowed down to the heat between them, the sweat dripping off the guy’s skin and mixing with Tony’s, the friction of the shirt still caught on Tony’s shoulders and bunched behind his back, the narrowed, glazed stare of the dilated blue eyes fixed on his, the rhythm of the solid body slapping against and into his. Then all movement stilled; a thrust, a shudder, another, and the man collapsed against Tony’s chest. Tony wrapped his arms around the broad shoulders, petting him absently, holding him until the shivering stopped. They lay there for awhile, Tony staring up at the ceiling and thinking vaguely that the guy smelled good, even covered in sweat and splattered with come. The muscles under his hands bunched, and the bulk in his ass slowly slid out. Tony hissed, and the guy murmured, “Sorry.” “No problem,” Tony answered automatically, then nodded for emphasis. “Really. Worth it.” He didn’t have enough energy to say more. Then he heard it. Smothered by the wad of his trousers still hanging off one foot, but unmistakable. His pager. “Shit,” he said. “Shit,” the guy said at the exact same moment, reaching for his own pants. Tony blinked at him. The guy blinked back. They both grinned. Both dug into their trouser pockets and came out with pagers. Sure enough, it was Gibbs, calling him in. Tony sighed and untangled himself the rest of the way from the guy still half-wrapped around him. “Hate to fuck and run,” he muttered, feeling a blush rise on his cheeks. “I understand,” the guy said quietly. Tony had a feeling he really did. Making a snap decision, Tony leaned forward and, giving him time to pull away if he wanted, kissed him. The guy didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned into Tony, for a moment, and Tony closed his eyes to savor the kiss. Whiskey and spice, everything nice, he thought whimsically, before slowly breaking contact. “Hi,” he said solemnly. “I’m Tony.” That earned him a startled grin, and an equally solemn, “Martin. We have to do this again some time.” Tony dressed in the wreck of his clothes and gave Martin a slow, wide grin. “Yeah. We do.” As he ducked out the door, leaving Martin to find his own clothes, he knew they would. Didn’t quite know how or when, but knew it was going to happen. Ducky’d been right; maybe Tony hadn’t found God, but he’d found a slice of heaven, and he wanted more. It was a month before he got the chance. His luck, for once, was in. FBI NCIS FBI NCIS FBI NCIS FBI NCIS FBI NCIS FBI NCIS Martin hadn’t meant to make it a habit. In fact, he tried very hard to resist the temptation to return to the Rectory, for many reasons. His father. Jack. His mother. The FBI. His career hopes. The fact that the more times he snuck out of the closet, the harder it got to go back in. The third Saturday he dropped in at the Rectory, there was Tony. Standing at the end of the bar, untouched glass by his hand. Staring at the door. Staring at Martin. This time, at least, they almost made it to the bed. If half on the bed and half on the floor counted. Afterward they lay together, Martin’s head resting on Tony’s chest, Tony’s arms wrapped around him, Martin’s legs nestled between Tony’s thighs, as they waited for their breathing to calm. Martin felt an odd sort of restfulness, as if all his armor was shed, all the eyes that usually watched him were turned away. In that room, with Tony, Martin was simply Martin. No expectations, no illustrious family name, no skeptics to convince. So much for reasons. Five weeks later, although they carefully made no plans, it happened again. Once was chance, twice was serendipity… the third time was the charm. It wasn’t so much habit as it was addiction, an addiction Martin didn’t want to end, because for the first time in his life he had something that was completely his. Even if he didn’t know Tony’s last name, or what he did for a living, though Martin would bet real money he was a cop. Even if, or perhaps because, Martin could never take him home to meet his family. It was simple, very little conversation, a great deal of sex, and a silent time of holding on, before Martin carefully shut the closet door and returned to the rest of his life. Spring came late, and it came hard. May was tough, as all hell broke loose at work. On the surface, it was a review of the Samir case, at the same time the Spalding case came to trial. The review was bullshit. The shooting was legit; the questions the IA bastard dug at were not. It was a monkey trial, and Martin’s father was the one pulling the strings. All the trust Martin had worked so hard to build with the team was washed away in one horrible afternoon. Weirdly, the only one who seemed to still believe in him was Jack, but that might have been because Jack had more problems than the target painted on his ass. Martin had nightmares: of young Andy Deaver, so close to dying at the hand of the homicidal pedophile; of the things Jack said to Spalding to get the creep’s confidence so they could trick Andy’s location out of him before the kid froze to death; of how far they bent the law and how close they came to breaking it in order to save the boy’s life; of the silent understanding between Martin and Jack as Jack threw up in the bushes at the crime scene, part relief at getting there in time, mostly disgust at putting himself in Spalding’s twisted mind far enough to get the information they needed out of him. Jack was an incredible profiler, but the toll it took on him could be brutal. Even watching and learning often left Martin feeling like he’d been run over by a truck, as if his brain had been turned inside out. When the case came to trial, Martin learned how far Jack had gone to save Andy Deaver, and it nearly handed Jack’s head to Martin’s father on a silver platter. By the time it all unwound, Martin was willing to lie to save Jack, Jack wasn’t willing to lie to save himself, and Martin’s father finally called the dogs off. In the end, the team came through intact. But the predator who’d molested and killed so many young men walked free. Martin stood under a steaming hot shower and seriously considered crawling into a bottle of whiskey and not coming out all weekend. Instead, he cleaned up his apartment, stocked the refrigerator, worked out, showered again, and drove uptown. Proving that there was, indeed, a God, Tony showed up at the Rectory. This time Martin was there before him. Tony walked over, took one look at Martin’s face, and asked, “Who died?” “Too many of them,” Martin responded, thinking of the photos of dead boys pinned to the ops board, and the sick son of a bitch ranging free looking for more victims. He came out of his memories to hear Tony swearing under his breath beside him. There was a white line around Tony’s lips, and his eyes looked old. Martin took a deep breath and asked, “Want to get out of here?” “Sure,” Tony answered quietly. “I’ll follow you.” Twenty minutes later they pulled up outside Martin’s apartment. Tony followed him up the elevator. Neither said anything. Martin could feel Tony looking at him, but couldn’t bring himself to look back. He felt unsettled, like this was the stupidest thing he’d ever done or really overdue, he couldn’t tell which. He wanted to talk, wanted to hide, wanted to fuck, wanted to run away. He didn’t know what the hell he wanted. “Sorry,” Tony finally broke the silence when they were standing in the middle of Martin’s living room. “Stupid thing to say.” “You had no way of knowing,” Martin defended him. “No,” Tony immediately contradicted. “I know that look. I should’ve kept my mouth shut.” “I’m glad you didn’t,” Martin said softly, then reached out and touched Tony’s cheek, a fleeting contact over practically before it began. “Can you talk about it?” Tony asked. Martin appreciated the phrasing. Not ‘do you want’ but ‘can you’; Tony knew more than the look. He knew there were some things Martin couldn’t talk about no matter how much he might want to, and many of Martin’s assumptions about Tony were bolstered by that simple question. “No,” he answered quietly, “just something happened that shouldn’t have, and there’s nothing I can do, and it hurts.” Stark truth. A monster was free; innocents would suffer and die, and there wasn’t a goddamned thing Martin could do about it. “It had to be that way.” Another truth; if they’d gone by the book, put the monster in the cage in such a way that he’d stay there, a seventeen year old boy would have died a horrible death. To save one boy, they’d sacrificed who knew how many to come, and let justice slip away for all those they would never be able to prove the monster had destroyed. “Sometimes it does,” Tony told him just as quietly. “Doesn’t make it hurt any less.” God. A truth Martin had to live with, and Tony too, from the sound of it. “Hell with this,” Martin said abruptly. “You want anything to drink?” That bottle of whiskey still sounded more tempting than it should. “Take the edge off?” Tony asked, one side of his mouth curling up in a stillborn smile. His eyes still looked older than they should, but they warmed as they looked at Martin. “Something like that,” Martin admitted. “I have a better idea.” Tony closed in on Martin, edging him toward the couch. “Yeah?” Martin retreated, relaxing in the face of Tony’s warmth, until he found the back of his thighs up against the side of the couch. “What’s that?” Tony kissed him. Softer than they usually kissed, and longer, and deeper, until Martin was dizzy from lack of air. His dick was hard already, from Tony’s hand moving up and down over it in time with the movement of his tongue in Martin’s mouth. When Tony finally let him breathe, Martin gasped for air, then gasped again as Tony swung him around and put a firm hand at the small of his back, pushing him forward until he was bent over the sturdy arm of the couch. “Oh, shit,” Martin moaned into the seat cushion as Tony efficiently pushed his trousers and shorts down to his ankles and pushed the tail of his shirt up his back. The air was cool over his skin, but not for long, as Tony grasped his ass firmly and spread his cheeks. “God, god, god, Tony,” Martin chanted through clenched teeth as Tony’s tongue touched him, softly at first then more firmly. The wet warmth swiped over and over his hole, making Martin squirm, forcing Tony’s name out like a prayer from his tight throat. Clenching his shaking fists around the edge of the seat cushion, Martin steadied his shaking legs the best he could and rode out the storm. Tony didn’t make it easy. He worked at Martin’s hole, nipped at the soft inner skin between his thighs, reached down to rub the hanging balls until they began to draw up, all the while continuing the assault with his tongue. When the muscle began to relax he firmed his tongue and probed as deeply as he could reach, wrenching a scream out of Martin that made him chuckle. The vibration of that mouth on his ass nearly sent Martin into orbit. Two fingers probing even further in him, then twisting, finished the job. With a howl, barely stifled by the cushion he was burying his face in, Martin came hard. Tony murmured encouragement Martin couldn’t hear, milking Martin’s dick with one hand and keeping the other buried in his ass. Martin was shaking and floating when Tony finally stopped rubbing his dick and reached back to use Martin’s come to coat his own dick. Martin’s hole was still clenching in reaction to his orgasm when Tony pushed in, triggering another before the first had a chance to pass. Tony didn’t give him time to get used to it, just pushed all the way in, fingers digging into Martin’s hips to hold him steady. Martin bucked and pushed back to meet him, gulping for air, his hand going down to his groin to cushion his tender dick from getting crushed into the arm of the couch. Tony rode him hard, thrusting in deep then pulling nearly all the way out before pumping back in. Martin gave up trying to keep up and gave himself over to the sensation of being completely overpowered, taken and used up and knocked right out of himself. It was exactly what he needed. Again. With a final thrust that rocked Martin off his feet, Tony growled something that sounded a little like Martin’s name and a lot like a curse, and came. A jerk, another, a third, then he softened and collapsed over Martin’s back. It took him a couple minutes before he could gather the strength to move. His dick slipping out left Martin feeling empty, open and empty, his mind as drained as his body. Given the way he’d been feeling all week, empty was a damned good alternative. Eventually, Martin forced one eye open and looked over his shoulder. Tony stood behind him, used condom in one hand, looking around the apartment. Martin snorted a laugh and told him, “Next to the desk. If I’d known you were going to toss me over the side of the couch and fuck me stupid, I’d’ve been better prepared.” “Complaining?” Tony asked, his tone making it quite obvious he knew the answer to that one, and he was right. “Ask me again when my muscles work.” Hefting himself up with more effort than it should have taken, Martin rolled onto the couch, ignoring the wet spot on the upholstery, enjoying the ache in his ass, coming into a sitting position and stripping off the clothing twisted around his body. Pushing the pile of clothes and shoes away with one foot, he looked up to see Tony, still dressed except for open trousers, boxers pushed down, his dick hanging, still partly hard against the striped cotton. Martin’s mouth watered, and he grinned. “Okay. Mind-blowing sex is better than booze any day of the week. Come here.” Tony was across the room and standing within licking distance almost before the words were out of Martin’s mouth. Martin leaned forward, rested his palms against Tony’s thighs, and nuzzled the wet glans, running his tongue across the slit in much the same way Tony’d teased Martin’s ass. Tony grunted and took a deep breath, hands reaching out to card through Martin’s hair. “Turnaround’s fair play,” Martin whispered then drilled the slit with his tongue, and Tony made a sound like a strangled cat. The fingers in his hair clenched into fists and Tony pulled Martin’s head down, shoving his dick halfway down Martin’s throat in response. Since that was exactly the reaction Martin had been going for, he didn’t complain. Instead he opened his mouth as wide as he could, flattened his tongue, relaxed his throat, and let Tony fuck him. Since he’d already come once, it took awhile for Tony to get completely hard again. By the time he was, Martin’s jaw was sore and his throat was raw. As he’d sucked, he’d worked Tony’s trousers and boxers down below his knees, effectively hobbling him. That was fine with Martin. Tony didn’t need to go far. A half-turn and down, that was all Martin needed. Reaching up to tap Tony’s wrists with his fingers, he signaled he needed air, and Tony let him back away. A careful turn and push, and Tony found himself sitting on the couch. Martin reached for a condom, stashed with lube under the side pillow when he’d cleaned earlier, his subconscious knowing before he even left for the club that he’d be bringing Tony home that night. He took his time rolling the condom on, stroking and teasing, until Tony was humping up into his hand. Then he straddled Tony, knees sinking into the cushions, and positioned himself before sitting down, taking Tony’s dick deep inside him. The angle was different, good, pressing inside, rubbing his prostate in a way that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Martin ground down on Tony’s dick, gasping at the sensation, and Tony whimpered in response. Then Tony leaned forward, rubbing harder inside Martin and pulling a yelp out of him. Before Martin could catch his breath Tony bent down to catch a nipple between his teeth and bite down, just hard enough to cause another yelp. Caught there, Tony’s teeth at his chest and Tony’s dick drilling him, Martin felt like he was balanced on a tightrope. He froze, as much as he could, given that his nerves were jumping from overload, and slowly lifted his hands to weave them through Tony’s hair. Then he pressed Tony’s head forward, and Tony sucked hard at the bitten nipple, sending a shudder ripping through Martin from his chest to his ass to his dick to his fingertips and toes. Eventually Tony let the nipple free from his mouth with an audible pop, and Martin rasped, “Fuck!” “Doing my best,” Tony muttered back, then took the other nipple between his teeth and started all over again. They stayed that way for some time, Tony roaming from one side of Martin’s chest to the other, hips pumping up an inch when the urge to move was too strong to deny, but staying as still as he could otherwise. His fingers roamed over Martin’s sides and back, dipping down to press against the thin skin of Martin’s hole, stretched around his dick. Every time he did, Martin moaned louder. Martin fought the need to move as well, feeling the muscles in his ass spread and protest the stretch, feeling the burn all the way through to his spine. Finally the need to come and the need to move and the ache in his ass and the tightening of his balls and the fire in his chest got the best of him. Martin wrenched Tony’s mouth away from his nipple and up to meet his own. As they kissed Martin jerked down, up and down, until his dick pulsed and his entire body spasmed along with it. Tony yelled, “Martin!” and came in response, hips arching completely off the couch, as Martin rode him out, coming until it felt like every bone in his body had melted. Tony’s arms came around his back and held him in place as he collapsed, as Tony bucked up into him, wringing the last of his orgasm out of him. When it was over, they sat there, Martin sprawled across Tony’s lap, content to never move again. When he woke up, it was two in the morning. Tony was still underneath him, but they were lying down now, and the afghan Martin’s mother made for him six years before was pulled over the both of them. Martin smiled, rubbed his cheek against Tony’s chest, and went back to sleep. FBI NCIS FBI NCIS FBI NCIS FBI NCIS FBI NCIS FBI NCIS After that night, pancakes the morning after, and they discovered a new use for maple syrup, Tony didn’t go back to the Rectory. Three weeks later, he showed up on Martin’s doorstep with a bottle of Redbreast whiskey, and waited to find out if he was welcome or if Martin would regret bringing him home. No one answered the bell when he rang. He sat on the steps, looking down at the bottle sitting between his feet, and thought coming to New York might have been the wrong thing to do. He made assumptions based on the one night Martin was most vulnerable. If Martin, in hindsight, had decided that letting Tony further into his life was a mistake, Tony would accept that. He’d hate it, but he’d back off. He’d reached the conclusion that Martin was home and hiding from him and he really should just go back home when Martin walked up the steps from the street. To his relief, Martin didn’t look pissed off. Surprised, yeah, and a little confused, but he was smiling, his glance bouncing from the bottle to Tony’s crotch and back to the bottle. “If you say we have to stop meeting like this, I’ll think you mean it,” Tony warned him, flashing him a grin. “Who am I to turn away a man bearing gifts?” Martin asked, stepping past Tony and punching in the security code to unlock the door. “The whiskey?” Tony held up the bottle as they stepped into the elevator. As soon as the door closed, Martin turned to him, ran a hand down his cock all the way to his balls, and gave them a promising squeeze. Tony gulped and nearly dropped the bottle. “Among other things.” Martin’s grin lit his face up, and Tony couldn’t resist. He kissed him, hard and fast, then shot back to his corner of the elevator so that by the time the doors opened he was standing, as innocently as a man with swollen lips and a cock hard enough to pound nails with could stand, a good three feet away from Martin. Who blinked, shook his head to clear the glaze from his eyes, and shot Tony a mock-glare. “Tease,” he muttered under his breath as he stalked ahead, nodding to a neighbor as they passed in the hall. Tony beamed at the elderly lady, leaving her a little dazed-looking herself, before following Martin into his apartment. Placing the whiskey securely on the side table, he disagreed. “I can’t be a tease, because I always deliver.” Taking Martin by the tie, he tugged until Martin followed him into the bedroom. “You mean we’re actually making it to the bed before we get naked?” Tony shrugged, turned, and pulled Martin close. Unzipping his trousers with one hand, Tony slid his hand into Martin’s shorts and squeezed his hardening cock. “Thought we’d try something different this time,” he explained, then pushed Martin flat on his back on the bed. “I’m all for different,” Martin replied, sounding distracted. Probably because Tony was stripping him so fast he didn’t have a chance to move. Or reciprocate. When Tony had Martin completely naked, he stripped himself, slowing down a little and letting Martin get an eyeful. It had the hoped-for effect. Martin lay with his legs spread, one hand stroking slowly up and down his now-hard cock, licking his lower lip convulsively as Tony crawled up the bed toward him. “I don’t know how you do that,” Martin said shakily, looping an arm around Tony’s neck and pulling him in for a slow, wet kiss. When Tony got his tongue back he absently asked, “What?” He was more interested in grinding his cock against Martin’s and moaning at the resulting friction than the answer, but Martin’s words still made him grin. “Melting my brains into my balls just by taking your clothes off.” “It’s a talent,” Tony whispered into Martin’s ear, then licked it, and Martin jumped, leading to even more interesting friction. They kissed and rubbed for awhile, taking their time, enjoying discovering new erogenous zones on one another’s bodies. Tony squirmed when Martin ran a tongue along his ribs, and retaliated by nipping the back of Martin’s knee. They twisted and stroked, wrapping themselves around one another, reveling in the touch of skin on skin, sweat sliding against sweat, tasting and teasing one another. Tony eventually found himself on his side, one of Martin’s arms wrapped around his chest, the other curving around his hip to gently jack his cock. He spread his legs to allow Martin room to play, his own hands kneading the mattress restlessly. Martin kissed the nape of his neck, then down along the tendons to the top of his shoulder blade, working one knee between Tony’s thighs to nudge his balls. Tony whimpered. “C’mon, babe, fuck me,” he ground out, arching his back and rubbing his ass against Martin’s dripping cock in invitation. Martin moaned in response, then drew back long enough to open the drawer in the bedside table. The crinkle of a condom being unwrapped, the squeeze of a small bottle, and they were both more than ready. Tony dropped his hand down to pull at his cock, hissing, “fuck, yeah!” as Martin worked lubed fingers into his hole. It didn’t take long, as ready as he was, as long as they’d played, until Tony had to grab his balls to keep from coming. “Now would be good,” he ordered, and Martin laughed, air gusting over Tony’s shoulder. “Pushy,” Martin accused him. Before Tony could agree or argue, Martin pushed himself into Tony, and Tony lost the ability to form words. It was like this every time Martin fucked him, every time he fucked Martin; the heat, the bulk, the slick glide of flesh in flesh, the way he was held and held in return. The world contracted to the two of them, panting, clutching, hanging on and being blown apart, together. Martin came first, slamming into Tony and jerking a few times, then wrapping his arms around Tony’s waist and burying his face against Tony’s back. Tony took one of Martin’s shaking hands and wrapped it around his aching cock, closing his own fingers around Martin’s, pulling and squeezing until he came. The force of the spasms in his ass pushed Martin’s softening cock out, and they both groaned at the loss. Lying there, exhausted, purged, content, Tony waited for Martin to get rid of the used condom then opened his arms to him. Martin curled up against Tony’s chest and sighed. “God, I needed that,” Martin spoke directly into Tony’s skin. “Yeah,” Tony agreed, dropping a kiss onto the sweat-soaked head beneath his chin. “You and me both.” Four hours later, Tony unwrapped himself from a sleeping Martin and headed into the bathroom for a piss. He bumped his shin on the open drawer of the nightstand and stifled a curse. Glancing over he saw that Martin was still out cold. Grinning, he started to push the drawer shut, then froze. He recognized the bulky outline of a holster, the slender square of a wallet that was all too familiar – he had one himself, holding his own badge. He swallowed and closed the drawer with extreme care and absolute silence. It was one thing to have his suspicions. Another thing to have them confirmed. He was stupid to come here of his own volition. There were certain lines cops couldn’t afford to cross. He damned well knew that. In the morning when Martin woke up he might well come to his senses too, and if he did, Tony would understand completely if Martin told him never to come back. The next morning, after eggs and bagels and strong coffee, Tony looked at Martin over the table and said, “I shouldn’t have just showed up, should I.” It wasn’t a question. He’d known he was taking a big risk when he did it, and his gut instinct was telling him it could have been a disaster. Martin was as much in the closet as he was, even if he’d never mentioned it. Martin didn’t answer him in words. He simply wrote a number on a slip of scratch paper and handed it to Tony. “Call me next time.” Tony nodded, taking the paper and carefully folding it into his wallet. “And there *will* be a next time.” The resolve in Martin’s voice brightened Tony up considerably. “Good,” he told Martin, leaning over to steal a kiss. “Glad I didn’t fuck things up.” Martin grinned slyly at him. “No, but if fucking’s on your mind, aren’t you glad it’s Sunday?” They didn’t make it out of the apartment all weekend. When Monday morning came around, and the new girl showed up, Tony acted like the horndog he wasn’t, and made damned sure she knew he was a standard red-blooded heterosexual male who drooled on command when he saw a pretty girl and spoke sexist as a second language. It wasn’t all that different than his usual camouflage. He just laid it on with a heavier hand than before, and made damned sure he never dropped the act. He couldn’t afford to. He had to protect himself, and now, he had to protect Martin. The best way he knew how to do that was misdirection, and he was very good at that. He should be. He’d had plenty of practice. FBI NCIS FBI NCIS FBI NCIS FBI NCIS FBI NCIS FBI NCIS Looking back on the past ten months, Martin couldn’t remember a time when the carefully segregated elements of his life, operating separately, were all going so well. He and Tony had reached an agreement. There were never any questions, but there was a lot of unspoken understanding. Every couple weeks they would meet at Martin’s place, fuck until neither one of them could move, hang out all weekend, talk and watch DVDs and fuck some more. Martin’s father kept his distance on the work front, and family life was a heck of a lot calmer as a result. Work itself went well, if Sam getting shot and Jack being held hostage could be called well, but things were improving. At least Danny was talking to him, and Vivian was great. Then on a Thursday in October his worlds collided. The missing couple were from Virginia, a freelance journalist married to a Marine. The journalist, a man, was last seen leaving The Palm steakhouse. They had no information on his latest investigation, but his recent articles focused on abuse of government privilege by local politicians. His wife, an NCO working at the Marine Corps Warfighting Laboratory, was last seen leaving her office at Quantico the same evening. She was a computer programmer working on simulated ship landings in combat conditions. Neither made it home Wednesday night. Jack got a call the next morning, a friend calling in a favor. He and Martin were on the road within five minutes. As they drove up to the couple’s home, Jack groaned. Martin parked the car and glanced over at him. ”What?” he asked. Jack glared at a short, silver-haired man in a suit that screamed FBI, standing in the doorway of the house. “Bowman. Windbag. Supposed to be a liaison. Pisses off more people than any other agent I’ve ever met.” He got out of the car and stalked up the walkway. Martin trailed in his wake. “Malone.” No affection there. “Bowman,” Jack answered stiffly. No affection returned, with interest. Martin put on his very best poker face and waited for the bull moose to stop butting heads. Bowman tersely brought them up to speed on the situation, including the fact that they were sharing jurisdiction with Metro homicide and the Naval Criminal Investigative Service. Martin perked up. They’d worked with the DC cops before, but NCIS was a new factor. It should prove interesting. Bowman wound down and stomped off, and Jack ground his teeth as he swung into the house. Martin walked next to him, eyes sweeping the area, looking for clues to the nature of the missing couple. Before they got ten feet into the house a man with silver hair and intent blue eyes stepped in their path. Jack and Martin stopped, and Jack nodded, one professional to another. “Mr. Gibbs,” Jack said quietly. “I’m Jack Malone. Missing Persons Squad. What have you found so far?” Martin couldn’t hear what the NCIS agent said over the rush of blood in his ears. Standing behind Gibbs, baseball cap turned backward on his head, a camera hung around his neck… was Tony. “Agent Fitzgerald?” a sharp voice snapped at him. Martin came back to reality with a jolt that made him dizzy. Gibbs was staring at him suspiciously. So was Jack. Shit. Tony picked that moment to come bounding up. “Looks like it wasn’t just news he was getting from his sources, boss,” he said cheerfully to Gibbs, holding up an evidence bag containing a quantity of white powder leaking from a plastic baggie, then glanced over at Martin. He dropped the evidence bag. Turned deathly pale. His mouth fell open, and his eyes widened. He couldn’t have better personified guilt if he’d written ‘Guilty’ in red-hot neon over his head. Martin winced. “Jack,” he said with forced calm, “we have to talk.” “DiNozzo?” Gibbs asked Tony in a chilly voice. “Gibbs,” Tony answered, sounding like he was about to suffocate. “Martin, what’s going on?” Jack asked, voice dropping as he looked from Martin to Tony and back. “In private?” Martin asked, his voice strangled in his throat. He looked over to see Tony pick up the evidence bag and hand it to a short, blond man in a white jacket who had a very sympathetic look on his face. “I take it you went to church,” the man said to Tony. He had a rich English accent that distracted Martin so that he almost missed the meaning in the words. He did a short double-take. “Church?” he asked Tony. His eyes felt as wide as Tony’s looked. “God,” said Tony, shuffling his feet as if he’d wanted the earth to open up and swallow him. Suddenly, it all struck Martin as funny. Fighting a grin, he shook his head, took Jack’s elbow, and pulled him a little away from the others. As they walked, he heard Tony say shakily, “You don’t ask, I won’t tell.” Gibbs’ harsh, “Will it get in the way?” was immediately met by Tony’s firm, “No.” At that, Martin felt his control slip, and shot a grin over at Tony. He was reassured by the soft smile he got in return. “Is this a conflict of interest, Martin?” Jack asked quietly. Martin answered even very quietly, “I don’t think so. Short story: Tony and I are involved. Neither of us knew the other would be here today. I think it would be better if Vivian came out and worked with you on this one.” Jack looked at him searchingly. Then he shook his head. “No. You can work this.” Taking a deep breath, Martin asked, “Does your decision have anything to do with Sam?” Jack had an affair with Sam, while still supervising her, and Martin’s father had come close to crucifying Jack with that information. Martin knew this, and he had to know if was some kind of weird guilt on Jack’s part that made him want to keep Martin on this case. Jack stared at him, and Martin fought not to hang his head like a school kid and withdraw the question. Jack often had that effect on him. “No,” Jack finally answered. “It has to do with you. You’ve got contacts in DC nobody else on the squad has. I need you here. I think you can handle this. Do you?” Martin shot another look at Tony, who’d gone back to bagging evidence, and nodded. “Yeah.” He could separate business and pleasure. When one was done, there’d be time for the other. If Tony still wanted that. Wanted him. Pushing the thought to the back of his mind, concentrating on the case at hand, Martin turned to Gibbs, who still stared at him with suspicion, and not a little poorly-disguised shock. “Let’s start this over again,” Jack said firmly. “Mr. Gibbs. Our job is to find these missing people. We won’t get in your way. Please don’t get in ours.” Gibbs pulled his stare away, a relief to Martin, and pierced Jack with it. Jack was tough. It didn’t bother him a bit. After a moment, Gibbs nodded, and began to fill them in. The next thirty eight hours were intense. No matter how distracting Tony could be, Martin didn’t have time to be sidetracked. Eleven hours after the teams hit the street, the man’s body was discovered in a dumpster off Patterson street. By then Martin and an NCIS agent, introduced by Gibbs as Todd and by the woman herself as Cait, had tracked down the dealer the dead man double-crossed. Martin didn’t even see Tony again until another twenty hours passed, when they gathered in a corner of the FBI field office in Alexandria for an update. Tony looked as fried as Martin felt. A three hour nap wasn’t really enough to get by on, but the first forty eight hours were the most critical, particularly when one of the missing pair had already been found murdered. But they were getting closer. Seven hours later, Martin and Cait followed one lead, Jack and Tony followed another, Gibbs came in on his own, and they all ended up at the same small motel off the 495. Walking out of the office as Martin started to walk in, Tony grinned at him and cracked, “All roads lead to Rome, huh?” Martin winced, but couldn’t help grinning back. “Please. No Catholic jokes.” Jack glared beside Tony, and Martin swallowed his grin. Tony sobered as quickly when he saw Gibbs glowering in the parking lot. Silently, they walked to the room, Jack in the lead. Cait knocked. Martin drew his gun. So did Jack. So did Tony. So did Cait. Gibbs opened the door. No one in that room was a danger to anyone. Nor would they be, ever again. The woman lay, still in her uniform, crumpled against the wall. Across from her, a man in worn jeans and a bloody shirt stared sightlessly up at the ceiling. They both held guns. They’d both gotten shots off. From the look of it, she’d lasted longer than he had, but not by much. Forty minutes later, Metro homicide took over, and the FBI stepped back. The NCIS crew stayed. Martin gave Tony a long look before he followed Jack out to the car, and Tony nodded. The drive home seemed to take forever. Jack didn’t say much. Neither did Martin. As they neared the office, Jack looked over at Martin. “You okay?” There were a wealth of questions in those two simple words. Martin thought about them before he answered, poking at them from various angles before realizing it all came down to trust. He trusted Jack. Jack, for the past couple days, had proven that he trusted Martin. It was enough. “Yeah,” he finally answered. Jack nodded, satisfied. That was the end of that discussion. Two hours after Martin got home, his cell phone rang. He opened it and pressed the button. “Yes,” he said, knowing who it would be. “Martin -- Satur--, er, okay. Uhm. I mean…” Martin grinned as Tony sputtered into silence. Then he said, “Six on Saturday good for you?” There was another moment of silence, then laughter filled his ear. “I’ll bring dinner,” Tony offered. “I’ll cook breakfast,” Martin counter-offered. “Deal,” Tony said, then added softly, “See you then.” “Yeah,” Martin agreed, and listened as Tony disconnected the line. He smiled as he put the phone away and settled back on the couch. There were still complications; there always would be. His father topped the list. But it would work. They’d make it work. FBI NCIS FBI NCIS END FBI NCIS FBI NCIS

Jack clicked Save, Print, and closed the last report of the day. Goodbye paperwork, hello vacation. A whole three days off. Three days he hoped to spend sleeping, fixing the leaky faucet in the bathtub, grilling steaks, and having sex with Daniel. Not necessarily in that order. The final agenda item wasn't a given. On the list in his mind, he'd pencilled it in. There was no reason to suppose they wouldn't have sex -- because they had agreed, more or less, not to stop even though they really should stop -- but there was also no reason to suppose that they would. There was always the possibility that Daniel had reconsidered. Truth be told, Jack had reconsidered. Once, in a momentary lapse of what-the-hell-am-I-doing that had vanished the next time he'd seen Daniel. Now he was over the reconsidering stage. He just wasn't sure Daniel was over it, too. But even if Daniel was reconsidering -- three days was three days. They could still have the steaks. Jack smiled as he dropped off his reports, thinking about the steaks. He'd gone to the upscale grocery store on the other end of town and picked up the best cuts they sold. Right now, they were sitting in the freezer, waiting to be given the best, most careful, most attentive Jack O'Neill treatment. He couldn't wait to get his hands on them and introduce them to their new best friend: his grill. Steaks and Daniel occupied his thoughts as he changed clothes and shrugged into his leather jacket. On the way out, he detoured to Daniel's office and peeked inside. As he suspected, Daniel was still there. Assuming the body only barely visible from behind the stack of books was Daniel. Jack's gaze swept along the curve of the back. Oh yeah, that was Daniel all right. He approached the desk, giving the books a cursory glance. Behind them, Daniel, head pillowed on his arms, was asleep. His glasses were crooked. Next to Daniel's elbow was one of those damned, useless blue stones from 925. Daniel wasn't going to give up. Every chance he got, after every mission, he was back to working on the blue stones. Jack rested his hand on Daniel's shoulder. Daniel didn't move. Jack thought about waking him, but he took another long look at Daniel's face, peaceful and sort of dorky looking in sleep, and decided against it. He found a pad of post-its and a pencil and scribbled, "Grill tomorrow," on the top sheet. He tore it off and left it on the one spot where he was sure Daniel wouldn't miss it: on top of the stupid stone. He was nearly at the elevator when the red lights started flashing. Airmen jogged past him in all directions, and some medical personnel swept by, carrying emergency kits. Jack frowned after them. When he got to the elevator, two airmen blocked it. "Sorry, sir," the taller one said. "The mountain's been sealed off. Quarantine." Jack glared at him, but the airman refused to meet his eye. Well, he still had three days. How long could the quarantine last, anyway? ----- It was the driving dream again. He and Jack in a convertible of indeterminate make, cruising along a high, winding, mountain road that was somewhat like the California coast, and somewhat not. The road, and wind, and the feeling that they didn't have to get anywhere, it was just a drive. A couple of times, Sam and Teal'c had been with them, in the back seat. Teal'c told a joke they all laughed at, and Sam wore a hat that fell off. This time, it was only he and Jack, and Jack drove with one hand, and placed the other one over Daniel's, on the seat between them. A noise woke him up. People in the corridor, where the red lights were flashing. Daniel sat up and adjusted his glasses. Lieutenant Simmons glanced in. Daniel got up and went to the doorway. "What is it?" Simmons said, "Quarantine. The mountain's sealed. No one can come in or out until the docs have given us all a clean bill of health." Daniel went back to his desk, frowning. Quarantine. Right when he had three days off. As he sat down, his eyes fell on the stone he'd been working on, now covered with a yellow post-it note. Jack's scrawl said, "Grill tomorrow." Quarantine better be over by tomorrow, then. Daniel had plans for his days off: laundry, catch up on the last three issues of Archaeology magazine, and, now, steaks at Jack's place. And, probably, some sex. If they felt like it. If? Who was he kidding? Daniel removed Jack's note from the stone and stuck it onto his desk, as more of a goal than a reminder. He picked up the stone, turned it over in his fingers a few times, and set it down again. He reached for the next book in his pile. He could at least get some work done while waiting for the quarantine to be lifted. ----- "Three days," Colonel O'Neill said again. "Seventy-two uninterrupted hours. Of rest. Relaxation. Steak. There could be nothing better for my health. Trust me." He twitched his eyebrow. Janet uncapped the hypodermic, inwardly sighed, and gave him a sympathetic look. "I need to take a blood sample," she said. He obligingly shrugged out of his jacket and rolled up his sleeve. "What is this thing SG-11 brought back with them, anyway? Some kind of virus?" he asked. Janet inserted the needle and filled the vial. She hesitated before answering. "We think so. I've never seen anything quite like it. It may have been bio-engineered. I asked Major Carter to help us analyze it." Colonel O'Neill held his arm up and bent it at the elbow, pressing a small swab of cloth over the insertion point. "Good. She'll figure it out, and I can go home and get my three days." "Colonel," Janet said warningly. "You can't go home until we're sure you're not infected. That may take... a long time." She didn't want to mention that it might take longer than three days. He hopped off the examination table. "Carter will figure it out," he said firmly. He stalked out of the infirmary. Janet sighed and reached for a clean syringe. "Send Doctor Jackson in next." Daniel came in, wearing a black t-shirt and no jacket, sat down on the examination table and held out his arm, ready for the blood sample to be drawn. "How are SG-11 doing?" he asked. It didn't sound like idle curiosity. Janet paused. Of course. Daniel had recently spent a lot of time with SG-11. He knew them. She pursed her lips. "Not good, I'm afraid." Daniel stared at her for a moment. "Oh," he said, and frowned. "If there's anything I can do..." "Thanks." Janet smiled. "I'll let you know." A nurse escorted the members of SG-7 into the infirmary. They milled about, removing jackets or rolling up sleeves. A tray of blood samples was collected and taken away to the labs. Daniel hopped down from the table and left. When he reached the bio analysis lab, Jack was already there, peering over Sam's shoulder into the containment cubicle. Two technicians in lab coats worked at separate cubicles. Sam looked into the cubicle's built-in microscope. Daniel stood next to Jack, who glanced back at him and muttered, "No luck yet." His stance, the look on his face, and his civilian clothes all said Jack hadn't given up hope for a quick solution. Daniel sympathized. Three days were at stake. He watched Sam change microscope plates. She stood up straight and wiped her hair back from her forehead. "This is incredible," she said, facing them. "I think it's an engineered bacillus. A retrovirus created to invade the bloodstream and infect the host. It's replicating quickly, like the nanocites we've encountered, but it's organic." "Don't we have stuff that should have detected this...?" Jack gestured uncertainly, looking uneasy. "We can only detect what we've encountered before, sir. What we know to look for. This is behaving like a bacillus found on Earth, but it doesn't match any of the known strains in the CDC or WHO databases." Daniel looked inside the cubicle, at the blood-spotted glass slides. "What's it behaving like?" Sam paled and lowered her voice. "The symptoms are like septicemic plague." "Plague?" Jack repeated loudly. The two technicians turned around and stared at them. Jack cocked his head and looked apologetic. "The symptoms are plague-like," Sam said, "but the infectious agent isn't like the one found on Earth. So it might not be plague, just something very similar we've never encountered before." She spoke carefully. Daniel watched her, and identified what she wasn't saying: this type of plague was usually fatal. He spared another glance at the slide samples, and shoved his hands into his pockets. He smiled encouragingly at her. "We'll let you get back to work." Jack looked at him. He looked at Jack. Jack looked at Sam and nodded. "Yeah." Daniel left the lab, not surprised when Jack fell into step beside him. "So," Jack said. "How about a cup of coffee? Until this quarantine is lifted." "I thought I'd go back and work on those inscriptions," Daniel said. Jack said nothing, but Daniel was sure he was rolling his eyes. "I'm not going to give up, you know. The answer has to be there." "Yeah, yeah. Well, if you change your mind, I'll be in the commissary." At the next intersection, their paths diverged. Daniel headed straight for his office and sat down at his desk. A few memories of SG-11 on the P4X-925 dig distracted him at first. He focused his concentration on the blue stone. They had brought back over two-hundred stones from 925. Ninety-eight of these had inscriptions on them, mostly fragments. Most of the stones were smoothly shaped except for a few chips and cracks, and it was impossible to tell how they had once fit together. Assuming they had. Also impossible to know what was missing. They'd brought everything they could find, but Daniel was certain there was more back on the planet, waiting to be unearthed. Years of archaeological work they simply couldn't spare the manpower for. He had to find the answer in these ninety-eight stones, or give up. After a few minutes, Jack wandered into the office. Daniel kept working, checking the word forms on the stone against his notes. Jack did his usual circuit of the room, picking up things and replacing them, before stopping in front of the desk and waiting for Daniel's attention. Somewhat annoyed by the interruption so soon, Daniel ignored him until he'd finished searching his notes. "Jack," he said, looking up. Jack smiled. "How about a break?" Daniel pursed his lips. "Coffee counts as a break, and I said I didn't want any." "Yeah, but that was an hour ago." Daniel checked his watch. Jack was right. Huh. He glanced at Jack, and back at his notes. "Actually, I'm not at a good place to stop, so if you don't mind..." Jack lifted an eyebrow and shrugged. "Yeah, okay." Daniel rolled his pencil between his fingers. "Maybe later." "Later," Jack said, walking out of the office. Daniel returned to his notes. When Jack reappeared, Daniel checked his watch first. Two hours had passed since the first interruption. It depressed him to think he'd spent three hours on one sentence fragment and still wasn't any closer to understanding what it meant. Jack had taken off his leather jacket, some small concession to the fact that they weren't going anywhere soon. But he was still dressed in his street clothes. Daniel suspected that if he could have worn a sign around his neck that said Off Duty, he would have. He watched Jack toy with the blue stone and set it down again. He admired Jack's fingers -- how they moved, how they held the stone. His gaze moved up Jack's arm to his shoulder, lingered on Jack's neck before following the line of his jaw and chin, the shape of his lips. Daniel glanced down at his notes. "Any news from the infirmary?" Jack shook his head. "Not much. They took blood from everyone on base, and they're checking to make sure we're not all plague victims." Jack paused and looked at Daniel, serious. "No change for SG-11." Daniel nodded and sat back, tossing his pencil aside. "What about Sam? Did she find anything?" Jack's gaze darted to the desk. "I don't know. They closed off the bio lab." Daniel had a sudden, clear mental image of Jack wandering in and out of the lab, distracting the technicians. "Oh." "I couldn't see anything from the observation room. Didn't look like they'd found anything yet, though." Jack tapped the desk. "So, ready for that break yet?" He looked so eager, Daniel was tempted. But he hated to disrupt his train of thought. And, truthfully, he knew that if he went to hang out with Jack, he wasn't going to be in any hurry to come back to these stones. They were supposed to have three days together. That time had already been cut short by almost six hours. Daniel looked at his books and notes. "Well, to be honest--" Jack lifted his hands to cut him off. "I get the picture." Daniel gazed at him steadily, until Jack returned the gaze. A rush of warmth spread throughout Daniel's body. "Later," he said. "I promise." Jack nodded, not looking away. "Later." When Jack was at the doorway, Daniel asked him, "What about Teal'c?" Jack sighed. "Kel-no-reem." Daniel lifted an eyebrow and picked up the stone. A group of airmen filled the corridor. Jack waited until they'd passed before he left. He stood outside Daniel's doorway, practiced his golf swing, and checked to see if Daniel had been watching. Daniel had not been watching. Daniel was fascinated by a stupid blue stone. Jack wandered slowly through SGC. Most of his killing time plans were already used up. He made another circuit: observation room to watch Carter and will her to figure this evil virus out, save the world, and save his three days off. Infirmary to eavesdrop for news on SG-11 and the plague, until Doc Fraiser booted him out. Swing by General Hammond's office to find the door locked and Hammond on the red phone. Check out the commissary and decide against poisoning himself further with their coffee. He wondered if Carter had tried the coffee as an antidote yet. Surely that stuff would kill any virus within ten feet. It was time to begin the second stage of killing time. First stop was Teal'c's quarters, to pry him out of the kel-no-reem to end all kel-no-reems. "O'Neill," Teal'c greeted without opening his eyes. Jack carefully navigated through the circle of burning candles and stood in front of him. "You've never meditated this long unless you were dying," Jack said. "You're avoiding me." Teal'c opened his eyes, gave Jack a level look, and didn't deny it. Jack punched the air. "Couple of rounds in the ring? Whaddya say?" Teal'c lifted a long-handled candle-snuffer and started extinguishing candles. "Daniel Jackson asked you to leave his office again, did he not?" Jack slid his hands into his pockets and blew on a candle. "Not in so many words." "I see." The gym was busy. With everyone confined to SGC, it wasn't surprising that so many would take the edge off with exercise. Jack and Teal'c sparred at one of the punching bags until Coburn and Judickas left the boxing ring. Jack went a few rounds with Teal'c, who was, as usual, carefully holding back. A crowd of airmen formed around the ring, watching or waiting. Jack called for a time-out, taking off his gloves. Mopping sweat from his brow, Jack leaned against the wall and watched two new guys take the ring. God, they looked younger and younger these days. He realized they were easily half his age, probably more than half. Jack wiped his neck and glanced at Teal'c. "The weights are free. Spot me," he said. Teal'c raised one eyebrow a fraction of an inch and inclined his head. Jack narrowed his eyes. "What?" he asked. "Do you not wish to rest for a few minutes?" Jack frowned. "Do I look like I need to rest?" He wiped the towel across his cheek. Teal'c stared at him for a moment and answered, "Yes." "Oh." Jack slung the towel over his shoulder. He looked down at himself. "But I'm in pretty good shape, don't you think?" Teal'c answered slowly, "You are in excellent shape. For a human of your age." The qualification wasn't lost on Jack. He cocked one eyebrow at Teal'c and watched the guys in the ring for a moment. They were really going at it. Fast, too. Just watching them was making Jack sweat again. He cuffed Teal'c on the shoulder. "Okay. Short break, then the weights." Teal'c was fairly merciless at the bench. Normally Jack appreciated this -- it drove him harder and he felt a nice, small buzz of accomplishment at the end of a work-out -- but today he would have been just as happy if Teal'c had slacked off a bit. He was distracted. He was thinking about the plague. He was thinking of his three days, rapidly slipping into two-and-a-half. He was thinking about Daniel. He was wondering if Daniel noticed what good shape Jack was in and appreciated it. He was wondering how Daniel stayed in such good shape when he seemingly didn't do a single thing about it. "Hey, Teal'c," he said between panting breaths as he replaced the bar. "Do you ever come down here and work out with Daniel?" Bad move. The break gave Teal'c an excuse to add more weights. "I do not." Jack flexed his fingers around the bar and lifted, grunting from the effort. Now that he thought about it, hard to picture Daniel in the ring or on the treadmill. Maybe they shouldn't be eating so much red meat. Wasn't it fattening or something? That thought led him back to the steaks waiting for him at home. He lowered the bar. "That's it for today." "O'Neill. You are capable of lifting much more than this," Teal'c said. About as chastizing as Teal'c was capable of. Jack slid out from under the bar and sat up. "I know. That's it for today." ----- Daniel's back and shoulders ached. He checked his watch and was surprised at how many hours had gone by between Jack's visits. Maybe Jack had found something to do. For an instant, he imagined Jack lounging in the VIP suite, napping, and imagined joining him there. Oh no. Not a thought to be having here and now. He stood up, stretched, and went for a walk. He ended up in the infirmary. It was strangely quiet after the chaos of earlier. Doctor Fraiser, Doctor Warner, and General Hammond stood at the far end, talking in low tones. As he walked in, Janet spotted him and walked up to him, face so concerned he knew her question before she even spoke. "Are you feeling all right?" Daniel smiled briefly. "I'm fine. Just taking a break." She relaxed a little and nodded. "I wanted to ask about SG-11," he said. "I was wondering if I could see..." He trailed off at the change in her expression. Her eyes widened and her mouth set in a tight line. "Oh, Daniel," she said softly. "I'm sorry. I thought someone would have told you..." Her look of sympathy was so grave, for a wild, panicked second, all he could think was Jack was dead. Or Sam. Or Teal'c. How many times had he waited for this news? Prepared himself for something it was impossible to be prepared for. But it made no sense, and the panic died. "Tell me what?" he asked. Janet shook her head. "Captain Durning died about an hour ago. The rest of SG-11... It doesn't look good. Unless we try something drastic, we may lose them. That's what the general and Doctor Warner and I were discussing when you came in." His gaze strayed to the general and Doctor Warner. "So Sam hasn't found anything," he said. Janet sighed. "We know it was engineered and it mimics septicemic plague, but the onset is much faster than normal. We're not sure why Captain Durning's condition deteriorated so rapidly. He may have been the first exposed to the infectious agent. We've administered one round of antimicrobic therapy to the others, and what we're discussing now is whether we should proceed with another round so soon. Normally, we'd wait a week between injections, but this isn't behaving like a normal plague." "Accelerate the treatment because the infection is so accelerated," Daniel said. Janet nodded. "Yes. But even with normal cases of this type of plague..." She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to. Daniel saw the tired lines around her eyes and mouth, and thought of all the hours she'd been working to save her patients, only to lose one already. He nodded his understanding and turned to leave. "Let me know if there's any change," he said. "I will." He took a long walk after leaving the infirmary, through corridor after corridor. In the beginning of his life in Cheyenne Mountain, he had thought all the corridors looked alike. Now he knew most of them by heart, and registered their differences automatically. He passed SGC personnel of various classifications and ranks, some wandering aimlessly like himself, others striding purposefully toward a destination. Some were loitering, talking among themselves. A few said hello as he walked by. It astounded him how many names and faces he still didn't know. He was in front of Jack's office before he knew it. He stopped and looked inside, not at all surprised that Jack wasn't there. Jack spent as little time there as possible. Daniel had been in the SGC for months before he even knew Jack had an office. He stared at the far wall, trying to remember what Captain Durning looked like. It should have been easy enough to remember; Durning had more or less haunted him for three weeks on P4X-925 last month, keeping an eye on him for Jack's sake. All because Jack had fed him some bullshit about a bet, and Durning was happy to do a colonel a favor. It was no use. He couldn't remember Durning's face. He kept walking. ----- Jack turned over the next card, hoping for an eight, getting a two. He snapped at it with his finger and stared at the row of cards before him, looking for a way to get rid of it. What a stupid game. Who invented solitaire anyway? Still holding the two, he peeked at the next card in the deck. "That's cheating." Daniel slid into the chair across the table. Jack set the deck aside, next to his cup of hours-old, petrified coffee. Daniel reached for the cup, peered inside dubiously, and replaced it with a faint air of disgust. "The last pot was three hours ago," Jack said. "Then the coffee ran out." He glanced back at the commissary counters. "There may still be some tea." "No, thanks." Daniel sat back and folded his hands over the table. He looked tired. Troubled. "Those stones giving you the blues?" Jack asked with a small smile, privately amused at his little joke. Daniel didn't reply. Jack touched one finger to the ten of spades and slid it onto the wrong pile. "Captain Durning's dead," Daniel said after a while. Jack looked at him for a moment and nodded. He'd figured things were bad, since they were all still here. He gathered up the cards. "They're going to try some drastic treatment," Daniel said. "Try to save the rest of SG-11." Jack straightened the deck and tapped it against the table. "At least no one else has been infected..." Daniel paused. "Durning had red hair, didn't he?" Jack held the deck in his palm and didn't reply. He watched Daniel steadily, saw Daniel's look of concentration, of frustration. He reached across the table, briefly touched Daniel's wrist, and quietly said, "Don't." Daniel blinked. "Don't?" Jack moved his hand away and cut the deck of cards. "Don't try to remember." Daniel's brow creased. "Why?" Jack met his gaze. "It's easier not to," he said. Daniel was silent for a moment. "But..." He stopped and sat forward. "I guess you're right." Jack shuffled the cards. He slid the deck to Daniel, who cut it into two neat, even piles. He gathered them and shuffled again. He dealt their hands. "What are we playing?" Daniel asked. Jack stared at the cards before them. "I don't know. Gin?" Daniel shrugged and picked up his hand. "Okay." The game was slow and quiet. Jack was winning. He waited for Daniel's next play and rearranged the cards he was holding. Durning had had sandy blond hair. One of those upper lips that looked like he had a mustache when he didn't. Fat face. A wife and two kids. Hammond would have written to the wife already; he was good about stuff like that, getting it done quickly, getting it over with. Jack said a silent good-bye to Durning as he picked up his cards. Personnel wandered in and out of the commissary as they played. Invariably, someone would walk over to the coffee pots, check them all out, ask if there was any more, and be told no. Maybe they should make an announcement on the PA: There is no more coffee in Cheyenne Mountain. Jack chewed the inside of his lip and watched Daniel frowning at his card hand. He waited a few more seconds. "Daniel..." "Just a minute." Daniel waved him off with one hand. Jack set his cards face down on the table and propped his chin on his fist, staring at him. Daniel blinked over the cards. "Don't do that." "Just waiting for you to take your turn." "Staring at me won't make the wait any shorter," Daniel said doggedly. "Play, and I won't stare." Daniel narrowed his eyes. "Don't stare, and I'll play." If he could have grabbed Daniel and ravished him there and then, he would have. And he didn't spare a second for regret or fear for thinking about this here and now. Surrounded by death, tense waiting, and boredom. He was still off duty, dammit. If he had to lose his vacation to the plague, at least he could lose it having inappropriate thoughts about Daniel. "You're doing it again," Daniel muttered, finally making his play. Jack picked up his cards and smirked. "I knew it," Daniel grumbled. "Better luck next time." "Don't stare at me, and maybe so." Jack smiled and started shuffling again. Another group of people entered the commissary. He waited for the No More Coffee Moment. Someone fell heavily into the chair next to him. He glanced over. It was Carter. She looked exhausted but triumphant. "Good news?" he asked. "How are SG-11?" Daniel asked her, sitting forward. Carter shook her head and gratefully accepted a glass of water from Lieutenant Simmons, who hovered by her chair. "I haven't seen SG-11 yet, but I think we found the answer. We tried every antimicrobic treatment we could think of, and finally hit on one that destroyed the invading retrovirus' DNA. Doctor Fraiser is trying it on SG-11 now." "Great," Jack said, smiling at her. "I knew you could do it." Carter shrugged. "Actually, sir, it was a team effort--" "Of course, of course," Jack said, pulling back from the table. Daniel looked up at him. "Where are you going?" "Infirmary. Didn't you hear? An antidote means we can get out of this place." He checked his watch. "Only thirteen hours late." "Colonel..." Carter began, but he didn't wait to hear her out. She was only going to say something sensible which would destroy his optimism. He made his way to the infirmary. A minute or so later, Daniel showed up, accompanied by Carter. Doctor Fraiser emerged from the isolation ward, removing her mask and gloves and tossing them into a haz-mat bin. "How does it look?" Jack asked, not liking her serious expression. Fraiser shrugged. "We have to wait and see." She smiled briefly at Carter. "But from our preliminary tests, it looks like you found the right treatment." Carter smiled back. "Good. I'll tell Doctor Thompson, and he can get to work on the vaccine." Jack glanced from Carter to Fraiser. "Vaccine? Does that mean--?" "I'm afraid so, Colonel," Fraiser said. "Everyone has to be inoculated to make sure we don't bring the alien bacillus into the outside environment. The effects would be catastrophic. After inoculation, we'll have to collect another blood sample before anyone can leave." Jack frowned. "But no one else is infected." Fraiser shook her head. "I'm sorry. We can't take any chances. I've never seen anything act this quickly." Jack stuffed his hands into his pockets. "How long are we talking about?" He looked at Carter, who shrugged. "Shouldn't take too long for the vaccine, now that we know what we're working with. A couple of hours," she said. "And by then, we should have more complete tests on SG-11," Fraiser added. "Yeah, okay," Jack said. He looked at Daniel, who looked relieved, resigned, and tired. "Another round of cards?" Daniel was staring at the door to the isolation ward. "No, that's okay. I think I'll go back to my office, get some more work done." Jack nodded and touched Daniel's arm. "Come on. Doc Fraiser's got it under control." Daniel roused himself and left with Jack. As they navigated the corridors, it was obvious the good news hadn't spread yet. They didn't tell anyone. There were still hours of waiting ahead. Jack walked Daniel to his office. Daniel sat down at his desk and reviewed the notes and books he'd left open. Jack lingered in the office. Daniel peered up at him over the rims of his glasses. "Jack." Jack's eyes scanned the walls before settling on Daniel. "Maybe I could, you know, help." "Help," Daniel repeated, skeptical. "With this." "Sure." Jack shrugged. "How hard can it be?" He paused. "Okay, don't answer that. But I've helped you before." Daniel turned his pencil over in his fingers. "When you had the language of the ancients in your brain, and when we were stuck in a timeloop for several months." He watched Jack pick up one of the books and read the spine. He was sorely tempted to say yes. Not to the help, but to Jack. He wanted to be with Jack, he knew Jack wanted to be with him, but not like this, and not here. He'd been so casual about those three days off, before the quarantine. Laundry? Reading? Forget the laundry. The reading could wait. If they ever got the little-more-than-two days left of their vacation back. Daniel cleared his throat. "I appreciate the offer. Really." That sounded less than convincing, even to his ears. Jack frowned at him. "Yeah, okay," Jack said. He walked over to the door and paused. "But if you change your mind..." Daniel smiled. "I know." Jack disappeared into the corridor and Daniel stared at the notebook in front of him. Blond. Durning had been blond. He remembered that now. And big. Fat, stubby fingers that clutched fragile bits of pottery a little too tightly. They hadn't talked much, despite Durning's vigil over Daniel. Happy enough to accept Daniel's authority when it came to archaeological digs, though. These were the memories that surfaced. Jack was right: it was easier not to remember. Daniel silently bid Durning a peaceful rest in whatever afterlife awaited. ----- The commissary had become makeshift quarters. In between those eating, drinking, or playing cards lay dozing SGC personnel who had failed to find an available bunk. Teal'c walked between the tables, hands clasped behind his back. He found O'Neill sitting alone, resting his head on his arms, over an array of cards. "O'Neill." O'Neill sat up abruptly. "What?" he asked, looking around. He had been asleep. Teal'c raised an eyebrow. "I have been sent by Doctor Fraiser to inform you that the vaccine is now ready," he said. O'Neill leapt to his feet and smiled. He clapped Teal'c's shoulder. "Yes. Finally." He looked at his watch. "Only fifteen hours late." They left the commissary together. Teal'c said, "Should we not inform Daniel Jackson?" O'Neill looked over at him. "An excellent idea. Yes, we should." When they arrived at Daniel Jackson's office, they stopped in the doorway. A cot had been set up next to the desk and Daniel Jackson was curled up on it, asleep. O'Neill stepped forward and watched him, but made no move to wake him. Teal'c thought of the many hours Daniel Jackson had spent working on the inscriptions which were so frustrating to him. He wished he could have been of assistance. Daniel Jackson looked very peaceful in sleep. O'Neill crouched next to the cot and carefully rested one hand on Daniel Jackson's shoulder. "Daniel," he said quietly. Daniel Jackson stirred and opened his eyes. His movements were slow, as if he had been in a deep sleep. Teal'c noticed the intense, warm look Daniel Jackson gave O'Neill before O'Neill cocked his head in Teal'c's direction. Teal'c inclined his head at Daniel Jackson and smiled. "There is good news. The vaccine is prepared." Daniel Jackson sat up and put on his glasses. "Already?" he said, looking at his watch. O'Neill patted his shoulder. "Already," O'Neill said in a voice that made it clear he felt the wait had been far too long. O'Neill was therefore disappointed when they approached the infirmary and saw the long line of personnel waiting for inoculation. "There's a wait?" he said, gesturing in frustration. "I believe personnel who are scheduled for offworld missions are to be first," Teal'c informed him. O'Neill cursed under his breath. Daniel Jackson rubbed his lower lip with his thumb. "Why do you have to be inoculated?" he asked. "Doesn't your symbiote protect you from the plague?" Teal'c looked at them both. "I believe the damage would be too severe and rapid for the symbiote to repair. There is also the risk that I would carry the virus within me and infect humans even if I remained unaffected." "Where's Carter?" O'Neill asked as they stepped forward in the line. "She is helping Doctor Fraiser. She tested the vaccine on herself, so she is already inoculated." O'Neill raised one eyebrow and looked at Daniel Jackson. "How convenient." The line moved slowly, weaving around the infirmary until it reached Doctor Fraiser and her assistants. Despite the crowd, it was quiet. There was an air of restless expectation, even though they knew there would be more waiting after the inoculation. Jack had his sleeve rolled up when he reached Fraiser. Daniel shrugged out of one jacket sleeve. Teal'c was wearing a t-shirt. Fraiser and two assistants administered the injections more or less simultaneously. Fraiser smiled at Jack. "There you go, Colonel." "Now how much longer?" he asked her. She gave him a sympathetic look. "Another hour. I'm sorry, Colonel, but we have to take every precaution." Jack nodded unhappily and pulled his sleeve down. "How are the rest of SG-11?" Daniel asked. Fraiser smiled wearily. "In stable condition. They'll need a lot of rest after this, but I think they'll be okay." "That's good news," Daniel said, looking in the direction of the isolation ward. Jack stepped aside as the next people in line came forward to get their shots. Daniel and Teal'c left the infirmary, but Jack paused to ask Doctor Fraiser, "Where's Major Carter?" Fraiser readied a hypodermic. "As her physician, I ordered her to get some rest." She looked at Jack sharply. "Something I may order for you if you don't get out of the way." Jack left willingly. He retrieved his leather jacket from his office and tracked down Daniel and Teal'c in the commissary. Daniel eyed his jacket as Jack folded it over a chair. "You heard the doc," Jack said. "Another hour, and home free." "At least another hour," Daniel said. "Did you see the line of people waiting to be vaccinated? It could take them all night." Jack frowned at him, sat down, and reached for the playing cards. "Game of poker?" he asked, shuffling the deck. "Toothpick ante." Teal'c nodded and Daniel went to get a box of toothpicks. They played hand after hand, Teal'c accumulating the most toothpicks, as they waited. Daniel, damn him, was right. It was taking forever for Doctor Fraiser and her staff to inoculate the whole base, and when the time came to collect final blood samples, the teams scheduled to go offworld were again top priority. Fortunately, they had available lab personnel to run the blood analyses, but even so, Jack wondered when Fraiser had last had a break. He thought of his endless hours of killing time and felt selfish. Still. The vacation couldn't start early enough for him. When they were finally called for blood samples, Fraiser wasn't even there. Doctor Warner told them she was taking a well-deserved nap, and Jack felt a little less guilty. Samples taken, it was another hour of waiting for results. A final hour that crawled by in silence. Teal'c had gone back to his quarters. Daniel had gone back to his books. Jack rested his head on his arms and listened to his watch ticking. When he thought he could stand it no more, thought he was going to have to open one of the emergency hatches and climb to the surface, Warner called them back for the results. "Everything looks fine," Warner said, flipping through a chart. "No signs of infection. You're free to go." Jack was halfway out the door before Warner could finish his sentence. ----- They had lost most of a day. That still left two. At this point, Daniel would take anything he could get. Jack's good-bye at SGC had been quick; Jack was racing to the elevator at the time. Daniel cleared his desk, turned the lights off, went to change into his civilian clothes, and went home. As soon as he walked in the door, he wanted to collapse on the bed and sleep for the next forty-eight hours, but he reminded himself there was steak in his immediate future. Steak and Jack. Or, more accurately, Jack and steak. He gathered some clothes, his travel toothbrush, a couple of issues of Archaeology, and stuffed them into an overnight bag. He kept himself awake for the drive to Jack's house on pure anticipation alone. He parked, and the anticipation high left him. He dragged himself to Jack's door, rang the bell, and nearly fell inside when Jack let him in. Jack closed the door and looked at him assessingly. "Bed?" Jack said. Daniel blinked at him. Once, and then his eyes were closed. "Yes," he said, and Jack's hands were on his hips, Jack was behind him, guiding him to the bedroom. Daniel leaned against Jack's chest. He was so tired he felt drunk. Let Jack do all the work. Jack had done nothing all day but play cards. In the bedroom, he woke up enough to strip, peripherally aware of Jack doing the same. Then, the best feeling in the world: crawling into bed and curling up next to a warm Jack. Jack whispered, "Goodnight, Daniel," and brushed a hand over Daniel's hair. As he drifted, Daniel remembered, faintly, that he had never been naked in Jack's bed before, so this was sort of an occasion. The thought left him as sleep embraced him. Warm, bright light filtered in through the windows when Daniel woke up. It must be late morning or early afternoon. He had no sense of the time, and didn't care, because he was right where he needed to be. He rolled over and watched Jack sleep for a while, before he had to touch, had to kiss, had to bring their bodies together. Jack woke up, stretching, yawning, smiling. "Awake now?" Daniel pushed against him. "Can't you tell?" "Mmmm." Jack kissed him slowly, a kiss that melted into more, one after another. They pressed together, and moved together, and each careful touch flooded Daniel's skin. It was slow, and sweet, and warm, with an edge of restlessness, a hint of frustration released. Daniel rubbed the back of Jack's neck as the shudders subsided, and said, "We lost a day." Jack slid one fingertip up Daniel's torso, from his stomach to the hollow of his throat. "I'll start thawing the steaks." The day was lazy. Showers, shaves. Daniel, wearing undershirt, boxers, and glasses, sat at the dining room table and read while Jack made toast and eggs and coffee for breakfast. Technically lunch, given the hour. Jack set a time for the grilling to begin. That left a few empty hours in between. Without discussion, without hesitation, they were back in the bedroom, back in bed, clothes in a heap on the floor. In a lull between make-out sessions -- and it was odd to think of them as that, but Jack was at a loss for a better description -- Daniel stretched out on his stomach, folded his hands under his cheek, and closed his eyes. Jack watched him dozing and touched the nape of Daniel's neck. He smoothed his hand down Daniel's back, then up, and across. Daniel smiled without opening his eyes and rolled his shoulders beneath Jack's hand. "Shoulders stiff?" "Mm," Daniel said. Jack rubbed one with his thumb. "From yesterday. All that sitting, and waiting, and tension." He sat up. "Here, let me give you a back rub. And I mean that in a let-me-give-you-a-back-rub kind of way, not in a porn movie I'm-coming-onto-you kind of way." Daniel opened his eyes and glanced back at him. "Porn movie?" "You know what I mean." Daniel settled and closed his eyes again. Jack smoothed his palm along the back of Daniel's head and neck, before bringing both hands to rest over Daniel's shoulders. He rubbed slow circles with his thumbs, pressing with the heels of his hands. Daniel sighed softly and relaxed. For a while. Until he opened his eyes and said, "This doesn't seem right somehow." Jack lifted an eyebrow but didn't stop rubbing. Daniel's skin was very warm and smooth and felt good under his fingers. "Why not?" "You're the one with the bad back." Jack frowned and straightened his spine. Since when did Daniel care about his back pains? "I don't have a bad back," he said. Or knees, he silently added. Daniel merely gave him a sidelong glance in reply. "Okay," Jack conceded. "Next time, you can do me." He paused. Winced at his choice of words. Daniel lifted his eyebrows, blinked slowly at him, and started to smile. Jack grabbed two handfuls of shoulder and rubbed a little more thoroughly. Daniel closed his eyes, still smiling, and rolled his shoulders to Jack's rubbing. Jack worked outward from Daniel's spine, totally enjoying this. Daniel was becoming all melty and was probably falling asleep, but that was okay. Jack's own shoulder began to ache from reaching over, so, after a momentary hesitation, he straddled Daniel's lower back. Daniel must have been asleep, because he didn't react. Jack kept rubbing, palms flat, fingers splayed, down Daniel's back. Okay, uh, this felt really nice. Disturbingly really nice. There was a neat set of thoughts here that Jack wasn't ready to think about, not yet, but at the same time, well, it felt scarily disturbingly nice. He licked his lips and slid back a little, and, oh yeah, okay. He was straddling Daniel's ass. Parts of him were touching Daniel's ass, and not in any oops, accidental move kind of way. Before him was the broad expanse of Daniel's back, the gradual slopes of his ribs, the valley where his spine ran straight, the deep curve of his waist. Some lingering, hidden, idiotic inner voice said, I should not be attracted to this. The other 99.9% of him was too busy being attracted to it to say anything at all. And meantime, his hands kept working, smoothing and sliding and stroking. Touching everything before him, everything he could reach. His fingers glided back up to Daniel's neck to rub the short hairs there, and he watched Daniel's face. And he knew, maybe knew it all along but hadn't acknowledged it yet: Daniel wasn't asleep, hadn't been asleep the entire time. Already pretty far gone, this realization sent Jack into full-blown, raging hard-on mode. He leaned forward and kissed the back of Daniel's neck, and slid his hands along Daniel's sides. Daniel arched beneath him, tilting his head forward to offer more neck, and if he hadn't already been harder than hell, the sensation of Daniel moving beneath him would have done it. He stroked up, over Daniel's shoulders. Daniel stretched his arms out, over his head, and Jack's hands followed them. He touched his lips to that spot on Daniel's neck, and Daniel sighed and shifted under him again. Daniel's fingers pressed back against his own and wove between them until Jack was clutching Daniel's hands, sucking on Daniel's neck, and pressing his hard-on against Daniel's ass. Daniel released one hand. He reached down and back and did something... moved... parted his ass... oh god, oh oh oh oh oh. Jack caught his breath and whispered, "Daniel..." "Jack." Daniel's voice was muffled by shoulder and pillow. Jack took another long, steadying breath, and held himself perfectly still. As still as a guy with a racing pulse and pounding hard-on could be. "Daniel," he said again. Daniel writhed under him, knowing damned well what he was doing, what it had to be doing to Jack. "Jack," he said. Jack bit the inside of his lip. "Daniel, don't get me wrong... but... this is moving pretty fast, don't you think?" "Jack," Daniel murmured. He sounded amused. "Just... trust me." He shifted again, and Jack hissed. Daniel smiled and whispered, "Just... stay there." He snaked his hand back up to take Jack's. Jack inhaled deeply, stared at Daniel's smile, held Daniel's hands, and exhaled. And stayed where he was. With his cock, full and throbbing, nestled against... on... between... Held there. Held pretty wonderfully there, between, and not inside. He rocked back -- oh god -- and rocked forward, and was still held, wonderfully held. Still holding Daniel, pretty much blanketing Daniel. He kissed Daniel's neck and shoulders and back. He squeezed Daniel's fingers. Daniel moved beneath him, knew exactly what he was doing, and Jack rocked. Felt the heat of Daniel's skin brush against his nipples and chest, brush against his balls, felt it holding his cock, and... Okay. This felt good, this felt mind-blowingly good, and to hell with whatever inhibitions Jack had left, Daniel had a great ass. There. He'd admitted it, because, damn, it was true. Firm, and round, and strong, and... a great ass, a great back, a great body, a great mind, Daniel was just all-over great. Jack rubbed faster, Daniel moved with him, arching. Jack found a delicious curve of shoulder to kiss and bite. He thrust once, and again, and was no longer held between, but it was still so good. So good. Shudders poured through his body as he came, hard, squeezing Daniel's fingers. Coasting on his high, Jack sank against Daniel's body, felt the sticky streaks of his come mixed with the slickness of Daniel's sweat. He panted against Daniel's shoulder, resting his head there, and he didn't want to move for about a million years. Daniel wiggled his fingers. Jack carefully loosened his hold. He stroked Daniel's arms, gently, in slow, long caresses. Daniel stirred beneath him and Jack reluctantly moved, sliding off of him. For a long time, they lay there together, silent, messy, drenched. Late afternoon sunlight angled through the window and cast shadows across the bed and across their bodies. Daniel's voice was soft. He settled on his side, facing Jack. "So, how, exactly, was that different from the porn movie back rub?" Jack raised an eyebrow. His gaze travelled down Daniel's body. Daniel watched him checking, could almost hear him asking, A good time was had by all? Oh, yes, it was. Jack's eyes met his. Nicely buzzed from incredible sex, Daniel smiled and ran his fingertips across Jack's chest, through his chest hair. Jack covered his hand, lifted and caressed it, rubbing Daniel's palm with his thumb. Daniel watched him, watched their fingers together, felt the soft warmth from Jack's touch. Jack glanced away, to a spot on the wall somewhere beyond Daniel's shoulder, and Daniel waited for him to ask. "Is that something... Do you think about... Do you want..." Jack shook his head a little and frowned. He looked at Daniel. "Still too early to have this conversation?" Daniel slid over, closing the space between them, and drew Jack into his arms. "Still too early." Jack let out a breath and relaxed against him. Daniel closed his eyes, pleasantly drowsy and lazy, until his skin cooled too much to be comfortable. He rubbed the back of Jack's neck and sat up. Jack yawned and stretched and watched him get out of bed. The close, satisfied, proprietary look Jack gave him warmed Daniel, so he lingered over picking up his clothes. Jack's smile and the twitch of his eyebrow told Daniel Jack recognized and appreciated the lingering. Clean and damp and dressed, he sat outside and read while Jack showered. It was a warm, clear evening. When Jack came outside, he switched on a porch light for Daniel to read by and got started on the grill. Daniel half read, half watched Jack, and finally tossed the magazine aside. He sat back and looked up at the sky as the last streaks of sunset faded behind the trees. Another whole day of this, he thought. He tried to regret the lost day, but found he couldn't. It didn't matter now, because they had another whole day ahead. Jack nudged his shoulder, carrying two plates. "Steaks are done." Daniel looked up at him and took the plate. It smelled delicious, and he was starving. He cut into the sirloin, grilled perfectly, and took his first bite. Jack watched him with a cook's attentive eye, so Daniel savored it, showed his satisfaction. Entirely genuine. The best steak he'd ever tasted, and well worth the wait. (the end)

The blanket providing shade was snatched away, letting the sun heat his sweat soaked clothes. Troy blinked up, squinting. A figure stepped into the sun, throwing him into shadow and easing the headache he was nursing. Troy tried to sit up only to be brought up short by the rope binding his hands. Captain Dietrich shoved him upright, then pulled him out of the remarked British jeep. While Troy steadied himself against the hot metal, Dietrich clasp his hands behind his back and stated very calmly, “Sergeant, Mohadid and a dozen of his men are approaching. You know his feelings toward Americans. If I tell him you are my prisoner, he may let you alive; he may shoot you immediately; he may sell you to one of his men or he may keep you for himself.” Troy glanced at the fast approaching horsemen. He accepted that Dietrich was being truthful about his options. There had been enough reports from both sides on Mohadid and his men to justify his statements. “Or?” He asked quickly. It was obvious that Dietrich had another plan, though Troy was certain he wouldn’t like it. “Or,” Dietrich paused. He seemed as reluctant to mention it as Troy did to hear it. “Or you can play the roll of my slave. Mohadid will not go against tradition concerning...” “Forget it!” Troy snapped. Dietrich shrugged. “Very well. I hope you enjoy the attention of other men, probably several.” The image the German conjured up hit him like the noonday sun. Troy glanced toward the riders. “Why do you care?” Troy demanded of the captain. Dietrich straightened, coming to his full height. “Despite the fact that you are my enemy, Sergeant, I have no desire to see anyone sodomized.” The officer stared at him, waiting. The pounding of hooves on the hard sand echoed through Troy’s boots. “What do I do?” Troy questioned sullenly. Stepping closer, Dietrich turned him and untied the ropes that bound his hands. “Don’t try to escape; they will kill you for that. Stay behind me. Bring me food and drink if they offer it. Stay quiet and don’t look up.” Troy rubbed his hands, wincing at the return of blood. Dietrich reached toward him and Toy’s hand came up to block him. “And stop that!” Dietrich barked. Dropping his hand, Troy forced himself to hold still as Dietrich ripped the ensigna off his hat. To Troy’s surprise, Dietrich offered him the small piece of cloth. “It is fortunate that you are not in uniform.” “Would have been more fortunate if my plane hadn’t gone down,” Troy said wryly. That gained him a nearly invisible smile. Anything else was cut off by the spray of sand as the chieftain’s horse slid to a halt next to Dietrich’s vehicle. The man vaulted off the animal. “Captain Dietrich!” He yelled in greeting. The man’s accent was strong, and he pronounced captain with a French twist to it. From under lowered eyes, Troy watched the chief. He was tall with a wide smile and handsome, board features. The man wrapped Dietrich in a hug, which to Troy’s surprise, the German returned. The captain’s long experience with the desert tribes showed even more when he held his ground as Mohadid leaned in close, talking rapidly. Most Americans and Europeans tended to lean away. Dietrich’s arm suddenly settled around Troy’s shoulders. Troy stiffened, almost jerking away, as much from pain as surprise. He had bailed out of the damaged plane but not before being shaken up during the flight. Luck had been with him, he had come down only a few miles from one of the infrequent oasis -- and right into Dietrich’s lap. The German’s long fingers dug into his arm, reminding him of the situation, and possibly fatal consequences of trying to move away. With a supreme effort he held still, relaxed his back and shoulders. The hard grip turned into a light pat. Anger at the condescending attitude flared through him but it never reached his face. Dietrich said something that brought a laugh from the Arab. The strong arm stayed for another minute, then Dietrich moved away. Remembering his instructions, Troy fell into step behind the German. The oasis was quiet, only the soft gurgle of water flowing into the pool broke the silence. Dietrich, the chief and Troy moved to the shade of a date palm, watching as the group set up their temporary camp with quick efficiency. Beside him, Troy heard Dietrich cough lightly. Troy carefully cut his eyes sideways to look at the tall captain. Dietrich glanced discretely to the pool. Unbelting his canteen, Troy knelt and filled it with fresh water. He walked back and offered it to the captain. Dietrich smiled at him as he took the warm metal container. The captain drank deeply, then handed the canteen back to Troy. Troy met the brown eyes, asking silently if it was safe to drink. A slight nod answered him . Mohadid asked something and Dietrich answered with a slight shrug. The chief laughed. With a pat to Dietrich’s shoulder, the man moved off to oversee the settling of the horses. “What’s going on?” Troy asked with forced patience. “We’ve been offered the use of a tent until my men arrive.” With the slightest hint of amusement, Dietrich said, “He also noted your unfamiliarity with servitude. I explained you were a recent purchase and that Americans are exceptional hard to train.” “Very funny, Captain,” Troy growled. “Come along, Sergeant,” Dietrich said easily. Carrying their dinner back, Troy started to sit down next to Dietrich on a palm log but at the last minute slid to the ground in front of him instead. He could sense the German’s amusement, and while the situation irritated him, he had to admit that Dietrich was being quite restrained. The man could have had him jumping through hoops. A pair of boots appeared at the edge of his vision. He continued to eat as the Arab spoke to Dietrich with quick, sharp sentences. Silence claimed the camp. There was a subtle shift in the atmosphere, a stiffness coming into Dietrich’s muscles. Despite the tension, Dietrich’s reply was light and easy, and obviously not what the man wanted to hear. The man stomped away. Dietrich’s tension didn’t fade. The officer leaned forward, placing his plate on the ground next to Troy’s knee. “Sergeant,” the cultured voice said softly, “you must follow my lead, no matter how... unusual, or we are both in very big trouble.” Not liking the implication of either half of the statement, Troy met Dietrich’s eyes. There was no duplicity in the man’s expression, only concern and the knowledge that he was asking a lot of the American. Without prompting, Troy retrieved both bowls, walked to pool and washed them before returning them to Mohadid with a slight bow. When he came back, he once more started toward the ground, only to have Dietrich’s hand on his arm urge him up to sit next to the captain. The impulse to jerk away was nearly gone, lost to worry over what was about to happen. Sitting down next to Dietrich, he gave him a very slight nod. Dietrich draped an arm over his shoulders. One of the Arabs spoke again and not for the first time, Troy wished he understood the language. He made a quick promise to himself that when he got out of this, he would have Moffitt teach him enough to get by. Dietrich smiled as he answered the man. At the same time, his hand moved up to rub along the back of Troy’s neck. Troy stiffened. “Sergeant,” Dietrich warned from behind the smile. “What the hell...” Troy hissed. “We are being watched,” Dietrich whispered sharply. “Try to look relaxed.” His hand slid down Troy’s back, tracing his spine. And Troy suddenly understood what Dietrich had been warning him about. Blinding anger hit him, stiffening his back. Dietrich’s hand came up again, tightened on his neck. Troy forced a smile to his face. “Are you telling me....” “Yes,” Dietrich said smoothly. Dietrich’s hand once more moved into his hair, tugging on it playfully. The anger lasted a moment longer, then to Troy’s amusement he found himself relaxing. Now that he knew what was expected of him, it wasn’t nearly as worrisome as being left in the dark. Any further reaction was cut off by a comment from Mohadid and Dietrich’s light answer. Turning to Troy, Dietrich smiled. “He is wondering why you are blushing, Sergeant. I told him that you are shy.” “I’ll get you for this, Captain,” Troy threatened with a warm smile. The same harsh voice that had spoken before now came out of the darkness. Dietrich’s hand fell away from Troy’s neck, landed gently on his thigh. Without the slightest hesitation, Troy covered it with his own. He was pleased to feel Dietrich stiffen in surprise. Two could play the game, Troy decided. But Dietrich was good, never missing a beat in his reply. Whatever he said sent a wave of laughter through the men around them. Troy couldn’t tell but he had a feeling the one who had offered the first comment wasn’t laughing. The dark grew around them and Troy’s exhaustion grew with it. Vaguely, he realized that it had been nearly thirty-six hours since he’d had any sleep beyond a few hours during the rough plane ride. The strong hand tracing along his back felt good. He stared into the fire, his thoughts drifting to his team. For one of the few times in his career, he knew there was no chance of them finding him. He had hitched an unauthorized ride, on his way back after a rare leave in Morado when the plane had been shot down. Only the pilot had known he was there and the pilot was dead. All the Rat Patrol would ever know was that he disappeared while on leave. The thought ambushed him that Dietrich would make sure they learned his fate -- if only so he could try to trap them if they tried a rescue. “What did that loud one want?” Troy questioned blurry. “Sit down, Sergeant,” Dietrich ordered, “before you fall down.” Part of Troy rebelled at taking orders from the German, but before he could protest, his body betrayed him and he sank to a pile of pillows on the carpet covered sand. He could feel Dietrich’s appraising gaze. He looked up, was startled to find Dietrich standing directly in front of him. “Are you injured?” Dietrich sounded confused. Troy shook his head. “Haven’t slept.” Dietrich nodded, returning to Troy’s question. “The man’s name is Rasta. The first time he wanted to... borrow you.” Puzzled, Troy glanced up. “I don’t understand. I thought the Koran forbid...” “Sergeant,” Dietrich chastised, “you are assuming that all Arabs are Muslim. That is not the case.” With a sigh, Troy admitted his mistake. “Okay. Then?” This gained him a quick smile. “Then he offered me a considerable sum of money for your services.” Remembering the other man's tone, Troy guessed, “He didn’t want to take no for an answer?” “He finds you quiet desirable,” Dietrich said blandly. He added, “He challenged my ownership, saying that you were unmarked.” “How’d you answer that one?” Troy wondered, amused by Dietrich’s vague unease. Dietrich sighed, staring at the ground before cutting his eyes up to met Troy’s. “I explained that I did not want to mar your beauty.” Seeing the embarrassment on Dietrich’s lean face, Troy started laughing, hard. His amusement reached his captor, gaining him a rare laugh from the tall German. Dietrich looked serious quickly. “He may cause more trouble in the morning. Fortunately, the group is moving on just after morning meal.” Troy only nodded, the exhaustion closing in around him again. After a minute, Dietrich said, “It would be best if you were to strip.” That cleared some of Troy’s exhausted haze. “What?” Dietrich already had his coat off, was now working on the buttons of his shirt. “If Rasta decides to... check on us for some reason, it will look rather odd if you are fully dressed.” Clenching his teeth, Troy said tightly, “Captain, this has gone far enough...” Whirling around, Dietrich stood over him, real anger glittering in the dark eyes. “Sergeant, need I remind you that it is now more than just your life at stake here! If the lie is discovered, both of us will be accountable.” They glared at each other for a long time, then Dietrich raised one eyebrow in that sardonic manner that he had mastered. “Is this any more difficult than playing a blind man?” Carefully, Troy said, “I don’t know what...” Waving it off, Dietrich said, “Come, come, Sergeant, I know your style enough by now to know it was you.” Leaving it at that, Dietrich turned and continued to undress, folding his clothes carefully into a neat pile. Troy felt a blush rising, though he couldn’t have said why. He’d certainly seen more naked men since joining the Army than he had ever expected to. Glancing away, he realized something else -- there was only one sleeping mat in the tent. “Damn,” he whispered. A touch of guilt hit him. Dietrich was endangering his life to keep Troy in one piece. He owed the German at least a good effort at keeping up the pretense. It was only a matter of acting. There was also the pleasure he could get at keeping the good captain guessing. He climbed slowly to his feet, reached for his shirt. Dietrich turned, regarding him. For just an instant a shadow went through the chocolate colored eyes. “A sensible decision,” Dietrich said with a short nod, his voice revealing nothing of the nervousness Troy had caught. The man turned to pull off his shorts. Troy found himself staring at Dietrich’s lean form. Dietrich was thin, fair and decorated with telltale white patches that Troy recognized all to easily as scars. Troy noted the ones he had been the cause of and almost smiled, he sported just as many because of the German. Dietrich stretched out on the mat and pulled the heavy felt blanket up to his chest. Troy met Dietrich’s gaze and saw a slow blush color the fair skin. The knowledge that Dietrich was having a problem with the situation made it easier to shed the last of his clothes. He carefully eased the shirt over his bruises. “Un-injured?” Dietrich repeated sarcastically. Knowing he couldn’t hide the dark areas, Troy merely shrugged. “Just bruised.” Dietrich let it go. With the same careful moves he would have used in a mine field, Troy lay down next to the captain, as far away as he could. Dietrich chuckled, reaching for the lamp. “Do not worry, Sergeant, your virtue is safe with me.” “Yeah. But what about my repetition?” He woke up shivering. For a long moment he lay there, wondering what had happened to the warmth that had lulled him into a deep sleep. Memories came flooding back and with a flare of dismay Troy realized that he had been wrapped around a warm body, and the only other body in the tent belonged to Captain Dietrich. Obviously the German had made the same discovery, which explained Troy’s sudden lack of a bedwarmer. Opening his eyes just a fraction, Troy was startled to find the tent bathed in light. The full desert moon, startlingly bright, had risen, casting silver through the thin tent walls. In the soft moonlight, Troy glanced around, remaining still except for his searching gaze. Dietrich hadn’t gone far. The tall German was sitting cross-legged at the edge of the mat. He was staring, not so much at Troy, as through him. There was such a look of infinite sorrow in Dietrich’s expression that Troy felt the completely irritation urge to ask him what was wrong. Not noticing that Troy was awake, Dietrich hesitantly, brushed his fingers over Troy’s bare shoulder. With a jerk, he pulled his hand away. He draped the blanket gently over Troy and rose, walking away with anger in his step. The caress, there was no other word for it, and the erection that was visible when the captain turned gave Troy the answer to his unasked question. “Damn,” he gasped, too shocked to do anything else. “You’re a...” He clamped his mouth over the words he’d been about to utter. Dietrich had whirled at the first expletive. His expression turned dangerous. “I am what, Sergeant? A faggot? A queer?” He demanded. “How many other words does your language have for it?” Troy sat up and they stared at each other for a long, long time. Dietrich’s anger died and he sighed. “Go back to sleep, Sergeant. Despite appearances, your virtue is still safe with me.” But Troy was still grappling with this startling development. “I don’t understand,” he admitted. “How can you be in a captain...” “My preference in bed partners, Sergeant,” Dietrich said hotly, “does not interfere with my ability to...” “Damnit, Dietrich,” Troy snapped, “stop putting words into my mouth!” That stopped the German cold. Troy came to his feet. “I meant, isn’t it risky for you? It’s bad enough in the US but I understood the Nazis were...” Dietrich laughed, a short cold sound that grated against Troy’s nerves. “Oh, Sergeant, you have no idea what is planned for me.” Sitting down, Dietrich closed his eyes and gave a single nod to himself, a sign Troy knew signaled his acceptance of something inevitable. Strangely, when the dark eyes again met Troy’s there was the slightest hint of wry amusement in them. “Sergeant, has it never seemed odd to you that a Wermacht panzer captain was running escort duty behind lines?” Dietrich obviously wasn’t expecting an answer. “The high command discovered my secret after I was too well known, too well decorated. It would have been bad for morale to have me court-martialed and shot.” “So, I am left here.” His voice grew very soft. “I will not see home again, Sergeant. If we are driven out of Africa, I will be left to hold the rear, left to die for Germany.” Dietrich looked up at him and added dryly, “Of course, command hopes that you will kill me sooner. In that way, I am a martyred hero, instead of a dead faggot.” “But,” Troy started in obviously confusion, “you’re one of Rommel’s golden boys. Does he...” “No, Sergeant, he does not know.” Sadly, he continued, “But Rommel is not... in a good position anymore. He has been ill. He will be recalled to Germany soon.” Something in Troy’s expression caught Dietrich’s attention and he almost smiled, “I am not giving away secrets. You’re high command is already more than aware of the development.” Troy took a deep breath, eased it out slowly. “And your high command would rather lose a talented tank commander rather than just look the other way.” “And your army?” Dietrich questioned coldly. “What would it do?” “Court-martial,” Troy said quietly. “Boot out. But not death.” Troy looked up to find Dietrich studying him intently. He waited, knowing the question the German was going to ask. “You are taking this rather calmly,” Dietrich observed. “Most normal men would have shot me, punched me or wrapped themselves with several blankets by now and be demanding I get out.” He thought of lying, of pointing out that he didn’t have any of the mentioned options. But the knowledge that Dietrich had been honest with him, even knowing that Troy could turn the secret against him forced him to tell the truth. “I know someone like you,” he said simply. Then, he admitted, “My brother.” Troy’s thoughts drifted away to home, to the dismay and betrayal he had felt when David had confessed his nature to him. Troy’d been twenty-four, his bother four years younger. For a year he had refused to talk to him, never telling his parents why but always managing to avoid David when they were home together. Then their father had died and Troy had discovered that nothing -- nothing -- was more important than family. Dietrich cleared his throat, interrupting his thoughts. “He is in the army?” “He figured there was less a chance to get found out.” “Close friends,” Dietrich conceded, “are rare.” Troy watched Dietrich shiver and felt an echo along his own nerves. “Captain, we’re both going to freeze if you keep standing there looking shocked. Come back to ... sleep.” Dietrich took a deep breath. “That would not be wise, Sergeant.” At Troy’s blank look, he added, hesitantly, “It has been a very long time since I shared a bed with someone.” The words were subtle, totally Dietrich but Troy understood immediately. He was safe but it would a hardship and an embarrassment for the captain. Troy suddenly felt a sweeping return of those forbidden questions and memories, feelings that he thought long since forgotten, feelings that brought a host of erotic images. He took a sharp breath, looked up at Dietrich. The German’s dark eyes narrowed. “Dangerous thoughts, Sergeant,” he said quietly. Troy was not surprised that his thoughts were clear to the man. Since their first encounter and especially since their arduous escape from the slave traders, they had shared a strange rapport. He held the officer’s gaze, not afraid of what he was thinking. “What’s the harm? Not exactly anyone here that’s going to report us,” Troy said calmly. He stood up, closed to just a few inches on Dietrich. “You’re horny and I’m curious. Why not?” An angry glitter, very visible in the bright moonlight, filled Dietrich’s eyes. “You are assuming, as some normal men do, that we are willing to have sex with any other male on the planet.” Troy took a step back, not from fear but from his own anger. “Damnit, Captain, if you jumped to this many conclusions in a battle I’d have killed you months ago!” Dietrich stared at him. “I don’t believe that of David and I don’t believe that of you.” Pointedly, he looked down at Dietrich’s half-risen cock. “But your body seems to have other ideas.” “And what would your reaction be,” Dietrich demanded, “if you awoke next to a beautiful woman, even if you had no interest in being intimate?” Shaking his head, Troy flopped back on the bed, grabbed the blanket and pulled it up. “Stand there and freeze.” He lay there shivering a long time before the cover was raised slightly and Dietrich slipped in next to him. The German still kept his distance though and Troy shrugged to himself. It was probably for the best, curiosity was dangerous. Dietrich was to far away to help keep him warm but there wasn’t anything he could do about it so he forced himself to try to sleep. Sleep was just claiming him when he felt a callused hand slide slowly down his arm. He stayed still, feeling his mind and body response to the touch. The response was warmth, no heat, no arousal but a safe, pleasant feeling of being touched. The hand stopped at his wrist, holding it loosely. “What are you curious about, Sergeant?” Dietrich’s voice purred softly next to his ear. “How curious are you?” It was an honest request, Troy realized for how much he wanted to do, how far he was willing to go. For the first time a slight edge of fear touched his stomach. It only served to kick the soft warmth from Dietrich’s hand up a notch. He cursed himself, not for the first time, for being addicted to adrenaline. Looking over his shoulder, he found himself caught by Dietrich’s gaze. After a minute, he said honestly, “I want to know what it’s like when you don’t have to be careful. I want to know what it’s like to give up... control.” “But?” Dietrich had heard the fear in his voice. “But,” Troy picked up. “The mind is willing, what the body, as you well know, decides may be something completely different.” “Nicely put, Sergeant,” Dietrich conceded. Troy watched a typically thoughtful expression come over Dietrich’s face. The German never did any thing impulsively. Troy smiled, it was one of the man’s greatest strengths - and biggest weaknesses. “And what of my part of this truce?” Dietrich questioned. “What?” “A truce is usually a reciprocal agreement. I will satisfy your curiosity,” Dietrich said. “But that act is not a guarantee to my own satisfaction.” “I’m a fast learner,” Troy said in broken German. He was rewarded with a surprised look from Dietrich. Switching back to English, he said, “Show me how.” For another minute they regarded each other, Troy’s hand on Dietrich’s chest, Dietrich’s long fingers loosely around Troy’s wrist. Dietrich slid his hand up Troy’s chilled arm, leaving heat behind. Still smiling, Troy let his own hand drift up to Dietrich’s throat. He cupped the lean chin for an instant, then he moved on to tease a slow circle around Dietrich’s ear. A low moan answered his touch and the German’s large hand tightened on his shoulder. Troy let his smile grow; maybe this wasn’t so different that a woman. That thought changed instantly as Dietrich wrapped him in a tight hold and easily pulled him closer. Dietrich lay light kisses along his collarbone, up his throat. Troy tried to return the favor but he was held immobile by the bigger man. For an instant panic touched him. Dietrich kissed along his lips, across the edge of his chin. The panic veered into lust. Troy gasped, struggling to move, struggling to pull Dietrich closer, wanting more of the erotic touch. Dietrich pulled back, obviously confused by Troy’s struggles. “Changed your mind...” Troy’s hands came free and he grabbed Dietrich around the neck, dragging him down to met his mouth. Dietrich stiffened for an instant, then rolled over, carrying Troy with him to rest on his chest. Dietrich’s full lips parted, offering his mouth to Troy. He plunged in, dueling with the officer's tongue. The arousal sounded through his body and he felt his cock fill, demanding more. They broke apart, each taking a deep breath. Deep brown eyes, nearly black in the bright moonlight, glowed up at him. “You are very good at that,” Dietrich told him. “No complaints so far,” Troy said boldly. Dietrich only smiled. “We shall see.” Troy’s response was stopped by Dietrich’s hands. One slid into his hair, playing along his neck, the other pressed hard along his spine, moving down to knead his ass. With a deep moan, Troy lowered his head to Dietrich’s chest, licking a slow circle around each nipple, vaguely amused by the light patch of hair that tickled his lips. As before, his move was a good one and Dietrich’s hand urged him down. He flicked his tongue across one raised nipple then started to suck, hard. Dietrich arched up. “Gott...” he moaned. “Harder...” They stayed that way, Dietrich moaning softly, Troy intrigued by the salty taste of Dietrich’s soft skin, enjoying the captain’s abandon. It was not what he had expected, he was leading. The tall German slipped under him and for the first time, Troy felt Dietrich’s solid cock prod his stomach, rub across his own erection. The effect was hot wind through his blood. He moaned. “Slide over,” Dietrich’s rich voice requested. Troy slipped over, laying close, one leg over Dietrich’s two. At the same time Dietrich turned his attention to Troy’s face and mouth, laying featherlight kisses along his chin and cheeks. Dietrich’s large hand wrapped around Troy’s cock and he arched back, gasping. “Damn...” With a deep laugh, Dietrich’s hand began to move, slowly sliding and tightening on Troy’s solid shaft. Troy trust into the tight hold, begging for more. Straddling Troy’s hips, Dietrich continued the slow moves along Troy’s cock. He leaned forward, his other hand tangling in Troy’s hair, holding his head still as he plundered his mouth. Troy groaned, sucking on the hard intruding, the feel of it filling his mouth was exciting. Instinct kicked in and Troy struggled to reclaim the lead, needing to pleasure his bedmate. Dietrich released his mouth, whispered into his ear, “Lie back and learn.” Troy forced himself to relax, to close his eyes and let the large hands play along his body. The touch was solid and light, teasing and erotic. He was so lost in the sensual haze that he didn’t realize Dietrich had shifted until the first slow swipe of the man’s tongue on his hot cock arched him off the mat. Before he could recover, Dietrich’s mouth closed over his shaft, tongue playing under the sensitive head. Noonday sun exploded in his blood. “Yeah,” he moaned, thrusting up hard into the wet heat. Dietrich was handsome, Troy decided, not noticeably like Hitch or with Moffitt’s striking blue eyes, but in a stern, rugged way that fit the German’s personality. Reluctantly he acknowledged something else, the sorrow that also seemed so much a part of Dietrich. It had been there as long as he had fought the German; lurking in the dark eyes as he watched his men killed or as he followed duty that his heart wasn’t in. Now, Troy knew it went beyond the war. Troy’s thoughts turned to David, to his brother’s eternal cheerfulness in the face of his eternal loneliness. He let his hand slid down Dietrich’s face, brushed the back of his fingers over the man’s temple. Something changed, the challenge was still there but altered. It was no longer a game to prove he could do it as well as the German. Troy frowned to himself. Introspection was not something he was comfortable with. He knew through that he wanted to give the man as much pleasure as he was being given, wanted him to know something besides sorrow. Something in the dark eyes told him that Dietrich sensed the change, and was confused by it. Dietrich paused, slowly stopping his erotic play. He regarded Troy silently for a moment, hand still tight around the base of Troy’s cock. Troy moved easily out of Dietrich’s grasp, pulled the startled German to his knees and kissed him very slowly, very thoroughly. His hands ran down the firm body, over the surprisingly prominate ribs and hips. Dietrich’s ass clenched as Troy grabbed him, kneading hard and forcing them together. He broke the kiss, noting that they were both breathing hard. “Do you know what a 69 is, Captain?” He asked, kissing lightly along Dietrich’s neck. “No,” Dietrich whispered. Smiling, Troy tugged him sideways. “Then lay back and learn.” From the frown he received, Troy could tell that Dietrich was having as hard a time as he was letting someone else lead. Troy was about to remedy that problem. As Dietrich stretched out, Troy straddled him, a knee on each side of his head. A low chuckled filled the moonlit night as Dietrich understood the connotation of the term. “Very clever,” the captain admitted. Dietrich’s hand gripped Troy’s cock and his mouth closed over the head again. Troy forced away the desert fire that flared through his veins, turning all his attention to the formidable sight of Dietrich’s large shaft dancing mere inches from his nose. Any hesitation had long since passed into the night. A hand reached around his thigh, slipped over his ass, urging him to the rhythm that Dietrich was setting. Troy fought the move. Instead, he let his memories turn back to his last leave, to the more than willing bar maid. He forced himself to consider what she had done to him rather than giving over to the incredible feel of what Dietrich was doing. If he let himself feel Dietrich’s slow, serious sucking, he knew he would come too soon. He carded his fingers through the thick dark curls around the straining cock, tickled over the taut balls. Dietrich’s rhythm faltered, encouraging Troy’s moves. Gently, he pressed down on the heavy balls, rolling them under his hand. Dietrich gasped, pulling away from Troy’s cock with a sharp breath. With his other hand, Troy rubbed at the skin stretched tight just before the entrance to Dietrich’s body. He shifted his hand to the big shaft and lightly flicked his tongue over the head, noting the taste of salt and what he guessed was pre-cum. Another gasp rewarded his tentative efforts. Boldly, he traced his tongue along the thick vein, feeling the rushing pulse of blood through it. “Sergeant....” Dietrich pleaded, much to Troy’s surprise. It came to him then that he had more control than Dietrich did. The reason was obvious, Troy managed frequent visits into town, could have any woman he wanted. It was a luxury that Captain Dietrich would never know. His momentary thoughtfulness gave Dietrich a respite to pick up the sensuous assault on Troy’s senses. Troy moaned, letting himself go into the velvet inferno. He thrust, letting his cock sink into the willing throat. Lowering his head, he resumed his own attack on Dietrich. The shaft lay heavy on his tongue, nearly gagging him as he took as much of it as he could, pleased when he felt the dark curls brush his chin. He pulled back, stopping as his lips tightened around the head, then he went slowly back down, letting the skin slide along his tongue. Dietrich was moving faster. Troy felt the heat whip through his blood like the wind whipped against the silk tent. He let more saliva flow down the hot shaft, let his fist cover the bottom of Dietrich’s cock, following his mouths tight trail, pumping in time to the increasing tempo. Dietrich groaned, thrusting up. Troy relaxed his jaw and throat, let Dietrich move freely. His cock hit the back of Dietrich’s throat and he nearly gave into the feelings building in his blood. Dietrich faltered, mouth falling away from Troy’s cock, hand taking its place. The tight hold kept up the rhythm even as Dietrich gasped, thrusting up with near sobs. Troy released his thighs, braced himself with a hand on each side of the narrow hips. Dietrich’s thrust became uneven, sideways as much as up and down. Troy smiled, never relinquishing his tight sucking. It was almost as if he could feel the storm that was building in Dietrich’s blood, the tightening along the German’s stomach, the clenching of his ass as he shoved his cock deep into Troy’s mouth. Dietrich’s shaft swelled and he cried out, body trashing with release. Troy was ready, holding tight, swallowing as the hot liquid spilled down his throat. As the last spasm shook the cock he held, Troy was suddenly engulfed in Dietrich’s hot mouth again, being taken hard. The heat he had felt burn through Dietrich now claimed him. The soft cock slipped from his mouth and he cried out, burying himself far into Dietrich’s throat. He felt the blood pulsing through his veins, felt the fire and ice blend in his nerves like it did in the desert night. Something new hit his senses, pressure pushed into his ass, pain, pleasure, and too much for his overheated senses. Troy let the desert heat claim him, crying out, his muscles locking, seed spilling into Dietrich’s throat. They lay for a long time, Troy’s cock still nestled in Dietrich’s mouth; Dietrich’s single finger just inside his body. Dietrich moved first, easing his hand away, sliding out from under Troy’s trembling body. Troy cut his eyes sideways, watched the captain stretch like a well-tended cat. He moved, shifting to lie next to, but slightly apart from Dietrich. They regarded each other silently. Troy sighed, feeling like he did with some of the one-niters he’s had. He reminded himself that was exactly what this was. He didn’t want that feeling to be the last they remembered. He reached out, stroked along Dietrich’s cheek, then he leaned forward and kissed him gently. Dietrich stared at him for a moment, then he smiled very slowly. “You did not get your request, Sergeant,” Dietrich said. “You were never out of control.” “Yeah, well, may not, but I liked what I got.” Then, almost to himself, he added, “Maybe more than I should have.” Dietrich snorted. “Do not worry, Sergeant. Even normal males are allowed a single night of abandon.” “And you, Captain,” Troy questioned levelly. “Did you get want you wanted?” The light of amusement disappeared from Dietrich’s expression. Very seriously, he said, “Yes, Sergeant.” Troy heard the sorrow in Dietrich’s smooth voice, didn’t know what to do about it. Ten years before, he had been lost for words of comfort for David. Now, he offered what he could; he pulled up the forgotten blanket to cover them and slipped his arm around the other man. Dietrich stiffened for an instant then he lifted his leg over Troy’s, and returned the hold. They drifted to sleep minutes later. Sunrise came too soon, though waking was pleasant enough. Troy stretched, reaching for the warmth he’s been wrapped in but found only empty bed. He sat up, his first thought was of escape. Glancing around he reached for his clothes, slipped them on and starting figuring his odds for getting out of the tent unnoticed. A deep chuckle sounded from the tent flap. He wasn’t surprised to find Dietrich standing just inside the tent, uniform looking as if he’d just had it pressed, a wry smile on the handsome face. “Really, Sergeant,” he reprimanded. “Kiss and run?” There was humor in the statement, and a tone that asked a question that surprised Troy. Dietrich was wondering if he had any regrets. Thinking about that only took a minute. Troy smiled, answering both questions. “Yeah, well, did you expect anything else?” “Not at all,” Dietrich admitted. He came across and sat down, handing one of the bowls he was carrying to Troy. “I would have been disappointed had you not thought about escape.” Dietrich’s eyes, light in the bright morning light, turned serious. “Will you be able to kill me to do it?” Troy took a sharp breath. Once, standing outside a destroyed cave, Moffitt had asked him if he had had a chance to kill Dietrich; he had answered yes, he just hadn’t tried. Not daring to answer, he asked instead, “And you, Captain, would you kill me to stop me?” He could see the memories in Dietrich’s face; a canteen left beside him, a chain, an unexplained shot that had saved Moffitt from a lunatic SS officer. Dietrich glanced away. “I will see you to a prisoner of war camp.” Troy smiled. “I would have been disappointed if you didn’t.” The smell of the bowl of couscous made his stomach growl and Troy turned his attention to the meal. He was half-way finished when there was a raised voice from outside the tent. Even without speaking the language, he knew it meant trouble. Dietrich’s expression turned both angry and worried. Coming to his feet the captain handed his bowl to Troy. “Stay here,” he said. Troy stood. “What’s going on?” “Stay here!” Dietrich ordered sharply. “Damnit, Captain...” Troy’s protest was to empty air as Dietrich went out. For a long minute, Troy stood there, arguing with himself. Dietrich knew the tribes, was more than capable of taking care of the problem. Troy paced to the tent flap. Rasta was arguing loud and intensely, while Mohadid offered only a few soft comments, and lastly, Dietrich replied calmly and reasonably. Troy could hear an edge starting under the captain’s words though. Rasta said something sharp and there was a moment of silence before Mohadid answered, with what sounded like regret. The only thing Troy heard from Dietrich was a soft sigh, the kind the German used when the situation had turned to one he didn’t like. Troy couldn’t sit out any longer. Throwing open the tent flap, he kept his head down, glancing only once, very quickly up to Dietrich. The man’s expression gave nothing away. Troy walked between the two Arabs, picked up a bowl and continued to the water. He filled the vessel and returned to Dietrich, standing quietly in front of him, with the bowl out. Silence claimed the area. Dietrich took the bowl, his mouth lifting in his strange half-smile. He sat the bowl down on the log. Behind them Mohadid said something. “Sit down,” Dietrich said quietly. Troy sat on the nearest downed palm log. He continued to play his part, not looking up as Dietrich said, “Our tryst last night was overhead. But instead of strengthening our position, as it were, it seems that Rasta is even more insistent that an unmarked slave is open to claim.” Taking a sharp breath, Troy said quietly, “What would it take to mark me?” Dietrich sat down next to him, his hand tightened on Troy’s arm. “That is a brave offer, Sergeant, but it is too late. It seems if I want to keep you, I will have to fight for you.” There was no controlling his reaction to that announcement. Troy sat straight, eyes locking up Dietrich’s. He looked sideways at the man causing the trouble. Rasta was shorter than Dietrich but heavier. He was wearing only the baggy trousers favored by the tribes, his board chest showing scars that proved he usually got what he wanted. A large slightly curved knife waved in his hand. Troy swallowed, fighting back the dread that shook him. “Well, it was a good try while it lasted,” he said quietly. Dietrich glanced away, closing his eyes. Troy stood, took a step toward the Arab. He could see the lust surging through the man’s expression. “No,” Dietrich’s sharp command brought Troy to a halt. Troy watched in confusion as the German stood and started to unbutton his coat. Troy’s eyes narrowed, Dietrich’s objective becoming shockingly clear. He stepped back and gripped Dietrich’s arm. “Now just one damn minute, Captain. Playing along is one thing but you don’t owe me anything for last...” Dietrich’s hand whipped out, caught his shoulder just at the bruise, shoving him down even as he flinched away from the pain. Leaning close, Dietrich hissed, “You are mine - if they keep believing that...” “Goddamnit, Dietrich!” Troy snapped, held down by the powerful hand on his shoulder. “It’s over. You’re going to get killed and I’m going to get raped.” His voice softened, “My way, no one dies.” “Sergeant,” Dietrich said quietly, his grip loosening. “If they discover the act, they will rape and kill both of us. My way, we both have a chance of living through this.” Troy took a sharp breath, held it for a long time. The fact that he was helpless drove his anger to a dangerous pitch. He needed to do something, anything! He could feel Dietrich’s eyes on him. Dietrich knew his temper, would know how close he was to striking out. At the last though, he knew it was out of his hands, for now. He glanced up at the taller man, nodded. Dietrich returned a single quick nod of his own. He let go of Troy’s shoulder with a slight squeeze then stood and removed his jacket. Troy came to his feet, took it from the German and folded it neatly over his arm. Dietrich handed his gun to Troy. Troy took it without comment, not surprised. Mohadid came forward and handed Dietrich a knife similar to the one Rasta was mindlessly twirling. Troy frowned, knowing instinctively that Dietrich was not a knife-fighter. It would be below the captain, a dis-honorable way of fighting. The rest of the group pressed in, forming a loose half circle. Troy could see money being exchanged; it made him feel better that it seemed to be going both ways. At least some of the tribesmen were betting on Dietrich. Mohadid stepped away. Rasta lunged so fast that Troy jumped. Dietrich was ready, dodging sideways and back to avoid the sharp knife. The two combatants circled, feeling each other out, searching for an opening, feigning. Rasta was impatient, he lunged again. Dietrich slipped away. Troy’s hands clenched, aching for a weapon. Rasta attacked a third time and Dietrich met him, grabbing the man’s knife hand, smashing it down across his thigh. But Rasta spun, breaking Dietrich’s hold, forcing the captain to roll away from the deadly blade. They circled. Dietrich moved, feigning left and swinging in with his right hand. Rasta ducked back, swinging the knife. The captain leapt back, dropped and rolled toward Rasta, trying to catch his legs. The Arab was more agile than his size would have hinted at. He slide backwards then came forward as Dietrich rolled to his feet. Dietrich grabbed his knife hand, forcing it back, his own hand stopped by Rasta’s other hand. They stood, almost unmoving as first one then the other tried to shoved into an advantage. With a hard effort, Dietrich freed himself, swinging wide to gain room. Sweat dripped off both men, ran into their eyes. Dietrich swiped across his face, and Rasta came in low. Dietrich jumped sideways and rolled, coming up behind the man. He got his arm around the man’s throat and his knife started in toward his opponent's chest. Troy held his breath, seeing Dietrich’s victory as the knife glittered down. Something went wrong. So fast that Troy almost missed it, Rasta fell backward, landing on Dietrich hard enough to take his breath. Two knives flashed in the bright sun. Troy froze. Rasta’s weapon came up, Dietrich’s blood dripping from it to the ripped up sand. The knife started down toward Dietrich’s chest. Troy lunged, hitting Rasta with all his weight, grabbing him and rolling them far enough away to gain his feet and put himself between the Arab and Dietrich. He stood with his feet braced, Dietrich’s gun in his hand, aimed at Rasta. “Hold it!” He ordered. His words might be foreign but his intent was obvious. “Captain?” “You.... can’t do...” Dietrich panted behind him. “Shut up!” Troy demanded. “You tell them I will kill the next person who tries to harm either of us.” There was silence behind him. “Dietrich! Tell them!” In halting breaths, Dietrich spoke several sentences. Troy never took his eyes off Rasta. The man was staring at him with a combination of pure hatred and violence stirred lust. Troy met both emotions with a cold stare. He took a step backward toward Dietrich, Rasta took a step after him. The gun in Troy’s hand came up a little. A sharp command cut through the frozen tableau. Troy watched Rasta straighten, his anger becoming more pronounced. He whirled toward Mohadid and started to argue. The Arab chieftain held up one hand and the protest died on the bigger man’s lips. Mohadid turned to the other tribal members, spoke at length. Several members of the circled group nodded, a few did not. At last Mohadid turned back to where Troy was still crouched protectively in front of Dietrich. He smiled at Troy. “He says.... that we... are more than... master and slave.” Dietrich translated softly, having to stop every few words. “Only two... who are... more, would risk death.... for each other.” Still not turning away from the others, Troy asked, “What now?” Dietrich repeated the query. Mohadid gestured toward Rasta. “We will be... left alone.” Dietrich said breathlessly. “A man can... claim a slave... but not a mate.” Rasta continued to glare, but gradually the others moved away. Finally, only Mohadid and Rasta stood in front of him. Rasta took on step toward Troy and Mohadid barked a single word. The Arab glared at Troy, then tossed the knife at his feet, spitting into the sand next to Dietrich. Mohadid regarded Troy for another minute, then stepped calmly passed him pick up the bowl that Dietrich had sat down ages before. Gesturing down to Dietrich, he explained without words for Troy to tend the other man. With a shaky sigh, Troy stuck the Luger into his belt and knelt beside Dietrich. Dietrich’s eyes were closed, his breath coming in swallow gasps, his right hand pressed tight against the left side of his chest. Troy cringed; blood had already soaked the thin cotton shirt, was forming a dark pool under Dietrich’s side. As he reached for the captain’s wrist, someone touched Troy’s arm. He jerked away, turning quickly to face Mohadid. The man pointed to Dietrich, then to the tent. Without waiting to see if Troy understood, he rose and carried the water bowl into the shaded tent. “Captain?” Troy questioned. Painfilled eyes flickered open and Dietrich regarded him dazedly. “I’m going to get you to the tent.” The man’s eyes drifted closed but he nodded, one hand going out to help push himself up. Mohadid appeared opposite Troy, kneeling next to Dietrich. It was Troy’s turn to gesture. He motioned the Arab to take Dietrich’s legs while he lifted as gently as he could under the sinewy shoulders. Dietrich gasped once and then went limp in their hands. A slight shifting was the only indication Troy had that Dietrich was conscious. He came to his knees, sliding closer to the captain. It took a long minute but finally Dietrich focused on him. For a minute there was only confusion. Dietrich started to raise a hand to his chest. “Easy,” Troy cautioned. Slipping his hand under the man’s head, Troy raised him to the cool water. The officer drank nearly the entire bowl, which made Troy smile tightly. As he started to move away, Dietrich caught the long, flowing white sleeve of the caftan he was wearing. He squinted at Troy. “Mohadid gave it to me,” Troy explained. “My clothes were covered with blood.” He also left some hashish for the pain and bandages soaked in some kind of herbs.” “They work.... surprisingly well,” Dietrich whispered, finding his voice. Troy didn’t comment, leaning over the German, checking the bandage. Only the knowledge that Dietrich was watching him with a clearing gaze keep him from frowning. The wound was deep, just under Dietrich’s ribs. It had stopped bleeding but the captain had lost a lot of blood and even now his breathing was fast and swallow. Troy didn’t think it had hit his lung but he was not a medic. “My men...” Dietrich said softly. “They will.... be here by... sundown.” “It’s only noon, Captain,” Troy explained. “I’ll be gone before they get here.” Dietrich’s dark eyes narrowed though not with pain, with anger. “You do not... need to feel... that last night... obligates you to... stay...” A barely stifled gasp cut him off. Troy lay a hand on his shoulder, glaring back despite his comforting touch. “Look at me, Captain, and tell me you wouldn’t have stayed with me even before last night?” Flinching away from the thought, Dietrich closed his eyes. “We are enemies, Sergeant.” Troy snorted quietly. “Yeah, and if it wouldn’t kill you, I’d have you in a POW camp so fast your head would spin.” “Perhaps that would... be best,” Dietrich said very quietly. Blinking in confusion, Troy leaned closer. “What? A prisoner of...” “To die,” Dietrich said with a sigh from the bottom of his soul. Troy took a sharp breath, startled by the German’s unexpected depression. He thought of David, wondering if he ever felt that way. The idea scared him. More roughly than he intended, he grabbed Dietrich by the shoulders, shaking him. “You’re a goddamned idiot!” He snapped. If it was possible, Dietrich grew even more pale, lips tightening with pain. Troy’s hands immediately loosened. “Look, Dietrich, I don’t know if it will ever get any easier for you and David. But I do know that after this war is over Germany is going to need men like you, honest and honorable leaders.” Dietrich’s eyes drifted closed. “And so... we have... only duty to live for...” “Isn’t that all we’ve ever had?” Troy said, sliding into a rare contemplative mood. “The army, our men, our countries, what else is there?” The dark gaze connected with him again, still serious and thoughtful but with a hint of the old fire that had kept the German alive despite some of Troy’s better efforts. “Is your... brother as stubborn as you, Sergeant?” “Yeah,” Troy said with a grin. “Maybe even more.” “I find... that hard to ... believe,” Dietrich said, his eyes closing again. Once again Troy raised him to the water, though Dietrich didn’t take as much as before. With gentle moves Troy wiped the pale face down with a soaked cloth. He could see the pain that Dietrich was trying to hide. “Don’t fight it, Captain.” One brown eye opened to glare at him. “Wouldn’t you?” The left side of Troy’s mouth lifted slightly. “Probably. Though after last night it seems kind of silly.” The tall German had no response, dropping back into a light doze. Troy sighed, shaking his head at the divisions of war, and the destiny that frequently overrode it. He settled back, wiping Dietrich’s face again. The light was starting to fade into night and worry was starting to etch along Troy’s nerves. The expected patrol could not be that far off. He needed to leave. Dietrich had come to again and Troy had forced him to take several long pulls on the hash pipe. The pain had faded from the lean face and sleep had claimed the captain. The German was starting to stir again, moaning softly. Troy was relieved. He wanted to give Dietrich more water before he left, in case the unit was late. “Still here, Sergeant?” Dietrich questioned. Troy frowned at the weakness in the normally resonant voice. “Just on my way,” he said. Sliding his hand into the thick brown hair, he once more inclined Dietrich toward the water. Dietrich took only a few swallows before pushing Troy’s hand away. Not happy, Troy let it drop for the moment. Leaning over, Troy checked the bandage, found the white cloth still dry. It seemed the sleep had done the German some good, his breathing was better and there was a hint of color in his cheeks. Troy knew he had done all he could. Dietrich was awake, there was no reason to stay. Realizing his hand was still supporting Dietrich’s head, he once more held up the water. “Come on, Captain, just a couple more.” With a look of exaggerated patience, Dietrich swallowed nearly half the canteen. “Satisfied?” “Yeah,” Troy said with a smile. “You had... better go,” Dietrich advised. Troy stood, started toward Dietrich’s remarked American jeep. He didn’t even consider telling Dietrich that he wasn’t going far, only as far as a safe place to watch the oasis. He had no intention of leaving the injured man alone in the desert, even if help was supposedly on the way. He took a step, turned back and knelt next to the captain again. It didn’t feel right to just leave, to not say or do something more. He uncapped the canteen, leaned it against Dietrich’s good side, within easy reach. Dietrich watched his moves with a slight smile. With a final glance, Troy started off again, only to halt a few feet away. “Damnit!” He said sharply. Coming back, he flopped down next to Dietrich. The officer regarded him with confusion. Troy picked up a handful of sand and tossed it angrily down at his feet. “Captain, would your men let me go if you told them to?” Dietrich considered the question, knowing what Troy was really asking. “I owe you... my life...” “And I owe you mine,” Troy interrupted. “So, where does that leave us?” The brown eyes regarded him for a moment with the sorrow that Troy could now see too easily. “With duty.” Understanding the answer, Troy nodded. “Okay.” Once more, he wiped Dietrich’s face. “Dietrich?” The rich brown eyes met his again and Troy smiled. “Try to stay alive until this is over. ’ll introduce you to my brother.” Dietrich squinted one eye shut and glared at him with the other. “Is that... a threat, Sergeant? One of ... you is quite... enough.” Troy ran the back of his fingers along Dietrich’s temple. This time when he made it to his feet, he didn’t look back. Minutes later he gunned the reclaimed jeep to the top of the nearest ridge. Hiding the jeep he went back the hundred or so yards and stretched out on the rough rocks. If the column didn’t arrive in a couple of hours, he would go back. Forty minutes later Troy watched through the German binoculars as the medic knelt beside Dietrich. He stared as the man started a blood line into Dietrich’s arm. Just as he went to lower the field glasses, the medic moved away, leaving him a clear view of Dietrich. The captain appeared to be searching the horizon and even though Troy knew it was his imagination, Dietrich’s dark eyes seemed to find him, to met his gaze. A tingle that he refused to think about shot through his nerves. The medic came back, breaking the spell. “No, Captain,” Troy promised, “you’re not going to be a sacrifice, even if I have to shoot you to get you to a POW camp. One day, I am going to stand with you as a friend.” With a smile, he added, “And I will introduce you to David one day."

That Teenage Feeling 1/1 Sitting in what had become mine and Callie's corner booth at Joe's, I laughed at the stunned look on my girlfriend's face. Reaching across to take the perilously held gin and tonic from Callie's hand, I realized I had to say something or she'd sit there looking at me like martians had just landed for the rest of the night. “Don't look so surprised, Cal. I was a geek in high school. Still am, actually.” Smiling at my self-deprecation, I watched as the look on her face changed to outrage. “Don't talk about yourself like that.” Glad that she was finally speaking again, I took a sip from the swill that passed for wine in the Emerald City bar, grimacing at the aftertaste of undecanted tannins. “Why not? It's true. There's not exactly a line of people waiting to date me.” “That's 'cos they know I'd kick their butts if they even tried.” Callie shot a deadly glare towards where Mark and Derek were playing darts. “Mark wanted in your pants so bad when you first started working here.” “Sloan's just a whore. You know that better than anyone. Shit, he asked for a threesome again this morning.” “He did?” The frown on Callie's face deepened, and before I realized what was coming, she was out of her seat, storming across the bar. As entertaining as I was sure watching my girlfriend take Sloan down would be, I followed, grabbing her arm as she yelled, “Sloan!” He turned from the sure to be misogynistic conversation he was having, a dirty smirk on his face as he saw us coming. “Ladies. What can I do for you?” Callie clipped him on the shoulder and he frowned, “Hahn, call off the attack dog.” “Callie-” My half-hearted attempt to calm her was cut off before it could really start. “No! Quit asking for a threesome, Sloan. It's never going to happen.” She slapped his arm again, the commotion drawing more attention towards us. Rubbing his arm, he responded, “Come on, I was joking.” Turning his gaze accusingly to mine, he continued, “Didn't you tell her you already hit me?” “Words aren't blows, Sloan, and egos don't bruise.” He was forced to concede the point and turned his eyes back to Callie, “You don't know your own strength. It hurts when you hit people.” “It was supposed to. Stop hitting on my girlfriend.” Callie turned on her heel, marching back towards our table. Grinning at Mark's attempt to look hurt, I faux whispered, “I told you Callie wouldn't like that you said that.” “Why'd you tell her?” “Why wouldn't I?” I watched his face fall as a smirk spread across my lips before heading back to my girlfriend. She smiled at me as I approached, sliding across the bench slightly in clear invitation. Settling next to her, I tangled my fingers in hers, still amazed at the heat that spread through me from even that simple touch. “Feel better?” Callie glowered across the bar, muttering, “Not really.” “Will you feel better if I let you have Sloan as the head of that line waiting to date me?” “No.” She dropped a soft, brief kiss on my lips. “I'm top of that list.” Smiling softly at her, my reply was unneeded, but I said it anyway, knowing that some of Callie's anger at Sloan is down to insecurity. “Definitely.” Callie's bright smile made the redundancy of my words worth it, but I had to sigh when she switched the topic back to the conversation we were having before her irritation with Mark pulled us away from it. “You really never dated in high school?” “I never really wanted to.” I shrugged. “I didn't get why everyone made such a big deal about it. And now I know why.” Callie nodded quickly to herself, and I watched her as I saw the thoughts churning in her eyes. I gave her the time she clearly needed, finishing my wine. By the time my glass was empty, Callie was speaking again. “So if you'd have know about the whole, sapphic salad thing in high school...” “I probably would have wanted to date.” “We're going out tomorrow.” She seemed more determined than usual and I'm pretty sure I'd never turn down a night with the woman I'm embarrassingly crazy about. “Okay.” “Every teenage girl needs to go on a real date.” Smiling at the serious look on her face, I motioned to my extremely non-teenaged body, “I think it's a little late for that.” Callie's eyes stayed serious, boring into mine intensely, and the smile fell from my lips as I felt her gaze like a touch, “I don't.” Her voice was heavy with something I couldn't name. Try as I might though, for the rest of the night I couldn't get any more out of her than that. * Late the next afternoon, I was leaving the scrub room as Callie entered, and we exchanged a gentle smile. It was the first time I'd seen her all day, and I silently cursed my own rule of no public displays of affection as her fingers brushed against mine before gently gripping my wrist and turning me. She leaned against the door frame, effortlessly sexy, “I'll pick you up at seven?” Glancing at the clock behind her head, I nodded, even as I asked, “Will you be done by then?” “It's not quite 4 and this is just exploratory. I'll be out of here by 5.” Grinning at her as her fingertips ran across my palm, I shifted a little closer, knowing that our position was already more intimate than I'd usually allow within the confines of our workplace, but unable to resist the thrill than ran through me at the thought of what might happen later, feeling – as I'm sure Callie intended – just like a teenage girl. “How do you know I don't have a transplant scheduled?” Callie rolled her eyes, her smile wide, “I checked the board. So, unless you're keeping your surgeries secret now...” “Maybe I am. It's not like I know what I'm keeping my schedule clear for.” Callie swatted my shoulder lightly, laughter in her voice. “Nice try, Hahn. I'll be there to pick you up at seven.” She turned back toward the scrub room, but my refusal to let go of her hand stopped her. Eyes full of amusement, Callie looked back over her shoulder, “Wanna let me go so I can get this surgery over and done with?” My smile widening at the affection beneath her laughter, I pulled out my last, desperate attempt to get her to disclose her plans. “If you won't tell me where we're going, how am I supposed to know what to wear?” “Use your imagination.” Her free hand came to our joined ones, untangling our fingers and pulling away from me. My eyes fell to watch the movement of her hips, but her arm shooting out to stop the door from closing drew my attention back to her face as she angled her body slightly more towards me. “One clue. It's a high school date.” With that, she let the door close, and I knew I looked stupidly happy as I turned away, smiling to myself. Frustrated as I knew I would be as soon as I was standing in front of my closet searching for an outfit, it was almost unbearably sweet how seriously Callie seemed to be taking my lack of a date night over twenty years ago. * Predictably, two hours later, I was cursing Callie's secrecy. With anyone else, I'd have probably figured out what she'd meant when she mentioned high school, but Callie is a trust fund baby. She's had money all her life. I didn't feel safe to just assume she'd been hinting that the night wouldn't include anything fancy. So, my hair and make-up were both flawless, but I was baffled by an outfit. Standing in front of my closet in just a bra and panties, I pulled out several more options, groaning as I held each in front of the full length mirror in turn and they inevitably joined the growing pile of discarded clothes that littered my bed. I'm not this woman. I do not obsess over clothes, it just doesn't happen. Except, that night, Callie had successfully imbued her plans with a sense of importance, and her silence added pressure to my choices. I didn't want to ruin what she'd probably spent hours planning. Conceding defeat, I reached for my Blackberry, typing out “Unless you want me to show up naked, you're going to need to give me more than 'high school'.” Moments later, my phone signaled a reply, “Naked is fine with me ;)” I sighed heavily, frustration taking over for a moment. My thumb hovered over the buttons as I tried to decide how to reply. I was saved by the vibration against my palm, the screen showing Callie's name. “Relax. Wear anything. It doesn't matter.” As unhelpful as that essentially was, it did take some of the pressure off, and I chose to take it as a clue that I didn't need to dress up to the nines. Looking back at my clothes, it didn't take me very long to make a decision – and I still wasn't any wiser about what the evening held in store. I wished Callie had given me that advice a little earlier, but I still had an hour before she was due to arrive, and I no longer thought that I wasn't going to be ready. Dead on seven, I was standing by my door, my favorite dark-wash jeans hugging my hips and a blue belted shirt with two buttons unfastened showing just a hint of cleavage. At the sound of the buzzer, I opened the door, smiling widely at the sight of my girlfriend. Her jeans were similar to mine, accentuating her curves, and her deep green, low-cut shirt was covered by her signature leather jacket, her smile bright and welcoming as ever. As I grabbed my purse from the table beside the door, I brushed her lips with mine, murmuring “Hey.” “Hi baby. You look great.” Callie's eyes ran across my body, appreciation clear in her gaze. “No thanks to you.” I hooked my arm through hers, bumping her hip with mine. “You're beautiful” added almost as an afterthought. “Aww, don't be like that. Not knowing what's gonna happen is half the fun.” Callie opened the door of her car for me, and I pressed my lips to hers before sinking into the seat, laughing to myself at how perfect her classic T-bird was for the idealization of teenage dates that Callie evidently had given her insistence that I have one. As Callie settled into her own seat, I asked, “Whatever gave you the impression that I like to be surprised? Will you tell me where we're going now?” Callie glanced across at me, her smile seemingly permanent. “You have no patience, Hahn. You'll just have to wait and see.” We pulled out of my driveway, turning left and away from downtown, which I'd assumed was to be the site of whatever she'd planned for the evening. My curiosity piqued even higher as I studied the signs we seemed to be following, noting that we were headed towards I5. When Callie merged onto the interstate, heading toward the airport, I really started to worry. “Cal?” “Yeah?” I took a second to marvel at how cute she looked fully concentrated on navigating the interstate before continuing. The tip of her tongue peeked out from between her teeth, her hands tightly gripping the steering wheel perfectly at 10 and 2, and filed the image away to tease her with later. “We are staying in the state, aren't we?” “I'm not telling.” Her voice held the hint of a song, and I silently swore she'd pay for her withholding of information later. “Seriously, Callie, I have two surgeries tomorrow.” She caught my gaze briefly in the mirror, and the laughter in her eyes should have betrayed her deadpan delivery. “I canceled them.” “What?!” As I said... should have. Laughter bubbled from her lips, high and girlish, and I slapped her gently on the thigh. “You should see your face!” “It's not funny.” “It is from where I'm sitting. Do you really think I'd do that?” Her hand left the steering wheel to link with mine, her thumb brushing over the back of my palm soothing me. “Sometimes, I wouldn't put anything past you.” My tone gave away my affection, and Callie's smile was indulgent. “I know how important your job is to you, Erica. When I take you on vacation, I promise you'll have plenty of notice.” Her voice was suddenly serious, her hand squeezing mine gently in reassurance. “When?” It was sickening how smitten that single word sounded, but I couldn't help it. There was no use trying to hide how crazy I was about her anymore though. Knowing that Callie wanted to disappear with me, if only temporarily, made my heart swell and I wondered if that sense of promise and excitement had been exactly what she'd wanted the evening to inspire. “All work and no play isn't good for you. I thought I'd at least taught you that.” It didn't matter that she'd misread my words, thinking I was questioning the very concept of a vacation. If I didn't live in my brain, I probably would have done the same. Still, feeling playful, I went along with her assumption. “What's this 'play' you're talking about?” “I'll show you later, if you're good.” Callie winked at me in the rear-view mirror, and I smiled back at her, the joy of being with her like this, free and affection, in anticipation of a wonderful night together spilling over in my chest, filling me with the love I barely kept in check. Through the rest of the thirty minute drive, Callie's hand stayed clasped in mine, to the point that she took mine with hers when she had to change gears. Our comfortable conversation drifted across topics with ease, even with part of my attention fixed on the road signs, hopnig for a clue to our eventual destination. Mostly though, I was just happy to be with Callie, carefree and away from prying eyes. I love any time I get to spend with my girlfriend, but moments where it was just us were all too rare. Sometimes, I thought I'd be content to spend the rest of my life locked away with just her for company. When we reached the exit for somewhere called Auburn and Callie took it, my confusion reached its highest point. What the heck did that town have that we couldn't have found in Seattle? Or was it just that; that it wasn't Seattle, that we'd cut down the chances of seeing anyone from work if we left the city? About five minutes into our drive through the town, Callie pulled into a small plaza, and I once again found it impossible to keep my questions to myself. “You're taking me to a grocery store?” Callie laughed so hard she was left gasping for air as she tried to force out a response. “Yeah, I thought we could race the carts round the aisles. You don't want to?” I raised an eyebrow at her, waiting for her to sober up. To her credit, she managed it very quickly. “I need to ask you something but I don't want you to see where we're going before you answer.” I kept looking at her, my expression urging her to continue. Her face finally serious again, she asked, “You wanna make out before or after?” “What?” “You heard me.” A devious smile spread across my girlfriend's face, but she offered no further clues. “I'm starting to have serious doubts about the evening you have planned.” “Just answer the question.” I thought about it for a second, the part of my brain that had apparently thrown itself into the teenage theme of the night wondering if 'both' was an acceptable answer. “Which option reveals your plan faster?” “I'm not telling.” “You're starting to sound like a broken record.” “You're the one who keeps asking the same question.” “Callie, what is it about me that makes you think I like surprises?” She smirked at me. “Not being in control for one night won't kill you. Answer the question.” Logic dictated my response. Much as I liked kissing Callie at every opportunity I had, my questions about her plans were going to eat away at me until I had some kind of resolution. “After?” “Okay then.” Callie shifted the car back into drive without any further question, and I found myself fighting off excitement despite my reservations. I trusted Callie, of course I did, but I really do like to be in control, and old habits die hard. Five minutes later, Callie's plan started to become clear. “Oh my God, I didn't know these still existed.” Sitting in the traffic at the entrance, Callie turned to face me, her hand coming up to push a stray lock of hair behind my ear, caressing my cheek before she pulled away. “So this is okay?” For the first time that night, Callie seemed almost shy. It was as endearing as the first time I ever saw her confidence falter, and I couldn't have stopped myself from leaning in to kiss her if I'd tried. The kiss was short and sweet, aware as we both were that the cars might start moving again soon, but I couldn't help staying close after it broke, losing myself in her eyes, feeling my smile light up my whole face. “It's great. I always wanted to go to one of these.” “Why didn't you?” In lieu of the deeper kiss I know we both wanted, Callie brushed the back of her hand across my cheek, playing with the ends of my hair after the gentle contact. “Like I said, I didn't know they were still around.” Somehow, impossibly, my girlfriend's smile seemed to widen. “I knew something the great Erica Hahn didn't?” I slapped her lightly on the arm. “Keep teasing me and see what you get.” Callie pouted, but there was laughter in her eyes, and the expression didn't last long, her smile returning to her face as the line began to move slowly forwards and I got my first sight of the inside of a drive-in theater. When we stopped again, Callie leaned over to brush a soft kiss across my lips, and I smiled at her as she pulled away. “What was that for?” “I just wanted to kiss you.” We stared at each other for a moment, and I couldn't find it in me to care that I probably looked as stupid as I ever had. Softly, Callie added, “And I'm glad I get to be the first person to bring you here.” Relinking my fingers with hers, I replied, “Me too.” * Sixteen dollars that Callie refused to let me pay and a brief sulk on my account later, we were cuddled together, glad for the single bench-like seat of her T-bird. I snuggled further into her side, looking up at the large screen in front of us as it played previews, a mix of B-movies that may well have been older than both of us, and newer trailers for things I wasn't sure I'd ever care enough about to go see. The sounds filtered through the radio, but I wasn't paying that much attention, just basking in the feel of Callie's arm slung around my shoulder, and the warmth of her body against my own. Callie truly meant it when she said there was nothing upmarket about this date, and though I wasn't really sure if I believed her – or even if I wanted to – this is perfect. We were in a little world of our own, even surrounded by a hundred other people. No one could hear us, no one could tell if we talked through the whole movie, and that made it a thousand times better than actually going to the theater to see whatever movies were coming up. Callie distracted me from checking the marquee with conversation and a bright smile, and evidently she'd done her homework, since she only told them which screen she wanted entry to. Honestly, I didn't even care. Like my girlfriend suggested earlier, we could always make our own fun if the movie turned out to be terrible. As night falls around the parked cars, the brightness from the large screen was the only illumination, casting Callie's face in light and shadow, accentuating the brightness of her teeth when she smiled down at me. Unable to resist, with no reason to even try, I tangled my fingers into her silky hair, pulling her down for a kiss. My tongue slid against hers, familiar and new all at once, and I lost all sense of time as I tasted her, coffee and sweetness. When she pulled away, I sighed, and she giggled slightly. “Can we give the first one a try, baby? I've been wanting to see Inception for weeks.” In lieu of an answer, I snuggled back into her side, perfectly contented. Over the last month or so, I have heard her talking about this movie quite a lot. We didn't talk as the title appeared on the screen, and I had to admit, it grabbed my attention, holding it right through until the end. When the movie finished, I was thoroughly impressed. It was more intelligent than any movie I'd seen in years, possibly the best I'd ever seen, and I turned to Callie, smiling at the small frown creasing her brow. “What's wrong?” “Nothing!” Her voice was slightly higher than normal, and it peaked my curiosity, but I stayed quiet. “I'm just working something out.” I waited, not wanting to make her feel stupid if there was something she didn't get, and after a little while, a small grin worked its way onto her lips. I'd be surprised by the strong urge to kiss her that it inspired if I didn't always want to kiss her. With no reason to resist temptation, I sat up, drawing Callie's attention. Without giving her time to ask any questions, I feathered kisses along her jawline until I reached her lips, sinking into the sensation that was my girlfriend's lips against mine, her hands sliding across my back, the soft strength of her tongue as it worked against my own. When she pulled back, I chased her, surprised to find her palm against my chest, stopping me from reaching my objective. I frowned at her, and she smiled back at me. “I'm kinda hungry.” Sliding back across the seat, expecting her to start up the engine in preparation to leave, I'm confused by her opening the door and slipping out into the night. “What are you doing?” She pointed over to the barrier between this lot and another, to a low lying set of buildings from which light flamed. “I'm gonna go get us dinner. Stay here.” She was gone for only a second before I spotted her weaving back toward us. As she walked back around to the passenger side of her car, I rolled down the window, eying her questioningly. She dropped a soft kiss on my lips before asking, “What do you want on the pizza?” I shrugged. “Anything but anchovies.” Callie disappeared back into the darkness, and I stared up at the screen in front of us, a little surprised to see a new set of trailers appearing there. By the time I'd watched three of them, for a group of mediocre-seeming romantic comedies that I felt sure I'd be finding excuses not to go and see, Callie was back, the smell of heated cheese filling the car as she slipped back onto the seat. She handed me a bottle, placing the pizza between us, and I glanced down to see what she'd brought me. I guessed Bud Light must have been the best she could do, and I fought the urge to grimace slightly. It wasn't so much that I wouldn't drink it, just that I'd have preferred to be drinking almost any beer but the generic brand. The top was already popped, the condensation and cold sensation telling me that at least it had been chilled. We dug into the pizza, and I glanced at my watch, surprised to find that nearly 4 hours had passed since we'd left my apartment. Though far from the best pizza I'd ever tried, the food was passable, almost impressive for take out at an outdoor movie theater. My own hunger startled me slightly, and, by the time the screen lapsed into darkness once more, we'd made our way through the entire thing, sharing observations on the movie we'd just seen, and both enjoyed if our friendly debate about the issues it had thrown up was any indication. Draining the last of my beer, I watched with interest as the title credits began on the next movie, hoping that it would be as good as the first. Callie dumped the empty pizza box on the floor, and I smirked at her. She smiled back, her tone light as she replied to my silent rebuke, “That's one of the reasons I wasn't going to let you drive.” “Been here a lot, Cal?” My voice was slightly accusatory, but I knew that my laughter came through when her grin widened. “Never. But I've been places like this. You know, when I was a teenager.” Swatting lightly at her arm, I replied, “You're the one who brought me here.” “It's not my fault you missed out on all the fun bits of being young.” “I thought you were glad that you could be my first?” I lowered my voice suggestively, earning a bite of Callie's lip that arrested her small giggle. “Doesn't mean I can't tease you about being lame in high school.” I shrugged. “I was lame in high school.” Glancing back to the screen in time to catch the title of the movie, I groaned. “Though I was never as lame as that.” “Not a fan of Twilight, Erica?” Callie's eyes twinkled with amusement, as she continued, “Don't you want to be my Edward?” “Why am I not surprised that you know their names?” “Why do you?” She shot back. “I didn't. You just told me. All I know is that I want nothing to do with this crap.” Callie's smile was wide as she tugged on my arm, sliding it around her body as she twisted us until we were both sideways on the seat. “And that's why I asked you if you wanted to make out first or second.” She gave me no time to respond, pressing closer to me, her lips finding mine unerringly in a heated kiss. * We only noticed that the movie is over because the sound of engines revving alerted us. My whole body was flushed from the heavy make-out session we indulged in, my heart sounding loud as it thundered in my chest. A heavy throbbing between my thighs told me just how aroused Callie's lips and tongue had made me as we untangled our bodies. I found myself wishing that I hadn't finished my beer before the movie had even started, longing for something to help cool the fire raging through me. If that frustration was what being a teenager was supposed to feel like according to my girlfriend, I was glad I'd missed out. I felt like I might die on the journey as I contemplated how far we had to go until the hunger roaring in my chest could be sated. Callie and I made the drive back to Seattle in near silence. I found myself glad for the light traffic on the roads during the late hour, needed our progress towards my – or her – bed to be fast. I could still taste her on my lips, the mixture of salt and something all Callie from when I nipped the juncture between her neck and shoulder, soothing the sharp pain from my teeth with a long stroke of my tongue. I could feel the passion we'd created between us still hanging heavy in the air as the miles clicked past, pressing down on me, heavy against my skin though, logically, I knew that was just in my mind. When Callie sped past the exit that would have taken us to either one of our apartments, surprise and disappointment jostled for control of my brain. “Cal... you do know that was our exit, don't you?” I watched as the corner of her lips quirked upwards, her laugh a low rumble in her chest. “Trust me.” I did, but that didn't mean that my frustrations stopped growing as she kept driving, taking an exit that I was sure actually took us away from the city itself. I bit back my words, not wanting to sound like I was criticizing her, feeling my desires pull in two different directions, wanting to know where Callie was planning on taking us, and just needing to be somewhere I could feel her hands on my skin, have her naked and wanting before me. Glancing out the window, I could see the lights of Seattle in the distance as we drove along a stretch of road that passed by some very expensive real estate, the water in the sound seeming to travel alongside the car as I looked for a sign that would indicate where we were. Callie parked in an empty parking lot right alongside the beach, and I gasped at the view in front of us. The bay spread out before us, with the lights of downtown sparkling on the other side of the dark water. To the left of the panorama, I could see the Space Needle, and, after a moment of stunned silence, I turned away from the view to watch the lights of the city reflected in my girlfriend's gaze. “Callie, this is beautiful.” Her smile was gentle, honest, her voice almost reverent as she replied, “Not as beautiful as you.” I melted, my heart pounding, my body calling to show Callie exactly what the night had meant to me. No one had ever treated me the way she did, like someone who should be treasured, someone who deserved the best of all experiences life had to offer, and I did feel like a starry-eyed teenager in the throes of first love. We hadn't seen another car since leaving the freeway, and with the headlights turned out, I wasn't sure that we'd be noticed from the road even if someone did drive by. It gave me the confidence to capture her lips, rough and wanting, working my tongue between them, feeling the flood of emotion wash over me, breaking like the waves before us, settling low between my legs. Hardly daring to break for air in case it shattered the illusion of solitude that had settled around us, I lay soft pecks on her lips as I gasped in oxygen, feeling her do the same before she pushed me back against the car door, deepening the contact between us once more. She stretched against me, making me very aware of her body, her breasts pressing against my own, heavy with a soft solidness that made me moan, a deep sound that I wasn't expecting so soon. The hours of heavy petting during the second movie that I'm certain I didn't see even a moment of slid back over me, fluttering across my skin, impinging my consciousness with the knowledge that I wasn't going to be able to stop touching her again until the roaring in my chest was silenced... not even wanting to try. My hands traversed her back, light yet insistent, slipping beneath the hem of her top, feeling her skin warm against my palms. Callie moved closer, whimpering as I traced her spine with my fingertips until they settled on the clasp of her bra, waiting for a signal to let me know that she understood what I wanted, that she was willing to take the moment all the way to its logical conclusion. Despite it being far from my first time, far from my first time even with her, when she murmured “You can, if you want” against my lips, I felt brand new, as though I was made just for her. It is a relatively new skill though, the one I applied seconds after capturing her lower lip once more and worrying it gently with my teeth until she gasped against me, an invitation that I didn't hesitate to take. Unclasping her bra with one hand, I sighed against her lips, touching her gently, wanting more yet feeling almost shy as my desire raced through me, as I felt almost uncertain about how far she was going to let me get, not wanting to stoke the fire burning within me only to have it dampened by Callie deciding that we'd be better off going somewhere else, somewhere where there was no chance of anyone – except maybe my neighbors or hers – being able to discover just what exactly we do to one another. As soon as the thought entered my mind, I drew my hands away slightly, only for Callie to twist a little, her hand resting on my arm, pushing my hand back against her skin, imploring me not to stop exploring her with a “no” that was almost lost in the rushing of my own blood in my ears. My breathing was ragged as she slid her lips across my jaw, little butterfly kisses down the column of my throat, settling at the curve where it met my shoulder, a heated, open-mouthed kiss setting my pulse racing ever faster, spinning my mind with lust as her tongue stroked over the sensitive patch of skin above my jugular. Her hands slid beneath my top, stroking across my stomach before slipping to my back, repeating my own action of just seconds before. I whimpered quietly as the pressure of my bra against painfully hard nipples was released, the sound morphing into a moan as she cupped my breasts, thumbs rolling across my skin. The lingering smell of cheese from the pizza soon disappeared under the scent of Callie, drowning out all other stimulus. Pushing against her, I chased her down onto the seat, her back against the leather drawing a surprised groan from her chest. I nuzzled against impossibly soft skin, hovering above her, the awkwardness of our position not truly registering as I tugged at her shirt, pulling it above her breasts, taking in the soft shine of her skin, the curves of her body calling to me, my mouth watering just a little in anticipation. As the cool night air hit her nipples, I saw them pucker and couldn't wait any longer, lowering my head so my lips could run across the warmth of her skin, feeling rewarded by the way she shifted her hips into mine, her soft little whimpers and moans as I kissed every inch of skin available to me, spending long moments running my tongue across the pebbled peaks of her breasts before moving on, sliding to my knees on the floor of the car, clumsily, I was sure. Callie helped me get rid of her pants before tugging me back to her lips, our tongues rolling together, fighting for control. As Callie's fingers found my own sensitive nipples, I let her win, moaning desperately against her mouth, wanting so many things and not knowing where to start. Again, I marveled at how it felt like the first time every time with Callie, how my blood sang for her with little provocation, how she inspired something in me that no one before her ever had. Logically, I knew that some of that was just because she was my first woman, the first person to really unleash a deeper need in me, to really threaten to speak to my heart instead of my loins. Unbuttoning my shirt and forcing my hands away from her skin so she could toss it aside, Callie's hands then urged me to perch above her once more, and she slid back towards the side of the car into a half seated position that couldn't have been comfortable, but that pushed her breasts towards me so I wasn't about to complain. When I tried to lean down to explore them with my lips though, Callie held out a hand, pushing me away from her. “Tonight is supposed to be about you, Erica.” Pouting slightly, sure I sound absurd but unable to stop a whine from seeping into my words, I replied, “It has been.” “Yeah, well, you're going to get better than I did in the back of a car. So, just let me-” She cut off her own words by lowering her head to my breasts, engulfing one nipple in the warmth of her mouth while drawing patterns across the other with the hand that wasn't traveling across my body with an almost worshipful touch. I gave up the fight, just needing to feel more of her, needing something to ease the throbbing in my groin, the desperate need that roiled through me. Callie's hand unfastened my jeans with ease, working them down my legs as she continued to suckle at my chest, my moans filling the car as desire built in my center, my wetness coating my thighs. As the jeans reached my knees, Callie used one leg to nudge against mine, unbalancing me just a little, a whimper of protest and surprise falling from my lips as she steadied me with her hand. It wasn't easy to get my jeans to the floor of the car, but we managed it, and then my girlfriend applied a little pressure, pulling me down to grind against the leg she bent up to meet me. I cried out at the contact, rolling my hips down against the roughness of her jeans, feeling the friction of my panties almost disappear as my arousal soaked through them, almost like she had stripped me of those too as I rocked against her. My hand pressed down against her, needing her to feel some of the pleasure that was rocketing through me, and she groaned, rotating her hips into the contact, her thigh moving slightly against my core, pulling yet more moans from my throat. The sounds escaping me were echoed by Callie, my mind completely blank but for the feel of her touch, the heat fogging my thoughts, the harmony of our mutual desire the only noise I could hear. The hand that had been helping me keep a steady rhythm as I ground down against the firm muscle of Callie's leg slipped from it's spot on my waist, playing with the sparse curls that led down to the juncture of my thighs, and I scrambled to unfasten her pants, wanting to slide inside the slick velvet of her core in unison with her filling me. As I loosened her pants and wriggled my hand beneath them, I realized that Callie's position wasn't going to let that happen, so I settled for dipping my fingers as far into the slickness I could feel as they would go, drawing moisture back up to the bundle of nerves that I could feel, small and hard, needing my touch. We did at least cry out in unison as I tried my best to trace coherent patterns against her as she slipped two fingers easily within me, my head rolling back as the effort of holding it up became too much in the face of the onslaught of need that raced through me. I felt my release approaching like a freight train, knew it would be no more than seconds before it overtook me, so I increased the pressure of my fingers slightly, a more definite touch that had never failed me yet. I felt her shudder against me as my inner walls clenched around her fingers, her thumb sliding over my clit easily in the wetness that escaped my body, soaking her hand and pants. Her name ripped from me as I tumbled over the edge it felt like I'd been clinging to for far too long, my body shaking with the power of my release. I could hear nothing but my own heartbeat, see nothing but brightness behind my eyelids, feel nothing but the throbbing, heated tidal wave that met me, storming through me, making me shake and moan as I collapsed against my girlfriend. My muscles felt weak and watery as I struggled my way back to consciousness, my hand trapped uncomfortably between wiry curls and thick denim, making my wrist ache with no reward, since I wasn't even buried inside the woman who cradled me with one arm as the fingers of her other hand milked the last of my orgasm from my body. I murmured incoherently against her throat, feeling her pulse racing against my lips. When I could speak again, I forced out, “That was new.” Even without looking, I knew Callie was smiling. “Never done it in a car, either?” I shook my head, knowing she could feel my movement against her, my throat feeling raw as I added the unnecessary “No.” “Oh, Erica... how did you get through your teens?” “I focused on... other things. And I made up for it in college,” I added, almost as an afterthought. Her response was thoughtful, her voice slipping over the words suggestively. “Care to show me how sometime?” Pressing a soft kiss to her throat, I murmured. “I'm not sure you'd be up to it,” laughing against her as she tapped her hand against my ass, her hand not leaving my skin once she touched it, sliding up to rest against the small of my back as she dropped a light kiss in my hair. “I love you, Erica Hahn,” she whispered. “I love you, too.”

"You look like a Chippendales' dancer." Kris turned to glare at Daniel, who blinked innocently back at him. Then he looked into the mirror, his eyes widening. "I do," he muttered in agreement. "Why do I let him talk me into these things?" "Honey, you volunteered," Adam said, poking his head through the curtain. "And I think you look gorgeous. Don't listen to that brother of yours. He doesn't have an ounce of taste." When he came through the rest of the way, Kris groaned at the sight of the pile of four different shoe boxes that he was carrying. "This whole thing is stupid," Daniel said. "You should have just hauled off and kissed him in public one day. Boom, you're out, the world isn't over, and you can go to the Grammys without all the pressure of remembering to come out at some point during the night." "A promise is a promise," Adam said, sliding the boxes onto one of the stools and pulling the top off the first one. Kris wriggled his bare toes into the thick carpet of the store and looked back in the mirror. The main problem with the suit was that it was shiny. It was shiny and tight. It was shiny and tight and even Kris could tell that the pants made his ass look, in Adam's words, "extra fuckable" and, in Daniel's words, like a stripper's. "Besides," Adam said, putting a pair of black shoes (that - to Kris's inexpert eye - looked exactly like the ones that Adam had made him try on an hour ago) down on the bench next to Kris. "Since I know there's a time limit on it, I'm actually enjoying having Kris all to myself right now." He ran his hand down the line of buttons on Kris's shirt and tugged him in for a kiss while Daniel made an exaggerated gagging sound in the background. "Bite me," Kris said to Daniel, without heat. The fact that Daniel treated Adam's affection for Kris with the same over-the-top annoyance that he'd always shown whenever Kris and Katy had gotten "too sweet" with each other was actually really comforting. "What time are mom and dad getting here?" "When did I turn into the responsible one?" Daniel muttered, and he yanked out a notebook, flipping it open with a loud and exasperated sigh. "Their flight comes in at three. I don't know why you're so obsessed with having them here." Kris cleared his throat, carefully looking away from both Daniel and Adam. "I haven't told them yet." "Wait, what?" Daniel asked. "But... but the last time you were on the phone with mom, you said 'me and Adam send you our love'. I heard you." "She thinks that I'm helping him through the trying time of his divorce," Adam said but he brushed a light kiss over Kris's cheek, so Adam wasn't holding it against him. After all, everyone would know after tonight. "It's been almost four months," Daniel said. "I mean, not even Kristopher is that pathetic." Adam cuffed Daniel lightly over the head, affecting a soft growl. Daniel pretended to shy away in fear, batting at Adam's hands. "I get it, I get it," Daniel said, still fending off Adam. "No teasing the brother. Sheesh. You steal all my fun." Adam grinned, his faux fierceness blinking away in an instant. "Better believe it, kid." "Wait... so if mom doesn't know about you and Adam, why does she think she's coming out tonight?" Daniel asked. "I am still up for a Grammy," Kris pointed out. "She probably figures that's why; that I want moral support. Some people still consider the Grammys to be a fairly important thing." "I hated that song," Daniel said, and he seemed to take a gleeful joy in saying it. "It was sappy and overwrought. Plus, you can't dance to it." "Maybe you can't dance to it," Adam said, voice silky. He circled around Daniel and made his way back to Kris, running his fingers up Kris's arm. "I love it." Kris shook Adam's hand off, his cheeks heating up. Adam seemed to take that as a challenge, pressing his fingers against the pulse point in Kris's wrist, the place where Kris had promised to get a tattoo once he'd worked out what he wanted the design to be. Kris shivered, licking his lips, and suddenly, the room was way too small for three people. "Hey, Danny-boy," Kris said, mouth quirking up when Daniel rolled his eyes. "You wanna wait for us outside?" "Why would-" Then Daniel took another look at them. "Are you serious? In a dressing room?" And he was backing out of the room so fast that he didn't bother to close the curtain behind himself. Adam chuckled. "Oh, wow. Your kid brother's sex life sounds sadly vanilla, baby." "I honestly could not give a fuck about Daniel right now," Kris said, dropping back to sit on the bench, reaching out to push the shoes off so that he would have more room. "You can trouble-shoot his romantic failures some other time. Right now, I just want to blow you." Some part of him couldn't believe that he was still so hungry for Adam, all the time. Ever since the first time he'd kissed Adam, he constantly ached for Adam's touch, never quite able to shake the need. "Do you want me to-" "The entire city of Los Angeles could be watching and I wouldn't care," Kris said, and since Adam was being slow, he reached out and tugged at Adam's twisted belt, undoing the stupid complexity of it with the ease of practice. He pulled out Adam's cock and leaned over just a little to lick at the head, wrapped his hand around the base. He could remember- he remembered that Katy had never liked giving blowjobs and he'd just assumed that they were only ever fun for the person getting them. The first time he'd sucked Adam's cock, he'd learned differently. Adam had, Kris decided long ago, the most perfect cock in the world - it was big enough that it stretched his mouth and throat, and it was straight and heavy on his tongue. There were freckles scattered along it, too, though Adam hated to admit that, and Kris loved to lick tiny lines to connect them. His first time, he'd choked when Adam had come in his mouth and that taste hadn't been... it wasn't a pleasant taste, but he'd kinda loved it anyway. He still did. He reached up and cupped Adam's balls with his other hand, rolling them around gently. Adam's fingers were in his hair, light but still possessive. Kris arched his neck slightly, bumping his head up against Adam's hand shamelessly and sighing happily when Adam started petting through his hair. "I love when you get like this," Adam said and he kept talking through the rest of the blowjob, telling Kris how pretty he looked, what a good boy he was, how much he was looking forward to fucking Kris later, to being able to fuck Kris while knowing that the whole world knew about them. And Kris's cheeks had to be stained crimson from his blushes, and his jaw was starting to ache a little, but he just pressed closer to Adam, breathed through his nose, and let himself exist in the moment. It only took another couple of minutes and then Adam came, part of it pooling inside Kris's mouth for a second as Adam pulled back. Swallowing was just habit by now, and then Kris moved away reluctantly, gently tucking Adam back into his pants. Adam rubbed a heavy thumb over Kris's lips and Kris grinned lazily, playfully nipping at Adam's fingers. "You have no idea how much I needed that," Kris said, leaning forward to press a light kiss against Adam's stomach. Adam scrubbed his hand through Kris's hair and Kris just let himself breathe against Adam's skin for a while. "You're really scared, aren't you?" Adam asked, and concern in his voice just made Kris tuck his face against Adam even more, and, yeah, of course, he was. "We don't- we can wait. Just because I thought it would be... be funny for us to do it this way, we don't have to, not if you're not ready." Kris pressed another soft kiss against Adam's belly and then looked up, doing his best to smile. "I'm not doing that to you. Not again. I promised. No more pretending, remember?" Adam was still looking unsure, so Kris wrapped his hands around Adam's wrists and tugged, scooting back on the bench so that Adam could kneel between his legs. He darted forward, brushing a kiss just below Adam's right ear. He shifted, laying more kisses along the line of Adam's jaw, leaning up to press his lips just below Adam's eye, then he pulled back slightly and licked at Adam's nose. Adam was smiling now, and Kris tugged him into a breathless kiss, releasing his grip on Adam's wrists as Adam slid his arms around Kris's back, pulling him up into the kiss. One of Adam's hands slipped under Kris's suit jacket, tugging up his shirt, and Kris laughed and backed out of the kiss. "We don't have time," Kris said, shifting away slightly, though he could only go so far with Adam's arms around him. "I need to pick out shoes, remember?" "It's only one; there's plenty of time," Adam said, chasing Kris's mouth. Kris turned his head away and Adam caught him on the corner of his mouth. Adam pressed determined fingers against Kris's jaw and turned him into the kiss, and Kris sighed into Adam's mouth, resistance melting. It was perfection for about a minute and then Adam's cell rang; they kept kissing through the first half of his ringtone and then Kris ducked out of the kiss reluctantly. It was the ringtone that Adam used for official RCA business, so he really needed to answer it. Adam pouted for the briefest of moments, and then he answered the phone, not a hint of what he'd just been doing in his voice. Kris looked over at where the pair of shoes had landed when Kris had- well, earlier. He tried them on and they fit just fine. He glanced over at Adam, still on the phone, looking very serious and sexy and professional, and decided that, really, this pair of shoes was good enough. And if he and Adam hurried home, they might have time to be alone before he had to go pick up his parents - not that he used those exact words when he explained it to Daniel; he merely let Daniel know that his presence really wasn't required at the house and they would just meet up later at the airport. From Daniel's suspicious look, he probably guessed the truth anyway. Daniel was gone by the time Adam came out of the dressing room. Adam seemed disappointed when he heard that Kris had already paid for his clothes, which was silly. Just because Adam had helped him pick them out didn't mean that Adam needed to pay for them, even if he was friends with the clerk. They managed to get out of the store without any cameras finding them, something of a minor miracle. This wasn't a neighborhood where Adam's mustang stood out all that much, luckily. They ended up having enough time at the house for Kris to get a quick handjob, which was nice, but then he had to turn right around and leave again. He ended up getting to the airport about ten minutes late, but Daniel and his parents were still hanging around the luggage claim, waiting for the bags to come out, so it was okay. He had to sign a couple of autographs along the way, but L.A. was pretty chill and Kris wasn't 'the American Idol' anymore, so it wasn't a big deal. Both his parents had to give him hugs, of course, and Kris was happy enough to do that, though his palms had started sweating a little. They loved Adam already, he reminded himself. It wasn't going to be a big deal at all. Daniel had been staying at the house while he was in L.A., but his parents were going to be staying in Kris's apartment. Finally, they got the bags and had gotten back to Kris's place, and Kris showed them the 'guest room' - though it was really the master bedroom, of course, since it wasn't like Kris was using it. His mama seemed confused about something at first, looking around the place with a furrowed brow. "Is something wrong?" he asked her, glancing over at the clock for a second. He still had to get back to home to Adam so that he could change. "It's so clean," she said, turning around in a slow circle. "Doesn't look much like a bachelor's apartment. Doesn't look much anybody's apartment at all." "Well," Kris said, rocking back on his heels a little. Now that she mentioned it, he saw it, too. In the living room at home, his guitar was still lying on the table, because he'd forgotten to put it away last night. Adam had left a half-opened book on one of the side-tables this morning. He'd left a glass on the kitchen counter, the remnants of milk still clinging to sides. Nothing like that was here, because he didn't live here. He hadn't ever lived here; had signed the papers the day before Adam's... enthusiastic 'yes' to him and he'd only kept it because he had a six-month lease and he didn't want to cause a fuss. "There's a reason for that." His dad laid a steady hand on his shoulder and Kris breathed in sharply. Normally, he'd be grateful for his dad's support but, right now, it felt ten times heavier than it should. "Oh, honey, that's- are we going to meet her?" his mom asked, lighting up. She waved a hand at Daniel, who was frowning, though not for the reasons that mom was guessing at, Kris would wager. "I know, it's a little soon after the divorce, but we all know that he and Katy had been drifting apart for months." She came forward and snatched up Kris's hand between hers. "I just want you to be happy." Kris swallowed. "That's good." His eyes met Daniel's, briefly, and Daniel nodded at him, smiling just a little. Then Kris turned his gaze back down to his mom. "I- I did meet someone. And I'm very happy. I don't think I've ever been happier." She was glowing with anticipation and he couldn't- he couldn't stand quite so close. He ducked away from both of them and he knew that he was looking jittery and nervous, but he couldn't help it. "Who is it, son?" his dad asked, and Kris turned to look at them. They were so perfect together, always had been. Sure, there'd been fights over the years, but nothing serious. They'd always been there for each other and for him. "It's actually someone that you've already met," he said, starting to relax a little. "Oh," his mom said, deflating slightly. "It's... not Allison, is it? Don't get me wrong, she's a lovely thing and I adore her, but she's a little... young for you, don't you think?" "Allison is not the only woman I know in L.A. that I've introduced to you," Kris said, crossing his arms over his chest. "And of course it isn't her. She- she's- she's like a... a little sister to me." "That Megan girl?" his dad asked and Kris just had to- to cover his eyes in exasperation. "She seems more your type anyway, if you ask me." "Please stop guessing," he said. He peeked through his fingers and it seemed like they might actually give him a chance to talk now. He lowered his hands and took another steadying breath. "Like I said, it's someone that you've met. Actually, someone you know really well." "Well." His mom raised an eyebrow. "Who is it?" "Adam," Kris said, and he couldn't look at her when he said it, though he knew that he should be brave enough to do at least that. He ended up looking past the both of them, off at a painting that the apartment had come with; it was nothing that he would have picked out. "It's Adam." "Sweetheart, I don't think we heard you right," his mom said, with that edge in her voice that meant she wanted an explanation and fast. "Is it one of Adam's friends?" "He's gay," Daniel said, loud and as though it was something he'd been holding back, and Kris closed his eyes, though that couldn't block out Daniel's voice. "Or bisexual, maybe. It doesn't really matter. And if either of you had been paying attention, you'd have guessed it back when I figured it out. He's been in love with Adam for months. Years, for all I know." "Do you mean- was this before the divorce?" And his mom's voice was so quiet. "Kristopher, did you- with Adam?" "What's wrong with Adam?" Kris asked, opening his eyes. His hands tightened briefly into fists, and he deliberately relaxed them, tucking them into the pockets of his jeans. His parents were just surprised. His mom loved Adam and she wouldn't imply anything bad about him. "I did something wrong, but it's not worse because it was with Adam." "That's not what I-" she cut herself off, her hand lifting to cover her mouth. "I'm just... it wasn't something that I'd considered. You've never shown any tendencies in that direction." "Of course he did," Daniel scoffed. "You just didn't notice." "Please, you're not helping," Kris said, sending a hard look in Daniel's direction. Daniel threw up his hands and left the apartment, though he closed the door politely enough, so he couldn't be as mad as all that. Kris turned back to his parents, who hadn't moved. "I've wanted to tell you for a while." "Does Katy know?" his dad asked, finally speaking. "Yeah," Kris said, though he had no plans on telling them the details. "She knows. She knew from the beginning. And I talked to her after the divorce. She pretty much knows everything." "She didn't tell us," his mom said. Kris pressed his lips together and did his very best not to yell at his mama. "She agreed not to tell anyone until me and Adam were ready," Kris said, evenly. "And... I don't think she wanted to be known as the ex-wife of the gay Idol." "Are you?" she asked. "Did we really miss so much?" "No, no, you didn't," he said, taking a step toward her - she took a quick step back and that was- he blinked, reminding himself to stay in control, that it didn't have to mean anything. It didn't mean that she didn't want to touch him. "Mama, Adam's the first guy I ever- anything." "How can I believe that?" she asked. Kris looked over at his dad, hoping and praying. His dad reached out and rubbed mom's arm in comfort, and he was looking away from Kris's eyes. "You cheated on your wife." "Is that really what's bothering you?" Kris asked, and she couldn't meet his eyes, either. "You- you've always loved Adam." "Before I knew what he was doing to my son," she said, and she gasped right after, her hand flying up to her mouth. "Oh, honey, that's not-" "He has never done a thing to hurt anyone." His hands were in fists now, his breath coming too quickly. "You can think whatever you want about me, but don't you dare say that it's his fault." "Now, you know that I like Adam," his dad said, and he was using his church voice, the one that Kris had always paid attention to, no matter what. "But there comes a point when you have to ask yourself if the changes you've made in your life are really what's best for you. Kristopher, I'm not doubting that you have feelings for Adam, but look at your life. Look what it's become." "Wonderful," Kris said, raising up his chin. "My life is wonderful." "A life of hiding can't make you happy," his dad said. "I know you too well, son." "I won't be hiding," Kris said. "Not after tonight." "What?" Mom probably wasn't even trying to hide her surprise. "Me and Adam are coming out as a couple at the Grammys," Kris said and he could have been gentler about it, but he wasn't in the mood any more. "We've been planning it for a while." "Now, that's exactly what I mean," his dad said. "I can't imagine you chasing after media attention like that before you met Adam." Kris's mouth dropped open for a moment while he took that in. Then he nodded, tight and sharp. "Adam doesn't chase after media attention," Kris said, coldly. "He just attracts it. I'll... I'll talk to you after the show." His mom said his name, but Kris started walking and didn't stop until he reached his car. Neither of them had followed him. He pressed Adam's number in with a shaking finger and Adam picked up right away. "How did-" "I need you so bad," Kris said and, fuck, he was crying. He wiped away the tears and tried to sound reasonably together to Adam. "I'm on my way." "Oh, baby. I'll be here." And that was all Adam said. It was all he needed to say. Adam was waiting on the doorstep when Kris got there, and Kris just rushed into his arms, and- He inhaled sharply, letting Adam's comforting scent surround him. Adam's embrace was strong and warm and just the support that he'd needed. Adam was whispering in his ear, his tone low and reassuring. Kris closed his eyes and... he let himself weep, holding tightly to Adam's arms. When his tears finally seemed to dry out, he pulled back a little, touching his fingers to the wet spots on Adam's shirt. "It didn't go so well," he whispered. And Adam was tilting his head up gently, wiping at his cheeks, before pressing a tender kiss against his mouth. Kris pushed up into the kiss with a grateful whimper and this was- Adam was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He'd always known that, no matter what else had been going on in their lives - meeting Adam had only ever been a good thing. "If you want to wait, we don't have to do this tonight," Adam said, softly. "You can just collect your trophy and we don't have to say a thing." "You cannot just assume that I'm going to win," Kris said, relaxing a little into the easy familiarity of this argument. And, though he hadn't ever needed the proof that his dad wasn't right, there it was in Adam's offer. "They'll call someone else's name and you'll start shouting that they got it wrong." "Well, if you don't win, they did get it wrong," Adam said, firmly. "Seriously, baby, we can do it low-key instead. We don't need to make a fuss." "Oh, we're doing this," Kris said, and his grief was fading... or maybe just getting buried under the low tide of anger that was sweeping through his body. "Because if I do win, there's not a chance in hell that I'm not thanking the man that I'm in love with." Then he grinned and tugged at Adam's shirt, pushing the anger back for now - Adam didn't deserve to be caught in any of that. "You really should change; tear stains are so out of fashion." "Hmm, not sure I can do it on my own," Adam said, taking a step back toward the doorway, one of his eyebrows cocking slightly. "Might need some help." And that was just an irresistible temptation. Afterwards, in their bedroom, Adam held him for a while, and Kris rubbed his hand over the hairs on Adam's chest - it was the little things that got to him, when he thought about them. Hair on Adam's chest and the deepness of his voice when he moaned and the way he could pick Kris up and move him like Kris's weight didn't matter at all. The big things, like wanting to suck Adam's dick and liking it when Adam fucked him, those had been what he'd worked through first with Pastor Davidson, back when he'd realized how strong his feelings for Adam were and had gone searching for a gay-friendly church group. The smaller things, though, they kept surprising him. Or, to be honest, he kept being surprised by how much he liked them. He'd always known that he was attracted to guys, but it used to be something tiny, something he could hide behind Katy's hazel-warm eyes and the way she looked when she twirled around in a summer dress. He hadn't ever even bothered to think of himself as bisexual - since the first time Katy had as much as asked him out, he'd pretty much just been hers. Even when she'd broken up with him, he'd been hers. He'd thought that he'd always be hers. He hadn't been expecting Adam. Kris sighed, leaning over to press his mouth to the skin just under Adam's nipple. Adam laughed and said something about "not enough time" and pushed him away, and Kris sprawled back in the sheets, watching in admiration as Adam rose out of the bed. Adam's freckles were like a private in-joke, almost. The last time Kris had talked to Brad, they'd spent almost twenty minutes coming up with increasingly over-the-top ways to describe them - everything from the spiral of the Milky Way to the spattering of a paint gun. Brad had been surprisingly awesome about their whole relationship, though he kept trying to make Kris blush by asking if he and Adam had ever done - insert far-too-graphically-described sex act here - and, when he did make Kris blush, he'd try to guess if it was a 'yes, we have' or a 'no, not yet' variety of blush. Adam had, apparently, not told Brad about Kris and Adam's pre-divorce relationship, because he seemed surprised that they gotten to some stuff 'so quickly'. And Kris was happy enough to keep him in the dark for now. "I'm gonna grab some water," Adam said, reaching up and stretching toward the ceiling. These being crazy California homes, he couldn't actually reach it, but Kris was sure that he'd be able to lay his palms flat against the ceiling of Kris's parents' home in Arkansas. The entwined musical notes tattooed on Adam's right shoulder twisted as he turned back to smile sleepily at Kris. "Want anything?" "Wouldn't say no to a coke," Kris said, reflexively, though he was trying to take in less sugar these days. Ah, well, it was the sort of day where he'd earned it. Adam winked at him, started to head away and then he stopped, putting a hand on his hip as he looked at Kris. "What kind of coke?" Adam asked, proving that the boy could be trained. Kris grinned at him. "A Sprite, please. Sir," he said, then he dropped his head back into the pillows and relaxed, knowing that Adam would let him know when he needed to get ready. When Adam came back with the bottles, Kris sat up and snuggled back against the soft headboard, pulling his knees up and wrapping an arm around them. The nightstand was within easy reach, so he twisted off the cap and set them both down on the bare wood. Adam cleared his throat and Kris rolled his eyes, leaning over to slide a coaster toward the end of the nightstand and then putting his Sprite on it. "Spill," Adam said, tapping the bottom of his water bottle against Kris's knee. "What'd they say?" Kris shook his head, curling his toes into the sheets. "Stupid stuff. Doesn't matter." He shrugged. "They'll come 'round." "Baby, though you came close once or twice, I've never seen you crying before," Adam said, wrapping his free hand around Kris's left knee, squeezing reassuringly. "Not full-on tears. And we have been through some serious shit together." Kris glanced down at his feet, toenails still showing traces of green nailpolish from the last time Adam had gone on a private glam-up spree, and let out a soft breath. "They just- they weren't expecting it. I guess I... surprised them." He reached out and put his hand over Adam's, tucking his fingers underneath Adam's palm. "It wasn't anything, really. I was just being too sensitive." "You are the most laid-back guy I've ever known, so I'm guessing that's bullshit," Adam said, and he leaned down and brushed his mouth against Kris's hand, then he turned it over and delicately kissed Kris's wrist. He looked up and once Adam was actually meeting his eyes, Kris couldn't look away again. "But it's obvious that you aren't going to say any more, so let's talk ink." "I still haven't decided," Kris said... murmured, really, since he and Adam were so close that he didn't need to talk loud. And Adam was one of the few non-Southerners who almost always understood what Kris was saying, even when other people accused him of mumbling. "I want something that means peace, but not- not a dove or a peace sign or anything cliché like that." "No clichés means no Chinese or Japanese characters, either," Adam said, thoughtfully, his thumb rubbing over Kris's pulse point. "I'll investigate and get you more options." "Nothing crazy," Kris said, firmly, because sometimes Adam could get way too enthusiastic. "It has to be small enough to cover up with a wristband." "Yeah, yeah, I know," Adam said, rolling his eyes, but if Adam listened to what Kris said the first time through, they wouldn't have needed to repaint their kitchen three times in two weeks. Granted, it would be a lot harder for Adam to get Kris's wrist tattooed while he wasn't paying attention, but it was the principle that counted here. Adam took up a lot of space, in more ways than the obvious, and Kris wasn't going to let the fact that Adam fucked him mean that Adam got control over everything in his life. "What about your family?" Kris asked, wanting to talk about something bound to be upbeat. "Leila's not really holding a winner's party afterwards, is she? Because if I-" "Don't worry about it," Adam said. "She bought two sets of banners." It took a moment before Kris was brave enough to ask. "What's the other set say?" "Happy Coming-Out!" Adam said brightly, resting his chin on Kris's knee. "I swear, she's almost more excited than I am. She wants to claim you in public." His excitement dimmed slightly. "And she was looking forward to talking to Kim about it. Hopefully, she'll be able to help your parents accept you sooner." "That... that would be nice," Kris said, and he couldn't help but smile. Leila, Eber and Amy, and Neil had all been so supportive over the last month and a half, though Neil hadn't been able to resist telling Adam, very loudly, that he'd guessed about Kris before Adam had known. "How many people did she invite to this thing? And how many of them already know?" "Everyone and no one," Adam said, then he pulled off Kris fluidly. "We really need to start getting ready." "You need to start getting ready," Kris said, reaching over and taking a sip of his Sprite. "I'll get up in about half an hour." "Oh, no, you said I could dress you up for this," Adam said. "That includes make-up." He held up his hands, a little bit of water splashing out of the bottle he was holding. "Don't worry, though, it won't be anything crazy. Now, get that sweet ass up out of bed and get dressed." Adam doing his make-up was odd enough when he was just letting Adam mess around; having it happen and knowing that other people were going to see the results was slightly more nerve-wracking. But there was always something... sensual and almost erotic about it, about Adam gently smudging Kris's eyeliner with his pinky finger, about the soft tickling sensation of the brush he used for the blush, about the way he stroked on the color for Kris's lips, heavy and red. One of the reasons that Kris's make-up had never made it outside before likely had something to do with how he liked to see how the lipstick looked when it streaked against Adam's skin as Kris kissed him everywhere he could reach. But they'd taken the edge off earlier, so Kris was only half-hard by the time Adam said that he was ready for the show. Adam moved so that Kris could look in the mirror and- he had to blink a little, trying to recognize himself. It wasn't... it wasn't that much of a change, but he looked so much more dramatic - the foundation and blush made his face look thinner and his cheekbones sharper, while the eyeliner, thicker than he'd ever let anyone else make it, made his eyes smoky and huge. The lipstick emphasized the fullness of his lower lip and he had to concentrate not to lick out at it to see if it tasted like cherries. "You like?" Adam asked, smug smile on his lips. "I guess I don't look like too much of an idiot," Kris managed. Adam chuckled, rich and low. He'd finished his make-up first, so they were all done now. "So, we're arriving in the same limo, holding hands on the red carpet - do they actually need a kiss to figure things out, because this lipstick-" "As long as you don't push so hard, your lipstick will be fine," Adam said. "Though it's cute that you don't want to smudge it." Kris sputtered for a second, because that was not his point, but Adam was already up and leaving the room, with a casual call back at Kris not to make them late. He took one last look at himself in the mirror, his lips tightening for a second as he remembered what his dad had said. "I like who I'm turning into," he said quietly, reaching forward to brush his fingers against his reflection. Then he turned away and jogged to catch up to Adam, reaching him just outside the gate, where the limo was waiting - both he and Adam had obligations at the Grammys tonight, though Adam liked to say that he was 'just' presenting, but the car had been sent by Jive and the driver wasn't all that surprised to see both of them getting in. Everyone knew that Adam and Kris were joined at the hip, even if most people outside the 'gay underground' of L.A. still thought that Kris was straight and Adam was only being a good friend. That was really the reason why Kris was thinking that they might need to kiss to get the point across - even holding hands might get dismissed as another stage in their platonic bromance. The fact that they lived together - and it was really obvious even if Kris did have a lease on a different place - was just explained by the fact that they liked to bounce song ideas off each other and Adam had his own studio in the house. Kris wasn't sure if the mainstream media was really that dense or if they were afraid to mention it for fear of looking stupid like... like in the Emperor's New Clothes. Because Kris knew for a fact that several fangroups were certain about his relationship with Adam. A few of them even had the timeline straight, though most of them thought it had started a lot earlier and he hadn't seen a single person guess right about Katy's involvement. Of course, 'failed threesome attempt leading to a secret affair' wasn't the most likely possibility in the world. The crazy way his life had worked ever since he'd first tried out for American Idol still left him breathless. That he'd gotten into the show in the first place, that he'd been roommates with Adam, that they'd gotten to the top together, and all the success that had followed for both of them - it still felt like a dream. Some mornings, when he woke, he still half-expected to be back in his old apartment with Katy, fantasizing about a life that he couldn't ever live. Kris glanced over at the darkened glass separating him and Adam from the driver and then shot a nervous smile in Adam's direction. The car was slowing and they were approaching the red carpet. Kris leaned toward Adam and breathed in, Adam's Dior Homme cologne a familiar and comforting scent. "Here we go," he said to Adam, just as the limo came to a stop. The door opened and the flashing and the noise started immediately. Adam gracefully hopped out of the car and Kris could hear the volume inch upward. Adam turned toward the limo and held out his hand, and... here it was, moment of truth. Before he could lose his nerve, Kris put his hand in Adam's and let Adam tug him out of the car. But when Adam stopped pulling, Kris kept going, bouncing up on his toes to place a gentle kiss on Adam's surprised lips. The photographers and reporters were making tons of noise now and Kris couldn't see for the flash of the cameras, but Adam's mouth was against his and that was all he needed. Adam slid an arm around Kris's back and pushed him up into the kiss, his lips parting slightly to invite Kris in. Kris's eyelids slid shut as he returned the favor, the noise of the crowd fading into the background, as his tongue danced out to brush against Adam's mouth. Adam's hand shifted down slightly, cupping Kris's ass and that- that was amazing, and Kris's hands reached up to hold onto Adam's collar and yank him down harder into the kiss but then he remembered what Adam had said, not to push so hard or he'd smear the make-up. Kris blinked, and he came back to himself. He broke the kiss, the sound lost in the roar of the crowd and the clicking of cameras, and Adam's hand slid up from Kris's ass to the small of his back. Kris settled back down on his heels, needing to squint when he looked away from Adam, and he heard someone shout, in a high-pitched screech of shock, "Oh my god, it really is Kris Allen." And that was pretty much how the whole red carpet experience went, and Kris only really made it through because Adam never let go of him. Being actually inside was so much easier, if only because there were several people who already knew, tons who weren't surprised, and the rest either weren't rude enough to say anything or didn't give a fuck. After all that, it was almost an anti-climax when he actually won for Song of the Year. But he was up on stage, standing in front of his peers - part of him couldn't believe that that was true either, that all these real musicians had accepted him as one of their own - and after he made his pre-prepared thank-yous to God and the people who'd helped him, he did the one that mattered most, the one that he hadn't been able to find the words for until this moment. "This is one of the most personal songs I've ever written," he said and he looked out over the audience, finding Adam and keeping his gaze there for the rest of his speech. "It's about love; about being in love so deeply that the rest of the world almost seems to disappear. And, for me, that means it's about just one person. Every note, every word, all of it was written with him in mind." And he knew that part of the speech was going to be particularly incendiary once people thought about it, since Midsummer had been written and released well before his divorce. "Thank you, Adam, for being the bravest, sweetest, best person that I know." He held up the Grammy - well, the dummy Grammy. "This is for you, baby." And after he made his way backstage, he wasn't surprised to see that Adam had gone back there, too. "How you feeling, Grammy winner?" Adam asked, snagging the lapel of Kris's jacket and tugging him close. "Hope you aren't cracking under the pressure because they do expect you to perform in about half an hour." "Oh, shut up," Kris said, fondly. Adam's make-up was smudged a bit around the eyes, a complete tell that he'd shed a tear or two out there. Kris actually felt fantastic, to his own surprise. He'd been carrying around the weight of his love for Adam for close to two years, at least, and being able to say it - to say it to that many people - had felt like the greatest relief ever. "By the way, that? So much cooler than coming out in Rolling Stone. Just saying." "Damn you, Kris Allen," Adam said, in a tone of mock despair, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "You've topped me again. How will I ever get my revenge?" He leaned in to whisper in Kris's ear. "Oh, well, I guess I'll just wait until the next time you desperately need a hard fuck." Kris shivered, his eyes briefly closing in reaction. And then it was Adam's turn to go out on stage to present, which went off with no hitches. Kris stayed backstage to watch, since Adam was right about not having too much time before he needed to perform. Luckily, Midsummer wasn't a song that needed a band - it was just Kris and a piano, all alone on stage with the heat of the spotlights trained on him. Midsummer was one of those songs that had been easy for him to write - he'd written it almost in a fever, after Adam had called him to break off their affair. It had been a surprise to him when it hadn't been angry or depressed, but instead had been one of the most joyful songs he'd ever written. This is why I love you, the song said, because your honor is greater than your need. And everything that he'd done since that day had brought him to this moment, to being able to go out in front of hundreds of people - potentially millions sitting at home - and say without a second of hesitation that he adored Adam with every breath in his body. So, he sat down on his piano bench, played the first chord, and then, with every note, he told everyone watching that this was how much he loved Adam. Enough to let him go, if he had to. Enough to walk away from everything safe in his life. Enough to go to Adam and offer himself, offer everything. After the show, he and Adam manage to escape without getting accosted by too many reporters and when they got to Leila's afterparty, where both banners were proudly flying, they received a round of applause that left Kris's cheeks hot, and he lost track of how many hands he shook. All of Adam's friends, the people who already knew, were thrilled for Adam's sake that Kris was finally out, and everyone else at the party seemed pretty happy, too, though Kris had a couple of guys cheerfully complain that they wish they'd been the one to turn him. And Brad managed to smack his ass in the middle of congratulating him, but that was just Brad being Brad. All of the other season eight Idol finalists were there, along with several others of the Top 36. Allison, who had known for about three weeks, gave him a tight hug and whispered, "I'm so fucking proud of you," and Danny slapped him on the back and said, "I don't get it, man, but you've always made each other happy. Congratulations." Amy and Eber had brought a cake with Pride flag frosting and made Kris cut the first slice, so he called Adam over and made him eat a piece, right from Kris's hand. Of course, then Adam sucked his fingers clean and Kris's pants tightened, so Adam probably won that round. Anoop pushed a glass of red wine into Kris's hand and called for a toast and Kris smirked when he dedicated the round to not giving up on love, pointedly glancing over at Megan, who flushed brightly. After a few more rounds of drinks, Alex Wagner-Trugman climbed up on a chair and spread his arms wide. "Like everyone else," he said loudly. "I'm very happy for Kris and Adam. However, Kris, if you should ever find that Adam is not manly enough for you-" a hearty 'boo' filled the room and Trugs waved it down. "-or if he should otherwise break your heart, I would like to publicly offer to be your rebound. Thank you." And then he toppled off the chair, his fall broken by a giggling Mishovanna. "I can't believe so many of you are here," Kris said to Alexis. She gave him a soft smile. "Can't you?" she said. She waved around at the room - at Matt flirting with Leila in the corner and Michael talking seriously with Todd over by the drinks table, and Lil and her husband dancing to a soft-jazz piano tune being played by Scott. "You're our Idol. Maybe not the same way that you're Arkansas's, but we love you just as much." Then her smile widened to a grin. "Plus, Adam paid airfare and hotel fees for anyone not currently living in L.A. - who's going to turn that down?" "Was he really that sure I was going to win?" Kris asked. "Or was it about-" "Either way, he figured you'd want as many friendly faces around as possible," she said. "He's a really great guy, your boyfriend. Loves you a lot." "Yeah," Kris agreed, easily finding Adam in the crowd - he was talking to his dad about something, his hands moving quickly to illustrate his point. "He really does." As if Adam could sense him looking, his head turned, his eyes finding Kris's. He smiled, wide and happy, and Kris beckoned him over. Adam briefly turned toward his dad, said something that made Eber laugh, and then Adam broke away, wading through the crowd to reach Kris's side. "So, how's the party?" Adam asked, reaching up to rub a finger just under Kris's lower lip. "Sorry, baby, your lipstick got a little smudged there." "Thanks," Kris said, grabbing Adam's wrist before he could lower it all the way. He lifted Adam's hand back up, pressing his cheek against Adam's palm. "It was going great, but it's even better now." "You'll smear the rest of your make-up," Adam warned him, but he was smiling. "What the chances your parents will notice if we sneak off to a back room?" Kris asked. "Way too high," Adam said, laughing. "We are not having sex in my mother's house. No way." Kris pressed a warm kiss to the center of Adam's palm. "Nothing I can do to convince you?" he asked, in that low, heated tone that normally got results. Adam's eyes darkened, his tongue wetting his lips. He was so close to caving... and then Matt clapped Kris heartily on the shoulder, startling them both out of the moment. Adam's hand dropped down and away and Kris couldn't quite hide his pout. "So, queer for Lambert," Matt said, clearly half-way to being sloshed. "I knew it, you know. Guessed way back when the show was still airing. Do I win anything? Maybe a kewpie doll?" "Another drink," Adam said, carefully prying Matt's hand off Kris and giving him a push in the right direction. "You win another free drink." Matt snorted with laughter and wandered off, snagging Danny's arm along the way and leaning his weight on him. "I was, you know," Kris said, quietly. Adam turned to him, looking slightly puzzled, brow drawn up. "From that first day you sang in Hollywood week, I couldn't stop talking about you. Matt was the first person to know how much I admired you." "Oh, is that what the kids are calling it," Adam said, with a wicked smile. "Well, I admired you, too." "Fuck off," Kris laughed, smacking Adam's arm. Adam grabbed Kris's hand, turning slightly more serious. "I really did," he said, softly. "I like to think... I like to think that I'm first person who really saw you, stupid and selfish and egotistical as it sounds. I heard you singing on that stage during Hollywood week and even if the judges didn't see it, I saw a star. I have been so happy for your success, baby, but I wasn't surprised. I knew you could do it. Always." He brought up their tangled hands and brushed a kiss over Kris's knuckles. "It was never just about your pretty face." "Couldn't have done it without you," Kris whispered, which was cliché and overwrought but it was also exactly how he felt. And he kissed Adam again, right in the middle of Leila's living room, and he heard the guests 'woo'ing and someone shouting out that they should get a room, but he kept on kissing Adam until he had to stop to take a breath. And he grinned when he saw that he'd left some of that dark red lipstick on Adam's face. "It's been a great party, Adam, but right now, I really wanna celebrate in private." It took another half an hour before they were finally out the door, because people kept stopping them to congratulated him - or Adam - and to say good-night. But then they were finally relatively on their own and being driven home. When they got dropped off, the driver gave them a wink and said, "Big news, boys, can't wait to read the headlines," and Kris had to laugh all over again, waving him off. Adam being, well, Adam and roughly as famous as the Beatles, his house was pretty damn secure, so even on a night like this, they didn't have to worry about getting ambushed by the tabloid press. Gated communities had their perks. They were alone in the house and Kris spared a brief thought about where Daniel was, but that was all he had time for before Adam was on him, stripping off his clothes and then doing the caveman thing where he lifted Kris up and slammed him against the wall. Kris moaned, his head thumping backwards and... yes, there was something about this, about letting Adam take him over, that was bigger than anything he'd ever felt before. Adam fucked him right then and there, made him scream so loudly that it echoed through the room, and then carried him upstairs and did it all over again on their bed. "This seriously qualifies for the best day ever," Kris said, and, wow, they really needed to wash these sheets now. Adam didn't say anything back and, when Kris poked him, he just snored and cuddled in closer. Kris glanced over at the nightstand, where the Sprite from earlier still stood. Next to it was his phone, which he'd dumped out after getting back from talking to his parents and hadn't touched the rest of the day. Yeah. It was probably time to deal with that. He wriggled out from under Adam and grabbed the phone, pulling on his boxers. He went out to the hallway and hit the button for his voicemail. "So, I went back to the apartment and mom and dad were freaking out," Daniel said, his voice tight. "I'm gonna hang with them for the rest of the night. I'll try to make your party, but don't worry if I'm not there." There was a message from a particularly pissed-off assistant at Jive, asking him if he'd ever planned on telling them that he was gay and fucking Adam Lambert -- and she actually said "fucking" so they had to be really mad at him. He winced and deleted that one, too. "Hey, sweetie." It was Katy's voice, soft and light as he remembered from when they were younger, before all the crazy shit from the past couple of years. "Caught your kiss on Entertainment Tonight. Saw the make-up; you looked really good actually. Hey- I'm proud of you, okay? I'm not going to pretend that I don't hate what happened between us, but I will always love you. I'm so glad you're happy." She sniffled and he could picture exactly what she looked like, her eyes red from trying not to cry, but the tears starting to slip down regardless. "Adam, if you're listening, don't you ever doubt that man of yours. He's one of the good ones." Her voice softened. "I wish I'd remembered that. Good luck, you guys. It's not going to be easy for you." That message, Kris saved, and he'd be lying if he pretended it didn't make him tear up a little. He quickly skipped through some more calls before landing on the one he'd both been longing to hear and yet been so afraid of - it was his mom's voice. "Honey, we saw the show," she said, her words coming slowly. "I hadn't- I hadn't realized you'd written that song for Adam. You know how much I always loved that song." Kris nodded, remembering the day he'd first played it for his parents. His mom had leapt up and declared it 'her favorite' out of all the songs he'd written for the new album. "We talked to Daniel for a while and he caught us up on your life. On... your life with Adam. You're right, you know, we always did love Adam. And we always said that we didn't care whether or not he was gay; that it didn't matter. He has to... he has to be pretty disappointed in us right now." She paused for a long moment. "I still don't understand. Neither of us understands. But you are our son and we love you. And if we made you doubt that-" her voice broke, and she took in a shuddering breath. "Oh, baby-doll, if we made you doubt that for even one second, I am so sorry." There was another pause, and then his dad was talking, voice gruff. "We can't take back what we said, but we do regret it. I regret what I said. Adam's not a bad influence; he never was. I hope- I hope you can remember that your parents are as human and as fallible as anyone else. As much as we strive to be like Jesus, to walk in God's light, we all fail sometimes. Wherever you are right now, please be happy. We'll call back in the morning. I love you, Kristopher. We love you so much." Kris pressed the phone against his mouth, silently shaking with relieved sobs. When he had himself under control, he went back into the bedroom and plugged his phone into the charger. Adam was sprawled across the bed, taking up all the space, but when Kris slipped in next to him, Adam shifted, his body curving toward Kris and making room, even in his sleep. Kris brushed a light kiss over Adam's cheek and snuggled in close to him, his mouth curving up into a smile. Yeah, on his list of good days, this was pretty much the top.

"Oh God." God, the man was hot. He was lounging, shoulder propped up against the doorframe to her apartment, hands thrust in the pockets of his well-tailored trousers, smirking and looking good enough to eat. Of course, the fact that he was here at her apartment when he'd specifically given her Sunday off probably meant that... "Oh God." She'd had a sinking feeling when she'd heard the knock on the door. Was it too much to ask, she'd wondered, to have just a few hours to herself? Apparently. "You said that already," Josh pointed out helpfully. "Josh!" Donna protested. "You said I could stay home today. That means no work!" "Our work is never done, Donnatella." Still grinning, he pushed away from the doorframe and strode into her apartment. "Oh God." "What, did I interrupt some big plans?" he asked, chuckling. "You're in that...mood." "I'm in a good mood, Donna." "And you're dressed in a suit, which means you either just came from work or are heading to work, and that means...oh God." "You know, a little enthusiasm on your part would be appreciated." "I can't go to work, Josh." "I don't need you to go to work." "Oh." She tried to keep the look of relief off her face and failed. "No, Donna, I come to celebrate victory." "Victory? Oh, with..." "Yes, Donna, I triumphed. There may have been brunch at the restaurant, but I had Somers eating out of the palm of my hand." She'd forgotten the Somers thing. That was why he was wearing the suit. "Congratulations," she said, letting the door to the hall open wider, hoping in vain he'd take the hint. "Congratulations?" He frowned. He'd missed the hint. "Yes, Josh," she said politely. "Congratulations. That must feel very good." "Donna, when was the last time you congratulated me on something?" "Well, yesterday you stapled your tie to..." "Never." "Josh..." "You have never congratulated me on a victory since we've known each other." "I've been known to let out a celebratory whoop when the occasion warranted." "A celebratory whoop," he repeated, then paused. "What's going on?" She couldn't help it. She tensed up. Damn, she had to get better control over her body language, because he was going to notice... He did. "You have someone here." He stated it as a fact. "Yes," she admitted. "A date?" he squeaked, suddenly looking acutely uncomfortable. "No!" The tension drained from his posture as quickly as it had appeared. She noted the smirk as he switched back up into high gear. It was the time-to-have-some-fun-with-Donna smirk. "Then who?" He made as if to move past her down her hall and into the apartment. She stepped in front of him to block his path and he grinned. "Margaret," she said. "Margaret? Well, let me go say hello..." He started to move around her and she stepped in front of him again. He almost laughed out loud. "No, Josh. We're doing--um--girl stuff." "Girl stuff." "Yeah," she said defensively. "That's the best you can come up with?" "Apparently." She watched helplessly as he pushed past her to the living room. ***** It wasn't a sight you saw every day. He admitted that freely. Margaret was kneeling in the middle of Donna's living room, surrounded by a sea of pink plastic shopping bags, doing a little arm and shoulder shimmy in time to the music on the stereo. And she was singing. "'Cuz my body's so bootylicious baby my body's so bootyliciouuuuuuuuuuuus..." "Bring it home, Margaret." She dropped her arms and looked up at him in shock. Clearing her throat, she said, "Hey Josh," in a much deeper voice than the one she'd been using to sing with. Her face fell into its usual solemn mask, but she couldn't hide the blush that was flooding her cheeks. "How's it going?" She stumbled to her feet and nearly tripped over one of the pink bags. "Fine," she said in an almost normal tone. "I just came to tell Donna I got Somers." "Congratulations," Margaret replied. "I'll tell Leo." He decided it was much more fun to celebrate with Donna. "You going in today?" "Yeah. After we're done here." She gestured at the pink bags. "I noticed those." He took a few steps farther into the living room and nodded at the bags. "Josh..." Donna said warningly from behind him. He ignored her. "What's all this?" "Oh," said Margaret. "Heather from the temp pool is getting married, so we had one of those showers where..." Donna loudly cleared her throat, and Margaret stopped abruptly. "Where?" Josh pressed. "You can buy all sorts of stuff," Margaret finished weakly. "Oh, like a Tupperware party?" "That kind of thing exactly." She nodded vigorously. He grinned. It was starting to feel like a two-victory kind of day. "But this isn't Tupperware," he observed, not bothering to keep his amusement in check. "Uh, no..." Margaret started to explain. Donna cut her off. "But I'm sure she'll use the things she got...Josh!" He backed away from the pink bag he'd opened. "Whoa." "You're not supposed to look in there!" "Was that what I think it was?" Donna sighed. "Yes." "It looked pretty big." "They always do, the first time," she smirked. He opened his mouth, then shut it. "So, all these bags have one of...those..." "On, no," said Margaret helpfully. "Donna and I have been putting everyone's personal orders together. See, my cousin's husband's sister runs these parties, and since we all work at the White House, we thought it would be better to distribute everyone's purchases discreetly, so my cousin brought everything here, with the bags, and Donna and I have been separating out the..." He held up a hand to stop her. "I get it. So whose bag is that? Who bought the big, lifelike..." "Josh!" Donna cut him off. "Oh, come on, Donna." "No. It was someone who works at the White House. That's all you need to know. And he or she certainly wasn't the only person who bought one." "Did you?" "No!" She blushed. He grinned. "It's okay, you can tell...wait. What do you mean, he or she? There were guys at this shower?" "Yeah." "How come I didn't get to come?" he practically whined. "Do you even know who Heather is?" He frowned. "See?" Donna said rhetorically. "And Sam came, anyway," Margaret added helpfully, oblivious to Donna's sudden frantic gestures behind Josh's back. "So it's not like the Senior staff wasn't represented." "Sam got to go?" He turned and looked at Donna reproachfully. "You were busy!" she protested. "No I wasn't!" "How do you know? You don't even know when we had the party." She looked to Margaret for help, but Margaret was again engrossed with the bags, murmuring under her breath in time with the stereo. "I couldn't have been that busy, if both you *and* Sam were free," he reasoned. "Josh..." Her voice trailed off and she gave him a weary look. "Fine," he said. "Which bag is Sam's?" He knelt down and started to rummage through the sea of pink plastic. "Josh, no." Donna was next to him immediately, grabbing his wrists. "These bags are confidential." "Trust me, Donna, I have clearance." "It's not a matter of national security," she sighed, keeping a firm grip on his wrists. "Fine." He stood up and she decided it was safe to let him go. Watching him warily, she got up off the floor too. "So," he began. "In a purely hypothetical way..." "No, Josh." "Aw, c'mon, Donna..." "If you're sexy and you know it clap your hands..." They both turned to look down at Margaret, who was singing under her breath, and who had stopped her task of labelling bags to clap in time to the music. She looked up at them. "Sorry," she said, "Bridal shower soundtrack." They both stared at her for a long moment. Seizing the break in his concentration, Donna tried for misdirection, tugging Josh away from the bags. "So, you got Somers?" "Got?...Yeah. It was really good. It hasn't been this good since...well, since I crushed Russell, and put Mandy's little..." His head turned back towards the pink bags as if he were being called by them. "Wow. It must have been really good, then." She tried to get his attention and failed. "I was just wondering, what could a guy possibly..." Margaret looked up from her position on the floor. "Oh, there's tons of stuff. There's this ring, made out of soft jelly latex, well, technically it's two rings joined together, and they stretch so you can put a..." "You know what?" Josh interrupted her. "Maybe I can't have this conversation now." "Okay," Margaret said innocently. She looked down at her work and back up at Donna. "I think we're done. I'll take these for the temp pool and OEOB," she grabbed several bags in each hand and lifted, "and you deliver ops and communication." "Thanks, Margaret," Donna replied. "And I took Sam's," Margaret stage-whispered in Donna's ear as she passed. Donna gave her a relieved grin. "Margaret, wait," Josh called. "You dropped something." Frowning, Margaret put her bags down by the door and came back. Josh picked up the bottle of clear liquid and gestured to her. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "I forgot. Donna," she turned, "I think we got an extra bottle of grape orgy." Donna frowned. "Are you sure?" "Yeah. I double checked. Everyone who ordered one has one." Donna paused, thinking. "Should we..." She gestured. "I don't think it matters," Margaret said firmly. "She said something about a hostess gift." Donna's mouth quirked with humour. "So, do you want it, or can I have it?" "I want it!" Josh broke in. "Josh..." Donna began. "No. You wouldn't let me come to the party. I want this," he examined the label again, "whatever it is, girly, fruity smelling...stuff." "You don't even know what it is!" she protested. "Let alone how to use it." "Besides," Margaret added helpfully, again oblivious to Donna's frantic gestures behind Josh's back, "it really requires two people." He looked at her disbelievingly. "It does not." Margaret took the bottle from him and opened it. "Stick out your wrist," she instructed. Josh paused a moment, then slipped off his suit jacket and undid the cuff of his sleeve. Margaret dabbed some of the oil on the inside of his wrist. "Rub it in," she said. He looked at her carefully, but did as she asked. "Now, Donna," she continued. "Blow." Throwing an impatient glance at Margaret, Donna reached for Josh's hand and blew a soft stream of air across his skin. Josh realized then that the oil was self-heating; the patch of skin he'd covered warmed deliciously by several degrees. "Wow." "Nice, huh," Margaret agreed. "Now take a sniff." "It doesn't smell too bad," he relented. He inhaled again. Not bad at all. "Now lick," Margaret said. Watching her, he raised his wrist to his mouth. It didn't taste bad either. "I like it," he said. "You can't have it," Donna said firmly, taking the bottle from Margaret and capping it. "I want it." Margaret grinned. "Actually, I got the chocolate one, so you two can fight over it." Josh tugged the bottle away from Donna. "Hah." She grabbed it back and hugged it to herself protectively. "No." "C'mon, who are you going to use it with?" he asked. "Yeah, Donna," Margaret jumped in. "It's not like you're seeing..." "Who are *you* going to use it with?" Donna interrupted, directing her question at Josh. Josh opened his mouth, then closed it again. "I'm sure I could..." "I'll leave you two to sort it out," Margaret broke in. "I have to get to work." Donna stopped glaring at Josh long enough to acknowledge her. "Thanks for your help, Margaret," she said. Margaret gave a small smile to her friend, who was still clutching the extra bottle of massage oil, and decided to have some fun. "And thanks for yours. And Josh," she beckoned him to come closer, "this one right here," she used her foot to nudge one of the pink bags still sitting on the floor, "is Donna's." "Margaret!" Donna screeched. But Margaret had already made a run for it. With a hasty "bye, Donna," she gathered up her bags and slammed the door behind her. Donna turned back to see Josh holding her bag and wearing the biggest, smuggest smirk she'd ever seen. "So, Donna," he began. "What am I going to find in here? A big, lifelike..." "No!" She tried to grab the bag back from him but he held on. "There is nothing of that...nature... in the bag. Just girly, fruity-smelling stuff you wouldn't be interested in." "Oh, I'm interested already." "Josh!" She could tell he was teasing her, at least mostly, but she didn't want to give in and let him look. Sighing, she held out the self-heating massage oil. "Trade." "Oh, I don't know, Donna." "You get this oil, for free, I might add, and I get the things I rightfully paid for, as well as my privacy." "But as you pointed out, I have no one to use that oil with. Whereas you, who don't have any use for the oil either, I might add," he mimicked her, smirking, "have no doubt shopped for a number of items that can be used in a, er, solo capacity." She couldn't stop her blush, but her voice didn't waver. "Josh, please," she said in a no-nonsense tone, yanking the bag hard. He hung on and tugged at the bag a couple more times, letting her almost succeed in taking it from him before he moved in for the kill. "You know, my shoulders are getting a little stiff, what with this little tug of war and all," he observed nonchalantly. She stopped trying to wrest the bag away from him for a moment, realization dawning on her face. "No." "Yes." "No!" "Come on, Donna, just once. You give good shoulder rubs." She let go of the bag and stared him straight in the eye, knowing he wouldn't jeopardize his chances for a massage at this point. "Besides, I deserve it. I did good today." She looked down at the oil in her hand. "I suppose you want me to blow on you, too." His mouth twitched, but he managed to keep a relatively straight face. "That would be nice. After all, that's what it's for." "You're going to smell like grapes," she pointed out. "You're the only person that's going to smell me." Donna studied him for a moment, then said, "Fine." "Excellent." He stopped trying to keep his face expressionless, grinning widely. "I'm going to put the rest of these bags in the closet," she said, handing him the oil. He relinquished her bag. "Go into the bedroom, take off your shirt, and I'll be right there." "Okay." Now that he was getting what he wanted, he did exactly as he was told, taking the oil into her bedroom and stripping off his shirt and tie. He laid them over the back of her chair, and after a moment's consideration, took off his undershirt as well. He laid on his stomach on the bed, listening to Donna putter around, tidying her living room. Then he realized he was still wearing his shoes. Sitting up, he toed them off, then stripped off his socks too, reasoning that he might be able to talk his way into a foot massage as well if he played his cards right. He laid back down, then noticed that the buckle of his belt was going to dig into his belly, especially if she worked her way from his shoulders down his back the way he hoped she would. He sat up again and pulled off his belt just as she came in the room with her pink plastic bag. She threw him a wry look and he felt compelled to say, "That's all, I promise. I just wanted to be comfortable." She dropped the bag down next to her bed. "Shoulders, Josh." "Shoulders," he agreed. "And...neck." She decided to give in on that. "Fine." ****** Sometimes when he started to talk, she wished she could capture everything he said and study it. He was recounting his triumph in detail, explaining the nuances of the meeting, the characteristics of the players, and his tactics, and she found herself impressed yet again by his political skills. She was getting privileged information, and the part of her that loved being a student wanted to record everything he said so that she could study it again later. Of course, it would have been quite the incriminating tape. His narrative was frequently punctuated by sighs, groans, and "oh, right there, Donna, ohhh"s. Maybe a videotape would be better, so that it was clear she wasn't doing to him what people might think she was doing. Well, actually a videotape would be worse. Because now she had reached the blowing portion of the afternoon. Crouching down over him, she applied some fresh oil, took a deep breath, and blew a steady stream of air across his shoulders. He let out an incoherent noise of pleasure as the oil activated, heating his skin. "Is that good?" she asked, grinning at his sudden inability to speak. "Mmmm....uuhhhh...." "I'll take that as a yes," she chuckled softly. "You're enjoying this," he mumbled accusingly. "So are you," she observed, swiping more oil down his spine and then breathing on it, warming a straight line up from his waist to his neck. "Nnnnngh..." His response might have had something to do with the fact that her thumbs were rubbing the excess oil into his lower back, down to the waistband of his trousers. "Besides, watching you become completely incoherent? Where's the fun in that?" She decided to switch locales...if she delved too much lower, she was afraid that she wouldn't be able to resist sneaking a quick feel of his behind. Letting her oily fingers dance up his neck to his ears, she made sure the skin was well covered, then put her lips behind his ear and blew again. "Oh GOD," he exclaimed into the pillow. "I can do that at work," she continued, ignoring him and not bothering to hide her smile of satisfaction. Apparently, he was beyond speech. She got a bit more oil from the bottle and turned his head gently so that she could do the other side, blowing air along the side of his neck and up behind his ear. His whole body went tense as he cried out again, loudly. "You okay?" she asked with mock concern. "Mmm....ngh....gah..." "What was that?" she teased. Who knew this was going to be so much fun for her? "Donna..." he groaned. "What?" she asked, anointing his neck and blowing on it again. "Aaagh..." She couldn't resist leaning down close to him. "That's what I thought you said," she murmured in his ear. He turned his face towards her sharply, sucking in a breath. Suddenly she felt his arm around her waist, pulling her on top of him as he rolled onto his back, and then he rolled again and she was beneath him, her lips parting under his, her hands clutching at the warm, silky skin of his back, her mouth welcoming him. She didn't have time to be shocked, didn't even think about it. Her tongue tasted his and she deepened the kiss with a groan. Instinctively she drew her leg up and his hips settled between her thighs, the very obvious length of his erection pressed in the crease where her leg met her groin. Without any conscious thought she arched under him and he made a noise as he began to kiss her more frantically. Then, just as quickly as he had started, he stopped. He pulled away from her mouth and propped himself up on his hands above her, trying to minimize their body contact. "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't know what...well, I do know, but I shouldn't have done that." She didn't say anything, watching him carefully, keeping her emotions off her face. As she considered her next move, though, she noted that although he'd lifted the top half of his body off her, she could still feel a long, hard shape pressing insistently against her pelvis. Right. Apparently, he wasn't that sorry. Like hell, she thought. No one coerced Donna Moss into giving a massage and got away with it. A word jumped into her head...payback. He was motionless above her, still watching her face. She bit her lip, tried her best to look uncomfortable, and wriggled. Josh drew away from her and sat upright. "I'm sorry," he said again. "It's okay, Josh," she said quietly. He sprang off the bed, turning his back to her and pacing to the window. "No, it's not okay," he said firmly, staring out at the street below. He slammed his hand hard against the windowsill, making a frustrated noise. Turning, he began, "I can't..." He stopped mid-sentence, staring at her. One area of her in particular. She'd made use of the few seconds his back was turned. "Oh my God," he said finally. Her grin widened. "Yes, Josh?" "Did your shirt just," he gestured, "I dunno, completely dematerialize? Or have I not been paying attention?" She lobbed it at him, and before he had time to recover, tossed her bra at him as well. He caught both absently, his eyes never leaving her torso. Sitting crosslegged and topless on her bed, her breasts exposed to his view, she laughed out loud at his expression. He stumbled towards the bed again, her clothes falling from his loose grip. His hands reached for her, then dropped to his side, and she enjoyed the rare sight of Josh Lyman at a loss for what to do. When her obvious amusement finally registered, though, he recovered enough to smirk. "Sooo, Donna," he said leadingly, climbing onto the bed next to her. "This is a new look for you?" "You like?" She twisted behind her to grab her payback item and turned back to see him distracted by the movement of her bare breasts. Eventually he raised his eyes to hers again. "What? Oh...yeah..." Because she could, she shimmied her shoulders and watched him watch her breasts jiggle some more. "God," he said. "You need to do that often. Every day." There was nothing sweeter than a perfect setup. "Well...I don't know," she hedged. "I might get a little cold." "I'll warm you up," he promised, reaching for her again. She intercepted him by pressing the bottle of massage oil into his hands. "You know, that's just what I was thinking." He looked down at the bottle and back up at her. "Now?" She flopped back on the bed expectantly. "Now." "We're both gonna smell like grapes," he protested weakly. She sat up again. Her breasts shifted. He stared at them some more. "Should I put my top back on?" she asked. She'd never seen someone twist the cap off a bottle so quickly. "Lay back, Donnatella," he said, his hand on her shoulder pressing her down to the bed again. He started slowly. She was looking up at the ceiling and shuddered unexpectedly when his hands came down on her waist. He grasped her firmly, kneading the flesh, then slid his hands under her to the small of her back. She started to flip onto her stomach, to give him access to her back, but he stopped her with his hands. "Just stay there, Donnatella," he instructed in a low voice. She shivered at the sound of him as she lay back down again. His hands, softened with oil, drew up over her stomach and painted strong, wide strokes down to the waistband of her jeans. He blew gently against her skin and the oil warmed. She moaned as the heat licked along her body. The oil sloshed softly in the bottle as he wet his hands again. She inhaled in a rush of anticipation. He slid his fingers up the sides of her torso to her arms, pausing only to blow on her newly anointed skin before moving to her collarbone and chest. No matter how much she shifted suggestively, though, he seeming to avoid her breasts. Positioning himself above her so that he straddled her hips, he leaned down, his face and amazing naked chest filling her field of view. She smiled up at him, but he didn't smile back. Instead, he lowered his lips to hers, until they almost touched, and blew a quick puff of air against her mouth. Laughing, she reached for him, but he had gone, leaning back to get more oil. His hands went to work on her shoulders, the base of her neck, her upper arms, kneading the tension out of her. She didn't bother to stifle the noises of pleasure that burst from her. Now she could tell that he was working carefully, making a special point of avoiding her breasts, even though her nipples were erect and aching for him. When his fingers tickled her ribcage, she moaned his name. "What was that?" he teased. "Please...my..." she broke off with an incoherent whimper when he leaned down and blew a stream of air across her belly. "I thought so," he said. Lowering his head, he let his tongue reach out and wet the tip of one nipple. He swirled around the aureole, wetting it thoroughly as well, then repeated the actions with her other breast. She gave a piteous little cry. "Please..." "A little cold still, are you?" he asked, blowing on the wet skin, chilling it further. "Let me see..." His oil-slicked hands began to circle and shape the base of her breasts, coating them. Slowly he worked his way up her mounds, molding, shaping her rounded flesh while she writhed and made tiny noises. He finally reached the peaks, but instead of touching her nipples, he lowered his head and licked them again. Then he blew down on her breasts again. Her skin heated, her nipples chilled. A high-pitched cry tore from her and she bucked her hips upward. "Josh! God, please..." He settled down on top of her, letting his weight trap her. Drawing one nipple into his mouth, he suckled it while he teased the other one, pinching it and tugging it between his thumb and forefinger. She moaned in gratitude, but could no longer relax under his touch. The sensations he caused were overwhelming, filling her with a sense of urgency. Her hips lifted and her back arched as her body tried desperately to find the friction her sex needed. For once he obliged her, shifting so that her groin was in direct contact with his trousers. Gratified, she rubbed herself against him, stroking her cleft against the fly of his pants. Even through two layers of fabric she revelled in the slight stimulation. She was only dimly aware that her fingers were digging into his scalp, keeping him at her breast. He sucked harder, then switched sides. She was moving against him rhythmically now, her small whimpers sounding regularly, and he redoubled his efforts, caressing and kneading the breast that wasn't in his mouth. He let his teeth scrape over the other, nipping gently at the hard bud her nipple had become. Then--right then--she realized exactly what was happening. Josh Lyman was in her bed, on top of her, worshipping her breasts with his mouth in ways she'd never dreamed...and he was going to make her come. Josh. Was going to make her--Donna Moss--come. The concept filled her mind, brushing aside all other thoughts. Josh was the one doing these things to her, not some faceless fantasy or casual fling... This was Josh... Josh. That was when she cried out. Her hips moved faster, in frantic, graceless motions, as he alternately nipped and soothed the reddened peaks with his mouth. Her last shout was completely incoherent as her hands left his head and grabbed his ass, pulling him down against her as she lifted her hips, crushing her groin against his. ****** He could feel her heart racing, the shudders wracking her body, her soundless, airless cry when all the oxygen fled her lungs. Holding on to her tightly, he buried his face against her soft skin and inhaled the smell of grapes and her. Of all the times he'd ever held Donna Moss, this was the best. Far and away better than the brief-yet-treasured Christmas hug of 1999, it even topped the series of spontaneous Thank-God-You-Didn't-Die post-shooting embraces of summer 2000. Not because of its skin-to-skin naked possibilities--though those certainly made the experience unique--but because for once, he'd done something for her and neither of them had stifled their feelings about it. Plus, he now knew he'd be able to hold her like this again in the future, without having to worry about thinking up a lame excuse. When she finally sank back, her climax having run its course, he raised his head and met her indescribable eyes, torn between kissing her and making her shudder and shake and scream again. She smiled at him...and the shuddering thing won. Releasing her, he shuffled down her body and reached for the fly of her jeans. She gasped in shock. "Josh..." "We're not done yet," he promised, grinning up at her. "I didn't think we were," she purred, "but it's my turn...oh!" Her words were abruptly cut off with a little shriek as his fingers dove into her jeans, scraped underneath her panties, and burrowed, searching for her already sensitized cleft. When he found it, he grinned up at her once more, then wrenched down her clothing just enough to bare her sex to his gaze. "Beautiful," he murmured, taking a moment to dip his head and nuzzle her curls. She made what was by now a familiar whimper of pleasure. Then he yanked her jeans and panties down farther and buried his face between her legs. She shrieked. He wasted no time seeking out her clit with his tongue and lips. He slipped his tongue over her hot bud of flesh and swirled around it, savouring the salty taste. He'd never consciously imagined what she would taste like, and the faint scent of her curled around his nose, giving him the sense of almost unbearable sweetness mixed with tang and salt. He let his lips press and gently tweak, sensing the fullness and heat of a rush of blood to her groin. She flailed helplessly beneath him, her legs trapped by his weight and her jeans, which were only halfway down her thighs. "Josh," she protested. "I can't...again...it's too soon..." He didn't bother to answer her, but instead rolled them so she was awkwardly sprawled on top of him, his mouth directly underneath her sex. Together they shoved her jeans down until she could shuck them off completely. He didn't wait; he lifted her up and forward so that her knees rested on either side of his head. Then he pressed them apart, splaying her thighs above his face and bringing her sex down to his mouth. When he thrust his tongue up into her, she became incoherent, and he decided to try and keep her that way. She squirmed above him, but he paid special attention to the licks and strokes and nibbles that made her breath quicken until she panted, that made her panting turn to whimpers. He was determined to be relentless, to not give her any escape: when she shifted her weight above him, he shifted too. He loved this feeling, knowing that even though she appeared to have the power to escape any time she wanted, he held her prisoner with his mouth. As he continued to delve into her with his tongue, her panting breaths turned permanently into whimpers. She was getting close to another climax. Her weight shifted abruptly, and he was suddenly afraid she was going to topple head-first off the bed. Digging his fingers into her hips, he helped her regain her balance and lifted her away from his mouth for a moment. She moaned in protest. "You okay?" he asked. "Mmmph..." She lowered herself onto his face again and he obliged her unspoken request by applying his mouth once more. Her whimpers turned to faint, high-pitched cries. He smiled against her sex and kept going. His hand, still clasping her hip, was being tapped repeatedly. She wanted him to take something from her. He released her hip and found a square packet being pressed into his palm. He'd use it eventually, he thought, but not quite yet. His hand slid over her hip and headed towards her mound. As his fingers stroked her in tandem with his tongue, her faint cries grew louder and her hands on his head tightened. He let the edge of his teeth graze over the now hyper-sensitive bud of her clit. Her cries turned to small screams. He grazed her clit again, and again, then suckled her hard. When she came apart above him, her cry was like nothing he'd heard. The sound went on and on, even after he'd stopped sucking. He pressed close-mouthed kisses against her folds and felt her shudder until the last tremors of her release wracked her body. And when she was finally finished, all he could hear was her exhausted pants as she tried to regain her breath. He helped her climb off his face, but she didn't go far, flopping onto her back beside him. "Oh God," she managed. He couldn't resist smirking. He propped himself up on one arm. "How you doing?" She gave him the most amazing, sated, weary smile that rushed warmth straight into his chest. "Pretty good." "Yeah?" The grin on his face widened. "Really good," she amended. She tried to sit up, reaching for the waistband of his trousers, then flopped back again. "I think you may have worn me out," she said weakly. Since her climax had almost sent him over the edge too, he wasn't willing to wait any longer. Chuckling, he started to undo his trousers himself. "Don't worry, I can do this part too." "Josh!" As he rolled on top of her, the way her thighs automatically spread apart to cradle him belied her protest. He shifted his weight to one side so that he could strip off the last of his clothing. "Whatever you're planning can wait until next time." "Provided I live through this time," she mumbled under her breath. He didn't bother responding. Finding the package she'd handed him earlier, he quickly sheathed his erection and positioned himself at the juncture of her thighs. At first he pressed himself against her sex, nudging only his tip into her wet, overstimulated entrance. He watched her press her lips together to stifle a noise. "You okay?" She nodded, a look of surprise and then impatience crossing her face. "Please." "Just wait," he murmured, shifting over her. He gripped her hips, tilting them, and drove himself straight into her. She screamed his name just as he shouted hers. He paused for a moment, waiting for her nod, and then his hips moved of their own accord, plunging him into her again and again. He relished her slippery heat, the way her body still seemed boneless from the pleasure of her recent climax, yet always closed around him snugly when he pushed inside her. She didn't remain limp beneath him for long. Soon she was writhing as before, her hips coming up to meet his, and he savoured the soft sounds of their skins sliding together. Silence filled the room except for the sounds of their bodies, the creaking bed, and the occasional moan of pleasure. Looking into her eyes he saw an answering understanding, and he was glad, for once, that neither of them wanted to talk. There were no half-articulated entreaties, no exchange of witty remarks to misdirect their feelings...just a quiet communion of emotions. He moved in her, felt her move around him, until time lost meaning and he was adrift in the deep blue of her eyes. He savoured every stroke into her heat and softness, every gentle arch of her hips to meet him, every faint grunt that escaped her as he slid up into her as far as he could go. Then, her eyes never leaving his, she reached up and drew him down to her lips, and they both lost the rhythm. The urgency of their first desperate kisses returned and their bodies caught their excitement, moving furiously together. As soon as he swallowed her cry of release he finished himself without finesse, hammering into her with short, frenzied strokes as he spurted and came. ****** They collapsed together gracelessly. He pulled out of her as gently as he could and disposed of the condom in some tissues. By unspoken assent they rolled onto their sides, facing each other. Her hand trailed along his side as she regarded him thoughtfully. His hand found her breast and stroked it absently as he met her gaze. Neither of them spoke for a long time. Then, because he could, he gathered her into his arms. She tangled her legs with his and buried her face against his neck. "You know," he said eventually, nuzzling her hair. "If you'd told me this morning that I was going to get Somers on board, but that my day was going to end up a thousand times better than that, I wouldn't have believed you." "A thousand times better?" she mumured with a smile he couldn't see. "Well, you know me," he said. "I'm not given to hyperbole." She chuckled against the warm skin of his neck. "Well, I have to confess that if you'd told me that my purchases at a bridal shower were going to lead to the most mindblowing sex of my life, I definitely wouldn't have believed you." "The most mindblowing sex of your life?" he smirked. "Well, you know me," she said, drawing back so she could meet his eyes. "I keep track of these things." He was laughing when he kissed her. Later, he had an idea. "So, can I look in that bag now?" "Sure." Donna smiled at his eager look. "I don't think I have any secrets left." "Not from me," he told her, grinning as he reached for the pink plastic bag by the side of the bed. "Whoa." "Mmm?" "You lied." "Yes." "You did, in fact, buy a big, lifelike..." "It's not really lifelike. It's stylized." "Beside the point, Donna." "And it's not that big." "Uh..." "Is it?" "Uh...no, no it isn't." "Should we do a comparison?" "Comparison? Compare it with wh....ooooh....God. Donna." "You don't mind, do you?" "Nnngh...gah..." "And maybe while I'm working on this one, you can figure out a way for me to really *compare* both of them." "Oh God." THE END

Sun Tzu said: The art of war recognizes nine varieties of ground: (1) Dispersive ground; (2) facile ground; (3) contentious ground; (4) open ground; (5) ground of intersecting highways; (6) serious ground; (7) difficult ground; (8) hemmed-in ground; (9) desperate ground. +++ When a chieftain is fighting in his own territory, it is dispersive ground. i. Dispersive Ground Sylar has this thing about dramatic reveals. He can't just tell Luke that he's acquired a new power and stolen a vial of that top-secret vaccination that protects against the virus that Sylar's been stressing out about. No, that would be too simple. Instead he lurks in their darkened motel room for god knows how long, leaving Luke wondering for a second, when he comes back from the store, if the power's gone out. When the lights flick back on of their own accord, Luke finds himself pinned to the wall, his body lit up like a circus game, his veins throbbing bright red through his skin, his internal organs a dark shade of purple. And even though it's pretty gross, it's also really, really cool. Luke's so distracted by this new power, thinking about how awesome it would be to play a real live game of 'Operation' with the next person who tries to stand in their way, that he doesn't notice the syringe that Sylar's wielding until he plunges the needle into the crook of Luke's arm. "Ow! Holy fuck!" Luke yelps. Sylar's never had the best bedside manner. Suddenly, Luke's body goes back to normal and he slumps down on the floor, rubbing the bruise that's forming. Sylar's tossing the empty syringe in the trash and grinning the smuggest grin that Luke's ever seen. He hauls Luke up by the collar, kissing him breathless, and though he doesn't come right out and say, "Ta da!" Luke thinks that he really, really wants to. So, when Sylar grabs him by the scruff of his neck one morning and tosses him in the car, telling him that they're going for a drive, Luke's hardly surprised that the "drive" takes three days, sends them diagonally across the country and through it all Sylar refuses to say where they're going or why. It's mid-morning when they pull up outside a ratty motel somewhere in the heart of Idaho. There's a blond guy loitering on the porch, sipping on a cup of tea with a ridiculous red and gold embroidered bathrobe-smoking jacket-thing cinched around his waist. When they hop out of the car, he says to Sylar, "It's a pleasure to finally meet you in person." He walks back into the motel, leaving the door to his room wide open for them to follow. Sylar turns to Luke, whipping off his sunglasses and grinning that oh-so-smug grin of his. Under his breath, Luke mutters, "Ta da!" +++ When he has penetrated into hostile territory, but to no great distance, it is facile ground. ii. Facile Ground Apparently Adam shares Sylar's excellent communication skills because no one bothers to tell Luke what's going on. He's barely gotten an introduction before Adam slaps a couple of bucks in his hand and tells him to "be a dear and go get us some lunch." Over the next few days he picks up snippets here and there, eavesdropping on their conversations while he's supposed to be watching TV. They're plotting something to do with that virus and taking over the world; somehow the fact that Luke hasn't keeled over yet from any side effects of that vaccination is a stumbling block in their plan. Luke sort of resents that Sylar has used him as a guinea pig but he tells himself that if he does suddenly start to breathe fire or grow a second head or something, Sylar would totally cure him with his blood. Probably. Most likely. At any rate, Luke thinks it sucks that he's somehow the lynchpin of this plan but he's not allowed to do anything but fetch coffee and warm up bagels, and sit in the corner being quiet. As if being stuck here in the middle of Buttfuck Nowhere, Idaho being a bit player in the All Adam, All The Time show is supposed to be fun. At first Luke thinks Adam is pretty cool. He talks like James Bond and he's been alive so long he's done things that make Chuck Norris seem like a pussy. In the evenings, after the blueprints they scour over all day have been safely packed away and Luke's allowed out of his exile in front of the TV to talk to them, Adam tells these long, sexy stories about sword fighting and pirate ships, and how once he totally banged Marie Antoinette before the French Revolution made that something you didn't want to brag about. Sitting cross-legged at their feet because there are only two chairs, Luke hangs on Adam's every word. From the look on Sylar's face, Luke thinks he's tentatively impressed, too, which makes Luke think that not only are they good stories, they're probably even true. After the first couple of days, Luke starts to think that Adam might be almost as awesome as Sylar. Sure, Sylar's got more powers and more presence; he's the kind of person that oozes danger, catching everyone's attention the minute he walks into a room. But Adam… Adam acts like he just doesn't care what people think of him and to Luke's surprise, that's really sexy, too. Luke's determined to weasel his way in on whatever it is they're planning, because anything that has the two coolest dudes Luke's ever met working together has got to be awesome. And sure, it's kind of annoying that even when they're kissing, Luke sometimes feels like Sylar's distracted, his eyes looking past Luke to Adam, watching for a reaction Adam never lets show, but Luke can admit that, these days, he's getting pretty distracted by Adam himself. Adam doesn't have the same hang-ups about their abilities that Sylar does, so when Luke starts warming his towels and heating the water for his tea with his hands, Adam slings his arm around Luke's shoulders and pats him on the head. It makes Luke's chest feel tight with pride when he calls him a "clever lad" and "a smart little thing." Luke bounces back and forth between Sylar and Adam, always on the outskirts of their conversations. When he hears them murmuring about a secure facility they need to break into in Lexington, Virginia where they think the virus is being stockpiled, Luke blurts out, "Let me go! I'll, like, melt the walls and stuff." He holds up his hands and makes a whooshing sound like a building falling down to demonstrate, but Sylar only scowls and Luke remembers too late that he wasn't meant to overhear. Adam smiles faintly and says, "We'll think about it, love." But Luke knows they won't. And now, all those nicknames Adam gives him don't seem like compliments anymore. He wants to show them both that he can be more than just an errand boy. But when, after days of practice, Luke lights one of Adam's cigarettes for him just by snapping his fingers, a tiny burst of microwaves igniting the end, instead of being impressed at his control, Adam only ruffles his hair and says, "Well, aren't you precious?" Things go from bad to worse when Adam lets slip something about some guy named Peter Petrelli and it turns out that Sylar knows and hates him too. Not only are they bonding over their whole stupid world domination thing that they don't think Luke's old enough or smart enough or powerful enough to be a part of, now they're sitting with their heads bowed together bitching about this Petrelli dude which such vehemence that Luke starts to wonder if he's their mutual ex. When Adam snaps his fingers in Luke's direction, barely looking up, and says "Teatime, my boy," Luke decides he's had enough. "Here you go, your majesties," he sneers, barging between them and slapping down two deliberately lukewarm cups of tea. "Luke!" Sylar snaps. "Stop being obnoxious." And that only pisses Luke off more, because those are Adam's words coming out of Sylar's mouth. He never thought he'd miss the days when Sylar would slam him against a wall and threaten to kill him, but at least Luke knew where he stood then. Luke whines, "Sylar!" incapable of expressing how freaking unfair the whole situation is. "Come now, pet," Adam interrupts, voice so smooth that Luke could almost be convinced he cares. "Don't make a fuss. Why don't you do me a favour and warm mine up with that pretty little ability of yours, hm?" Yeah, Luke can 'warm up' his tea all right. He slaps his hand around Adam's cup, letting out a massive blast of microwaves. The tea boils up all over Adam's lap and in Luke's fist the china shatters. Shards explode out everywhere, mostly stabbing Adam in his chest. Luke's left with a long, ragged cut along his palm and a few slivers of porcelain hit Sylar, too. That's Luke's first clue that maybe this wasn't such a great idea. But he's still pissed off and Adam's staring at him with this withering expression like it's all Luke's fault, shaking the tea off his hands as his scalded skin heals and pulling at his stupid Armani shirt. It's ugly anyway, Luke thinks. Adam should be thanking him for giving him a reason to throw it away. "Luke!" Sylar growls, glaring at him. "He can't talk to me like that!" Luke yells. "I'm not a fucking dog and I'm sick of him calling me 'pet'!" Luke's swaying where he's standing, a haze of red around him and he thinks he might be spitting as he talks, because Sylar flinches and wipes his cheek when Luke hurls that final 'pet' back at them. And instead of taking Luke's side like he should, Sylar laughs. Then, Adam's laughing, too, and Luke's cheeks are burning red because even if he doesn't know why they're laughing, Luke knows they're laughing at him. He clenches his fists tight, feeling more microwaves thrumming inside him, this close to spilling out, nuking the whole goddamn motel when Adam says, "It's not an insult, you fool, it's a term of endearment. If I wanted to call you a dog, I'd call you a dog to your face and be done with it." Luke bites the inside of his cheek and glances at Sylar who nods his head in affirmation. Fuck. Now, Luke's pissed off, in trouble and feeling like a stupid idiot. He glares at his feet, flinching when Adam gently cups his jaw. "Don't pout now, little one," he says. "No harm done and you'll know better next time, won't you, pet?" "Yes," Luke hisses between gritted teeth. "There's a good lad. Now clean up this mess." While Adam goes to change his shirt, Luke makes a sullen, half-hearted attempt to mop up the spilt tea. It's only then that he notices his hand is throbbing. He drops the sodden napkin he's dabbing at the mess and stares at his palm, trying to pick out the tiny slivers of china embedded in the cut. All he does is dislodge the scab; a fresh trickle of blood runs down his wrist. "Luke." Sylar pats his lap with both hands; Luke trots over obediently and sits on his knees, too tired now to argue. Sylar loops one arm around his middle, pulling Luke back against his chest, and with the other he holds Luke's injured hand open. "Silly boy," Sylar breathes in his ear. As Luke watches, Sylar holds out his index finger, wavering for a moment as a telekinetic pinprick leaves a drop of blood welling on his skin. He squeezes his finger over Luke's palm until his blood falls into the open wound and Luke's skin starts to knit itself together. And even though Luke's seen Sylar heal loads of times before, it hasn't prepared him for how freaking weird it feels to be healed himself, but weird in a good way, like he's getting a really great hand massage or something. He watches as the shards are pushed out of his palm and his blood oozes back inside him, and he doesn't know if it's the healing itself or what but he suddenly feels like laughing, a strange sense of contentment settling in his core as Sylar runs the pads of his fingers over Luke's fresh, new skin. Luke twists a little in his lap, arching his neck back so he can nuzzle into Sylar's shoulder. "Thanks," he says, trying to kiss Sylar to show his appreciation, but Sylar's fingers curl around his jaw and he presses his thumb to the cleft of Luke's chin, keeping him out of reach. "Are you going to stop being such a brat now?" "Uh-huh," Luke hums, squirming a little, trying to close the gap between them. "Liar," Sylar chuckles, letting Luke dart forward and kissing him possessively. Luke wriggles around until he's straddling Sylar's thighs, both his hands buried deep in Sylar's hair, moaning into Sylar's mouth as Sylar cups his ass through his jeans and roughly kneads his flesh. They break apart when Adam spits, "Honestly, it's like you two are in heat." While Luke's trying to decide if the better comeback is "I'll show you heat!" followed by nuking Adam's ass or whining to Sylar that Adam clearly just called them dogs, this time without any Briticisms to hide behind, Sylar simply rolls his eyes and says, "Jealous." Simple, elegant and totally cutting; Luke barely restrains himself from laughing and maybe adding an "in your face" because Sylar's pissed enough at him already. But instead of slinking off to lick his wounds, Adam only rolls his eyes in return and coolly says, "Sylar, we have many common interests at the moment, but pederasty will never be one of them." Sylar makes this feral sound in the back of his throat and for a second, Luke thinks for sure that Sylar's gonna slice the top off Adam's head, powers of regeneration or not. But after a tense moment, he only shoves Luke off his lap and grits, "Let's get to work." Luke decides to cut his losses, palms Sylar's cell phone and huddles in front of the TV, furtively looking up what the hell 'pederasty' means. +++ Ground the possession of which imports great advantage to either side, is contentious ground. iii. Contentious Ground "He's not y'know," Luke says as soon as he hears the shower start behind the closed bathroom door. Adam pauses with his teacup almost at his lips, eyeing Luke warily as if he might make this one explode, too. Luke takes the chair next to Adam's, twists it around and sits with his chin resting on the back like he's seen Sylar do sometimes when he's doing that creepy-friendly thing that gets under people's skin. He must being doing it wrong though, because Adam barely glances at him before turning back to that stupid French newspaper he insists on buying every morning. "Who isn't what?" "Sylar." "What about him?" Adam leans slightly away as Luke rocks the chair forward on its back feet and nearly topples into him. With an exasperated sigh, he shoves Luke's chair back so that it lands with a slam on all four feet, swaying ominously back and forth as Luke's teeth clatter with the impact. "Ow," Luke whines as he rubs his jaw, and when Adam still refuses to acknowledge him except for a small amused grunt that Luke kind of resents, he blurts out, "He's not a pede…" Luke's halfway through the word before he realises that it's one he's never said aloud before. He tries to mimic the way the Adam had said it the day before but the vowels sound all wrong in his accent and he's tripping over the consonants. "A pederasty…ist," he finishes lamely. "Pederast," Adam corrects. One day Luke's gonna smack that superior smirk off Adam's face and follow it up with a knife to the back of his head so that he never has to see it again. But for now, he studies the way Adam moves his lips around the word, memorising that snooty expression that makes Luke feel like a piece of shit he's found on the bottom of his shoe. It's a good word, Luke thinks. He can use it on the skeevy guys who try to pick him up in bars, but Sylar's not like them. "Yeah, that. He's not." "Isn't he?" Adam counters. "You are, after all, evidence to the contrary." "I'm not a boy," Luke snaps. "I'll be eighteen in two months." "Ah well, then. My mistake, hm?" Adam leans into him, studying Luke's face close up with a shark-like grin. "You're all grown up, are you?" Something about the way he says it sends a thrill running down Luke's spine. He wipes his palms on the tops of the tops of his thighs and swallows dryly, trying to ignore the sudden heat in his belly. "Yeah, I am. And anyway, who cares how old I am? I know what I'm doing." "Is that so?" Adam takes a long drag of his tea, looking at Luke slyly over the rim of his cup, one challenging eyebrow raised in his direction. "Yeah! Yeah, it is so. Sylar says I'm the best cocksucker he's ever had." And, okay, maybe that isn't quite true but Luke thinks it's close enough; Sylar's always telling him how good he looks on his knees and how prettily he sucks. Still, Luke regrets the words as soon as he says them. He flushes a bright, hot red and Adam chokes slightly on his tea, barking coughs between his laughter. Luke can't help glancing desperately at the bathroom door and praying that Sylar doesn't burst through it, demanding to know what all the noise is about. God, he hopes Adam doesn't tell Sylar what he's said. When Adam's laughter finally dies down, he curls his finger and beckons Luke close. "I'll let you in on a secret, pet," he whispers in Luke's ear. "I don't think young 'Gabriel' has much in the way of comparative data." Adam pinches Luke's cheek; Luke absently slaps his hand away, grunting his aggravation as he tries to puzzle out what the hell Adam is saying. In between all the two-dollar words, Luke sort of thinks he gets it, but he also thinks Adam's talking out of his ass. Sylar's, like, the most fuckable dude Luke's ever seen; he could totally get laid all night, every night if he wanted to. Still, Luke can't shake the flare of jealousy in his core that maybe Adam knows more about Sylar than Luke does. It was three months before Luke figured out Sylar's name had been Gabriel before and that was only because he went snooping and found his driver's licence. He shakes his head and swipes the back of his hand over his mouth. "Whatever," he grunts. "'Sides," Luke adds with a pout. "Sylar was right, I've seen you looking." It's petty and petulant and Luke hasn't, not really; the motel room they share is tiny and sometimes there isn't anywhere else Adam can look. But Luke's been in enough schoolyard fights to know when an insult has hit a sore spot and he's pretty sure Sylar's comment yesterday rattled Adam as much as Adam's retort rattled Sylar. Adam's back goes ramrod straight at the accusation and he rolls the paper he's reading tightly, cuffing Luke on his knee with the end and shooing him away. Coldly, he says, "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about." The bathroom door opens in a cloud of steam, Sylar rubbing at his still wet hair with a towel, barefoot and shirtless, jeans clinging low on his narrow hips. Luke's staring, but he doesn't care. He glances at Adam quickly, breath catching in his throat when he sees that Adam's staring at him with the same intensity that he's been staring at Sylar. "Run along and play now like a good lad," Adam says, practically tipping Luke from his seat. "The adults have work to do." +++ Ground on which each side has liberty of movement is open ground. iv. Open Ground Sylar's not so big on Public Displays of Affection, but ever since Adam called him out on, well, Luke, he's been really into Public Displays of Possession. Sylar will shove Luke against a wall without preamble, body pressed hard to his as Luke's lips grow bruised and swollen from the biting kisses he leaves. And when he pulls away, Luke still reeling, wondering what the hell brought that on, the only common factor ever is that Adam will be near, staring at them with an expression Luke can't quite read. And Luke kind of hopes that this standoff of theirs never gets resolved because he could get used to the way Sylar's mauling him, even if (especially if?) it's to piss Adam off. They first time they fuck when Adam's in the room, it's pretty uncomfortable. The lights are off but Luke still feels shy and insists on keeping the blankets wrapped tightly around them. Luke figures it was bound to happen eventually, because there're only two beds and three of them, and the nightlife in this part of Idaho is hardly thrilling enough to keep Adam out late. Luke finds it a little hard to come, knowing that Adam's in the opposite bed, probably rolling his eyes and stuffing his fingers in his ears because Sylar seems to be going out of his way to make Luke make as many embarrassing sounds as possible. Sylar on the other hand is more turned on than Luke's ever seen him; he comes with an enormous bellow. When Luke thinks about it, he guesses that kind of makes sense. Sylar likes nothing better than having an audience, after all. He wonders if Sylar says "Ta da!" in his head when he's done. Now, Sylar's lying over Luke and they're making out, lazily grinding against each other through their clothes. They have the room to themselves for a change and, as much as Luke enjoys that their every fuck doubles as a giant 'fuck you' to Adam, he misses when it was just the two of them. Luke wonders if when they wrap up this whole taking over the world deal, they'll split the planet down the middle. Luke thinks he'd be okay with Adam living forever as long he does it on his side of the globe. Hell, right now he'd settle for Adam getting his own motel room. But whatever's in those plans that they still won't show Luke, neither Sylar nor Adam trusts the other enough to remain unsupervised with them for long. Sylar slides his hand up Luke's shirt, kissing away Luke's giggles as his fingers flit over Luke's ribs making him squirm. Sylar tugs at his nipple and Luke gasps happily, moulding his hands to Sylar's hips and pulling him closer. As his lips and chin start to tingle from the pleasant scratch of Sylar's stubble, Luke can't help but wonder about what Adam had told him. He still thinks Adam's full of shit but he kind of wants to know for sure. So, while Sylar's got his head tilted back and pinned against the pillows, sucking kisses up under his chin, Luke asks in a quavering voice, "Sylar?" "Hm?" "Tell me about the first time you fucked?" Sylar makes this sound that's sort of a laugh and sort of a snort, muffled against Luke's skin, and his head snaps up as he eyes Luke in disbelief. "Why?" "I dunno," Luke shrugs, propping himself up on his elbows as Sylar draws back. "Thought it would be sexy, talking dirty and all?" When Sylar doesn't say anything, Luke whines, "C'mon, I'd tell you mine but, uh, you were there." With a hand to his chest, Sylar presses Luke gently back against the mattress and pins his arms above his head. He settles his mouth at Luke's ear, hot breath curling against his temple and when he licks his lips, Luke can feel the flick of Sylar's tongue on his skin. "Fuck," Luke gasps. Sylar hasn't said anything yet and already Luke's panting and wriggling beneath him. And when Sylar does start to talk, when he's got Luke so worked up from waiting that he thinks he could come from the thought alone of Sylar talking dirty to him, Sylar's voice is doing that thing where it goes all low and hoarse, rumbling down Luke's spine and up his dick. "We were in this old abandoned house." "Yeah?" "Fucked on the dirty, dusty floor." "Yeah." Luke rolls his hips, presses up against Sylar where Sylar's holding him down, but Sylar squeezes his wrists tighter, pushes his lips closer to Luke's ear. "Hard and rough," he rasps. "Oh!" Luke whimpers. There's some part of his brain that makes a note to thank Adam in the morning because this is turning out to be the hottest thing they've ever done. But then, Sylar's suddenly quiet. "Sylar?" He asks, but Sylar only shakes his head, won't meet Luke's eyes. "Sylar, c'mon, you can't leave me hanging. Then what?" "Then," Sylar growls, "she betrayed me and I killed her for it." Before Luke can ask any of the questions that are pushing at his lips, namely: what?, who? and huh? Sylar flips him over and holds him down, one hand firm to the back of his neck as the other yanks down Luke's pants. "Remember that," he hisses. Two slick fingers drive hard into Luke's ass, twisting and stretching him roughly in that way that always has Luke scrabbling at the sheets and pushing his ass back for more. He looks over his shoulder to watch as Sylar rolls a condom on. Just as Luke drops his head back to the pillows, biting at them as Sylar rocks into his still-tight body in one long, deep thrust, Luke hears the motel door swing open. "Christ," Adam mutters wearily. "Fair warning would have been nice. Couldn't you hang a sock on the doorknob?" Sylar doesn't answer, just grabs Luke's hips hard enough to bruise and pounds into him, his every thrust pushing Luke up the bed until Luke has to brace one hand against the headboard to stop himself from getting hurt. He turns his head to the side, panting in time to the stuttering drag of Sylar's cock over his prostate, and through heavy lidded eyes that he can barely keep open, Luke watches as Adam leans against the closed door and watches them. Though Adam isn't touching himself, just standing nonchalantly in the doorway, staring, Luke thinks he finally gets why Sylar gets so turned on by being watched. Every twitch of Sylar's hips, every desperate groan of Luke's, is reflected back in Adam, in the way he shivers, licks his lips and sighs. There's something intoxicating about getting someone off from across the room, something fucking powerful that makes Luke think if only he could figure out how, he'd have Adam under his thumb instead of the other way round. Sylar slams into him hard, his balls slapping against Luke's ass and he comes with a shuddering groan; Adam gives this breathy gasp that has Luke coming, too, with nothing but the sweat-damp sheets touching his cock. Sylar collapses down on him, biting gently at his neck and as his arms wrap protectively around him, Luke watches Adam scurry to the bathroom, one hand conspicuous in the way it darts between his legs, pulling at his fly. Luke thinks, "Ta da!" +++ Ground which forms the key to three contiguous states, so that he who occupies it first has most of the Empire at his command, is a ground of intersecting highways. v. Grounds of Intersecting Highways Their shower schedule is always the same: Sylar gets first dibs, then Adam, and finally Luke has to make do with whatever hot water is left. For once, Luke isn't pounding on the bathroom door, bitching at Adam to hurry up. Today, Luke has a plan of his own. It's two days to laundry day, and their dirty clothes are piling up. Luke takes his last two clean pairs of boxers and furtively shoves them into the middle of the hamper, waiting at the door to be taken to the laundromat. Sylar's tying his laces when Luke sidles up to him and whines, "Sylar, I need to borrow some underwear." Sylar's head snaps up and he scowls. "What?!" Luke shrugs, looking sheepishly at his feet, thinking hard about the time Sarah Jenkins saw him get a boner in fourth period calculus to make himself blush. "Sometimes I dream about you…" he mumbles. Luke bites his bottom lip, looks at Sylar slyly from under lowered lashes; it's not a lie, not exactly. Luke dreams about Sylar all the time, creamed himself more than once. He's pretty sure that Sylar's ability only detects dishonesty, not non-sequiturs. "Oh, for the love of…" "It's not my fault," Luke whimpers, carefully straddling the line between appealing to the part of Sylar that likes to fix all of Luke's fuck-ups and being so annoying as to piss him off. He sits beside Sylar on the edge of their bed and cuddles up against his side, twisting one hand in the sleeve of his t-shirt and tugging. He tips his chin up and bares his throat, nuzzling into the crook of Sylar's neck. "Come on," he pleads, dragging one hand up Sylar's inner thigh. "I mean, you're so hot and sexy and right there next to me while I'm sleeping. I can't help it if all I can think about is you kissing me and sucking me…" Luke lowers his voice and rasps, "Holding me down while you fuck me..." As Luke's hand reaches Sylar's crotch, Sylar catches him by the wrist, twisting his arm just enough make Luke yelp in pain. He shoves Luke away with a gruff, exasperated sigh. "Fine. Hurry up and grab some before you mess up your pants too. Oh, and Luke?" he adds sweetly as Luke starts to paw through the chest of drawers. "If you don't learn some self-control soon, I'm going to cut your dick off." "Yes, Sylar," Luke stutters. And as he turns away, Sylar pats him affectionately on the ass. Out of Sylar's sight, Luke grins. Sylar might be a total badass, but Luke so has him wrapped around his little finger. +++ When an army has penetrated into the heart of a hostile country, leaving a number of fortified cities in its rear, it is serious ground. vi. Serious Ground Luke's plan isn't quite going to… well, plan. The reason the 'Pet Incident', as he's taken to calling it just between him and himself, failed, he's sure, is because he rushed into it. He doesn't want to make the same mistake twice. But Sylar's always saying that they have to make the most of the opportunities that arise and Luke's not gonna get another opportunity to swipe Sylar's super-tight, super-sexy black briefs. Not if he wants to keep his dick in one piece. The problem is that as great as this opportunity is, nothing's 'arising.' Goddamn motherfucking Adam using up all the hot water again; Luke's balls have practically crawled back inside his body in self defence. He's standing in front of the rust-speckled mirror, shivering because there's only one thin towel left and it's half wet. No matter how much he rubs at his hair, trickles of frigid water keep sliding down his neck. Still, even if his teeth are chattering, at least his nipples are nice and hard. Luke puffs out his chest, arching his back as he plays with his hair. He tries to sweep it up into spikes, but however Luke pushes the hair around on his head, it just kind of falls limply over his eyes. To his disgust, it's drying fluffy. Carefully, Luke steps into Sylar's briefs and pulls them up. On Sylar they're obscenely tight, made to be worn under those jeans that look like they've been painted on. And when Sylar peels his pants off after a long day's drive and the black cotton is ever so slightly damp with sweat, the fabric clings to him so snugly between his legs that Luke can practically see the individual outline of his balls. On Luke, of course, the briefs are kind of baggy. He thinks that if the whole serial killer thing doesn't work out, Sylar could totally make a killing in porn. The size of his junk is insane. For a moment Luke considers stuffing, but Sylar won't buy that for a second and that's the kind of thing he'd never let Luke live down. So Luke turns to more traditional methods, blowing on his hands to warm them up (cold fingers will only make a bad situation worse) and tugging at his cock until he's nicely plumped up: not too hard, not too soft, just right. And, okay, so he still doesn't quite fill out Sylar's underwear, but he figures he's doing better than if he'd tried on Sylar's shoes or shirts. Even if they don't fit right, they're still sexier than anything Luke owns. He pulls at the elastic waistband trying to decide if it looks worse drooping on his hips or digging into the soft swell of his tummy. In the end, he shoves it down low below his belly, so that the light catches on the fine, ginger hair winding up from his groin and when he turns around and looks over his shoulder at his reflection, he can just see the top curve of his ass if he bends. +++ Mountain forests, rugged steeps, marshes and fens--all country that is hard to traverse: this is difficult ground. vii. Difficult Ground Luke thinks Sylar would be proud. His objectives are clear: ruffle Adam's composure, prove Sylar right. He figures there's no way Adam can go around calling him a little boy, calling Sylar a ped-e-rast and a perv, if Luke can get him as riled up as he was the night before. And once they see he's not just some dumb kid, but a real man who can get under their skin and outsmart them? Then all he has to do is sit back as they beg and plead for him to help them out with their super-secret plans. And, okay, maybe that last one is a long shot but two outta three ain't bad. He flings open the bathroom door and struts out, swaying his hips just a little like Sylar seems to do unconsciously, trying to copy that side-to-side movement that always draws Luke's gaze to his ass. But maybe it's his height or those ridiculously skinny jeans he wears, but whatever mojo it is that Sylar has, Luke can't get it right; he stumbles a little, tripping over his own feet and instead of the horny, drooling stares he'd hoped for, he sees Sylar shake his head and groan. When he looks at Adam, he's looking steadily back, a slight grin nearly obscured by his teacup but his face is otherwise blank. Adam's four hundred year head start in perfecting a poker face might be Luke's downfall. Luke swallows dryly and perseveres. He stretches up high, rocking up on the tips of his toes before pretending to spot something he needs beside the bed. He bends from the waist, wiggling his hips back and forth a little when, looking through his knees, Sylar and Adam have no reaction other than to stare at him with eyebrows raised in unison. And now, Luke's starting to feel kind of like an idiot but decides, what the hell, and goes for the big finish. He slinks over to the breakfast table, or at least, he tries to slink. The twitching at the side of Sylar's mouth makes him think that maybe, just maybe, he's not being as sexy as he's trying to be. He sidles up close to Adam, leans one hand on the back of his chair and now, Adam's eye level with Luke's stomach, only has to tilt his head down a fraction and Luke's half-hard cock is there. Luke closes his eyes and wills Adam to take the bait. "Yes?" Adam asks, neither looking up nor down, just leaning forward enough for his breath to warm to Luke's skin. And holy fuck, Luke's whole body trembles, sudden heat swirling in his gut and then, then Adam looks up at him with a wide, toothy grin, blue eyes sparkling wickedly like he knows exactly the effect he's having. Of course, in Sylar's super-sexy, super-skimpy briefs, there's not a lot that needs to be left to the imagination. Sylar snaps, "Dammit! Luke, put some clothes on!" He scurries away (dick leading the way), grabbing the first pair of jeans he finds and hauling a t-shirt over his head. Those stupid fucking briefs keep his cock trapped tight, and it's only making Luke that much harder. He looks back at Sylar and Adam, at the way Sylar picks a strawberry off the top of his stack of pancakes, plump lips wrapped around it and at the way Adam's licking maple syrup from his fingers. They look at him, glance at each other and grin knowingly; Luke has to admit he's been outclassed. He figures that now's as good a time as any to run away. +++ Ground which is reached through narrow gorges, and from which we can only retire by tortuous paths, so that a small number of the enemy would suffice to crush a large body of our men: this is hemmed in ground. viii. Hemmed-In Ground "Luke!" Luke freezes in the bathroom doorway. He turns slowly, hands held awkwardly in front of his crotch. Sylar walks towards him with a predatory grin, Adam two steps behind, smirking as he casually shoves his hands inside his pockets. They look Luke up and down, and Luke curses the way that he's flushing. He shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. "Brat," Sylar breathes as he leans down close. He catches one of Luke's wrists between his fingers, and yanks it around, pulling his hand to the small of his back as he steps behind him. As Luke squeals, "Hey!" he grabs Luke's other hand and drags it back as well, so that Sylar's got both his wrists held in one hand and pinned between them. The tighter Sylar pinches his wrists together, the harder his cock throbs against his fly. Adam's openly leering, his eyes raking over Luke and in his ear, Sylar's breathing hard. Luke struggles weakly; his head spins and his knees buckle. He leans his head back on Sylar's shoulder and Sylar presses an oddly gentle kiss to his temple. "Is this why you've been acting out, hm?" he purrs, raising his eyebrows in the direction of Luke's erection. "Got an itch that you can't quite scratch?" Adam chuckles softly, stepping closer until Luke can feel the heat of his body against his front. He squirms a little, rolling his shoulders against Sylar's chest and arching his back, subconsciously trying to close the gap between them, even as he moans, "No, I… ah! Sick of you treating me like a little kid." "Oh pet," Adam croons, sliding his hand up Luke's inner thigh. "Trust me when I say this isn't how I treat children." He cups Luke's dick through his jeans, fingers pressing up against his balls, thumb stroking firmly along his length. Luke gives a startled gasp, his hips snapping forward instinctually, and then rocking back to press his ass against Sylar's groin. He can feel that Sylar's hard now, too, and it's getting difficult to think, what with all the remaining blood in his body rushing to his dick when Adam starts biting tenderly up his throat. But as good as it feels to be sandwiched between them, Luke doesn't want to be distracted, at least not yet. "Then why won't you let me help you?" he whines. Sylar and Adam's sighs echo around him in surround sound. They share a look over Luke's head and Adam leans against him, his lips resting on Luke's forehead. He squeezes Luke's crotch tighter, tight enough to hurt and Sylar twists his wrists so the skin there burns. "This again, lad?" Adam says tiredly. "You've a pretty mouth but you're starting to sound like broken record." "But I can help!" Luke yelps indignantly. "You think I don't know anything but I know you're worried if you release the virus before you destroy the vaccine then the virus won't have any effect. And I know that I'm immune now, so if you'd only let me help I could release the virus while Sylar destroys the vaccine, and then no one would be able to stop us." Luke's heart is pounding, his chest heaving as he watches Sylar and Adam exchange a glance and he thinks for sure he's shown them. He wants to yell, "Ta-motherfucking-da!" But, Sylar's hand drags up his throat and he presses down, slow but firm until Luke's breath comes in short, ragged pants and he's really struggling now but Sylar's grip is like a vice around his wrists. "You know all that, do you?" Sylar growls. "Yeah," Luke pants. "Yeah, I do." "Well, did you know they have a man who can read your thoughts, who'd have a sniper shooting you in the head before you get inside the building?" "No," Luke grunts. "And did you know that they have a man who can stop your powers working, so you can't fight back?" "No…" "And did you know, pet," Adam interjects, "that if they capture you they'll keep you in a tiny cell and strap you to a concrete bed, experimenting on you until die?" "No!" Luke yells. "It doesn't matter. I can do it. I can take it!" "Can you?" Sylar hisses. He's hands have moved to Luke's upper arms, wrenching them hard behind his back until Luke whimpers, "You're hurting me." "I know," he says, voice hard. "And I know they'd hurt you much, much worse." Sylar keeps the pressure up for a moment longer, until Luke's arms burn with the strain and he has to bite his tongue not to scream for it to stop. Then, he lets Luke go with an angry grunt. Luke shrugs him off and rubs pitifully at his upper arms; he refuses to meet their eyes, glaring instead at the floor. Adam grabs him by the chin, forces his head up as he runs his thumb roughly over Luke's bottom lip. "Such a bright thing, too. Shame he's so obstinate." "Am not," Luke whines reflexively. "No?" Adam presses. "Prove it." +++ Ground on which we can only be saved from destruction by fighting without delay, is desperate ground. ix. Desperate Ground Luke takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders and nods, looking Adam directly in the eye; whatever it is he needs to do to be taken seriously as a man and not a boy, he'll do it. "Strip," isn't the order Luke's expecting but his cock jumps all the same. He swallows loudly, turns to look back at Sylar but Adam catches his chin again with two gentle fingers and stops him. "Uh-uh," he tuts. Luke studies Adam's face, at the cracks showing through his usual cool, calm, collected demeanour: his eyes are blown wide and dark with want and his gaze skitters down Luke's body, raking over him with such intensity that Luke gives a breathy gasp as if he's being touched. And maybe things aren't going exactly as he planned, but Luke's still getting what he wants so he holds Adam's stare and roughly pulls his t-shirt over his head, chalking this one up as a win as he rips open his fly. He shimmies his hips from side to side so that his baggy jeans puddle at his feet. Sylar's hands at his hips slowly, slowly ease down his borrowed briefs, making both Luke and Adam hiss out in pleasure as the glistening tip of his cock comes into view. Luke's leaning back against him now, feeling Sylar's chest rise and fall against his shoulders as Sylar inches the underwear down Luke's hips; the elastic waistband drags down the length of Luke's swollen shaft, stuttering as it catches on the veins and ridges of his flesh. Lower, lower, and Sylar's crouching down now, sucking open mouthed kisses down the back of Luke's neck and along his spine. Adam reaches out to touch as soon as Luke's balls come into view. Nimble fingers play over his sac, tenderly cupping; Adam brushes an appraising thumb over Luke's delicate skin and makes a sound of approval deep in the back of his throat. Now Sylar's licking a precise path down the crack of Luke's ass, tongue swirling a teasing circle over the puckered skin of his opening. He holds Luke steady low on his thighs, thumbs tracing maddeningly ticklish patterns on the backs of Luke's knees. He pulls his lips away and Luke shivers at the huff of breath ghosting over his spit-damp skin. Sylar's briefs are around Luke's ankles and it takes all Luke's concentration not to stumble as he kicks them away. As Sylar stands, blunt fingernails scratch lightly up the length of Luke's body, making him shiver and sway in pleasure. "He does have a certain… je ne sais quoi," Adam muses, taking half a step back to survey the sight before him. "I told you so," Sylar says forcefully over Luke's shoulder. "So you did," Adam murmurs. "So you did." Luke's mouth goes dry and his heart pounds faster still at the thought that in all that time Adam and Sylar spent not talking to him, they were sometimes talking about him. His cock twitches, drawing everyone's eye. "I was a fool to doubt you," Adam says, curling his fist around Luke's dick, stroking experimentally. And if Luke thought being watched was hot, it has nothing on the feel of two pairs of hands running over his body, cupping, caressing, pinching and teasing; two sets of groans loud in the otherwise silent room and knowing that the two coolest dudes he's ever met are panting for him. No abilities, no plans, no world domination: this is the most powerful Luke's ever felt. So when Sylar pushes lightly at his shoulders, Luke drops eagerly to his knees between them. Mouth open, he looks up at them as they frame him, and waits for the next order to follow. "Come, pet," Adam says gently, fisting his hand firmly in Luke's hair. "Why don't you demonstrate all those grown up skills you bragged about, hm?" He walks backwards slowly, tugging at Luke's hair; Luke crawls after him, hands and knees burning as they rub against the carpet, the swish-swish of his movements nearly drowning out the rumble of Sylar's zipper behind him. Adam sits on the edge of the bed, his legs spread as Luke kneels obediently between them. He reaches out for Adam's fly but Adam slaps his hands away. "Naughty, naughty, pet. Not until I say you can." Adam slides down his zipper, pops the button of his fly, and the charcoal grey suit pants get pushed down his thighs. His boxers are a royal blue, shiny silk that drapes obscenely where his erection's trapped beneath. Luke's finger's twitch; he wants to touch, to stroke, to feel, but he clenches his fists, keeps his hands at his sides, and waits. When Adam draws his cock through his gaping fly, Luke's nostrils flare as he gulps down Adam's rich and musky scent. Luke licks his lips to stop himself from drooling, his own cock achingly hard and straining up against his belly as he watches, near-hypnotised, while Adam fists himself. Then, Adam's cupping the back of his neck and guiding Luke's face closer. He rubs the tip of his dick in the corner of Luke's lips, painting pre-come over his mouth as Luke tips back his head and moans. "What do you say now? Don't be shy." "Please," Luke begs. "Such pretty manners when you want something…" Adam presses just the crown between Luke's lips, teasing at Luke's tongue, drawing back in a slithering, sloppy mess of spit as Luke tries to lean forward, take more. Adam yanks his head back further, pulls his hair so that it hurts and fuck it's enough to make Luke keen. "Please," he pants. "Please, I wanna… wanna suck you." "Well, since you ask so nicely." Adam positions his cock at Luke's lips, and instead of thrusting up, he presses Luke's head down, not fast enough to choke, but firm and steady, unrelenting until the head of his cock bumps the back of Luke's throat. Luke heaves breaths through his nose, swallowing rapidly around him to stop himself from gagging. "That's good, Luke," Sylar says, rubbing the pads of his fingers against Luke's cheek, feeling out the heft of Adam's cock inside his mouth. Luke looks up; the angle's awkward and it strains his neck (he starts to drool a little but both men seem to like that), but through his lashes he can see Sylar looming over him, can hear the slick slide of skin on skin as Sylar strokes his dick. Then, Sylar's hands massage his shoulders. Luke dips his head, keeps sucking, keeps swallowing, keeps Adam making those filthy, guttural moans as behind him Sylar takes him by the hips and tugs him up and back. Luke's on all fours now, one hand on the floor for balance and the other clutching tight to Adam's hip. And when Luke hears Sylar spit, feels two damp fingers delve roughly inside him, Luke groans, too. He shifts his stance a little, spreads his legs, and begs wordlessly for more. Sylar drags the head of his cock down the cleft between Luke's ass cheeks, leaving a warm, sticky trail of pre-come in his wake. He rubs himself teasingly around Luke's asshole, tight, quick circles that make Luke tremble with the effort of not thrusting back against him. Sylar grinds himself there harder, draws back quickly to slick his dick and then eases his way in. Luke gasps at the feel of Sylar's bare skin on his, used to the slicker, cooler feel of latex. Adam strokes his hair with soothing fingers. "Hush, pet," he whispers. "It's all right." Behind him, Sylar's groaning, swearing, panting at the difference, too, hands dancing restlessly over Luke's back as he pushes deep enough for Luke to feel his balls resting, hot and heavy, against his ass. Sylar curls down over him, his fingers lacing with Luke's on Adam's hip and he kisses Luke's cheek, mouthing at the outline of Adam's dick and pressing firmly with his tongue against its shape. "Sylar," Adam gasps. "Oh!" Luke stutters around Adam's cock. He pulls off. He has to because it's almost too much; he nuzzles his face in the seam of Adam's groin, breathing in his earthy scent. Sylar's nibbling at his skin, sucking kisses just below his ear and Adam's petting both their hair, shushing them as they gasp and groan. Sylar rolls his hips, bearing down on Luke's prostate until Luke's fingers tangle fiercely in the sheets beside Adam's thigh, nearly overwrought with pleasure. Then, Adam's pushing firmly at Sylar's head and, with one biting kiss to Luke's shoulder, Sylar takes the hint. He sits back on his knees, pulling out nearly all the way before pressing himself fully back inside. He fucks Luke, slow and deep, every thrust a little harder, a little quicker. As Luke takes Adam's spit-slick cock in hand, jacks it tight and sucks the head, Sylar angles his hips so that with every thrust his tip drags over Luke's prostate. Luke's close, so close, but without a free hand to touch it's all he can do to stay steady on his hands and knees as Adam starts to lift his hips from the bed, to fuck his mouth while Sylar fucks his ass. He scrabbles at Adam's thighs for balance and sucks as best as he can. Then, Adam's pulling out and tugging Luke's head back by his hair. He rubs himself against Luke's cheek, jerks himself in long, fast strokes, coming over Luke's lips. Luke closes his eyes and eagerly laps at the semen that dribbles down the cleft of his chin. Adam gathers Luke's shoulders in his arms, bending over him and cuddling him tight as Luke lies gasping with his head on Adam's inner thigh. He loops his arms around Adam's hips and holds him tight as the slap of skin on skin echoes through the room. Then, Sylar's pulling out too, shouting out as he comes, hot, thick ribbons of spunk splattering over Luke's ass and back. And through it all, Luke wants to shout "Ta da!" at the top of his lungs because he's the reason that they're shuddering, groaning and boneless, weak in the aftermath of their orgasms. Sylar yanks him roughly back by the shoulders, panting as he wraps one arm tight around Luke's chest. He twists his head back to lick through the sticky mess on his lips and smother him with a hard, possessive kiss. He takes Luke's cock in his hand, and barely jerks him off at all before Luke's screaming into Sylar's mouth, coming harder than he ever has before. Adam slides to the floor in front of him and kisses him on his forehead, pressing his nose to his temple and breathing deeply. "Perfect, pet," he murmurs. Between them, they hold Luke tight and safe as he quivers, close to passing out from sheer exhilaration. And now they're starting to stick together from the mess of drying come; Sylar strokes his hair and whispers in his ear, "Good boy." Sighing at the effort, Sylar stands, drags him up, too, and offers Adam a hand. They pile into one narrow bed, with Luke mostly lying over Sylar so that all three can fit. Luke peppers lazy kisses over Sylar's still flushed skin, lapping at the sweat that's drying on his clavicles, tongue rasping up under his chin, dragging over his stubble. He feels Adam ruffle his hair. "He can be an affectionate little thing, can't he?" Luke lifts his head and grins as Sylar kisses the tip of his nose. "When he wants to be," Sylar teases. Luke leans over to kiss Adam too, nuzzling in the crook of his neck, but Adam gently pushes him away. "As much as I'd love to stay and languish in the aftermath of our sins, I need to meet a speedster about some stolen blueprints. She's just a blonde chit of a girl but she has the stickiest fingers you'll ever find." With an elaborate yawn, Sylar stretches out. "Send the kid." "Really?" Luke sits up straight in excitement; his fingers twitch and he's totally gonna nuke the both of them if they're only teasing. Adam gives him a hard look and then shrugs, tweaking Luke's nipple as he says, "As long as you promise to follow orders."

1. When they'd met, Dan was an archivist and Val was a consultant with a large financial management firm. There was a dinner party—Dan was required to attend by the chair of special collections, though he managed to hide in the corner for most of it. Wine flowed and manners slipped. Various department heads began shouting drunkenly about changes in the allocation of the endowment, and he was joined in his corner by the woman from the other end of the table. "Care to go outside?" she asked, so they did. Dan wasn't interested in politics and he didn't care to know any more after she explained the latest budgetary idiocy the university was inflicting on them. He shrugged, leaning against the porch rail. "That's how it always seems to go," he said. "What do you do?" she asked, so he told her a little about the university's colonial British Columbia preservation project, and how his boss had only sent him as a reminder of the year a brawl had broken out at the annual Christmas party over who ought to have their portion of the budget cut entirely. Val coughed. "There are benefits to external funding," she said with a wink. Dan grinned down at her and swallowed the rest of his drink. 2. They dated for a while, which Dan's colleagues found no end of weird. She was funny and outgoing and didn't seem at all the type to go for a shy historian who did his best to avoid any social interaction more stressful than a trip to the local video store. But they were good together. He took a chance and invited her to go with him to the Westerns night of the Howard Hawks retrospective downtown, and she said yes. They saw the Red River and Rio Bravo double feature, and afterwards, when he was trying to ask her what she'd thought of it, she looked up at him and said, "I didn't love it, but I didn't mind." He stood there for a moment trying to figure out what to say, until she started laughing at him. "When I was a teenager, I liked The Outlaw Josey Wales," she said, "except for Sondra Locke, of course; but Clint Eastwood was a good looking man back then." "It's a classic," Dan agreed, finally finding his voice. "Did you want—we could get dessert or something?" Val smiled at him and tugged his hand toward the parking lot. "I have Haagen-Dazs in the freezer. Come on." 3. Val had been married once, right out of college. It lasted a few years before it fell apart, she told him once when they were talking about the different places they'd lived. She never mentioned it again. Dan never asked; he didn't know what had happened, and he didn't really care. Ten year old divorces were ancient history; besides, she never asked about his past failures with relationships, either. The past was past. Dan's father died that winter, and at the funeral someone had put together a display of family photos: Tom Jarvis climbing an oil rig in his suit and tie; Tom Jarvis on his wedding day; Tom Jarvis as a uniformed schoolboy; Tom Jarvis sitting stiffly as his wife watched over young Danny, who was running through the yard with a wooden horse, a straw cowboy hat, and a chrome-plated cap gun. Dan remembered when his maternal grandparents came to visit during the summer he turned ten and his Grandpa insisted they all go to the rodeo. He remembered sitting in the stands with his Grandpa while the rest of the family wandered the art fair inside. He remembered the cowboys and the broncs and how strong they all were. They were strong like his grandfather, not soft like his dad. Afterwards, his dad had bitched about the stench of cow shit for the whole drive home. That was the last trip the family took together. 4. Dan's mother died of heart failure in the spring, four months after his dad passed away. Val came with him to his mother's service and stood at his side while he shook hands with cousins he barely remembered and stooped to kiss little old ladies on the cheek and thank them for coming. He'd been gone so long, he didn't recognize any of them. Now he never had to come back. A year later, Val asked Dan how he felt about getting married. A year after that, she asked him how he felt about retiring. After a dozen years' work in Rare Archives, he was vested. On top of that, he even had his own investment portfolio, thanks to her, though the only numbers that made sense to him were the ones down at the bottom. This was what Val did—playing the market was part of her job. She had her windfalls and she took her hits; she had her own money to do that with, and she was good at it. "I just made a hell of a lot of money," she told him. Dan absorbed that. "Let's go east," she said. "Let's go see if it's changed any." Dan considered his options; at the end of the week he tendered his resignation. 5. They traveled for a couple of months because Val wanted to. She wanted to show him Paris and Rome and Athens, so he let her. Then she took him to Washington, D.C., New York, and Toronto, but after Paris, seeing Toronto was plain confusing. One night she mentioned a second honeymoon to Hawaii and he replied, "Honey, can't we just rest for a little?" A month later, she bought them a house on Wilby Island. Val wasn't an Islander, but her great-uncle was. When she was a little girl, she and her brother were packed up and delivered to Wilby each summer, where they terrorized their great-aunt and begged their great-uncle to take them out to sea. Most of the time, they explored the river and shore and tried to bribe the ferry captain with handfuls of diligently hoarded candies to take them across to the mainland. Luckily, he never did. It wasn't terrible, moving to Wilby. Dan understood wanting to recapture a lost childhood, especially now that Val had the means to. So she explored the island and met people, and then came home and told him about it. He showed her the work he'd done on the house: turning the study into a library, landscaping the yard down to where it bled into the forest that led up from the Watch; and together they nodded and smiled and sometimes sprawled out on the couch in the living room and watched television until it was time to cook dinner. Time passed. Dan got bored, running out of libraries to build and media to organize. Val decided to write a book about finance in the 21st century, and took over the library as her office. One day, when Dan went out to return some movies to the video store and get some new ones, he discovered the owner was looking to sell. A month later, he was in the video business. 6. Dan didn’t know the Watch was anything more than a daytime picnic spot until one evening the next summer. Val had flown out to Kitchener to visit her brother and his family, which she did more often than Dan thought was strictly necessary, especially lately, but Dan was content to stay in Wilby and sit behind his counter at the store. People came and went, and it was only because a mother with two young, very loud children had just left that he heard it at all. There were two customers left in the store. One guy, someone who worked at one of the cafés in the heart of town, chose a couple of comedies from the new release wall, and crossed the store to talk to a guy perusing the action-adventure rack. The second guy looked up with a smile. They talked movies for a few minutes and the first guy said, "So, will you be at the Watch later?" Dan kept his eyes on the movie he was watching, but the silence before the second guy replied, "Tomorrow night," was palpable. "I just didn't want you to think you were the only sucker in town." Steve McQueen stood facing Yul Brynner, hat in hand and blue eyes shining, and then the three annoying kids were whining at Charles Bronson and Dan couldn’t hear anything more about the Watch. 7. The woods were dark and thick with fog later that night. Dan left the lights on in the house, so he'd be able to find his way back—he was just going for an evening walk, after all. Not that he needed to defend himself. Val was in Ontario and wasn't due to call until morning. He walked on. Down in the shelter of the trees toward the rocks, someone had a lantern and a two-four. A group of half a dozen or so men were gathered, drinking and telling stories, and at first Dan thought that was all there was to it. He stood in the shadows, watching and feeling like an idiot that what had struck him as maybe, possibly queer was really just guys hanging out in some inexplicable "islander" way they had here. He turned and made his way stealthily upslope through the trees. He hadn't been invited; he didn't know what they would do if they discovered him. The story one of them was telling followed him: it was a tale of a little boat dodging a big whale, and Dan wouldn't have minded staying to listen…but it wasn't his place to intrude. The fisherman's story faded into the sound of the surf behind him, and then Dan heard low voices just ahead and to the left—two voices, two men. He wasn't alone in the woods at all. Dan stopped, panic rising, and concealed himself against a tree. In the faint light from the lighthouse, Dan could make out dim shapes against the fork of a split-trunked tree and God, he could hear them. One of them moaned, and then there was a obscenely wet noise followed by a grunt and warm laughter. "Want me to fuck you?" one of them said. "Yeah. God, yeah," the other replied, and there was the sound of paper tearing and a muttered, "Fuck, that's cold," as fabric shifted. The man in front braced one booted foot in the low crook of the tree as the guy behind him rolled the condom down. They kissed over the front guy's shoulder, and the guy in back pushed in. Then they were fucking. Dan couldn't believe he was seeing it. They were a stone's throw away and had no idea he was there…and that meant he was stuck there until they finished. He had no idea what'd he'd do if they discovered him. It didn't last long; he figured they must've been freezing their asses off, literally, as their breath went ragged and one of them groaned. The one behind flung the condom to the ground and kicked some pine needles over it; the other righted his clothing and patted down his pockets. A moment later he lit two cigarettes and handed one over. "Wanna grab a beer?" he said. "Sounds good," the other answered, and together they took the path down toward the water. Dan stayed behind his tree for a minute, barely breathing. He clasped a hand over the front of his pants and pressed; he was so hard that the thought of the walk back up to the house made him cringe. His palm slid up and down without conscious intent. He needed to come. The night was still. He could hear the low hum of the beer party in the distance, along with the ever-present sound of the waves on the rocks. The fog was growing thicker, wetter; it enveloped him and made him feel safe enough to tug his belt free, open his pants, and give his dick to the wonderfully cool, damp air. Biting his lips, he slid a thumb over the leaking head of his erection and began stroking himself hard. Then he heard a twig snap. Dan's eyes flew open; before him was the dim shape of a guy about his own age, someone he thought he might've seen around the island, but no one he'd ever spoken to. "Give you a hand with that?" the guy said, stepping into Dan's space. Dan couldn't find breath to answer. A choked sound came out of his throat, which the guy apparently took as a yes, since he took Dan's dick in one hand and reached down to cup his balls with the other. He squeezed just right and Dan's head fell back against the tree trunk. More half-muffled words came, but Dan didn't catch their meaning. Then a moment later, the guy dropped to his knees and closed his mouth around Dan's dick. It occurred to Dan that he was getting blown by someone who was really, entirely, without a doubt not the woman he was married to. It occurred to him that this wasn't something he'd planned on, and he vaguely wondered how often people committed adultery by accident. And then the guy did something in the back of his throat at the same time that he did something else with his hands, and Dan stopped thinking. A minute later he was coming and the guy was spitting onto the pine needles at their feet…and Dan had to figure out what the hell to do next. The guy pulled his dick out. Dan tucked himself away because his skin was wet and the air was colder now that he wasn't bursting with heat anymore. The guy didn't move away. In fact, he wrapped one arm around Dan's shoulders and pulled one of Dan's hands down to wrap around his cock. Their fingers were entwined; Dan could feel the guy was uncut. Surreal didn't begin to cover it. He had his hand on someone's dick: a total stranger's erection. He was feeling the slip of foreskin against his thumb and forefinger. He didn’t mean to start rubbing it, but it felt so different and he was curious. He was curious. "Jesus," Dan whispered, and the guy shuddered, murmuring, "Like that. Yeah that," against Dan's neck. Dan kept stroking, and then twisted his wrist as if he were doing himself, and then the guy was thrusting up three, four times, and coming in Dan's hand. "Jesus," Dan said again. The guy's arm was still around Dan's neck and shivers were moving through him. His breath was warm against Dan's cheek and smelled of cigarettes. Dan wondered if the guy was going to kiss him. He didn't. Instead, he stepped back and pulled a cloth from his coat pocket. He wiped off his dick and his hand, and then he passed it to Dan with a muttered, "Here." Dan said, "Thanks," and wiped the guy's come off his hand. It was on his coat, too, but that would have to wait until he got home. Dan didn't know what to do next. He didn't know if there was an etiquette: should he introduce himself, should he thank the stranger for the blowjob, should he offer a belated hello? But then someone in the group by the water bellowed out, "Duck, get your ass down here!" loud enough to be heard all across the Watch. "Damn it," said the guy, and Dan thought he heard him say, "Sorry," just before he rushed away. 8. Back at the house, Dan discovered the cloth was a faded red bandana. He laid it on the bathroom counter and scrubbed at the front of his coat with a wet washcloth. Then he sat down on the closed toilet seat and looked at the bandana. It was wet with come: Duck's come, whoever Duck was—and what the hell kind of name was "Duck" anyway? Dan picked up the cloth and inhaled. He smelled musk and cigarette smoke and something like the scent of Duck's neck. It smelled good. Really good. Dan wondered if Duck had any idea who he was, or if he was just an anonymous body with a willing cock and a guidable hand. Dan had only barely seen Duck's face in the darkness. He remembered stubble and a lined forehead and the feel of hair standing up against his hand. More clearly than that, he remembered the wet heat of Duck's mouth on him and the firmness of his hand holding Dan steady. It occurred to him that this might be happening down on the other side of the woods from his house every night. Every single night. He didn't know what the hell he was going to do. He washed Duck's bandana with shaking hands, and when it was dry he put it in his coat pocket to give to him later. Val would never find it there. 9. Val came back from her brother's with a new chapter on gambling against market fluctuations and a long distance consulting job. She was excited, so Dan was happy for her. He was happier still when she took off her expensive outfit and put on jeans and a flannel shirt. She looked more like she had on their honeymoon: like the woman who had guided a jeep as near an active volcano as she could get, and then hopped out to get closer on foot. Maybe a return trip to the Pacific wasn't a bad idea. She caught him staring over her mug of tea. He grinned and said, "Missed you." Val smiled back at him, looking pleased, so he leaned across the table and kissed her lips. Then he kissed her again, harder, and she answered, "I guess you did." They went to bed, even though it was lunchtime. It had been years since they'd done anything like that; they were only physical together every few weeks, usually after they'd seen something sexy on cable. Touching her breast, Dan wondered if he should tell her what had happened. He bent to taste her and wondered what it would be like if her clitoris were a cock. He licked in perfunctory rhythm, feeling her orgasm build. He wondered if he should have sucked Duck off. Her soft moans resolved into words. "In me," she said, "Dan, I need you in—" He moved up her body and pressed himself inside, rocking slowly, the way she usually seemed to prefer it. Her legs fastened around his hips, surprising him. Maybe she'd missed him, too. They kissed, moving together a little harder. Her face was smooth; her body was soft in his hands. She was moaning softly with pleasure, but he wasn't there yet, he wasn't— He shut his eyes tight and remembered Duck's hand on his balls, his fingers sliding back and up. He remembered Duck's stubble against his neck and the way he'd thrust against him. Val's body clamped around him as she worked her muscles, trying to help him to finish. He pressed his face into her hair, trying to imagine a rougher texture, and when she turned her head and kissed his neck, right in the place Duck's face had rubbed pink, Dan finally came. Afterwards, she rose in silence to take a shower. He lay there a few minutes; then he went downstairs and made lunch. 10. They never did talk about it. She told him about the consulting contract; he suggested Christmas in Hawaii. She countered with a return visit to the west coast and he said that sounded fine. "Do you want to plan it?" she asked, and then laughed at his scowl. He grinned lopsidedly and said, "Isn't that what travel agents are for?" She smiled, picked up her fork, and asked how things were with the store. 11. The next time Val was away, to Toronto this time, Dan went down to the Watch again. It was damned cold out there, and instead of a lantern, someone had built a fire in the bottom half of an old oil drum. A handful of men sat around it on logs, and someone was telling a story about the ocean, just like before. Dan thought about it for a minute, but decided it was too cold to be shy, so he let himself be seen and made himself walk up. They got quiet, and for a minute there wasn't any sound other than the waves hitting the rocks and the wind rustling the trees above them. He recognized some of them from the shop. They nodded to him; he nodded back. "Room for one more?" he asked. Someone shrugged and someone else said, "Scoot in," and a minute later Dan was taking a swig of some spicy liquid fire and listening to a story about divers stripping a wreck. The night wore on and Dan got the impression of the woods gaining more men. Some came up to the fire in couples, some were holding hands, others teased openly. Dan was introduced to the guys he didn't know. A few eyebrows went up, but Dan had lived in Wilby long enough to know he wasn't the only married man there. After a while, Vic, the guy he'd been sitting next to for the last couple of hours, laid a hand on his thigh and said in his ear, "Come take a walk, then?" Vic's beard tickled Dan's face in a way he was surprised to discover he liked. It was probably the alcohol, but he didn't hesitate to follow Vic up the hill. Vic stopped when they got to a little circle of pines. They made a kind of natural shelter and were well-spaced to lean against. The fog wasn't as dense and the moon was out, so Dan could see Vic's weather-beaten face and the want in his eyes. "You've been down here before," Vic said, and it was only part question. "Once," Dan answered. "I guess you figured we don't talk about it. Everyone knows, I guess, but if it's kept under the rug—" "You don't have to worry. My wife—" "Best not to talk about that either," Vic said, placing his hand on Dan's chest and drawing the zipper of his coat down. The cold air rushed in with Vic's hands, but the hands felt good roaming over his sweater. It was new. Duck hadn't touched him like this. "What do you like?" Vic asked. Dan didn’t know what to say. Part of him wanted to say 'everything', but he knew that would be a damn fool thing to say. But then Vic was pressing close against him and kissing him. Vic's beard scratched his face and tickled his nose, and his mouth tasted of the same drink they'd all been passing among them. No cigarettes, though. Dan's back was against a tree and he was holding Vic against him with one hand wrapped around his neck and the other at the small of his back. Dan was kissing him hungrily, and Vic was kissing back just as hard. It was exactly what Dan wanted. When he realized that, he made a decision to forget about Val and forget about how he'd been carrying Duck's faded bandana around with him for all this time. His erection was straining against his pants, and he could feel Vic's cock doing the same. "I want to blow you," Dan said, feeling brave. He felt braver still when Vic kissed him and said "please" in a voice that made Dan feel like anything he did would suit Vic just fine. Dan turned them so Vic's back was to the tree and sank to his knees, fumbling to open Vic's pants. Then Dan opened his mouth and tasted a cock for the first time. It filled his mouth just the way he'd hoped it would, but it was smoother, silkier against his tongue than he expected. He liked it. Vic didn't last all that long, which Dan took as a good sign. Vic's come tasted a little like Duck's bandana had smelled, and it turned Dan on even more. He didn't want Vic to know he'd never done it before, so he spat on the ground like Duck had, climbed to his feet while Vic was still feeling the aftershocks, and kissed him. That was another good thing, it seemed: it got Vic on his knees, anyway, and Vic's mouth moving up and down on Dan's erection. When he went deep, Dan could feel Vic's beard against his balls; it made Dan's cock jump. Vic pulled off with a chuckle and scraped his beard directly over Dan's skin before swallowing him down a second time. Scrabbling at tree bark, Dan came. Later, when they returned to the fire, a few more men had come and gone. Duck passed over the bottle, taking a sip from his thermos. When their eyes met, Dan looked into the low-burning fire and hoped it hid his blush. 12. Years before, Dan had gone through a phase of reading Val's women's magazines. He thought they might help him understand her. They didn't; she wasn't much like the women they were writing about…and yet the fact that she read them had to mean something. He remembered seeing several articles about how to tell if your partner was cheating, and now he found himself recalling details: more sex, unexpected gifts, unexplained expenses, travel. Val came back from the latest trip to Toronto with an extra suitcase full of clothes for him and a look in her eye that said she wouldn't mind if he took her to bed right then. At least that's what he hoped it meant. She responded to his kiss and helped him pull off their clothes, and Dan watched carefully, wondering. When he knelt between her legs, he rubbed his face against her neatly trimmed pubic hair, loving the rasp of stubble against his skin. He licked faster, until she was tugging him up and into her body. It felt good, better than it usually did. But it didn’t feel like it had with Vic or Duck. 13. That evening she told him everything she'd done in the city. Dan nodded and smiled through most of it, but then realized that in her happy chatter, she'd accounted for every moment: the meetings with her colleagues, the evening with her old roommate, the shopping, the theater, the restaurants, the taxis. Every moment. The truth: she'd simply missed him. Dan had missed her, too, but maybe not so simply. A while later, he said he was going up to the store to check on things. He had two part-time kids, Jason and Michelle, splitting the evening shifts, and he surprised them every so often to keep them on their toes. Dan watched Jason close and then drove home. When he got to the house, he saw the light in the upstairs bathroom was on. Knowing Val, she was in the bath with a book and her beauty products and would be there for another hour, or until he went in and got her. He went around the side of the house and found the path through the trees. 14. No one was at the log circle. There was no fire in the barrel and no sign anyone had been there. It was cold, the fog was blowing around like it couldn't decide whether to roll in or not, and the moon was high and gibbous. The whole place looked like a good place for a bad horror movie; Dan sat down anyway. Fifteen minutes later he was chilled to the bone and had no more idea what to do than before. Then he heard someone clear their throat and Duck was there. Duck ground out the butt of his cigarette and sat down. Dan nodded, and then frowned; he wondered whether in a place like this, nodding meant something more than just hello. He looked down at his hands. He'd jerked Duck off with that hand. "Oh!" he said, remembering. He fished in his coat pocket and pulled out a folded square of cloth. He'd been carrying it around with him for weeks now, clutching it like a rabbit's foot or a worry stone. He held it out and Duck took it, tucking it into his own coat pocket. "Thanks," Duck murmured. For a moment he looked as if he were going to say something else, but he didn't. After a minute, Dan took a deep breath and stood up. "I should—" "There's no harm in talking, is there?" "What do you mean?" "She wouldn't begrudge you having friends, would she?" "Of course not!" Dan said. "Then stay a while." Dan sat. Together they listened to the waves crash until Dan finally said, "How did you know she's back?" "Came in on the same ferry. She was telling Tamara McIntyre all about her shopping trip." Dan snorted. Duck said, "Trip to Vancouver sounds nice." "Yeah." Dan kneaded his hands. "I mean, I hope so. Warmer, anyhow." Duck nodded, but didn't say anything. "So," Dan said hesitantly, "what happens down here once the snow starts?" Duck laughed. "Not much. It's too cold to be out here in the wind and wet, but some of the guys have get-togethers every couple of weeks. Vic'll invite you." Dan frowned. "Is it like—" He gestured around them, but his eyes flicked back up toward the woods. Duck chuckled. "Depends. When you were a kid, did you go to parties where you played spin the bottle in the basement?" "I hated those parties." "Yeah, me too." Duck grinned and Dan found himself smiling back. He moved closer just as Duck did, and for a split second he wondered how this had happened to him. Then Duck's lips brushed against his own and pressed harder, seeking more. A wave crashed and he thought of Val in the bath. He had to go home; he couldn't do it like this. He wrenched himself away. "I can't. Not—" he stopped, floundering. "She's right there." "Okay," Duck said, sitting back. Dan stood up. "I have to go." "Okay," Duck said again, and Dan fled. 15. December passed in a blink. Vancouver was nice as far as seeing what they'd done with his collection since he'd left, Christmas in Kitchener was annoying, and New Year's in Manhattan was a complete waste of time. He still had no idea why Val had dragged him along, although knowing her it probably had to do with book research and a tax write-off. At the end of January snow was thick on the ground and Val was shuttling between Toronto and Ottawa for reasons Dan had lost track of. He couldn’t remember which trips were for consulting and which were for the book, and he was beginning to wonder how long it would be before she brought up moving back to a real city. Dan liked Wilby fine—it was as good a place as any, but he didn't know why they stayed. He used to think it was Val's hideaway from the rest of the world, but lately it seemed like when she got stressed out, she headed to Kitchener instead. Vic threw a party on a weekend when Vic knew Val was going to be gone and Michelle would be around to cover the store. Dan rolled his eyes, but Vic braced his hands on the counter and stared Dan down until he gave in and said yes. He went, and it wasn't even bad. If anything, it reminded him of parties in college twenty years before, but then he supposed the principle of a bunch of guys getting drunk together was the same at any age. Only there weren't any girls here. He met a couple more guys than he had before. He shook hands nervously, but found it impossible to relax. Drinking together in a house with a bar, a fridge full of beer, and a table full of snacks made it civil. There weren't the same sort of campfire stories, either. Here, they talked hockey and curling and how the layoff situation at the cannery was shaping up. Still, time passed and the others loosened up. Duck showed up and appropriated an armchair with a good view of the TV and in reach of a bowl of chips. Hockey was on. Half a dozen of them watched, while Dan ignored the flirtatious laughter from the kitchen and the two guys making out in the hall. Except for the lack of girls, it wasn't so different from college at all. He was tossing his fourth empty into the recycle bin when Vic found him again. "Let me at least show you the basement," Vic said. He was drunk and Dan knew it. "You haven't even seen the house yet," Vic persisted, taking hold of Dan's hand. Dan glanced nervously over his shoulder at the cluster of men in the kitchen, but no one seemed to be paying any attention. A moment later, Dan relented and followed Vic downstairs. The basement was three-quarters finished and divided between storage and a workshop. There was a worn-out couch and a battered coffee table. Two guys were in the corner, one blowing the other without a care for anyone else in the room. Vic nuzzled Dan's neck and turned him for a kiss. Dan gave it. He felt flattered in a way. It was nice to feel wanted; it was just incredibly weird to be doing this indoors, with lights on. It made his stomach flutter, like Val might come down the basement stairs any moment. Still, Vic had a great mouth and Dan was further from sober than he cared to admit. He let himself be guided to the sofa, and couldn't bring himself to argue when Vic sank to his knees. His eyes fell shut, and for a minute he could pretend it was all just a dream. When he opened his eyes, it was to the sight of Duck descending the last basement stair, his arms around some guy's waist, his hand palming the front of his pants. Duck saw Dan and Dan saw Duck, and Dan's hand tightened in Vic's hair for just a moment, and then he shut his eyes and came. When he opened his eyes, Vic was kissing him. Looking up, he saw Duck bending his guy over the workbench, running his fingers over the curve of his ass. Duck was saying, "Are you sure that's what you want?" Then he was reaching into a pocket and pulling out lube and a condom. Vic kissed him again and then turned his head to watch Duck open the other guy's ass. "Matt," he called, "you've got the most fuckable ass I've seen all night." Duck laughed and twisted his fingers, making Matt yell out, "Jesus-fuck, Duck!" Everyone laughed at that, and some of the tension Dan felt began to dissolve. Vic leaned in to kiss Dan again. "Come down to the floor," he told Dan, motioning for him to sit on the tattered rug with his back against the couch. When Dan did, Vic kicked off his pants and settled between Dan's legs facing Duck and Matt. The guys in the corner had sunk to the gritty floor out of sight, but Dan could still hear them. Dan watched Duck's fingers move in and out of Matt's ass and jerked Vic's cock in time. He cupped Vic's balls in his left hand and stroked behind them with his middle finger. He'd been researching. He'd been wanting. Vic dug in his discarded pants pocket until he found lube, which he squeezed out into Dan's hand. "Oh my fucking God, yes," Vic moaned when Dan spread out the slickness and swirled his palm over the head. Matt was cursing a blue streak; Duck added a third finger and Dan watched, fascinated, as Duck's hand twisted clockwise, then counterclockwise. Then Duck added more lube and continued the finger-fucking. Vic had his feet braced so he could thrust into Dan's hand; his eyes were fixed on what Duck was doing to Matt's ass. Then Duck rolled a condom down and pushed in deep. Dan pressed a wet finger gently against Vic's ass, and Vic inhaled sharply and rocked himself downward as Dan kept stripping his cock, keeping time with Duck. "Jesus Christ," Vic panted. He worked himself harder between Dan's hands and came a moment later, collapsing back in Dan's arms. A minute later, Dan nipped him on the ear to get him to move. He got a groggy protest, so he shoved Vic over onto his side, where he curled up in a sleepy bundle. When Dan returned from washing up, Duck and Matt were gone. Dan stood in the doorway for a moment: Vic had pulled a cushion down from the couch and seemed to be out for the count. With a crooked smile, Dan turned his back and went home. 16. Everything seemed all right as long as he didn't think about it. Winter passed. It warmed up enough that people started going out to the Watch again. Dan didn't go when Val was home. That one time with Duck, when practically all they'd done was exchange a few awkward words, had been too much temptation…and if he started considering what difference it made whether she was in town or not, then he'd have to face up to what he was doing—and he wasn't up for that. He had a wife. He loved her, he'd made a life with her, they'd spent years together, and he planned to spend the rest of his years with her. The guys at the Watch were just…an aberration, a distraction. It wasn't as if he were anyone's boyfriend. 17. It was May before Dan let anyone fuck him in the ass. Val was in Kitchener again; the nieces were having a recital or something. Matt found him in the woods and said, "Can I?" He blew Dan first and opened him up so slow and sweet that Dan forgot the feeling of tree bark under his fingernails and the worry over it being his first time: he just let it happen, and afterwards he was more freaked out by how much he'd loved it than by having done it at all. He wondered for a minute what would happen if he ever dared to ask Val to touch him like that. But if he did, she'd know everything. She wouldn't even have to ask… He loved her. He loved her for who she was, and he'd never once wished her to be any different, but now, in the most secret and guilty place in his heart, he realized he wished more than anything she were a man. 18. The sting was in mid-June, and it caught everyone by surprise. When the cops started arresting people for lewd and lascivious conduct, Vic protested that no one had enforced that down on the Watch since the early 1970s. Stan Lastman shot back with, "Yeah, well I guess that's due for a change then," and that was that. 19. Val didn't get back from Toronto until the end of the week. By that point, Dan had been arraigned, pleaded no contest, paid his fine, and driven himself half-crazy trying to figure out what he was going to tell her. If he was going to tell her. When she returned, he kissed her cheek and brought her bags in. She made tea and they exchanged small talk about the flight. Then she poured two mugs and sat down at the kitchen table. "A woman on the ferry said there was some trouble down at the Watch while I was gone," she said. "She said I should ask you about it." Dan stared down into his mug. It was steaming, still far too hot to drink. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and lifted his eyes to hers. She asked softly, "What's going on, Dan?" Dan shifted in the chair and tried to find words. He had hoped he'd have more time, or at least have some kind of brainwave about what to tell her. She folded her hands together, waiting. "I love you," he said. "I don't want you to be upset." It sounded pathetic to his own ears, but he didn't know how else to say it. "What happened?" Her voice was full of worry now. He couldn't sit anymore. He got up and paced across the kitchen twice before saying, "Last Tuesday night…" He trailed off. Her eyes were following him, big and dark. "Tuesday night?" she prompted. He clenched the edge of the counter with both hands and said softly, "Some guys…got arrested down at the Watch." She was frozen in place; her fingers were white-knuckling the mug and she was probably burning her hands. "And I was one of them," he mumbled. She didn't say anything right off. She took a deep breath and Dan could practically see her counting to ten before she spoke. "For doing what?" "Um…" He couldn't say it. He crossed to the sink and stared out the window at the manicured yard leading out to the edge of the woods. Down-slope was the Watch. "Dan," she said, with an edge to it. "The charges were for…" He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat and mumbled, "For lewd and lascivious conduct." "They were what?" Her voice was sharp with disbelief. The chair screeched against the floor as she stood up. The look on her face was more than he could bear. Words failed him. His throat had closed like a vise and he couldn't keep the tears from welling up. After a minute, he forced a couple of hard, choking breaths and blotted his eyes on his sleeve. He couldn't—but he had to— He told her everything: her trips, the Watch, the party—every other word was an apology, but it was no good. She yelled and slapped him and cried. She called him a lying sack of shit and a godforsaken son of a bitch. Finally, she calmed down and Dan dared to hope, but then she stopped pacing the breakfast area and leveled a cold stare at him. "What on earth made you think this was okay?" "I didn't!" he protested, because it wasn't like that. "Val, I swear I never meant for it to be like this. I love—" "Uh-uh." She shook her head and stood her ground. "Get out. Pack a bag and get the hell out." "Val, please—" "Now." There was nothing to do then but go upstairs and pack a bag. He grabbed a couple of shirts, some underwear, and a couple of pairs of socks. He packed his shaving kit, comb, and toothbrush. The motel would have shampoo. He couldn't think what else he needed. His wallet. His keys. Maybe it would be better in the morning. Maybe somehow she'd find a way to forgive him. Downstairs, he began, "God, I'm sorry. I don't know what I can say to—" "We had a life together, Dan, and now I see what it meant to you." She wiped her tears and folded her arms over her chest. "I hope you rot in hell," she said. "Val…" He stared at her. She didn't move. After a minute, he got his jacket and keys, picked up the duffel, and walked out the door. Ten minutes later, he was standing at the registration desk at the Wildwood Motel. Mrs. Woodson asked how long he planned to stay and raised her eyebrows when Dan said he didn't know. Dan took the room key with a shaky hand, moved his car, and only just reached the bathroom before he threw up. 20. Val's lawyer handled nearly everything. The house was emptied of what Val wanted, and since she didn't want anything that had anything to do with him, he didn't fight it. He couldn't. He tried to hate her…except he couldn't blame her for hating him. She was right: he was a lying sack of shit and all this was his own fault. All he'd had to do was walk away, or say no, or even if he'd been honest from the start. If he'd somehow found a way to tell her after the first time, there was a chance that it could have been waved away as a surreal moment in the dark, a curiosity that got out of hand. It might have been forgivable. But he hadn't. He'd thrown their whole life away for nothing. A few orgasms with some guys he barely even knew. And even as he despised himself for it, he wanted more. He thought about going back to Vancouver, but he couldn't see any point in it. After a few days, he thought about seeking out Vic or Duck; but then the Sentinel broke the news that the names were going to be printed and he didn't want to see anyone. Especially them. He'd never felt unwelcome in Wilby before. He closed the video store; he didn't know what he was going to do, but he was pretty sure staying in Wilby was out of the question. He donated the rest of the stuff in the house to charity, and what they didn't want, he put on the curb. He wandered around the island, avoiding contact with people. He didn't have anywhere to go. He'd signed all the papers. The divorce would go through when the waiting period expired and the court finalized it. Val would still get all his assets if he died. 21. After Dan didn't die, Duck offered him the spare room. So did Vic. Mrs. Woodson sent Jennie to offer him half-rates at the motel. He thanked them, but didn’t accept. Instead, Dan got himself a furnished studio closer to the heart of town. He didn't reopen the video store, though people asked him about it every week. He didn't try to contact Val, and wasn't surprised he didn't hear from her either. Duck came over, shyly at first but then with growing persistence. Mostly when Duck came over, it was to get him to go outside. Together they hiked the island: Duck showed him the places he'd played as a boy, showed him the trees he'd climbed and the part of the river he'd learned to swim in. Duck showed Dan the corner of the old school playground where he used to get drunk and smoke pot, and he showed Dan the curve of road where he'd wrecked his car driving drunk in the fog and nearly killed himself. Vic had more parties, and they all had Dover Beach now that the Watch was off-limits, but when Dan went, he only touched Duck. He never touched anyone else but Duck. After a few months, Duck asked Dan when he was going to reopen the video store. They were in Dan's kitchen cleaning up dinner when Duck said, "It'll be too cold to go out soon, and people need…things to keep themselves occupied." Dan searched Duck's face, and Duck held his gaze until they both started snickering. "They do? You're sure about that?" Dan said after a long moment. His ears were pink. Duck cracked a grin, but his eyes were showing something deeper. He traced his fingers down Dan's arm and said, "Yeah, I'm pretty sure." Dan pressed him back against the counter and took a long, contented kiss. Pulling away, he looked into Duck's eyes and said, "Then I will."

By the Filthy Foursome: Mickey M, halo, Without Me, and Slim It was almost weird, JC thought, how quickly they'd gotten used to sharing everything. Everything. It started in the house in Orlando, and once they got to Europe it kept happening more and more. Hotel beds, toiletries, clothes. Especially clothes. It wasn't like they were all the same size, but the clothes were loose enough that even one time when he and Chris had ended up with each other's suitcases on two different floors of the hotel, neither of them had had a problem getting dressed. He guessed he was used to it now, sharing most things. Still, it was a little odd when Lance showed up for a photo shoot one afternoon in Hamburg, wearing the exact same outfit JC'd had on the day before. Pants, shirt, shoes, everything. JC almost wanted to check and make sure Lance wasn't wearing his shorts. Then he thought that'd be a little obvious. "Hey, C." Lance grinned at him, that grin that JC had come to recognize as meaning Lance was looking for some fun. "You got any plans tonight?" JC glanced around before he answered. "Don't think so. You want to do something?" Lance bumped his hip against JC's a little. Not enough so's anyone else would notice, unless they were really looking. "You know. I thought we could, um. Play cards or something." One eyebrow arched, even more than usual. JC almost choked, remembering the last time they'd "played cards," when they'd shared a room in Mannheim. He hadn't gotten any sleep that night. JC wouldn't mind doing it again, although the logistics might be a little more challenging this time. "Um. Yeah. Well, I'm sharing with Joey right now. You're rooming with Chris, right? So, uh. Where should we..." Lance waved one hand vaguely. "Oh, I think he said he'd be out somewhere late. Just, like, stop by after dinner. Okay?" He smiled again, a toothy grin so predatory that JC could almost imagine him licking his chops. Or... other things. The photo shoot ran long--of course--and then dinner seemed to last forever. But sure enough, Chris excused himself even before the others had finished, waggling his eyebrows and saying he was going to go exploring, "And I don't need anyone who's supposed to be working on his history homework tagging along," with a pointed look at Justin, who sulked for about a minute and a half until he realized Chris' absence meant he could grab a bigger share of dessert. JC knew his excuses to Joey were pretty lame, but then Joey never asked for much in the way of excuses. When JC checked his hair again before leaving their room, Joey just slapped him on the back and called him "Tiger" and made some vague remark about German girls that might have been directed at JC, though while JC didn't share every detail of his life with Joey, he knew it was probably pretty clear that the girls part was only relevant to one of them. Remembering the look on Lance's face earlier, JC felt his face heat, and really, a few jokes from Joey were a small price to pay for a night alone with Lance. He knocked softly on the door and it opened almost immediately. Lance... Lance was wearing a wifebeater--probably Justin's--that clung to his body, and loose pajama pants. "C'mon in," he drawled. "The bar's open." JC could smell the faint burn of whiskey on Lance's breath, mingled with mint--toothpaste, probably, since it seemed unlikely Lance was making mint juleps in the middle of Europe. JC cleared his throat, the big brother in him refusing to shut up, even though that was the last way he wanted to think about Lance right now. "Um, are you sure you should be..." he started, but Lance quieted him with a look. "I'm fine, C. I just... thought we could get a little relaxed, y'know? Before the... card game." Lance's half-smile should come with a warning label. He did look fine, JC told himself. Just the faintest bit flushed, but Lance pretty much looked like that drinking root beer. His movements as he poured JC a drink were slow, smooth, but not at all sloppy. "Okay," JC breathed, taking a swallow from the glass Lance gave him, trying not to cough as the liquor burned the back of his throat. Lance grinned. "Not too strong for you, is it?" JC managed to shake his head, no. Lance could drink more than you'd expect, for someone his size. He'd just laughed when JC'd asked about it, saying there wasn't much for kids to do in Clinton besides sneak onto the golf course after dark and hang out, drinking. At least in Germany, he was legal. "Here, let's get comfortable." Smiling, Lance pulled JC over to the bed. JC sat down, slipped his shoes off, and settled back against the wall. Lance followed him, sitting close enough for JC to feel his heat. JC took another drink from his glass, and almost before he'd swallowed, Lance was pulling him forward, his head already tilted for a kiss. "Mmm. You feel good," Lance breathed against his lips, then closed the gap between them with a wet, open kiss. JC moaned and reached blindly for the nightstand. He needed to put his glass down before he spilled whiskey in Lance's bed. Lance really liked to kiss. He could make out for hours, JC knew, if they had the time and the privacy. JC was a little surprised, because his other fuck buddies hadn't liked kissing much; it was just all about getting off. But then, he almost thought Lance could get off just from kissing. Maybe they could try sometime. It was a thought to file away in the back of his mind, though, because really, the here and now was fantastic enough. JC shivered when Lance licked around inside his mouth, the whiskey burn adding to the heat already sliding thick and fast through his veins. He slid his hands up Lance's arms and down his back, edged up under the 'beater until he could scrape his fingernails gently up and down the dip of Lance's spine. That got him a low growl, and sharp teeth nipping at his lips. JC stroked downward, pressed his fingers against the very top of the cleft between Lance's cheeks, fingertips just edging under the loose, cotton sleep pants he had on. "Mmmm, yeah," Lance bit at his lips again, then licked from JC's mouth to his ear. JC shivered when Lance bit down, tugging on his earlobe before sucking on it. "God, you really feel good." "Yeah--" JC shivered and shifted, stretching out on the narrow bed. "Lance. God." Lips and teeth against his neck, and there was gentle suction, and JC shuddered and tugged Lance's mouth back to his. He wanted so bad to just tip his head back and let him have at it on his neck, but the sane voice in the back of his head warned that wouldn't be a good idea. Hickeys weren't looked upon well for photoshoots and other appearances. "Kiss me," he whispered, and Lance obliged, slick and wet, tongue tangling with JC's. And okay, if drinking whiskey meant Lance kissing him like this, like JC was something Lance wanted to devour, then JC was perfectly okay with it. Because, damn. Lance's fingers were twisted in his hair, pulling him even closer, and Lance's tongue was licking inside his mouth, hot, wet and--oh, God. Yes, JC was definitely okay with it. Lance moved against him, warm and urgent, surprisingly solid under soft honey-gold skin. Most of the time, he looked like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, the model of wide-eyed innocence, but JC knew better. He knew that very same picture-perfect Mama's boy could murmur the filthiest things in a voice so low it made JC's skin prickle with heat, could do things with his mouth that had JC coming so hard he sometimes forgot his own name. Maybe, he thought, maybe once we've kissed for awhile, he might-- "What have we here?" Lance said softly, and JC drew in a breath at the feel of fingers cupping and stroking his dick--half-hard already, he was only human after all--through his sweatpants. "Why, JC--you dirty boy." And God, what was dirty was the way Lance was rubbing against him, licking his jaw, sucking on his lip and fucking purring like some big cat in heat. Oh yeah, he was gonna buy Lance all the whiskey he wanted. Cases of the stuff. "Fuck," he gasped, as Lance licked a long stripe across his neck, "Lance--" "Hmmm?" The sound rumbled across JC's skin, and then, oh God, Lance was pulling up the hem of his t-shirt, a hand slipping underneath to twist and rub across one of JC's nipples, then the other, and then Lance's mouth, oh--and his teeth--and JC could do nothing but arch upward helplessly. He didn't hear the knock at the door at first, nothing registering in his mind other than the feel of Lance's mouth on his chest, sucking on his nipples, biting gently at the sensitive skin, one hand still rubbing JC's dick. But then Lance pulled away, moving to his knees, and JC blinked up at him, confused. "Lance?" Lance grinned, panting a little, his mouth red and wet and swollen. "Come in," he called, and winked at JC, licking his lips. "We have company." Company. Obviously JC's brain wasn't working right. He blinked slowly, trying to figure out what Lance really must have said. But--shit--the door was opening, and Lance was getting up, and even if he wasn't thinking very well, he was sure both of those were bad things. "Lance?" he managed, looking quickly toward the door, and--oh Jesus, Jesus, Lance had said Chris wasn't going to be back... His skin was still tingling, aching, every nerve wanting to feel Lance's touch again, Lance's teeth. But he sat up, turning away from where Lance was... saying whatever to Chris, and tried to get himself under control. Was he still dressed? He was mostly still dressed; he pulled his shirt back down, willing his hard-on to subside at least a little. If Lance could just keep Chris occupied for another minute or two, maybe he could get out of here with some dignity intact. He couldn't really hear what the two of them were saying; just tones, mostly, Lance's low rumble occasionally broken by Chris' sharper voice. But then he heard something that wasn't words. Something that sounded like-- He turned, really looking for the first time since Lance had gotten up, and Chris and Lance were kissing. Kissing like it wasn't the first time, and definitely like kissing wasn't all they had in mind. Kissing like... well, like JC and Lance had been kissing a few minutes earlier. As he watched, Chris pulled away with a soft whimper. "Are you sure?" he asked. "Lance, is this--you really want--" Lance glanced back at JC then, wet lips curving in a smile. "Oh yeah," he said, and that was a tone JC recognized. "Yeah. C'mere." He held a hand out, but didn't wait to see if Chris followed, just came back to the bed. "Hey," he said, and JC shook his head slightly. He was getting an idea of what was coming, but he still wasn't sure he could possibly be right. "Hey," Lance said again, a purr, and he leaned in, tongue soft on JC's lips, asking for entry in a way JC couldn't possibly refuse. JC leaned into the kiss, a slow, gentle kiss--more wooing than seduction, if he wanted to be particular about it--that tasted him carefully, Lance delving easily into his mouth, licking at his tongue, at the insides of his cheeks, over his teeth. It was easy to forget Chris standing just beyond them, easy to lose himself in the heat of Lance's mouth and the strong hands cupping his face, until he felt warmth that wasn't Lance, because it was beside him. Them. JC pulled back from Lance with effort, because he really didn't want to stop, but--Chris. Watching. Part of him found it really hot, but the rest of him was--embarrassed? Shocked? Surprised? Surprised, definitely, because what was he doing here? Shocked, because it obviously wasn't the first time he and Lance had--whatever. And embarrassed, because...Chris was watching them. And when JC looked, there was heat in Chris' eyes he'd never seen before. At least, never directed at him. At him, he realized, licking his lips self-consciously. Chris is looking at me that way. Like he wants me. And that sent a tendril of heat curling through him, red-hot, potent, making him throb. He shivered and turned back to light-green eyes that were more dark pupil now than anything. "Lance?" "You're both so pretty." Lance reached out to Chris, pulled him closer to the bed. He kept one hand on JC, petting him gently. "Want you both. Want to watch the two of you." Lance leaned in and kissed JC briefly, a quick brush of his mouth over JC's, then leaned toward Chris and repeated it. "You both taste good." Chris' mouth curved into a smile. "Greedy boy." But he kissed Lance back, a long, wet kiss that made JC ache a little more, for the tongue flashing pink and slick, and the soft sucking noises. Chris pulled back and licked his lips, then looked from Lance to JC and back again. "I don't--are you sure? And, C, man--I didn't know. I just. I mean. It's...cool, I'm cool. But. Um." "I had no idea," JC said softly, and he couldn't stop staring at Chris' lips, knowing they would taste like Lance if he were to lean over and lick across them. And okay, suddenly wanting to do that very much. Could he taste me on Lance's mouth? Is that what he was doing when he licked his lips? The thought sent heat spiking through his belly and he shivered. "I mean--this. It's okay. I'm, yeah. I'm cool, too." Stop staring at his mouth. Stop staring-- "You two should kiss," Lance said, and JC jumped a little, because God, did Lance read minds now, too? He stared at his hands and felt himself blushing a little, realizing just how very much he wanted Chris to say-- "Okay." Chris' voice was soft but sure, and when JC looked up, blinking, there Chris was, the bed shifting as he sat down. "That okay with you, C?" JC nodded, not trusting his voice to work. Oh, God. This was weird, this was awkward as hell, this was so not a good--oh. He felt his eyes flutter closed as Chris' mouth closed over his, soft, warm lips, so very warm. Unfamiliar, too--it's not like JC had never looked at Chris' mouth before, but to feel it against his own, to actually be kissing Chris--this was something else entirely. Something unbelievably fucking hot, because, God. Where Lance's kisses had been hungry, predatory almost, Chris' were slow, sensual, heady--JC could feel a curl of pleasure unwinding in his belly, and oh yeah, he could do this all night. Chris' hand was warm against his shoulder, and then warmer still as Chris moved it to cup the back of his neck, pulling them closer together. JC moaned softly, and Chris' tongue slipped past his lips, licking inside, tangling with his, tasting like Lance, like JC, and then there was the taste of Chris himself--and that was something JC definitely wanted more of. JC shifted on the bed, sliding closer, letting his own hands explore, touching Chris' face, feeling the movement of his jaw as they kissed, then moving down to the solid strength of Chris' shoulders. So sexy, kissing somebody new but not-new. Chris' teeth closed around JC's lower lip, gentle pressure, and JC felt the tug all the way down through his chest to his cock. JC opened his eyes, then, and found himself staring into brown-rimmed black. "Wow," Chris breathed, and JC just nodded before tilting his head for another kiss. This was insane. Or, just... freaky. But damn, it felt good, and when the bed shifted again, Lance settling himself on the other side of the narrow mattress, it seemed only natural for JC to move slightly and offer his mouth to Lance in turn. He was rewarded with a low growl and another nipping, biting kiss, and the shuddering pleasure of Lance's fingers once again slipping under his shirt, tracing ticklish heat up his ribs to--God, yes--his nipples. Lance's hands stayed on him, then, thumbs teasing over sensitive skin, as Lance soothed his lips with his tongue, then turned at least some of his attention back to Chris. Chris whimpered when Lance kissed him, and the sound echoed through JC's bloodstream. "Yeah," he breathed, watching their mouths move on each other, and dared to put a hand on the top button of Chris' shirt. Chris didn't seem to notice--well, not with Lance kissing him like that, JC thought--but Lance did, slanting a glance at JC and raising an eyebrow, silent permission. Which wasn't really right, it was Chris who needed to say it was okay, but JC's fingers worked the button anyway, stroking Chris' chest tentatively, and when Chris didn't say no, he moved to the next button, and the next. He unbuttoned as far down as he could with the way Chris was sitting, twisted at the waist so he could kiss Lance. Chris' chest was flushed with heat where JC bared it, and he couldn't help himself really, he just wanted to taste. Surely Chris wouldn't mind, and he looked like he was in no shape to give permission, with Lance's tongue licking deep into his mouth. So JC leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to Chris' sternum, then let his tongue slip out a little and move on smooth skin. He felt Chris' groan against his lips, and heard Lance's deeper one in response, and that gave him the courage to lick over to one nipple and suck. "Fuck, C." Chris slurred the words against Lance's lips, and if that wasn't the hottest thing JC'd ever heard, he didn't know... He licked again, sucked, and then used his teeth to tease up the little bud. It was getting hard to form complete thoughts. Then there was a shifting, and JC felt Lance move away. "Come on, guys," he purred. "I wanna see you together. Okay?" He pushed Chris down on the bed and JC reached after him to open the rest of the buttons as fast as his shaking hands would allow. Chris scrambled out of his shirt and then reached for the hem of JC's, yanking it up so fast JC was afraid it would tear. "Careful, man, I think it's yours," JC said, but his voice was muffled in the fabric and he didn't know if Chris heard, and then the shirt was off and JC didn't think of repeating it because Lance's hand was burning his back, pushing him down on top of Chris. "Now y'all kiss. I want to see." Lance moved over and knelt beside the bed, his elbows up on the mattress right beside them. "Give him your mouth, JC." Lance didn't need to ask him twice--JC was more than ready, more than willing, because oh fuck, yes--kissing Chris was fast becoming one of his favorite things to do. Maybe while Lance watched. Okay, especially while Lance watched. He'd never known Lance had such a voyeuristic streak, but then again, he'd never known he'd enjoy being watched so much, either. And obviously Chris was more than okay with it too, his hands curled around JC's hips, pulling him down, pressing the two of them tightly together. "More kissing, C?" he said, and yeah, JC thought, yeah, a lot more kissing. He leaned down to lick across Chris' lips and Chris opened up for him, the inside of his mouth hot and wet, his tongue slick against JC's own. "Yeah," Lance's voice, hot, moist breath ghosting over JC's cheek, "just like that. God, so fucking hot." JC felt a hand tangled in his hair--not Chris, because Chris' fingers were still holding onto him firmly--his grip tightening a little when JC rolled his hips. It was Lance, tugging a little, pulling JC's head back just enough for him to lean in and suck on his lips, nipping at the bottom one before turning his head a little and doing the same to Chris' mouth. "I wanted to taste you both," he whispered, licking over wet, red lips, his face flushed with heat. "Watching you both like that is really turnin' me on. Are you hard, too?" Oh, fuck yeah, JC thought, and he knew for a fact Chris was, too--he could feel Chris' dick, hot and hard, grinding against his every time he moved. "Yeah," he said softly, "yeah, I am." "Good." JC stole a quick look at Lance, and Lance's expression, the mingled pleasure and hunger, raised the fine hairs all over his body. God. So sexy, to be watched this way. "You good?" JC asked Chris, more to see the look in his eyes than really wanting an answer. "Is this okay?" He rolled his hips, stifling a groan as Chris bucked under him. "Good... fuck," Chris breathed. "Lance... you like this? You like watching us?" "Oh yeah." JC decided he had better uses for his mouth than talking, but Lance didn't have any such limitation. JC explored Chris' lips, his chin, his throat, to the soundtrack of Lance's muttered curses and praise. "Yeah, like that... oh, fuck, so hot, you guys, you should see yourselves..." Then Lance added his hands to the mix, first stroking JC's back, his arm, the nape of his neck. He was touching Chris, too, where he could reach; JC could see Lance's fingers tangling in Chris' hair, smoothing down his neck and shoulder. It was dizzying, kissing Chris and being petted like this, bombarded with pleasure. When Lance explored further, down over his ass, JC thought he might explode. "Oh! Jesus..." JC's teeth came together on Chris' skin, but Chris understood, was groaning too, as Lance's fingers reached between both of their legs to rub, caress, tease their balls through the maddening restriction of their pants. "Lance," JC whimpered, moving faster against Chris' willing resistance. "Oh, God, Chris, I'm gonna..." He could feel it, feel the tension, too much sensation, too much input, Chris' mouth, Chris' cock against his, Chris' hands, Lance's hands, Lance's voice... "That's it, C. Just let it happen." Lance's words were a growl in his ear, and JC felt them shiver down his spine, through his body. "Come on, baby. We want you to." He couldn't help it--he humped down on Chris' hip and started to come. Lance didn't let up, touching and whispering as JC shook and bucked on top of Chris. "Fuck, yeah, you're beautiful when you come." JC felt Lance's hands on him as the wet heat spread through his shorts. Chris was straining under JC, holding tight to his hips, providing the friction JC needed for his thrusts. Lance was still talking. "Can you feel it, Chris? How he shakes when he comes? He can't help it. He does it every time." Chris just whimpered, still hanging on as JC's hips slowed and JC buried his face in Chris' shoulder. If he wasn't so blissed out, he'd be dying of embarrassment. Then he felt a rush of motion beside him and Lance was there, leaning up closer to them on the bed, turning Chris' face to his, kissing him sloppily, sucking, tongue slicking out over Chris' chin and back into his mouth. JC stared. The angle was weird, but it was amazing, seeing it up close. Damn. Damn. He felt Chris' hips start to shift and twist beneath him. Chris pushed Lance away after a few more moments. "Shit, man," he gasped. "You better stop unless you want me to come, too." "You that close, huh?" It was more growled than spoken, Lance leaning back in to kiss Chris again, biting at his lips--Lance loved to bite, and JC wasn't sure which was sexier, experiencing it or seeing him do it to someone else--slick, wet flashes of tongue pink and obscene as JC watched them, heat still pooled in his belly. Chris' answer was a low moan, his body arching underneath JC's as Lance whispered against his lips, a steady stream of words, urging Chris on. And God, the things he was saying--JC could feel himself blush as he listened, a heady mix of embarrassment and desire trickling through him. Chris' hands were wrapped around his hips again, pulling JC close, rocking up against him, using the weight of his body for friction like JC had used him only a few moments before. It almost hurt, he was still so sensitive, but he found an angle that would let him give Chris what he needed without hitting his own dick straight-on. He ground down as Chris thrust up, and Chris groaned softly, rolling his hips restlessly. "C'mon, baby," Lance murmured, "feels so good, right? C'mon, you know you want to. C'mon." Over and over, licking the words into Chris' mouth, running his fingers through Chris' hair, stroking his jaw. God, thought JC, this has to be the hottest fucking thing ever-- And then Chris thrust up again, hard, urgent, breath hissing between his teeth, fingers digging bruisetight into JC's skin. "Fuck," he gasped, "oh fuck, oh fuck--" His whole body tensed for a moment, and then JC could feel Chris shuddering underneath him, against him, and when he twisted his head just a little, he could see Chris' head arched back against the pillow, eyes shut and his throat working as he came. "You look so hot," Lance was whispering against Chris' neck, "so fucking hot, baby." He saw JC watching and grinned, licking his lips. "So pretty when he comes, C. Just like you." JC felt himself flush a little more, and blinked at Lance. Chris was still panting underneath him. "Well, how about you?" Lance looked surprised for a second, then grinned wider. "You've already seen me." "Yeah," JC said slowly. "But I think..." he poked Chris on the shoulder with his chin. "I think we wanna see you now. Right, Chris?" Chris moaned wordlessly, but it sounded like agreement. JC looked pointedly at Lance. "See? It's only fair." Lance pushed himself back from the edge of the bed and stood up. "I'm not arguin', man. I just wanna make sure y'all are both paying attention first." Then he peeled his undershirt up and pulled it off over his head. When his fingers dipped back down, into the waist of his pants, JC's breath caught in his throat. He nudged Chris to make sure he was watching. Then Lance pushed his pants down over his hips and let them drop to the floor. He wasn't hesitant at all. In fact, his dick was standing straight out from his body, pointing lewdly at them, swollen and red, and JC wondered how Lance had been able to wait even this long. Lance sat down on the other bed, a few feet away from them, and spread his legs. He looked over at them with a grin. "So, are y'all gonna watch me now or what?" "Fuck, yeah," Chris said, and it seemed like he'd recovered. Then JC felt Chris shift beneath him, and he lifted up a little so they could move around. Chris turned on his side to face Lance, and JC rolled over to fit himself to Chris' back, propping his head up on one hand so he could see Lance over Chris' head. Damn. It felt so good, being next to Chris this way. JC leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the side of Chris' neck, keeping his eyes on Lance. Lance sat facing them on the edge of the other bed, his legs splayed wide, his stiff dick pointing skyward. He leaned back a little, balancing with one hand, and with the other he rubbed down his belly. "Y'all don't know how hot you are together," he said softly. "I've been thinking about it for a long time." JC slid his free hand around Chris' waist and pulled them closer together. God. Lance thought about them together? Like, fantasized about it? He wondered why he hadn't thought to do that. Because Chris was seriously hot. "Watching you kiss, God. I can't even tell you how horny it makes me." Lance slid his hand lower now, slipping his fingers around the base of his cock. "Y'all have no idea." JC stared as Lance held himself tightly, then started to move his hand. "Sometimes..." Lance breathed, speaking almost in time with his strokes, "I think about... like, watching you... And it makes me so... fuckin' hard." He stopped talking for a minute, lifting his hand to his face to lick his palm. He stared across at JC and Chris, eyes dark, as his hand went back to his cock. "Touch him, C. Put your hand in his pants." JC's hand was already at the front of Chris' waistband, and the jeans were so baggy--probably Joey's, he thought--that it was easy enough for him to slide his fingers down the front, pushing under the waistband of his boxers and down to the head of Chris' dick, slippery and hot. "Ohhh, fuck, C," Chris whispered, bucking back against JC. "Yeah..." Lance whispered, stroking himself again now. "And--shit. That's not all... I'm thinkin' 'bout." "Tell--tell us," Chris gasped, pushing his dick into JC's fingers, not hard again yet, but slick and swollen and just--really nice. Lance ran his thumb over the slick head of his own cock and groaned, baring his teeth for a second. "Fuck. I think about, oh, fuck... y'all. Both, like. Fucking me." He shuddered visibly as he spoke the words. "Jesus fuck, Lance." Chris shuddered the words out; JC felt his body ripple from head to toe, and the cock in his hand twitched, hardened a bit. JC licked at Chris' neck again, not moving his eyes from Lance. He agreed with Chris. Even trying to picture it was enough to make his brain short out. "Do you come like that?" he asked quietly, stroking Chris slowly. Chris pressed forward into his hand, then back against him, and JC rubbed himself shamelessly against Chris. "Thinking about us fucking you?" "Yeees--" Lance drew the word out slowly, thrust his hips forward. JC watched his dick disappear and reappear in the tunnel of his hand. He wanted to lick the slick beads of moisture off the tip. "God. I--both of you. First Chris, then you, C..." He pinched a nipple and moaned softly. JC shifted around on the bed so he could sit up, pulling Chris with him, between his legs. Better. Much better. He could touch more of Chris this way. "How would we do it, Lance?" Chris arched into JC's touch. JC could feel him shivering, a constant quiver that was actually pretty sexy. He scraped his teeth over the side of Chris' neck, watched Lance lick his lips. "Push me to my back," Lance shifted on the other bed--Chris' bed, JC realized--"spread my legs. Touch me." He dragged his free hand down from his nipples, cupped his balls, then dipped lower. JC twitched. When Lance spread his legs wide and circled the small hole gently with the tip of one finger, JC whimpered against Chris' neck. Chris responded with a whimper of his own. "Slick me up, and finger me--because that's so fucking hot. And I know Chris likes that." Even in the dim light, JC could see the flash of Lance's grin, and he filed that away for later. Chris likes fingering. "I do, too," JC said softly, closing his fist around Chris' hard-on. Lance moaned in unison with Chris. "You like to be fingered, C. Chris loves to do it." JC watched--stared--when Lance pressed his finger inside, just the tip, but it seemed to him Lance's body opened eagerly, anticipating. JC wanted to be there, be the one pressing his fingers inside. "Both," JC gasped softly. "I like both." "Fucking A," Chris groaned. "Jesus, Lance." He shifted away from JC, turned and gave him a quick, hard kiss, then slid off the bed to kneel in front of Lance. JC watched Lance spread his legs wide, hunger boiling through him when Chris sucked two fingers into his mouth to wet them, then stroked them over and around before pressing them into Lance. In with the one Lance still had inside himself. Oh Jesus, Jesus. Lance moaned, arching up into the pressure, his face tense with concentration, with need. "Yeah," Lance breathed, the strain making his voice darker than usual, grittier. "Fuck, Chris..." It was beyond anything JC'd ever imagined. Better than porn, oh yeah, by a long shot. Nobody in porn ever looked half as sexy as Lance, face flushed, head thrown back, still jacking himself slowly. Or Chris, all his intensity focused on his two fingers, thrusting deliberately into Lance. JC could almost feel it, feel the tightness of Lance's body, the heat. And at the same time, feel Chris' fingers, blunt and hard, pressing into him. He shuddered again, moving forward, needing to touch. Not sure what his part in this was, but then Chris raised his hand again and spat, and Yes, JC thought, that was something he could help with. They hadn't been together that many times, but Lance was a creature of habit. It was hard, turning away from the two of them, even for a minute, but he knelt quickly by Lance's duffel bag, feeling inside for the... yes. Yes. When JC slid onto the floor next to the bed, Lance blinked at him dazedly, eyes glassy with lust. JC leaned forward and kissed him, licking deep into Lance's mouth, feeling the difference from all the other times they'd kissed. "Here," JC whispered, feeling the wantonness of the situation ripple through him, his body reacting to the thought even before he did anything. Even before he fumbled with the tube and squeezed gel into his hand, even before he reached down to slide his slippery fingers next to Chris', next to--God--Lance's. To Lance's entrance... and inside. "Let me help." "Yeah, C, yeah," Lance whimpered, opening his legs--impossibly--wider. Chris pulled his fingers back a little, to make room, and then JC felt it, the tightness of Lance around his two fingers, hot and snug and just--everything. The muscles smooth and strong, clenching a little when he pushed a fraction of an inch deeper. "Oh, please, yes," Lance muttered, and his own finger slipped out of his ass, making room for JC and Chris to go deeper. JC stared at the place where they joined, where his fingers and Chris' disappeared together into Lance. He'd never thought, never imagined... but it wasn't really as strange as he would've thought, sharing like this. And that in itself was probably weird, but somehow he wasn't worried. Well, whatever. Chris turned to him then and kissed him, open-mouthed, and it just all felt so good. Their fingers kept twisting into Lance slowly, not really deep but so very hot. Finally Chris pulled back a little and said, "Ready?" JC wasn't sure which of them he was asking, but he answered at the same time as Lance. "Oh, yeah." Chris fumbled with one of the condoms JC had dropped beside him, while JC fucked his fingers in and out in a slow, steady rhythm. Lance shivered under his hand, the muscles of his thighs pulled taut. "Play with your nipples," JC said quietly, twisting his fingers. Lance grunted and sucked in a deep breath, and oh, God--JC could see him, tugging and pinching at one with his free hand. "Both hands, Lance." Lance whimpered, gave himself one last stroke before letting go. JC leaned up and licked the tip of his dick, the strong saltbitter flavor spreading over his tongue. Beside him, Chris had the rubber open, but was watching him, watching Lance. JC grinned and slipped his fingers out slowly, liking the way Lance writhed. "JC--" "Shhh. Hang on." He turned to Chris and took the condom. "Need help?" Chris laughed, deep and low, and JC thought how it sounded different from his usual laugh. Darker, more suggestive. It made warmth curl through him, run red-hot through his veins, made his dick throb at the promise. "If you're offering, sure." "Unzip, man." And oh, God, watching Chris wriggle out of those loose pants was so, so good. And it wasn't like he'd never seen him, but up close, with Chris so obviously turned on, his dick hard and swollen, arching away from his body and curling just slightly inward, the tip red and slick-- JC swallowed hard and leaned in, caught Chris' eyes and held them while he licked from the base to the tip, then sucked the crown into his mouth briefly, tasting the evidence of Chris' first orgasm. Beside them, he heard Lance growl, low and deep, felt Chris' hands go to his head. "JC--Jesus--" He pulled back and rolled the condom down over Chris' dick, felt him throb against his fingertips. "I think you're ready," he laughed, his stomach tight and hot with the knowledge he was about to watch Chris fuck Lance. It was... surreal. Like being drunk, being high. This couldn't be happening, he couldn't be sitting here watching--helping--kneeling on the thin carpet, the air in the small room stuffy, dense. Weighted with the smell of sweat and sex and God, Chris wasn't wasting any time, was he? Not that he had much of a choice, with Lance grabbing at him, pulling Chris down on top of him, writhing under him, hips arching up, legs high--who knew Lance was so limber?--and kissing his mouth, God, their tongues; Lance kissed like he needed it, like he was starving, and he was talking, too, panting almost, "C'mon, c'mon, Chris, don't tease me..." The words were a plea, but Lance's tone--JC couldn't imagine anyone not obeying. Note to self, he thought: If you ever really need something, have Lance ask for it. And that idea, coming in the middle of this, this pornographic fantasy, was so weird that he wondered for a moment if he was dreaming, if this was all the product of too much German beer and not enough rest. But then Lance managed to get Chris where he wanted him, pressing up while his hands urged Chris down, the tip of Chris' cock sliding slick into Lance's body, and JC didn't have any brain cells left to think about dreams. "Oh--" Lance gasped. "Oh, yeah, Chris, yeah--" Lance's nails were biting into Chris' sides; JC could see the red half-moons. "Fuck, so good--yeah, deeper, c'mon, I know you can, know you like it, you know how I like it..." It was--God, he didn't have words. Just, didn't. JC was pretty sure his brain was completely melted, and all available blood was currently pulsing and throbbing in his dick, heat zig-zagging through him like streaks of lightning. Lance just--opened, for Chris. His body opened, pulled him in, not fast, but slow and steady and it made JC's belly twist with lust. He wanted to be the one sliding in, wanted to feel that incredible heat surrounding him, slick and tight, tighter when Lance bore down and clenched around him. He groaned and realized he'd started stroking himself. Chris pushed Lance's legs up, bending him nearly double, and JC shuddered, not sure, actually, which end he wanted to be on: fucking or being fucked. Because, wow. He stepped closer and ran a hand down Chris' back, felt the muscles bunching and relaxing there as he pumped into Lance. Heard Lance's soft litany of filthy words and gasps and pleas, in a voice that seemed to shake the ground, it was such a low rumble. Listened to Chris pant and mew and growl. "JC--kiss me--Jesus, Chris," Lance shuddered when Chris wriggled his hips, then groaned, and JC leaned in to catch the sound, swallow it down into himself. Lance tasted like salt--sweat, he's sweaty--and JC licked his mouth, sucked on his tongue before pulling away and licking at Chris' mouth, nipping at his lower lip. Chris tightened his grip on Lance and opened wide, tilting his head a little so JC could kiss him deep, tongue slicking around the inside of his mouth. He tasted hot, like beer and Lance and probably, JC thought, like JC too. JC worked one hand into Chris' hair and tugged his head closer, deepened the kiss. He stroked his free hand over Lance's chest and heard a rumbly keening sound when he pinched a tight, erect nipple. Chris' thrusts were gaining speed as JC kissed him, deep and hot, and soon he began to shudder and JC could tell from his shortened strokes that he was getting close. He let Chris go and went back to kissing Lance, holding Lance's hands above his head now to keep him from touching his cock. Lance was grunting with every stroke of Chris' dick, every time Chris buried himself, and JC felt Lance's noises echoing in his own head. "Fuck... oh, fuck. Gonna--God!--gonna come," Chris gasped, and JC felt the shocks of his thrusts jolting through Lance's body and into his own, harder and harder. Chris wailed when he started to come. JC sat up again then, still holding Lance's wrists crossed on the pillow, and watched. Chris was red, sweat rolling down his face, every muscle in his body straining as he jerked and thrust, fucking into Lance over and over. God. God. JC was so hard. He'd just come, not fifteen minutes before, and he was so hard, he thought his dick was going to poke a hole in the front of his pants. He thought he was going to weep from it. When Chris' thrusts finally slowed, then stopped, JC felt Lance tense under his hands and realized that Chris was already pulling out. He knew what was next. And maybe he should think twice, but damn, he wanted it too much. He let go of Lance and pushed his sweatpants down over his hips. Chris was still breathing heavily as he helped JC get out of his pants and roll the condom on. Of course, he still managed to talk the whole time. "Hang on, Lance. Hang on. C's gonna be right there. C'll fix you up, man." JC's hands weren't working so well, so Chris lubed him once he got the rubber on, and then leaned over to kiss him deeply. "Go for it, C. He's so ready for you." Chris positioned JC between Lance's thighs and smacked him on the ass, once. "Ride 'em, cowboy." Lance choked on a laugh, his eyes crazy and huge, and tucked his hands behind his knees to pull his legs wide open again. "Come on, C," he gasped, "giddy up." Oh God. This was crazy. Crazy. He had to be high, had to be imagining this, but Lance was pushing himself down, not begging so much as demanding, and JC's cock sure wasn't going to argue. "Fuck," he managed, feeling Lance's ass warm and slick against his cockhead and oh, sweet Lord, he didn't even have to thrust, barely, just ease on in, no resistance, frictionless, just welcoming heat. "You want me to ride you," he half-laughed, "ride you like a--oh, fuck--" Lance was rocking up against him, muscles clenching, and JC wasn't sure he'd survive it. "Yeah, C," Lance panted, "yeah, so good, love the way you--" JC managed to gather enough control to shift his hips, that little swivel that always made Lance groan. "God, yes. Just keep doin' that... for-fucking-ever..." Lance's eyes were closed now, his face turned a little to the side, sucking air but lips curved in a smile. Bliss. Oh yeah. Like a dictionary illustration for it. And JC wanted to keep giving it to him, just like that, making him shudder and sigh and bite at his own lips until Chris leaned in and--fuck, so hot--bit them for him. "Yeah, baby," Chris was whispering. "Greedy baby. Takes two of us to satisfy you, huh? 'sokay, we're glad to do it, right, C?" Glancing up, catching JC's eye just for a second and he could recognize Chris' expression, felt it deep in his own chest, a giddy astonished sort of fear and gratitude, that something like this could be happening, could feel so. damn. good. That Lance was under him, pulling him closer, harder, nodding and licking at Chris and moaning in that low, rough voice for more, yeah, just like that, so good... "Can you--" JC almost choked on the words, not sure where they'd come from, but now the idea was in his head, full-blown, licking flame up his spine and tightening his balls, "Can you come like this? Lance, can you--I've always wondered--if I, God, if I can hold on," big if there, but what an incentive to try, "do you think you can--" "God--" Lance moaned the word, then drew in a long, deep breath and looked JC straight in the eye. "I wanna. Give it to me, C." He clenched tight around JC and the heat of that made JC tighten his grip, wondering if he could already see bruisedark smudges or if he only imagined them. "Pin his wrists, Chris." He whispered the words, watched a long shiver work its way through Lance, with an answering one going through Chris. "So hot, Lance." He slid his hands up the backs of Lance's thighs, catching his legs easily when Chris drew his arms up and back. "Kiss him. Long, wet...fuck his mouth while I fuck him." He hissed the last words as Lance clenched again, rocking toward him, and JC grinned, baring his teeth, and swiveled his hips. Lance growled and arched upward. It was tempting, so tempting, to watch Chris kiss him, but JC was determined now; Lance was going to come like this or he'd die trying. JC closed his eyes as Chris covered Lance's mouth with his, a quick flash of pink, slick tongue stroking inward, and that was all he needed to see. He imagined Chris' tongue sliding lewdly in and out, swirling around, and thrust faster, harder, shifting and swiveling to change his angle. He knew he was hitting Lance just right when even the wet, sloppy sounds of their kiss couldn't block out the low, pleading groan. "Feels so good to fuck you," he growled. "You're hot--so hot, Lance. All slick and open, and God, it's a turn-on, knowing that's 'cos Chris fucked you first... God--" JC opened his eyes when Lance screwed himself downward, his body seeming to suck JC in deeper. "Little slut...ohgod, Lance." Chris wasn't kissing him anymore; he'd moved down to bite and suck at Lance's nipples, making Lance wiggle and shift, body shuddering and tightening all around JC's. It was like being enveloped in something red-hot, thick, steamy heat swirling all around him. "JC, Jesus--just... so close... so... please--" "C'mon, baby, you can do it--" JC hoped he could; he wanted Lance to come this way. Begging on his cock. God, what's going on? He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt like this, turned on so bad he ached down to his bones. And it was all wrapped up in Chris and Lance, in the triangle they had balanced here. "Come on, Lance. Want you to come, baby. Come on my cock... c'mon..." He rocked inward again, angling to hit that spot, shivering when the first low growl rolled out, thunder pealing softly. "Oh fuck, JC... fuck--" The fact that Lance could still even form words was amazing--the fact that he was doing it while rolling his hips in a way that was making JC see stars behind closed eyelids was even more impressive. He swore softly under his breath and swiveled his hips slightly, changing the angle of his thrusts, because JC was going to make sure Lance came first, he was-- Lance groaned again, long, low, almost a sob. JC could feel him tensing--God, so fucking tight, oh God--and then he was rocking up against JC, his entire body shuddering and twisting, and JC held on, riding through it. "That's it," Chris was murmuring, "that's it, baby... oh God, Lance, so hot... yeah--" "Fuck--" JC was close, so close, but he had to look, had to see-- and he opened his eyes, blinking back sweat, trying to focus. God. Lance's head was thrown back, his neck arched, Chris sucking and licking his throat, his jaw, his lips, whispering to him as he came in long, thick spurts all over his belly. I did that, JC thought, me and Chris, we did that to him-- White-hot flame crackling along his spine, and Lance pulsing slick and tight around him, and JC couldn't stop now, even if he wanted to. Heat uncoiled through him in a rush, instinct carrying his body along, his hips fucking into Lance, and then he was coming so hard it almost hurt. He wasn't sure exactly how long his bones were on fire, but when his vision cleared he was still buried deep inside Lance, still feeling Lance's body shudder with aftershocks. "Oh, God." He closed his eyes long enough to try to regain some motor control, then just breathed for another minute before gingerly pulling out. God, they were both going to be sore, and he just had to hope Lance thought it was as worth it as he did. He ditched the condom into the trash before collapsing at Lance's side. Lance shifted closer, something that might have been a snuggle if either of them had had the energy for it. Smiling at him, loose and boneless. "God, C." He shivered again, a full-body ripple, and if that wasn't a purr, JC didn't know what the word meant. "We are definitely gonna have to do that again." Caught off guard, JC coughed weakly. "Again?" It came out a lot closer to a squeak than he'd have hoped. Lance chuckled. "Well, not right this minute." The bed was way too narrow for three, but Chris nudged Lance's legs over far enough to wriggle in on his other side. "Right," he said, leaning down to lap at the mess on Lance's belly, "Definitely... need to take a few minutes, at least. For clean-up." He sounded awfully composed, JC thought, but then he'd had a little longer to recover. JC waited, listening to his heartbeat, letting his mind catch up with where he was, what had happened. He watched Chris' mouth, Chris' tongue. Watched Lance sigh, fingers tangling loosely in Chris' hair. This--them--whatever had just happened here, whatever they'd done, it could be awfully... weird. Now that they weren't in the middle of things. But Chris just raised an eyebrow at him, one corner of his mouth curving in a smile, and JC decided worrying didn't seem like a very rewarding way to spend his time. Especially not when there was more of Lance's skin to be licked. He tilted up, groaning weakly, and kissed Lance's mouth first, soft and wet and sweet, before moving lower, sliding his tongue over smooth, salty skin, cleaning the spots Chris hadn't been able to reach. Lance hummed softly under their combined attention, stretching and cracking his neck, sated. It was... comfortable, JC realized, as Lance's fingernails traced gentle paths down his back. It wasn't anything most people would call normal, he knew. But then most people weren't as used to sharing as they were. ~fin~

School's out and I'm a little terrified. Senior year in the fall and this summer I'm not sure if I'm going to be visiting Stoneybrook. My mom told me she and Richard are going to Brazil for about a month and although it would be amazing to spend a big chunk of the summer with Mary Anne, I'd like to visit Stoneybrook to see my mom. Sunny and I haven't made any plans yet. We should plan our whole summer soon I think - everyone else is going to be gone and I don't want a boring do-nothing-everyday kind of summer. Maggie decided to accompany Tyler to the movie set of his next film over in Europe and won't be back until the day before school starts. I think it's sweet she and him are still together even if I'll miss her this summer while she's gone. Amalia is visiting family in Mexico which she's really excited about and Ducky is visiting Alex in Chicago for a couple weeks, up until Alex is supposed to be released from the facility he's at and then they're going to go on a roadtrip back here or something. I hope everyone calls often. Mostly, it'll just be me and Sunny. - - - "I'm bored." "Me too." "Wanna go to the beach?" "I don't want to move. It's too hot. I can't imagine being around hot sand." "The mall?" "Don't you think we've grown out of the mall?" "Sprinklers in the backyard?" "Yeah, all right." - - - Sunny and I do a lot of surfing, something we haven't done much of since we were pre-teens. It's a little like riding a bicycle for us as we wait in the waves, splashing water at each other and talking, joking. We're also showing off a little. It's hot here in the summer so the Pacific feels phenomenal. Sunny and I wear bathing suits. Two piece bathing suits because to be honest, neither of us are iffy about our bodies. Sunny does a lot of flirting. I do a little myself, but it's mostly just to be polite to the guys who pay me attention. I'm not looking for a fling or relationship right now. As we wait for a wave, I sigh before sliding off my board and into the water. "What are you doing?" Sunny snorts. "I was getting hot," I reply as I hoist myself up back on and run my hands over my face, pushing off the excess water. I glance at Sunny who's giving me a sort of odd look, a lingering look that sends a shock of something up my spine and completely through me. "What're you looking at?" I ask, splashing some water at her. She shakes her head, getting out of her own headspace. "Nothin', Blondie. Hey, a wave." - - - Sunny and I decided that since we don't even know where we want to go to college and thus might be seperated after senior year, we need to spend as much time together as possible between now and day one of college. Most nights I spend the night at her house. We love Gracie, but she can get bothersome. It's sweet because she looks up to us and I should be used to little children due to all my babysitting experience, but maybe I've lost it. I love kids, but can't find the energy to entertain Gracie all evening when all I want to do is be with Sunny. - - - "Would you rather. . ." Sunny asks. We've been playing this game for almost an hour as I mindlessly flip through Sunny's old magazines and she channel surfs with the television on mute. "Lose your virginity to a pervy old man or live in a haunted house for the rest of your life?" "What the hell, Sunny?" I ask. Her choices have gotten stranger and stranger as the hour has gone on and I'm about to call it quits. "Well, which would you rather do?" "Which would you rather do?" She stops flicking channels and looks thoughtful. "Pervy old man. Definitely." "Ew, gross. Why?" "So you'd rather live in a haunted house? You'd rather be scared all the time and never get a decent night's sleep for the rest of your life?" "I'm not saying that but why would you indulge a pervert's fantasies?" "Because you only have to do it once. You fuck him and you're done! Move on with your life," she responds. It sounds like she thought a lot about it in the short time she was thinking. She makes a good point. "Have you?" "Have I what?" her eyes are glued to the television again as she surfs, finding nothing. "Have you had sex?" "With a pervy old man?" she asks incredulously, joking. "Sunny," I scold with a breath of laughter. "No, but I really want to, just to get it over with, you know?" "Haven't you had opportunities?" "Yeah, but I chickened out. I sort of talked to Carol about it, asked her about her first time-" "She didn't actually tell you, did she?" I interject. "Yes," Sunny laughs. "You're not going to tell me about it are you?" "Only if you want me to," she turns the television off and I flip the magazine closed. "No thanks." "Anyway, she said it does hurt, which I expect, but it doesn't make me any less scared about it." "The girl who's got too many piercings is scared of pain?" you kid. Sunny rolls her eyes. "It's a different pain and the piercings don't hurt that much!" A beat of silence passes between us. "You could always stretch yourself, you know," I advise with a slight blush. "And you would suggest and know this because. . .?" "Just trying to help." "Have you had sex, Dawn?" "No!" I say defensively. "Do you want to?" "Someday, yeah." "Have you ever. . . you know, masturbated?" I gnaw on my lip anxiously. I never wanted to admit to anyone that I had tried it a couple times. "Have you?" "I'll tell if you tell." "A couple times. . ." "Did you, like, penetrate yourself?" "Um, yeah. . ." "Hands or dildo or what?" "Sunny!" I can feel that I'm blushing pretty bad at this point and want to turn the conversation to her. "Answer and then that's it, I swear." "Hands." "Did you orgasm?" "Sunny! You said you'd stop." "Last question. Then you can ask me. Answer, please?" she gives me a pouty lip and ducks her head. "Yeah, I did. Now you answer: have you masturbated?" "One last question?" she grins with hope, holding up a finger to signify that it's one question. "Sunn-y," I whine and warn. "Just one! I'll answer it too, okay? I'll answer all the questions I've asked you and then some if you want. Just answer one more for me." "Who where you thinking about, what was happening when you came?" she sounds excited to hear my imaginary sex story. I feel awkward and moreso by the second. "Tom Murphy," I murmur and Sunny squeals. "You mean that boy on the track team? He't got a nice body. Good on you, Dawn!" My face is burning. "So, Tom Murphy made you come? What was he doing?" "You said that was a-" "I believe I said who and what was happening when you came," she corrects and I grumble. "We were in the locker room," I avoid looking at her. When I glance at her she's biting her lip in anticipation to hear my fantasy and decide to not glance at her again. "It was after he'd had track practice although I'm not sure what I was doing there." "It's a fantasy, Dawn, roll with it. Continue." "He'd finished showering and I went into the shower room and the shower was still on and there was steam everywhere. I approached him, he turned around, and he saw me. He kissed me and in my head, Sunny, it was. . . Wow, pretty awesome and powerful. We're in the shower just making out you know and getting wet from the steam and ugh, it was nice." "Then what happened?" Sunny asks, getting into my fantasy. "I'll spare you the details, but I was disrobed and he did amazing things with his hands-" "You mean your hands?" she giggles. I give her a pointed look. "And that did the trick. Now your turn. Have you pleasured yourself, Sunshine Winslow?" The phone starts ringing and Sunny jumps up to get it. After she answers it and has a quick conversation with her dad - who's been more attentive since Mrs. Winslow passed away, but still spends almost every waking hour at the book store. She settles back on the couch next to me and asks, "So where were we?" "You were going to tell me if you've ever, you know, masturbated?" "Oh, right," she looks away from me. Creasing my eyebrow I think I know what she's trying to tell me without words. "You've never tried it?" "Nope," she admits, like it's bad. "It's not a big deal, Sunny. Actually, I feel kind of weird having done it now cause you haven't. . ." "Why?" "Well, I figured if any of us had any sexual experience, with ourselves or anyone else, it would be you." She smiles knowingly. "Yeah, guess not." There's an awkward silence, which doesn't happen often between us. "Want to order pizza?" Sunny asks. "Sure." "Veggie?" "I was thinking just cheese," I respond as she grabs the phone and dials. - - - Amalia calls me from Mexico. I'm still thinking about the conversation I had with Sunny a few days before but I'm not sure why. "Hi, Dawn!" she says. "Hey, Amalia. How's Mexico?" "It's so great, just being here and seeing my family. You should see the beaches here. They're amazing!" "Good, I'm glad you're having so much fun." "How are you and Sunny? What have you been up to?" "Not much. We've sort of been trying to relive our childhoods, playing in sprinklers and eating alien faces." "Alien faces?" "When we were little we'd make what Sunny's mom called alien faces. You put peanut butter on bread and get M&Ms and sprinkles and cheerios and stuff like that and make a face and eat it." "That's so cute. We have to do that when I come back!" "When is that anyway?" "It's supposed to be in two weeks, but my cousins want me to stay longer so I can meet their friends who are in Mérida - we're in Puerto Vallarta, so I might be trading the plane tickets for a later flight." "Aw," I whine. "Sunny and I miss you!" "I miss you guys, too." She asks about how everyone from Vanish is doing (which I don't know the answer to, so I give generic answers like, 'fine' and 'good') and asks if anyone else has called me or Sunny this summer, which they haven't that much. All having too much fun I guess. "Amalia?" I ask tentatively after several minutes of inane conversation. "Hmm?" "Have you. . . Okay this is a really akward and random question, but Sunny and I were talking about it," I start. "Yeah?" "Have you ever had sex?" even though it's on the phone, I'm blushing. There's a beat of silence before she answers, "Sorry, had to go to my room so my mom or dad wouldn't hear, but, um, yeah." "Oh," I reply, a little surprised. "With Brendan?" "Yeah," "Oh, good. I was worried you'd meant James because we were, like, fourteen, you know?" "Yeah, no. Brendan. We did it recently, actually. In May, I think?" "Well good for you. I think it's nice you trust him enough to do that, you know? Oh! Sunny, if I tell her, will want to ask you about it. Do you mind if I tell her?" "No, go ahead." "She'll probably mention it if you call her," I say with a breath of laughter. "Dawn, I have to go. My mom is telling me to get off the phone and visit with my family. Plus, it's almost dinner time." "Aw, okay then. I'm glad you called." "Me too!" "I miss you." "Miss you more," she challenges. "Kisses." "Kisses." "Talk to you later." "Adios, mi amor." - - - Sunny calls me halfway through the summer and asks me to come over so of course I do. "What is it, Sunny?" I ask. "Okay, so I was thinking about that conversation about masturbation we had a few weeks ago, right?" "Uh-huh," I acknowledge. "And so I tried it," she seems pretty excited. "What'd you think?" "I think why didn't I try it sooner?! It was amazing, Dawn. I really didn't expect it to be like that at all." "So what'd you think about? Details?" I ask, tickling her arm. She looks a little bashful, but her eyes are still lit up in excitement. Her cheeks are stained pink. "Nothin'," she replies and I look at her pointedly. "Come on, you drew my entire fantasy out of me. Spill!" "Not my fault you're a chatter box!" she teases, shoving me slightly, grinning. "Tell me the who, what, where," I nudge. "Fine, I'll throw you a bone. It was here in my house and there was this really heavy make out session with a ton of groping and hands in each other's pants. Magical, magical hands." "But you won't tell me who?" "Nope." "It's someone we know, huh? Oh my God, was it Ducky?" I ask. "No!" she blushes. "It wasn't Ducky." A beat of silence. "Don't tell, but I think Ducky might be gay and just doesn't know it," she says with a small shrug. "Really?" I question. "Yeah. I mean, how perfect would we have been together and he just wouldn't? And have you ever seen him with or talk about or even look at girls?" "No. . ." "On top of that, he's, like, crazy obsessed and attached to Alex. Are you seriously telling me you've never thought of it?" "Not really, but it does make sense. So, if it wasn't Ducky, who was it?" "No one. Hey, let's go see a movie," she grabs her bag and keys and we go to the theatre. I think it's a little weird she's avoiding it so much, but if she doesn't want to tell me, I can't force her. Plus, going to the movies will get us out of the heat and into someplace air conditioned. - - - Carol and my dad are out tonight, Jeff is at a friend's, and Gracie is fast asleep in her room. Sunny and I are in my room. She brought over a bottle of Vermouth. I'm surprised she still drinks after all the drunken mishaps she's had since eighth grade. But drink she does and every once in a while, I take a gulp or two with her. She puts the bottle to her lips and swigs back a few large gulps, straining and tightlipped as she swallows it. I cringe at her and take the bottle, pouring a shot into the shot glass I got from the kitchen, throwing it down my throat. "Lightweight," she calls me. "No, responsible." "Pfft," she waves my words away before leaning over to take the bottle from me. "No, you've had enough," I snicker as she leans against me. Truthfully, Sunny could hold a lot more but I don't see why I should allow her to gorge herself on the stuff. Right now she's just tipsy. She sighs and rests her head on my shoulder. "Dawn, do you think we'll always be friends?" "Duh," I reply, placing the bottle on my side table. "No, I mean, do you think we'll always be able to hang out. Or do you think we'll be like our parents and move to different places and never see our friends again?" "Course not," I whisper and begin playing with her hair. She nestles her head deeper into the crook of my neck and shoulder. "Hmm, that feels nice," she tells me as I keep running my fingers along her scalp and through her strands of hair. "Your hair is soft," I compliment. She lifts her head up and kisses my jawline softly, like she would kiss me on the cheek or forehead. Sunny and I are just touchy like that, like best friends just are. "Your skin is soft," she plants a firm kiss on my cheek, reaching up. I face her and smile my thanks. She makes a humming noise low in her throat before pushing herself up and touching her lips to mine. I don't even think, I just respond and purse my lips against hers. It's almost an ideal kiss - her lips are soft and perfect, but the kiss is firm and undeniable. She parts her lips slightly and I reciprocate the action. A shiver runs through me as her tongue tentatively grazes my bottom lip and I sigh into her mouth. She sits up more, pressing desperately against my lips, one of her hands gripping my shoulder. I find one of my hands gently cupping the side of her neck. Her other hand threads through my hair as she pushes me back a little so she's slightly leaning over me when the phone rings. She jumps away from me and I gasp. She runs an anxious hand through her hair as I slip off my bed and answer the cordless receiver I've kept in my room in case there was a call while Sunny and I were hanging out. "Oh, hi, Mom," I answer cheerily, honestly surprised to hear from her. Sunny seems to clam up a little as I settle at the edge of my bed to talk with her. "Hi, sweetie. How's your summer been?" "Good, great. How's Brazil?" "Well that's why I'm calling. Richard had a little accident and broke his leg-" "Oh no! Is he okay?" I ask, worried. "Yes, he's fine, but we've had to cut our vacation short because of it. So I was wondering if you'd like to come visit Stoneybrook afterall." "Oh," I say, surprised and unsure. "Can I think about it and get back to you?" "Of course, honey." "Are you home already?" "No, but we will be in a few days. How about you think about it and I'll call you when I get home?" "Sounds great." "I love you, Dawn." "Love you too, Mom. Bye." I hang up and look to Sunny who looks at me like she's sorry for kissing me. I ignore her look and tell her about the call. "My mom wants me to visit Stoneybrook." "Hmm," is all she says and starts biting at one of her fingernails, small flecks of nail polish scattering on her lips. "She's gonna call back in a couple days." Silence. "I think I'm going to go. . ." "Oh, cool," she says lamely, like she's trying to sound upbeat and positive about it. - - - I decide to go to Stoneybrook for a week. Sunny's acted weird since we kissed at my house. I feel maybe she thinks I'm leaving on purpose even though she's the one acting strange about it. I figure these things happen between friends sometimes and to be honest, I kind of liked it. Sunny knows how to kiss. We say goodbye for the week in front of my house before my dad drives me to the airport and I wait an obnoxiously long time to get on a flight that takes me to Tennessee so I can transfer planes to Connecticut, but not before waiting more. I think about Sunny almost the whole time. I miss her already. - - - It's wonderful to see my mom and Mary Anne, but I'm not as excited or happy to be here as I thought I'd be. In fact, I'm only enthralled when on my second day in Stoneybrook Sunny calls me. "Sunny, it's so good to hear from you," I breathe with a smile, shutting myself into my room. "I miss you," she pouts. "I'll be back in five days! Be strong," I joke. "Yeah, listen, I need to talk to you. Like, serious talk." "Did something happen? What'd you do? You're not calling me from. . . from jail or anything, are you?" I ask, worried. She did that only once and I was worried and furious - I almost let her stay the night there because that's what she'd deserve for driving inebriated and with minors (some of her party-goer friends I don't even know) in the car when she hadn't had her license for a year. "No! No, not jail," she replies and I hear the smile in her voice. "And that was just one time." "Okay, what it is. Girl to girl, totally serious." "I - okay it's really hard for me," she begins. "Take your time," I encourage. I'm a little worried and completely intrigued. "Remember how we kissed, like, a week ago?" "Yeah." "It's made me feel all weird, Dawn. I can't think straight anymore." I listen quietly, biting my lip a little in worry. Is she saying what I think she's saying? "And it's not just that," she continues, "it's been like this almost all summer. When we went surfing, I couldn't stop looking at you. You're so beautiful, Dawn, you really are just such a beautiful person and I don't want to lose you by telling you all this stuff. . ." "You're not going to lose me, Sunny," I promise. "Continue, please. I want to hear what you have to say." "I, well, when I told you about the, um, masturbation thing?" her voice cracks nervously and I suddenly feel a bit awful. I pressed and pressed and she had a good reason for not telling me apparently. "It was because it was you I was thinking about and then we kissed and I dunno. I mean, what if I'm a lesbian, Dawn?" I can't help but laugh. "Dawn? Dawn! This isn't funny, I'm serious. Why are you laughing?" "You're not a lesbian, Sunny. Have you seen you around guys?" "What if it's a subconscious cover-up?" "What if maybe you're bisexual?" I suggest. She's silent. "Maybe. . . What do you think my mom would say about all this?" she sighs heavily. "I think she'd support whatever you were. I think she wouldn't care if you had a crush on me, for which I am truly flattered," I say, half kidding, half meaning it. "Your mom loves you." "Loved. She Loved me," Sunny says. "No, loves." Sunny huffs a flustered sigh into the phone, so I say, "Look, I'll be home in a few days. Hold tight until then and we can talk more when I get back. Okay?" "Yeah, I guess. I really miss you." "I wish I could hug you over the phone," I tell her. "Oh, Dad's home. I should go. See you soon?" "Yeah. Love you, Sunny." "Bye, Dawn." As strange as that conversation was, it didn't feel strange and I sort of expected it. Now I really can't wait to get back to Palo City. - - - I find Ducky and Sunny hanging out when I get home. I'm a little jet lagged, but really am desperate to see Sunny. As I'm walking from the car to the house, rolling my luggage behind me, Sunny comes running out from her house. "Dawn!" she calls to me. I drop my luggage to wrap my arms around her as she jumps at me. Ducky comes out of her house and walks over to us. "Hey, Ducky!" I yell after Sunny and I have hugged. "Dawn," he smiles and we hug too. "How was the roadtrip?" I ask. "Great! I was just telling Sunny about it. Alex is a lot better." "That's wonderful. He's been in therapy a bit, hasn't he?" "Yeah." "Forget the roadtrip," Sunny butts in, "tell us all about college." She grabs his arm and we go back into her house - my dad gets my luggage. Sunny sits entranced as Ducky tells us all about the people he's met at UCLA and his classes and the parties. "I can't wait for college!" Sunny exclaims, leaning back on her bed, belly button ring exposed. My eyes wander up into the shadows of her shirt before I snap myself out of it. "Hold on there, tiger," I tease, tickling the side of her stomach. She squeals and shifts away from me. "You have to finish senior year first." "You mean she has to start it first," Ducky corrects. "Whatever," Sunny says with a smile and a shake of her head. Her smile is so beautiful and what am I saying? Do I like Sunny, too? - - - Sunny and I spend every waking moment together, since I got back from Stoneybrook. It feels good. There's something mutual there, beneath our friendship, beneath what everyone else sees between us. I don't know what it is or if we should take anything anywhere. I'm confused and don't know how to feel because I'm supposed to like boys right? Not that there's anything wrong with liking girls, but I'm straight and even if I wasn't it's not supposed to be my best friend. We hold hands a lot. We'll sit on the couch, watching TV, and our hands will be touching if not wrapped in the other's fingers. When we go to the beach we're usually holding hands while we walk along the beach, pier, and boardwalk shopping strip. We split large fruit smoothies, two straws like a 1950s couple. We always did these things before, but now it feels different. I think I like it, but I don't think I'm supposed to. - - - Another sleep over and this time there aren't any weird Would You Rather games or alcohol. It's just me and Sunny in her room, watching TV in silence. We're on her bed, backs against the wall, shoulders touching. I can't stop glancing at her. I don't know when I began paying so much attention to her and why I can't stop. "Sunny?" I ask. "Yes?" she looks to me. "How far have you gone with a guy?" "I've done almost everything except sex, really," she replies without a hint of embarrassment. Silence settles between us, not awkward. I can't help but imagine the guys who's faces I can actually remember doing all sorts of things to Sunny and having Sunny do things to them. It makes me feel uncomfortable and weird, especially when I think of Sunny giving who knows how many guys blow jobs and those guys going down on her. . . I force myself to not think about it. "Sunny?" I ask again. I can feel her name stick in my throat because I have no idea what is compelling me to say what I'm going to say next. "Could you. . . show me?" "Show you what?" she looks at me, interested and confused. "What you've done. Show me?" I ask, my cheeks flaming. "Really? Like, you want me to show you what my boyfriends did to me?" She leans in at me, low and somewhat predatory. My face is on fire and my heart is racing for being humiliated and embarrassed and incredibly turned on by the way she's looking at me with this glint in her eye. "Y-yes," I barely manage to choke out as she kisses me, not hesitating in getting into it really quick, grabbing my head roughly and slipping her tongue in my mouth. I feel breathless as she runs her hand beneath my shirt, hiking it up, causing me to gasp as her warm fingers graze against my skin, feeling me up roughly. I arch up into her and she guides me down on my back, kissing me, putting the kisses on my jawline and down my neck, causing me to hum and whimper in approval. Her lips still on my neck, the hand touching my breasts trails down my abdomen and unbuttons my shorts. My breath hitches in my throat from embarrassment and the feeling. Her hand feels better than anything as it slides past my underwear and touches me where no one but myself has touched. I moan as her fingers work, breathing heavily. She's stopped kissing my neck, but I can feel her lips and heated breath at my throat. She stops with her hand and slides down my body, kissing my stomach and tracing the faint lines of my hip bones with her fingers before hooking at the waistband of my underwear and shorts to pull them down. I sit up a little to watch what she's doing. "What're you-" I start, but she interrupts. "You want me to show you or not?" her voice is heady and beautiful. A strangled, helpless sound comes out of my throat as I lay back flat on her bed. My bottom half is completely naked and I feel anxious and excited about what Sunny's going to do. I can feel her breath ghosting against the inside of my thighs, cooling my genitals because to be frank, Sunny has made me wet. I am not prepared when her lips press against me and her tongue darts out delicately. I gasp audibly and wriggle. She hold my hips and I clench my fists into her sheets as she works her tongue slowly, teasing, testing. "Sunny," I pant as she works her tongue over the same spot over and over, eliciting an obscene amount of noise from me. One of my hands tangles in her hair as I feel my lower abdomen tighten and release and an orgasm rips through me. I choke back the loud moan that's bubbling in my throat. Sunny lifts her head from between my legs and wipes at her lips, a smug smile on her face. "God, Sunny," I breathe, unable to move, my whole body tingling and weak. The rest of the summer is not the same. - - - Everyone returns back to Palo City when there's a week and a half left until school. Unfortunately, Ducky had to go back to his college campus, but told Sunny and I to give everyone else his regards which we of course promised to do. Sunny and I don't tell anyone about our. . . well, our Summer of Love, as lame as it sounds, it's sort of true. Sunny and I love each other. Whether it's just our normal love brought to the next level or if we're actually in love, I can't really say or even pretend to know. Telling Maggie and Amalia is weird. Sunny and I freak out on our way to Maggie's house. It's actually kind of weird. Maggie decided to move out early. Her mom refused to get help for her alcohol abuse and Maggie came to the conclusion that she couldn't live at home anymore. It was pretty dramatic and Maggie stayed over at Amalia's a lot before the decision was made, but her dad helps support her now and she has a job working at the pet store in the mall and a second job at the grocery store, plus school. It's actually really admirable. So, Sunny and I are on our way to her apartment, music blaring, stomachs churning, nerves tying everything into knots. We pull up at the curb in front of the apartment complex Maggie lives in and Sunny kills the engine. "Are you ready for this?" she asks me, worrying her lip with her teeth. Now is not the time to think Sunny looks unbelievable and that I want to do things to her. . . "Yeah," I huff a huge sigh and we exit the car. We both fidget after knocking on Maggie's door and she answers, all smiles to see us. Some of the worry melts away at seeing her because I haven't seen Maggie since the last day of school. "Dawn! Sunny!" Maggie greets us, giving us hugs at the same time. "Tell us all about Europe," I say as we enter the apartment. "Tell us all about Tyler," Sunny says suggestively. "Well, I've been to Europe before. It was great, like always. Tyler and I actually didn't see much of each other; he was working on the film most of the time and when he wasn't on set he was dead tired. I brought Zeke along and he and I hung out a lot instead, which was nice." "What a cop out," Sunny comments, opening Maggie's fridge and pulling out a juice pouch. "As long as you had fun," I assure her. "What did you two do all summer?" There's a knock on the door and Amalia lets herself in. I guess she has a key. The four of us hug and greet Amalia and she does the same to us. "Tell us all about Mexico," Sunny commands, eyes lit up. Sunny really wants to go to Cancún and a bunch of other party spring break cities. "It's so beautiful. I have to take you guys there someday. I had such a blast when I met up with my cousins' friends! They're all older, you know? So we went clubbing. I wasn't allowed to get drinks obviously, but my cousin Martí, her boyfriend Miguel bought us all rounds and I got so wasted. It was awful!" "I know," Maggie butt in, "You drunk dialed me!" "Amalia!" I scolded in jest. "I don't even remember. I had the worst hangover the next day. Ugh." "Don't they suck?" Sunny contributes. "It was the worst!" Turning to Maggie, Sunny asks, "What did Amalia say when she dialed you?" "It was hilarious!" Maggie giggles, "I actually still think I have the message. She called my phone here instead of my cell." Maggie gets up and goes through the ten unerased messages on her answering machine. A few of them are from Tyler and she skips over them. "Here it is!" The machine beeps and Amalia hides her face as the static noise of breathing is heard. "Maaaaaagggiiieee. Oh my God, chica. I love you. Looooove you. You're gonna be so famous. Una estrella mucho muy bonita." Amalia then began to sing an awful rendition of 'Fallen Angel'. "Dontchyoo forget about us little people in Palo City when you have a big flashy record deal and are married to Tyler and have little Hollywood babies because we love you more than he does. Oh! Oh! Tyler's on the TV, Maggie, he's on una televisi-" then the machine cut her off. We're all giggling and teasing Amalia and then Sunny because she has left some seriously ridiculous and nonsensical drunk messages on our machines - especially mine. When we all calm down, Sunny and I exchange a look and know it's time to tell Maggie and Amalia. "So, uh, Dawn and I have something really serious to tell you. . ." Sunny starts, looking between me and the juice pouch straw she's toying with in her hands. "Dawn?" "Um," I start, looking at Amalia and Maggie who look so oblivious about the bomb Sunny and I are dropping on them. "Okay, so. . ." I start again, picking at my fingernails nervously. "I think it'll be best if you just say it," Amalia suggest, worry lining her features. "SunnyandIhavebeenseeingeachother," I blurt and sigh, realizing they probably didn't get a word of it. "What?" Maggie asks tentatively. "Sunny and I, we've been sort of seeing each other. Kind of like dating, I guess. . ." I'm afraid of how they're reacting. "Really?" Amalia asks, happy. "That's so sweet!" I look at her, shocked. I then look at Sunny who looks so relieved. "Since when?" Maggie asks. "I dunno," I reply, looking to Sunny to see if she can find an accurate date. "Not too long," Sunny answers. "A few weeks, maybe a month or something." "So?" Maggie asks. "So what?" I reply. "Do you guys, like, kiss and stuff?" I blush and so does Sunny a little. "Yeah," we reply. "Do it," Amalia dares, grinning. "Kiss? Now?" I ask, incredulous. "Sure," she encourages. Sunny has a wicked little smirk on her face as she cups the back of my neck and pulls me in quick for a deep kiss that knocks out my breath and catches me somewhat by surprise. Maggie and Amalia whoop in silliness. "Nice," Maggie comments before gulping from her glass of Kool-aid. "Pretty hot, ladies," Amalia compliments. "Either of you ever kiss a girl?" Sunny asks Maggie and Amalia as I settle back into my position, recovering from a violent blush. "No," Maggie admits. "I kinda did, once," Amalia responds. "It was for, like, two seconds though. . ." "Well, you're about to," Sunny grins, turning to Maggie first. - - - Lying in my bed, Sunny and I are entwining our fingers thoughtfully, fingering each others hair, feeling very relaxed. "I can't believe it went so well," Sunny says about Maggie and Amalia earlier today. "I can't believe you kissed them," I snort. I feel Sunny snicker. "I think Amalia uses Carmex or something. There's no way her lips are naturally that soft." "Pfft, you say it like it's a bad thing, you gossip," I toss some of her hair in her face. She bites my jaw and I jerk away with a little yelp before smacking her arm. I do have to agree with Sunny though. I had visions of Maggie and Amalia being unaccepting and awkward. I can't believe I had such little faith in my closest friends. Now all I have to worry about is senior year and college. Suddenly, my relationship with Sunny and how we're perceived seems like the least of my worries.

They were a few towns east of Milton when Castiel appeared at the foot of Dean's bed, reeking of whiskey. It had been a week since Dean's visit to Heaven, and the days blew by on a hard burn, every night spent in a different town. Dean barely remembered to leave Castiel a voicemail each time they landed in a new location, too distracted by the endless soulful looks Sam aimed at him and the long, miserable silences that followed. The whole world was ending, God was on shore leave, and Dean went to bed every night counting the reasons he should tell Michael to come on in. All in all, it wasn't his best week ever. "Oh, good," Castiel said, leaning against the room divider and clutching a plastic handle of Gran Legacy. "You're not asleep." Dean wasn't; Sam had drifted off an hour earlier, and Dean was sitting on his own bed watching the steady rise and fall of his breaths. "Uh, hey, Cas," Dean said. "Is everything okay?" "Of course not." He gave Dean a funny look. "The world is ending." "Let me rephrase," Dean said. "Is anything worse than it was the last time we talked?" "Not particularly," Castiel said. He looked down at his bottle of whiskey and gave it a little shake, making the contents glug around. "I believe the Andes are experiencing an unseasonable heat wave, but there's no way of telling if it's directly related to the impending apocalypse." Dean studied him a little more closely. "Is this the angelic version of a drunk-dial?" "Perhaps," Castiel said shortly. "I am fairly intoxicated, and I'm seeking your companionship." Dean glanced over at Sam, who still was out like a light. He'd been averaging six hours of sleep a night, if that, and Dean was starting to suspect he even dreamed about the mess they were in. "Come with me," he said to Castiel, grabbing his jacket and the room key. Castiel followed him outside and trailed him all the way to the motel office, still clutching his bottle around the neck. He wasn't staggering or anything, which by Dean's estimation meant he'd only downed a few quarts of booze; angel-buzzed, not angel-drunk. "Wait here, you lush. I'm getting you a room." Castiel's eyebrows knitted together. "Why?" "Don't get me wrong, we can hang out or whatever, but I don't want to wake up Sam. I'm going to have to sleep eventually, anyway, and it gives me the creeps when you watch." "You watch your brother sleep." Dean paused, one hand on the door to the office. "That's different," he said. "And it would probably give Sam the creeps if he knew." Castiel didn't seem inclined to argue, so Dean went inside and booked him a room with a king-sized bed. The night clerk wasn't the same guy who checked him in earlier, but he didn't seem particularly surprised when Dean waved away his spiel about complimentary coffee and doughnuts at six AM. "You picked a good night to drop in," Dean said when he went back outside. "This place has Magic Fingers." Castiel pushed himself away from the wall, movements a little more fluid than usual, and followed Dean down the corridor. "I don't know what that means." "It means you should flap yourself to a bank and get some quarters." The clerk had given him the key to a room several doors down from the one where Sam was sleeping. The layout was identical, but it seemed a little smaller. Dean took the bottle of whiskey from Castiel and knocked back a long pull as he leaned against the desk. It went down like turpentine, the flavor sour and sharp, and he whistled and studied the nondescript label. "You go right for the top shelf, huh?" Castiel didn't look like he caught Dean's drift, so he added, "Pro tip: the stuff that comes in a glass bottle goes down a little smoother." Castiel shrugged and took the bottle back. "It's all just fermented carbohydrates. I don't notice a difference." Dean eyed him, torn between amusement and pity. He didn't really know how Castiel managed to always look the same – if angel magic fixed up the tears and stains in his clothes or he frequented a dry-cleaner – but whatever he had been doing before was apparently no longer part of his routine. His skin and hair looked clean, but his coat was as rumpled as Dean had ever seen it, smudged with dirt and what might have been blood. "I gotta tell you, man," he said, waving a hand at him, "this is a new low." "What do you mean?" "I mean, usually you pull off the whole Dick Tracy noir thing, but you're starting to verge into alcoholic hobo clown territory. Just throw on a pair of Sam's size fifteen shoes and we can take you to perform at kids' parties." "I understand enough of that reference to know that it's derisive," Castiel said, sitting heavily on the bed. He took another swig from the bottle and narrowed his eyes at Dean. "I like this territory. It makes things easier." "Yeah, well. I guess I can't argue there." Castiel looked around the room curiously. It was a dive motel, but pretty nondescript. The wallpaper had a blue floral theme, and there was a lousy painting of a sailing ship over the bed. "What am I supposed to do in here?" he said. "I don't know. Take a bath. Watch some Pay-Per-View. Maybe you can get your Darryl Hannah on and learn a thing or two about people, since it looks like you're here for the long haul." "There's no point," Castiel said sharply. "It doesn't matter if I learn how to fit in. It doesn't matter if I try to make peace with my circumstances. There is no peace to be had here, Dean, not for anyone." Dean blinked a few times. "Well, that got heavy awfully quick. So, what, life is meaningless now?" Castiel turned to look at him. "When I rebelled, you told me there was something here worth saving. You said protecting people and families was the only cause worth dying for. But I see the way you look at Sam. I see how isolated you both feel. Even now, the only thing you share is misery. So you tell me, Dean, where is the meaning?" Dean folded his arms, settling on the edge of the desk and crossing his legs at the ankle. "You know, before angels starting flying out of my ass, I never believed in God. I believed in the people around me, who I relied on every day to keep me alive. And you have no idea how hard that can be. Sure, you can get mad at God for not returning your phone calls, but it's pretty easy to love someone who isn't around enough to show you their bad side." He rubbed at his chin and looked away. "But people – especially the people you spend your life with – sometimes it feels like all they do is disappoint you. They have flaws, they make mistakes, and you just have to get over it. Sam has pissed me off every way imaginable and even made up some new ones, but I still wouldn't trade him for anything." "I don't see the logic in that." "Maybe there isn't any. Maybe my life wouldn't have as much pain if I just dumped that kid on the side of the road a long time ago – maybe his wouldn't, either. But even if the crappy moments of the last few years outnumber the good moments ten to one, those good times are worth it." "I don't share my life with anyone," Castiel said flatly. "My family is corrupt and I have no place among them. My life is devoid of... good times." "Oh my God," Dean said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "What is this, your human-angel-hybrid adolescence? Woe is me, I'm so misunderstood, nothing good will ever happen again? Down a few more handles of whiskey, write some bad poetry, and move on." Castiel shook his head and then rested it against the headboard. "You wouldn't be so glib if you knew anything beyond this existence." For a long, strange moment Dean felt sixteen again – staring at the resolute jut of a different jaw, caught in the kickback of a different cosmic fight. He'd spent a good chunk of his life in this exact situation, trying to get his head around guys who used to have it great and wound up losing everything. The concept wasn't totally unfamiliar to him – he had his own threadbare memories of life before Mom died, and lately he spent most of his time missing the days before the apocalypse and demon blood and every other fucking thing came along – but his own losses never seemed that black and white. Unlike Dad and Sam, and now apparently Castiel, Dean's memories always managed to encompass just as much of the shitty stuff about the past as the good. "You're right," Dean said abruptly. "I don't know what it's like to live over the rainbow. I've never had super-powers or made footsteps in the sand with Jesus. But you know what? I've got the ass-end of life, here, and I still care enough to fight for it. I don't need things to be all sunshine and moonbeams and higher vibrations to give a damn." "I've spent months wandering the earth in search of something holy," Castiel said. "And all I've seen is free will taken to its most violent and cruel extremes. I would like to believe there's more to human life than this, but I've run out of places to search." It took Dean a minute to place why that sentiment sounded so familiar, and when it came to him he couldn't quite stifle a laugh. Castiel's eyes to narrowed. "What?" "Nothing, no, just – you just reminded me of something, that's all." "What." Dean eyed him, trying to decide how he could possibly put it into words. "How does your whole mind-reading thing work? Can you just, like, Google my brain?" "I'm not familiar with that term." "Of course not. Here, I'm going to think about something really hard, and you try to pick it up, okay?" Dean furrowed his eyebrows and did his best to broadcast an old memory, and Castiel titled his head to the side thoughtfully. "I remind you of a large sentient stuffed animal that attempted to take its life?" Dean snapped his fingers and pointed at him, pleased. "Exactly. His name was Teddy. Some weird wish-curse brought him to life, and he went through this same kind of downward angst spiral." Castiel appeared to consider that. "Perhaps it's a fair comparison." "Really?" Dean quirked his eyebrows. "That's not how people usually react to teasing." "I'm not supposed to be here, Dean. My prolonged existence on this plane is equally unnatural. All things in creation have a purpose, and I have lost mine. I don't know how to be human. I can't find satisfaction in the banalities of human life." Dean picked at the label of the whiskey bottle and studied him from the corner of his eye. Interacting with Castiel had become a frequent and familiar experience, but in some ways it was still pretty weird. These days Dean rarely talked to anyone who wasn't family, surrogate family, or somehow connected to a hunt. But Castiel wasn't any of those things – he wasn't even a fellow hunter Dean could share an understanding with based on common life experience. He was completely outside of Dean's world, his background full of mysteries and things Dean probably couldn't even understand. He was a freaking angel, a living embodiment of faith and morality, and Dean had been a full-time sinner since before he needed to shave. And yet, here they were. Fighting the same battles and putting their asses on the line every day for the same cause. Dean had to hand it to him for even trying to adapt to his shitty circumstances; if Dean were in his shoes he'd have hit the bottle a hell of a lot sooner. Castiel was the kind of guy who took his blows on the chin, and that made his current state all the more depressing to witness. Dean scrubbed a hand over his face and got to his feet, digging his car keys out of his pocket. "Grab your wings, Clarence. We're going on a field trip." "My wings are transcendental. They cannot be grabbed." "Then transcend them in the direction of the car." Castiel stood up and then paused, looking down at himself and straightening his tie. "What's wrong?" "You said I look like a vagrant," Castiel said wearily. "Should I change into different clothing?" "Huh?" Dean turned around, surprised to find that Castiel actually looked uncomfortable. A lifetime of cheerfully ragging on Sam about his hair, clothes, and posture had made Dean pretty careless with criticism; it was weird to think Castiel took anything he said that seriously. "No, dude, you're Bethlehem's Next Top Model. Let's go." *** Lloyd's Truckstop Diner smelled like a thousand familiar things – coffee and bacon and warm vinyl – and for a minute Dean just paused in the entryway and breathed in slowly. Castiel seemed less impressed. "Where are we?" "Jackrabbit Slim's. An Elvis man should love it." All that got him was a pointed silence. Dean lifted his eyebrows. "Pulp Fiction? Really? That one never made it upstairs?" Castiel looked as mystified as ever, and Dean shook his head. At least fifty percent of what he said was some kind of pop culture reference; it was amazing they could communicate at all. "We're getting dinner," he said. "Try to act normal." The place was mostly empty, save a few tired-looking truckers and a couple in their twenties. Dean picked a booth on the wall with fewer people, next to the window that overlooked the parking lot. The waitress who approached them smiled blandly and tapped her pen against her notepad. "You two need a minute to look over the menu?" "I don't think so... Diane," Dean said, his gaze automatically flicking to her name tag and cleavage. "We'll both have a medium-rare bacon cheeseburger." "Anything to drink?" "Two Cokes, thanks." She gave Castiel a funny look, as though waiting for him to contradict any of that, but nodded and retreated when he simply stared at Dean. Castiel waited until she disappeared into the back, then leaned in over the table like he was going to divulge a secret. "I don't require sustenance." "Too bad," Dean said. "You're eating a cheeseburger, and you're going to like it." Castiel straightened, but he looked puzzled. "I would prefer to continue drinking alcohol." "Yeah, well, your burgeoning alcoholism is starting to freak me out a little. Consider this an intervention." "I enjoy alcohol," Castiel said, his gaze drifting to take in the diner decorations. "They could use more of it in Heaven." Dean squinted at him, watching the way Castiel's seemingly bored survey of their surroundings actually scrutinized every detail. He looked particularly out of place in the warm, bright diner, but that was the funny thing about Castiel: Dean couldn't imagine a setting where he would blend in. He always looked like he just came from some rainy alleyway rendezvous with Lauren Bacall, but the way he carried himself was a little more… Body Snatchers. Maybe it was his mannerisms, maybe it was the perpetually dead-eyed stare, but the year he'd spent on Earth hadn't done much to help him blend in. Still, it was weird to see him this out of it. His stoic angel buddy, all depressed and deep in the bottle. "What's the deal, Cas?" Dean finally said. "What do you mean?" "I mean, I don't get it. You're always the guy with the plan. You spent the last year looking for God when the rest of us were pretty sure he was vacationing in another solar system. That's – I mean, that's dedication. And now we know he's a dick who won't step up, and he expects us to put up with more than we can. But so what? We'll figure something else out. We always do." A truck pulled into the parking lot, and for a moment its headlights flashed through the window, lighting up the angles of Castiel's immobile face. "Finding God was the only hope I had of ever returning to Heaven," he said. "It is extremely unlikely that our mission will be successful, and even if we avert the apocalypse, my grace cannot be restored. I'm trapped here, Dean. Trapped in this vessel, on this planet, in this mess. I believe I was correct in rebelling, but Heaven is still my home." Castiel plucked at the open folds of his coat, and Dean tried to imagine living in a body that wasn't his own. All that came to mind was the tight, uncomfortable feeling of waking up with his boots on. "I guess I can't really relate. I never had a home, unless you count the car. And places like this – you know, diners, motels. They're pretty much the same everywhere you go." "Is that why we're here?" "We're here for bacon cheeseburgers," Dean said evenly. "So, uh, what is Heaven, exactly? I mean, I took the guided tour and all, but I still don't really get it." "Heaven is the kingdom of God," Castiel said automatically, eyeing the jukebox across the room. "Yeah, but... what is it? You don't have a physical form of your own, right? Heaven isn't solid. You can't, you know, kick the tires. So is it a thought? A dream? A big group hallucination?" Castiel looked out the window with a pinched lemon-sucking expression that Dean interpreted as deep thought. "All things in creation are made from the same material. Thoughts are energy, and physical objects are tightly-compressed energy. This world is no more or less real than Heaven; the fabric of its being is simply constructed differently." "Huh," Dean said. "So why can't your energy just compress itself into a body of your own when you come here?" Castiel's gaze finally flicked over to meet Dean's. "I don't know. That's one of God's mysteries." "He sure loves those, doesn't he?" Dean said, leaning back in his seat and causing the Naugahyde to squeak. Apparently Castiel had learned the concept of a rhetorical question, because he didn't respond. They lapsed into a silence that was oddly companionable; Castiel seemed pretty used to sitting around waiting for humans, and Dean was just glad to be out of that sad, dark motel room and the depressing train of thought he'd been riding. "Here we go," said Diane-the-waitress when she reappeared at their booth. Castiel studied the plate she set in front of him without emotion or interest. "Can I get you anything else?" "I think we're all set," Dean smiled. "Looks great." The burgers were thick and smelled amazing, and Castiel watched as Dean piled the tomato, onion and lettuce on his. "Dig in, buddy," he said. Castiel kept staring at him for another beat, then picked up his own burger and reluctantly took a bite. Dean made fast work of his food, more than halfway through his burger before Castiel even made a dent in his. He wasn't starving, or anything – he and Sam pulled off the highway for fast-food a few hours before landing at the Blue Briar Inn – but he hadn't been lying when he said diners like this one kind of felt like home. There was something comfortingly familiar about sitting in a pastel-colored booth and working his way through a platter of short-order cooking. Castiel wasn't nearly as enthusiastic. The last time Dean saw him eat anything, it was under Famine's influence. He seemed way less impressed this time, his gaze drifting to the other diner patrons as he chewed methodically. He was probably downloading their life stories between bites, Dean figured. He reached over and flicked the brightly colored dessert menu perched on top of the napkin dispenser. "Check it out, there's a special on pie. I'm thinking apple-cinnamon, à la mode. Only way to fly." Castiel zeroed in on Dean again, not bothering to look where he was pointing. His cheek bulged momentarily as he tongued at something in his teeth. "Why are we here, Dean?" "Because this is what life's about," Dean said, reaching for the ketchup. "And I figured it's time you learn that." "Life is about… cheeseburgers," Castiel said. "Yup." Dean smacked the bottom of the bottle, spilling a mess of ketchup over his fries. "Life is about the things that make your body feel good. You can't change the fact you're stuck here on Earth, but you can change the way you deal with it. And the first step is to start appreciating all the awesome stuff you can do with your five senses. Because if you don't start having a little fun, you really will end up like that teddy bear." "I don't understand what you want—" Dean picked out one of his fries – they were thick-cut and crispy, fresh from the fryer – and held it out. "Just eat it. Don't think about it as sustenance, or a greasy chunk of potato. Think about how it tastes." Castiel stared at him and then leaned forward, letting Dean stuff the french fry into his mouth. He kept his gaze on Dean as he chewed and swallowed. "It tastes like salt." "What else?" "Tomato." Dean lifted his eyebrows and nodded. "Is it sweet?" "No. It's sour." He licked his lips and amended, "Perhaps it's a little sweet." "How did it feel when you chewed it?" "Hard. Crunchy. But soft on the inside." Dean held out another one, too encouraged by this breakthrough to care that all the truckers in the joint probably thought he was his hand-feeding his gay lover. "Now eat another one and think about all of those things together." Castiel paused after swallowing that one, fixing Dean with one of his unreadable stares. "It's good, right?" Dean prompted. "Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick?" "I think I understand the point you're trying to make." "And what point is that?" Castiel looked down at his plate and then back at Dean. "The meaning of life exists in small details." Dean mulled that over as he pushed his fries around. "Sure," he said. "That's a little deeper than my points usually are, but I guess you get my drift." He looked down at Castiel's half-eaten cheeseburger and jerked his chin in its direction. "You gonna eat that?" "Yes," Castiel said firmly. He kept his eyes trained on Dean as he picked it up and took a bite, like Dean might snatch it right out of his hands. "Attaboy, Cas," he said, crumpling his napkin and tossing it on his own plate. "There's hope for you yet." *** Dean followed Castiel into his room when they got back, not quite ready to return to his own overwhelmingly quiet room and the worries that waited there. Castiel sat back down on the bed, his gaze trained on Dean. He seemed less pissy, but the wind wasn't totally out of his sails, either. "Thank you," he said. "For the... field trip." "Yeah, well. Everyone needs a little pep-talk once in a while, right?" Dean unscrewed the bottle of whiskey and threw back a healthy swig, aware that Castiel was watching him closely. "You have a tremendous amount of loyalty, Dean," he said after a moment. "You should be proud of that." Dean chuckled. "No offense, but that's pretty ironic coming from a rebellious fallen angel." "Perhaps, but the observation is true. The desire you have to protect your loved ones is something you carry like a burden, but it's a great gift. Man can always choose to not believe in anything; he can wander through life alone, scared, and angry. That path is far more common than yours. It takes an immense amount of faith to forgive people their trespasses. You should be proud of that ability." It took Dean a minute to digest that. "I'm not really in a place to be doling out forgiveness, man. I could use more than a little of it myself." "Take the compliment, Dean," Castiel said dryly. For some reason that made Dean smile. "You were right. It might be easier if I simply accept my circumstances." "Hey, I'm not saying it's easy. You've got a pretty fucked up deal, and believe me, I know all about those. But it's not all pain and misery down here. There are cheeseburgers, and sunsets, and TV, and natural redheads." Dean eyed him, suddenly curious. "What's up with that, anyway? You've existed longer than original sin, but you've never gotten around to having sex?" "The pleasure of sexual intercourse is incentive for procreation. I'm incapable of procreating." "Dude, this is what I'm talking about. You have got to stop seeing things so black and white. Nobody just screws to procreate, except those wingnut families with reality shows. It's not just a physical thing." "It is, by its very nature, a physical act." Dean looked away and rubbed a hand over his mouth. "Yeah, okay, technically it's physical. But you're thinking about it all wrong. It's not just some kind of downstairs handshake. When you do it right, it's a freakin' out of body experience. Time stops, your brain switches off. Nothing else matters. It's—" Dean wracked his brain, then snapped his fingers. "It's like cheeseburgers times infinity." Castiel appeared to consider that. He took the whiskey and knocked back a swig, staring at some point in the distance with furrowed eyebrows. When he looked back at Dean and held out the bottle, he tilted his head thoughtfully. "Will you show me?" He said it with the same gravelly indifference he said most things, but Dean came close to doing an actual spit-take. "I've made you uncomfortable," Castiel observed. "Don't get me wrong, uh, I'm flattered, I just – don't you think that's a pretty bad idea?" "Why would I?" "Oh, I don't know. It might make things a little awkward, seeing as we have to work together to save the world." "How would fornication subvert our working relationship?" Dean ran a hand over his hair and tried to find the words to explain it, but there really weren't any. He couldn't put his finger on what it was about sex that changed things for people. It all seemed pretty stupid when he sat and thought about it. "I wouldn't have eaten that cheeseburger if you hadn't ordered it for me," Castiel said. "I ate it and enjoyed it, but I won't seek out another one." "You lost me." "I don't need to experience something multiple times because I enjoyed it once. This body derives pleasure from many things, but I have no reason to indulge it." He paused, eyes narrowing as he waited for the right words to come – or channeled them from the astral plane; sometimes Dean really couldn't tell. "I'm sure you're aware that many species do not mate for life. It's the same principle. I have no instinctive desire to fornicate, or eat, or sleep, but I can choose to perform those functions if the circumstances are appropriate." "Well, that's hot." Dean studied him for a moment. "I'm sure we can find you a nice girl somewhere to get the job done." "Other humans..." He paused. "Make me uncomfortable." "I think the feeling is mutual. But, uh, isn't guy-on-guy action kind of outside your moral code? I seem to remember fire raining down on some poor bastards in the Old Testament who, you know, crossed swords." Castiel turned and looked at him. Humanity or no humanity, Dean was still disarmed by the intensity of that stare. It was like a laser beam, the weight of it almost physical. "I have no gender, Dean," he said matter-of-factly. "Had Jimmy not asked me to inhabit this body when he was dying, I would still take the form of his daughter." It occurred to Dean again just how disconnected a creature Castiel was. The difference between the thing he was talking to and the body it lived it never seemed so obvious. Exhaustion ringed Castiel's eyes like twin shiners, dark brown smudges that stood out sharply against his cheeks, but the clarity of his gaze was the same as ever. The light in his eyes came from a deeper place than it should; the consciousness that moved his limbs was not the one hardwired to do it. He was just a little bit off, the place where two different people overlapped and blurred together. It was something Dean had felt about himself for a long time – ever since Hell, really. Ever since Castiel dragged him out. "Okay," Dean said, surprising himself. "Yeah, sure, I guess. Why not? Let's get our gender-neutral freak on. I just seriously hope Chuck Shurley isn't tuned into his angel radio right now." "I doubt our coupling is worthy of divine prophecy." "Hey," said Dean, setting the whiskey bottle on the nightstand. "Don't underestimate my ability to couple. The Gospel of Winchester has already seen a few Penthouse Forum moments." Castiel furrowed his eyebrows, but Dean wasn't about to explain the finer points of pornography. He was too busy trying to get his head around what he had just volunteered to do. He'd messed around with a few guys in his day, but this wasn't your typical booze-fueled hook-up – it was more like trying to teach a workshop on The Joy of Gay Sex to a formidable, occasionally surly soldier of God. "Okay," he said bracingly, and rubbed his hands together. "Technically kissing is optional in these situations, but it's usually a nice way to ease into things. So, uh. Lean your head in the opposite direction of mine and breathe through your nose, and just try to copy what I do with my mouth. And shut your eyes, because kissing with your eyes open is maybe the creepiest thing ever." "I understand." Dean glanced up at the ceiling, muttered, "Please don't smite me," and leaned in to press his mouth against Castiel's. It was awkward at first, even though Castiel followed all of Dean's instructions. It seemed to take him a minute to figure out the mechanics of moving his lips against Dean's, and his body stayed tense even after his mouth became soft and pliable. Dean pulled back cautiously, studying Castiel's face. "How did that feel?" Castiel worked his mouth oddly. "It was not unpleasant." "Well, shucks," Dean said. "Don't flatter me." "I found it preferable to the french fries," Castiel said, so serious that it nearly broke Dean's heart. "I guess that's something," Dean said. "Okay, this time I'm using tongue. Try to relax and just... go with the flow. You're not gonna get it up if you're thinking too much." The second kiss was a little more natural. Dean nudged Castiel's mouth open gently, licking against his bottom lip. Castiel made a quiet noise when Dean's tongue found his, and it only took a moment before he began to respond with similar light, damp flicks and rolls. The taste of cheap whiskey lingered in the corners of his mouth, but somewhere under that was the familiar, not unpleasant taste of any other kiss – someone else's spit. For some reason that surprised Dean, although he hadn't put much thought into what he should expect. He was slower about pulling back this time, lingering near Castiel's face long enough to feel the gust of his unsteady breaths. "Good, right?" Dean said. Castiel's gaze seemed fixed on Dean's mouth, but that got him to look up slowly and nod. Dean nodded back at him and smiled. "It gets even better. Come on, how 'bout you lose a few layers. You're seriously over-dressed for this." He tugged at the front of Castiel's trench coat, helping him pull it off his shoulders, and then did the same with his suit jacket. Dressed only in his slacks and button-down Castiel looked smaller, less like the unflappable angelic soldier Dean had grown used to. It reminded him of when he rebuilt the car and had her stripped to the frame; like looking at the vulnerable blueprints of something he'd come to think of as solid, unchanging, eternal. "Lay down," he said after a minute. Castiel leaned back against the pillows and Dean swung a leg over him, straddling his hips with a knee framing them on either side. His body was surprisingly slender against Dean's, but then, that kind of made sense – Castiel's movements all signaled carefully controlled strength, but it didn't come from muscle and sinew. His eyes seemed wider than usual when he glanced up at Dean, but he looked more surprised than alarmed. "You still with me?" Dean said. "Yes, I'm... with you." "Good," Dean said, "'cause we're getting to the fun part." He kissed Castiel's mouth again – lightly at first and then deeper, pressing their hips together snugly as he worked his tongue in. Castiel tensed a little when Dean's hands slid over his chest, but relaxed again, letting him pull open his tie and unbutton his shirt. Deflowering virgins was never really Dean's style, but he'd hooked up with a few chicks in high school who were pretty clueless about this kind of thing. Castiel's version of cluelessness was different, though, uninhibited by the idea that any of it was wrong. He seemed puzzled but interested, giving a little groan of genuine surprise when Dean flicked a thumb over one of his nipples. "How're you feeling?" Dean said, ducking to trail his mouth down Castiel's neck. His permanent scruff of five o'clock shadow was prickly, but the skin below it felt flushed and entirely human. Dean nipped at the side of his throat and laughed when Castiel's hips jerked up against his, seemingly of their own accord. "Very warm," Castiel said hesitantly, "and the lower half of my body feels strange." "The tingling sensation means it's working," Dean said, rocking down against Castiel's hips and getting another soft noise from him. "It's okay to move, dude. I mean, I guess I could just ravish you, but generally both parties are equally involved." "Oh," Castiel said. "I should be reciprocating." He touched the side of Dean's face abruptly, guiding his head to the side and leaning up to kiss Dean's neck. It felt surprisingly good – he seemed to be getting his bearings with the whole thing, dragging his lips over the pulse point and giving the skin there a soft, warm suck. Dean shut his eyes and skimmed his hand down Castiel's stomach, rubbing lightly at the skin just above his pants. "Guess I can't be pissed about getting a hickey," Dean said. "Since, you know, you branded me with your hand before we even met." "What's a hickey?" Castiel said against his jaw, still oddly absorbed in the task of necking. Dean laughed and tilted away from Castiel's mouth, stubble rasping gently as their chins brushed together. He nudged his way under the collar of Castiel's shirt and pressed a kiss there, sucking gently until a damp, pink spot blossomed on his skin. "That's a hickey," he said, voice gravelly. Castiel's eyes narrowed, and Dean could practically hear the mental gears turning as he filed that information away. "Are hickeys good?" "Pretty much anything you like doing is good," Dean said. "I think we'll save kinks and safe words for another Very Special Episode, but basically just... do whatever feels right." Castiel blinked a few times and then kissed him, gripping the sides of Dean's face and thumbing at the hinges of his jaw. His hands slid down between them after a moment, and it took Dean a beat to figure out Castiel was working his shirt open, fingers surprisingly deft with the buttons. The hands that drifted over his skin seemed more curious than anything, tracing the ticklish ridge of his collarbone and the curves of muscle in his chest. He let one hand linger over Dean's heart, making his pulse pick up suddenly. It was weird, but Dean kind of understood – Castiel barely seemed familiar with the body he was living in, so messing around with someone else's was probably a brand-new experience. "You're very solid," he said eventually. "It's pleasant." "You're, uh, pretty solid, too." Dean lost track of how long they made out like that. His dick swelled lazily in his jeans as Castiel's fingers roamed over him and paused at what were apparently points of interest – differently textured scars he'd acquired over the last two years, the line of hair just above the waistband of his jeans. Dean only stopped him when his fingers drifted into Dean's armpit, and that was with a startled huff of laughter. "What is it?" Castiel said. "What's funny?" "That, uh, that tickles," Dean said. "I apologize." Castiel thumbed at the skin there on Dean's side. "Your body is very interesting. It has much less hair than this one." Dean eased back and studied Castiel's face, surprised to find that his cheeks were flushed and his eyes seemed brighter. He still didn't totally understand how much Castiel-the-energy-beam was affected by his vessel's arousal, but he seemed pretty into it. "You like 'em smooth, huh?" he said, amused. "Apparently," Castiel said. He shifted awkwardly, inadvertently driving the bulge of his cock up against Dean's hip. "I seem to be ready for intercourse." "Yeah, I noticed," Dean said, shifting his weight to grind down on him. "We really need to work on your dirty-talk skills." "What's—" "It's, uh." Dean kissed the dip under Castiel's mouth, breathing out a warm huff there as his own dick rutted against Castiel's. "Stuff you say during sex. You know, like, 'I'm so wet, your cock is so big.' It's... one part compliment, two parts stating the obvious." "I enjoy your smell," Castiel said after a moment. "It's earthy, and befitting a human male." Dean couldn't help but smile. "Well, that's a start." Dean leaned in over him, pressing his their chests together when he kissed him again. Castiel leaned up into it, their lips catching softy before his tongue eased in. It rubbed at Dean's curiously, and he made a small, impressed noise when Dean's rubbed right back. "Your mouth is very pleasurable," said Castiel, breaths a little uneven against Dean's face. "I like the sensation of it, and… I like kissing it." "You're gonna like it even more in a minute," Dean said lowly, sliding down and dragging his lips from Castiel's sternum to the light trail of hair under his navel. Castiel sucked in a sharp breath as Dean skimmed his teeth against the skin there and worked his belt and trousers open. His cock was straining against the front of his briefs, and Dean didn't hesitate before rubbing his face against it, breathing in the heady smell. He hadn't done this in a long, long time, but that alone was enough to make him swell harder in his jeans. Castiel's breaths were coming faster, and his cock twitched under Dean's mouth when he sighed against the fabric. "This is it, man," Dean said, lifting his eyebrows at him. "No take-backs. You sure you're ready to quit being the three-thousand-year-old virgin?" "Yes," Castiel said simply. Dean tilted his head agreeably and tugged Castiel's cock free, giving it a slow, deep pump. His hips jerked a little, sliding it through the circle of Dean's fingers. "Easy, tiger," Dean said, tongue lingering at the slit before he slid his mouth down over it. He just sucked at the head at first, one fingertip tracing a vein along the side and making precome pulse out the tip. Castiel gasped – a ragged, desperate noise that made Dean's lips pull up in a smile even as he bobbed down lower. He let himself go slowly at first, getting used to the stretch of his jaw, but he hollowed his cheeks on the upstroke and thumbed at the underside where his hand gripped the base. "Oh," Castiel said, sounding surprised. His cock was velvety smooth, hard from the rush of blood pulsing under the skin but still giving a little where Dean's lips tightened around it. It tasted totally human – musky and salty and sour, making spit collect in the corners of Dean's mouth as he ground his own dick against the mattress. It was easy to lose himself in the rhythm of it, getting reacquainted with the whole process of giving head while figuring out what Castiel seemed like to best – the little noises and flickers of tension he gave when Dean squeezed or sucked in a particular way. He was slow to realize that Castiel was staring down at him the entire time, studying him with a steely, soul-searching intensity that made Dean's neck flush and his cock throb. Dean shifted a little to glance up at him, and Castiel reached down slowly, touching Dean's cheek where the head of his cock bulged it out. His fingertips traced the curve, then drifted to the spit-slick corner of Dean's lips, rubbing at his mouth and letting out a tense, heated sigh. Dean's eyes fell shut, heat rising to his face as he bobbed lower again. He was supposed to be the one with the upper hand, the one showing Castiel the ins and outs of this particular human experience, but right then he was intensely aware of how powerful Castiel was – that this was a freakin' angel of the Lord, the one who saved him from Hell and rebelled because he believed Dean had a better grasp on right and wrong than his angelic superiors. For some reason that made his whole body twist with heat, his pulse thudding loudly in his ears. He groaned a little as he pushed himself lower, his lips touching the circle his finger and thumb made around the base of Castiel's cock and the pit of his throat squeezing around the tip. Castiel gripped his shoulder abruptly, like an automatic reflex, the button on his shirt cuff dragging across Dean's cheek. He couldn't tell if Castiel was drawing on his objective knowledge of sex or it was an instinctual thing that came with the body, but his hips started to move then, thrusting up into Dean's mouth in ragged, needy jerks. "Dean," he said, voice strangled and warning. "Dean—" His whole body tensed, the muscles in his thighs coiling tightly at either side of Dean's chest. It hadn't taken nearly as long as Dean would have figured, but Castiel's body seemed primed and ready for it, as eager and easy as any other virgin. Dean pulled back and jerked him through the first wave, his fist moving in spitty glide as Castiel shot his load across his stomach. A heavy wad of it slipped down and caught on Dean's hand, smearing as Dean stroked him and giving his cock a bitter, musky taste when Dean slid his mouth back over it. He caught the last few spatters against his tongue, and lingered there, lips drawing tightly around Castiel's dick before he swallowed and eased back. Castiel looked completely wrecked – his jaw had gone slack, his shirt still hanging openly around his sides, and his chest was heaving with deep, shuddering breaths. Dean had never really seen him look more human, and it was weird to think that he had done that to him. "We having fun yet?" he said, crawling up next to Castiel on the bed and working his jeans open. "How'd that compare to the fries?" "Favorably." Castiel turned to look at him, his eyes narrowing with interest as Dean tugged his own cock out and gave it a few deep, tight strokes. "How should I reciprocate?" he said, winded but oddly earnest. "Just – here—" Dean took Castiel's hand and brought it to his cock, fitting his fingers around it and guiding him in a deep, tight pump. "Just do that, like I was doing with my mouth." You could say a lot of things about Castiel, but he knew how to follow an order. His fingers shifted around Dean's cock with the same curiosity he'd shown about the rest of his body, but he mimicked the exact speed and rhythm Dean had demonstrated. "Is that good? Is this what you want?" "Yeah, Cas," he breathed, "just like that, fuck, c'mere." Dean dragged him into another kiss, this one unapologetically hard and deep, but Castiel didn't seem fazed. He kissed back just as intensely, breathing warmly against Dean's cheek as his tongue traced the edge of Dean's teeth. Dean only broke away when his lungs burned with the need for air, and Castiel seemed content to kiss at his chin and then his neck, apparently aware of exactly how much Dean liked that. "Oh, God," he muttered, thrusting into Castiel's hand. It was like all the tension in him – not just from the last few minutes, but the whole day and week and goddamn year – was boiling under his skin, yanking him to the edge. "Yeah, Cas, yeah. Fuck." "Dean," Castiel said, quiet but firm, like he was simply acknowledging the effect he was having. Dean's mouth fell open as he came, shooting across his t-shirt in fat, messy spatters. Castiel's fist tightened as Dean's cock jerked in it, giving him those same measured, reliable strokes until the last of his load dripped out. It took a few minutes before he came back to himself, and when he did Castiel was staring at him through narrowed eyes, like he was cataloguing whatever expression was on Dean's face. They just looked at each other, the full weight of what had happened settling into Dean's bones. It didn't really matter on a cosmic, moral level, he figured – the only reason either of them had reached this point was that God didn't care what they did. But he couldn't help feeling like they had just executed a joint fuck-you to someone upstairs, dotting the is and crossing the ts of their own personal rebellions. "So," Dean said eventually. "Uh, that's sex, more or less. It's better when you actually, you know. Get an ace in the hole, so to speak, but you gotta walk before you can run." "That was entirely adequate," Castiel said. He glanced away and then back at Dean, seeming to remember Dean's reaction to his poorly-phrased praise earlier. "I found it very enjoyable. The pride you take in your sexual prowess is not unfounded." "Thanks. That means a lot," Dean said dryly. "I didn't expect to feel that much." Castiel rolled onto his back. "Not only physical sensation, but emotion. I see now why sexual intercourse is forbidden among angels." "Wait, why?" "Emotion is unpredictable," he said. "It leads down a dangerous road." "So, what, happiness is your gateway drug?" Dean frowned at him. "That's nuts." "Like I've said, I'm not human. You have emotional needs that must be met to maintain your comfort and, in some cases, sanity. I don't have those requirements." "You know, you might want to stop looking down your nose at human needs and requirements if you're gonna play for our team." "I didn't mean to offend you." He looked over at Dean again. "I am grateful to have had that experience. Especially with a human I already feel much empathy for." "Yeah," Dean said. "Me too. Uh, you know. With an angel." Castiel actually looked amused. "For someone so critical of my ability to communicate, you occasionally have a hard time with it yourself." "Bite me," Dean said shortly. "That clear enough?" A line appeared between Castiel's eyebrows, and he frowned thoughtfully. "Well, it does have multiple connotations now." "Look at you, with the double-entendres," Dean said, knocking an elbow against Castiel's side and earning himself a small smile in return. "I didn't think you had it in you." Castiel watched with apparent interest as Dean peeled his t-shirt off and attempted to wipe up the mess on Castiel's stomach. He was able to get most of it, but they both smelled pretty unforgivingly of jizz. "You'll probably wanna take a shower before winging off," Dean said, tossing his shirt off the side of the bed. "So you don't smell like a, uh, vagrant. But check-out isn't till noon tomorrow, so…" "I understand," he said, tucking himself back into his pants and zipping them up without any trace of self-consciousness. He pulled his tie off, but sat up to button his shirt, and leaned back against the headboard when he was done. He didn't seem to be suffering from any kind of post-coital lethargy, but even with his clothes back in place he looked different – his body still sex-flushed and his hair flattened from the pillow. Dean knew he should probably head back soon, his own body happily succumbing to the lull of sleep, but he kind of liked the uncomplicated silence of this room. Nothing was different, really; life still sucked, and the world was still ending. But he could tell that he and Castiel were on the same page, even if it was just for the night. Someone else felt as lost and confused as Dean, felt responsibility and fear and didn't know what to do with it. Between the two of them they didn't have enough faith or hope to fill a hip flask, but they were in this shit together. It was nice. "Are you going to return to your room?" Castiel said eventually. Dean shrugged, his back popping as he rolled over. "I guess I could just sleep here." "I thought I... creeped you out." "You do," Dean grunted. "But fornication makes us mortals pretty tired." "I could refrain from watching you rest, if you that would make you more comfortable." "Yeah, that'd be good," Dean said, stifling a yawn. "Sam's gonna freak when he wakes up and I'm not there..." "I will wake you at dawn." Castiel touched Dean's forehead, and for a moment Dean braced himself for some kind of angel-whammy. His fingertips just lingered there for a moment, though, like it was some kind of friendly, affectionate gesture. "Therefore my heart is glad and my tongue rejoices," he intoned, voice gravelly. "My body also will rest secure." "What the hell does that mean?" Dean mumbled. "Sleep, Dean," Castiel said authoritatively, pulling his hand back and settling in next to him. "Your burdens will wait until morning." Dean squinted at him, but Castiel's chin was tilted up and his gaze was fixed on the ceiling, already honoring his promise to not watch. "You're a good dude, Cas," Dean said after a long moment of silence. "I know it's hard being down here, but – this kind of thing, having someone you can rely on and know they rely on you, that's worth saving. Even if we're not family, we go through stuff together, and that means something. Heck, that means everything." "The good times that make up for the bad," Castiel said, echoing Dean's earlier words back at him. He tilted his head and looked down at Dean. "I was wrong when I said I had none." "Damn straight," Dean said, yawning again. "You got me, and Dean Winchester ain't nothing but a good time." He reached out to squeeze Castiel's shoulder, and after a few minutes that's how he fell asleep: curled on his side with one hand tucked around Castiel's arm, while the angel studied the ceiling and smiled.

Merlin carefully set his armful of books down onto the table and glanced around the small room. It had taken some doing, but together, he, Gwen, and Gaius had managed to fit most of Gaius’s things into his new quarters. Stacks of books and parchment took up most of the space, but there was a small table that Gaius could conduct his experiments on. A bed and washbasin were squeezed into one corner. “I think that’s the last of it,” Merlin said to Gaius, who was flipping through a book, his spectacles perched on his nose. “Thank you, Merlin,” Gaius said, glancing up. “Perhaps I’ll finally be able to get all my notes and writings into some kind of order.” Merlin grinned. “You’ve been saying that ever since I’ve known you.” “Yes, but this time I mean it. Now that Ilberd has taken over as court physician, I am looking forward to many pleasant hours with nothing to do except read and write in the comfort of my room.” Gaius settled onto a chair with a sigh. “I certainly will not miss dashing about on cold winter mornings when it seems as though everyone in Camelot is down with a cough.” Merlin fiddled with a glass vial. “You were good at it, though, Gaius. Everyone will miss you. I still don’t see—” “I’m getting too old for it, Merlin,” Gaius interrupted gently. “And Ilberd is well versed in all the latest remedies and techniques. Besides, I’m not going anywhere. I shall still be right here in the castle, should anyone need me.” “I know,” Merlin said softly. “And you are certainly welcome to visit anytime.” Gaius got up and came over to Merlin, putting his hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “I shall be quite disappointed if you aren’t in here at least once a week, telling me all about the latest monster to trouble the kingdom.” “Don’t think you’re getting out of helping me with those,” Merlin told him, smiling. Gaius smiled back. “I shall be here whenever you need me, Merlin.” It felt strange to return to their old chambers, knowing that Gaius was no longer there. Not to mention that Merlin wasn’t exactly thrilled with the new physician—Ilberd. Whatever Gaius said about his skills, the man was rather cold and aloof. And now Merlin wouldn’t be able to practice his magic, not with Ilberd right there. Ilberd’s mouth curled into a sneer at the very mention of magic, even healing magic. It had made Uther happy, but it meant the loss of one small freedom that Merlin had enjoyed. When Merlin opened the door, Ilberd was organizing his own books neatly on a shelf. He looked up and gave a disparaging sniff when he saw Merlin. “Come to collect your things at last, have you? About time.” “My things?” Merlin repeated, confused. Ilberd narrowed his eyes. “Yes, your things. I want that chamber cleared out so that I can get settled. Preferably before midnight, as I have an early meeting with the king on the morrow.” “You—you want me to leave?” “Yes, of course.” Ilberd waved a hand. “I hope I didn’t give you the impression that I wanted an assistant because I do not. And I certainly do not intend to sleep out here in the main chamber. Gaius may have done so, but I prefer a modicum of privacy.” Merlin swallowed, hesitating. He didn’t have anywhere else to go and besides, this was his home! Ilberd had no right— “Get a move on, boy!” Ilberd snapped. Merlin flinched and stumbled over to his room. Unfortunately, Ilberd did have the right—these were his chambers now, and the king would certainly give his wishes preference over those of a servant. Angrily, he began collecting his things, shoving them into his bag. He’d have to come back for the staff later, but he managed to cram his book in under his shirts. He didn’t have much and only a few minutes later he found himself back out in the corridor, Ilberd slamming the door behind him, his few belongings clutched in his hands. It was dark, only one torch sputtering fitfully above the stairwell. And it was cold—the day had been fairly mild for mid-winter, but with the sun gone, winter had returned with a vengeance. Merlin could see his breath, and he shivered. What was he going to do? His first thought was to go to Gwen, but that wouldn’t work. After the dragon’s attack, Gwen had taken in several of the townsfolk whose homes had been destroyed. Although they had rebuilt and left after a few weeks, Gwen had kept up the practice, letting the poor who were homeless and destitute shelter in her house for the night. Merlin couldn’t go and demand that she turn them out—they were in a far worse situation than he was. And there was barely enough space in Gaius’s new room for Gaius, let alone Merlin. He could go to Arthur, but Merlin knew how that would turn out. “Can’t you manage anything, Merlin?” Arthur would say, sounding exasperated and annoyed. Arthur already thought he was completely useless most of the time—Merlin didn’t want to give him one more reason to complain. Besides, what did he expect—that Arthur would let him sleep in his room? He couldn’t imagine Arthur sharing his bed—even if it was big enough for at least five people. Merlin was growing colder by the second—he had to go somewhere or freeze to death here in the corridor. He finally made his way down to the stables. The stable boys had sought out all the warmest spots, of course, but Merlin found a disused room in the back, door half-rotted away. He could put his things here, and hide his book. He dragged in some armfuls of straw, and took out the thin blanket he had taken from his old room. Keeping all his clothes on, he curled up in the straw, trying to get warm. It didn’t work too well. His old room had never been exactly cozy, but at least it had been surrounded by sturdy stone walls. Here there were a thousand cracks in the walls that let in the cold air. He could try to start a fire but there was no hearth, and the last thing he needed was to accidentally burn down the royal stables. He finally slipped into a light doze, but kept shivering all night long. He woke up to find snow falling outside. He tried to get all the straw out of his hair and trudged up to Arthur’s chambers. “Are you all right?” Arthur asked him as Merlin did up the laces on one of Arthur’s warmest wool tunics. “You look tired.” “I didn’t sleep too well last night, that’s all,” Merlin replied. Arthur hissed as Merlin’s fingers touched his skin. “You’re freezing!” He batted Merlin’s fingers away. “I’ll do that.” “It is snowing outside, sire,” Merlin muttered. “What does that matter? What are you doing—going for early promenades around the courtyard?” Arthur shook his head. “Try to be slightly competent for once, Merlin.” It was a long day, and by the time Merlin crept back into the stables that night, he was tired, hungry, and just as cold as when he had woken up. His boots were soaked from walking through the snow, and he took them off, trying to rub some warmth back into his feet. If things had still been the same, he would have been up in the castle now, sitting down to dinner with Gaius. He had managed to grab some bread in the kitchens that evening, when he picked up Arthur’s supper, but by the time he had brought the dishes back down, everyone else had eaten and the dogs were gnawing on the few scraps of leftovers. Merlin sniffed and wiped at his eyes, telling himself that it was ridiculous to cry. He wasn’t out under a snow bank somewhere, and he had eaten, even if it hadn’t been very much. But it wasn’t just his bed or his room that he missed—he missed the feeling of home, of belonging. He had arrived in Camelot from Ealdor, nervous and lonely, and Gaius had given him a home. It had been a safe place to go at the end of the day. Shivering, Merlin cast a spell, and a globe of blue light hovered over his hand. It cast weird shadows on the walls, but didn’t give off any warmth. He was too tired for much magic anyway. With a sigh, he let the light go and lay down in the straw. * “Will that be all, my lord?” Arthur had been sitting in front of the fire, staring into the flames, feeling warm and pleasantly drowsy. He yawned and looked over at Merlin. “Yes, you may go. Good night, Merlin.” “Good night,” Merlin replied quietly, slipping out the door. Arthur frowned after him. Something was wrong with Merlin—for the past week he had looked exhausted and seemed to be getting thinner, if that were even possible. He was always shivering when he arrived in the morning, and one afternoon Arthur had found him just kneeling in front of the fire, eyes closed. He had scrambled up when he heard Arthur and tried to make it look as though he had been brushing the hearth. Trying to ask what was wrong did no good—Merlin either shrugged or said that it was nothing. Arthur was getting ready to go to bed when he remembered that he hadn’t told Merlin to attend him earlier than usual the next morning, as his father wanted to ride out to one of the outlying villages to investigate rumors of a bandit attack. Well, it wouldn’t take long to go tell Merlin. Grumbling, Arthur shrugged on his jacket and set off through the cold corridors. Ilberd answered the door when he knocked. “May I help you, your highness?” he asked, bowing. “I’m looking for Merlin,” Arthur replied. “Merlin?” Ilberd looked taken aback. “Why should I know where the boy is?” Arthur stared at him for a few seconds. “Because he lives here.” Ilberd’s face cleared. “Ah, I see, my lord. The boy is no longer here. I had no need for an assistant, so I asked him to move out.” Arthur frowned. “Well, where did he go?” “I have no idea, my lord.” Arthur looked at Ilberd for a long moment. He suspected that Ilberd had not “asked” Merlin to leave but had simply tossed him out the door with no warning. And where the hell was Merlin now? Nowhere good judging by the way he had looked all week. “I will speak with you about this later,” Arthur growled, and turned away, striding down the corridor. He tried Gaius’s new chambers first, but Gaius was out and there was no sign of Merlin. He asked a few servants that he passed, but they hadn’t seen Merlin since supper. He finally went to the guards at the front door, who reported that Merlin had gone out earlier—heading for the stables, they thought. The stables were dark, but enough moonlight trickled in to see by. Arthur clambered about, cursing as he stumbled into things. He was about to give up when he noticed the small door, half-hidden behind a few barrels. He shoved it open. Merlin was curled up in some straw on the floor. Arthur could tell that he was shaking from the cold, only a thin blanket covering him. “Merlin,” Arthur breathed, kneeling down. “What are you doing here?” He gently shook Merlin’s shoulder. Merlin slowly opened his eyes. He gasped when he realized it was Arthur, and quickly sat up, bits of hay clinging to his hair and tunic. “Arthur,” he mumbled. “What—?” “Why didn’t you tell me?” Arthur asked softly. Merlin looked away. “I just—I don’t know.” Arthur sighed and took off his jacket. He put it around Merlin’s shoulders and pulled him closer, rubbing his arms, trying to get him warm. “You’re such an idiot.” After a moment, Merlin rested his head on Arthur’s shoulder, his cold nose pressing against Arthur’s neck. “Come on,” Arthur finally said, pulling Merlin up. “Let’s get you out of here and somewhere warm.” “Ilberd—he won’t let me stay with him.” Merlin looked lost and nervous, hands clenched in Arthur’s jacket. “I’m not sending you back there,” Arthur told him. “Just follow me.” Merlin stumbled along, stiff from the cold. When he realized they were heading for Arthur’s chambers, he stopped. “Arthur, you don’t have to—” “Quiet, Merlin” Arthur said, tugging him along. When they reached his chambers, Arthur let go of Merlin’s arm and went to rummage in his wardrobe. Merlin stayed in the middle of the room, glancing uncertainly about. Finding one of his warmest woolen nightshirts, Arthur stuffed it into Merlin’s hands. “Here. Put this on.” “I can’t take—” “I’m not letting you into my bed covered in hay,” Arthur interrupted him. Merlin looked up, eyes wide. “Your bed?” “Yes,” Arthur replied, sitting down and tugging off his boots. “We’ll get something sorted out for you tomorrow, but it’s too late and too bloody cold to deal with it now.” There was a long pause, and then Merlin began fumbling with the laces of his tunic, drawing it off over his head. Arthur pulled on his own nightshirt and slid under the mound of blankets. Merlin crawled into the bed a few seconds later, not looking at Arthur. He curled onto his side, as close to the edge of the bed as he could get without falling off. “By the gods, Merlin,” Arthur muttered, reaching out and pulling at Merlin’s shoulder. “I’m not going to bite you.” Merlin resisted for a moment, but then gave in and moved closer to Arthur. “Thank you,” he said quietly. He was still shivering a little. Arthur put his arm around Merlin, shifting forward so that they were almost touching. “You need to get warm.” Merlin nodded and slid downwards so that only the top of his head was showing above the blankets. Arthur ruffled his hair. “Should have told me,” he murmured, and Merlin made a little noise that Arthur couldn’t interpret. Sighing, Arthur decided he was too tired to try and decipher Merlin’s motives. Slowly, Merlin grew warmer, and eventually his breathing deepened as he fell asleep. Arthur could have moved away, but he kept his arm around Merlin even as he drifted off to sleep himself. * Warmth—blissful warmth. Consciousness tugged at Merlin, but he tried to ward it off, burying his face in the wonderfully soft pillow. Gaius would be coming any minute to tell him to get up. But no—he wasn’t in his old room anymore. The memory of the stables returned and with it the image of Arthur, bending over him, brow furrowed with concern. And then Arthur had— Merlin’s eyes snapped open, and he sat up, legs tangled in the blankets. He was still in Arthur’s bed, sunshine streaming in through the open curtains. It looked to be late morning, and Arthur wasn’t there, although the blankets on Arthur’s side had been tucked back in around Merlin. A covered tray sat on the table, and Merlin could smell sausage. His stomach growled. Disentangling himself from the blankets, Merlin got up, shivering when his feet hit the frigid stone floor. He sat down in Arthur’s chair and pulled off the cover, revealing a plate of cheese, bread, and the fragrant sausages. He went through half of it in about five seconds, wiping his greasy fingers on his shirt before belatedly remembering that it was Arthur’s. Merlin glanced around, looking for his clothes. His boots were tumbled in a corner, but there was no sign of his tunic or breeches. Frowning, he got up and began poking around. What had Arthur done with them? He vaguely remembered Arthur saying something about not letting Merlin into his bed covered in hay, but surely Arthur wouldn’t have just thrown out his clothes. Did he expect Merlin to wander about in his nightshirt all day? Then Merlin saw the tunic and breeches neatly folded and lying by the bed. He recognized them as an older pair of Arthur’s—slightly worn, but the tunic was still thick and warm—much warmer than Merlin’s had been. Hesitantly, Merlin picked it up. Had Arthur left this for him? He didn’t want to put it on and then have Arthur yell at him when he returned. But Merlin’s clothes were definitely gone and these were here, so… Merlin finally put them on. The tunic was a little too big on him, and the breeches a little short, but they fit well enough. He went back to the table and finished off the food, and then just sat there for a few moments. It was nice and quiet in Arthur’s chambers, and Merlin half-felt like crawling back into the bed for a while. But he had work to do. Arthur would definitely yell at him if he returned to find Merlin still in his bed, dishes piled on the table and the wood-box empty. As Merlin went about his chores, he wondered where Arthur would find room for him to sleep. Probably a disused storeroom somewhere. Merlin spared a regretful thought for Arthur’s bed—it really had been amazingly comfortable. A blush crept up Merlin’s face as he remembered Arthur tugging him closer, putting his arm around him—and in the stables, when he had draped his jacket over Merlin’s shoulders. Merlin was slightly embarrassed at Arthur taking care of him like that, but at the same time—well, Merlin knew that Arthur cared about him, but those feelings were so often buried behind a wall of orders and teasing and royal aloofness. Merlin stroked the soft fabric of the tunic. It was nice to have a tangible reminder that he meant something to Arthur. When he took the dishes back down to the kitchens, Merlin found out from the other servants that Arthur and the king had ridden off to inspect an outlying village and probably would not return until dusk. Merlin spent the afternoon polishing Arthur’s numerous pairs of boots. By the time he was done, he was yawning again, and Arthur’s bed looked very tempting. Merlin added another log to the fire and glanced out the window. The shadows were long against the snow, the sun dipping down closer to the hills. Merlin glanced at the bed again. He’d just lie down for a few minutes—just until he heard Arthur returning. * Arthur stomped wearily down the corridor, his body still chilled from the wind despite his fur-lined gloves and cape. It had been a discouraging day. The rumors of bandits were in fact true—one village had lost half its remaining grain supplies and two homes had been burned. The recent snow had obscured any tracks, but it looked as though the bandits had melted back into the forest where it would be difficult, if not impossible to hunt them out. They had left behind a small garrison of soldiers but the same couldn’t be done for every village. Entering his chambers, Arthur wrestled off one of his gauntlets and was about to toss it onto the table when he saw Merlin. He stopped and laid the gauntlet down quietly, and then walked over to his bed. Merlin was sprawled across it, fast asleep. That morning, Arthur had woken to find Merlin snoring softly beside him. He had been about to jostle Merlin awake, order him off to find breakfast, but then he had remembered how exhausted Merlin had been the night before. How cold and miserable he had looked, curled up in the straw in the stables. Arthur still didn’t understand why Merlin hadn’t come to him; why Merlin hadn’t asked for help. Did he think that Arthur would refuse to give him any? The thought had made Arthur’s stomach clench unpleasantly. Whatever Merlin’s reason had been, Arthur clearly had not been looking after him properly. Merlin might be annoying and clumsy and impossible to decipher half the time, but Arthur was his prince, and it was his responsibility to make sure Merlin was all right. And he’s my friend, Arthur had added to himself and had reached out to softly lay his hand on Merlin’s arm. So he had let Merlin sleep. The sting of guilt had returned when he picked up Merlin’s clothes from where they were strewn about the floor. They were threadbare—no protection at all in this cold weather. Arthur had found an old tunic and breeches in his wardrobe and set them out. And he had called for a servant to bring up an extra large breakfast so he could leave most of it for Merlin. Merlin had slept through all of it, and Arthur had closed the door quietly behind him when he left. Arthur could tell Merlin had done most of his chores when he woke up but had apparently given in to the temptation of a soft bed once more. “Merlin,” Arthur said, leaning down to shake Merlin’s shoulder. Merlin blinked awake, scrubbing a hand through his hair. Then he focused on Arthur and sat up abruptly. “You’re back!” he exclaimed and tumbled hastily off the bed. “Thank you, Merlin, for stating the obvious once more,” Arthur said dryly. “Help me off with this armor before it freezes to me permanently.” “At least then I wouldn’t have to keep putting it on you,” Merlin retorted, his fingers brushing Arthur’s neck as he worked. Arthur hid a smile and grabbed Merlin’s hand. “You’re nice and warm,” he observed. “A definite improvement over last night.” Merlin cleared his throat. “Right—about that. Thank you, for letting me sleep here and—and for these,” Merlin added, tugging at the tunic. Arthur waved a hand. “It was nothing. Now can you please hurry it up, Merlin? I’d prefer not to eat dinner in my chainmail.” Merlin went back to his task. “So,” he asked hesitantly after a moment, “what about tonight?” Arthur frowned. “Tonight?” “Where—where should I go?” “Oh.” Arthur rubbed at his neck, trying to relax the muscles. “I’ll need to speak to the steward, but it’s too late tonight. You can sleep here again.” A pause, then quietly, “Thank you.” A maid came a short while later, a tray loaded with food balanced in her arms. She set it down and curtsied before hurrying off again. Merlin glanced at the food and raised an eyebrow. “There’s enough there to feed half the garrison.” “That’s because you’re eating with me,” Arthur told him. Ignoring Merlin’s spluttered protest, he sat down, gesturing for Merlin to do the same. “You look as though you haven’t eaten a decent meal in days.” Merlin slowly sat down, holding himself stiffly, but eyeing a roasted duck. Arthur pushed it towards him. “Go on. Eat whatever you like,” Arthur said. It was odd, having Merlin eating at the table with him. They had often shared a meal when out on a hunting expedition or on one of their more dangerous escapades of course, but in Camelot Merlin had always stood by, serving Arthur, pouring more wine when required. He found that he rather liked Merlin sitting by him, though. He liked watching the way Merlin’s quick fingers tore hungrily at a piece of bread, liked the little noises of appreciation Merlin made as he ate the roasted duck. As Merlin’s nervousness faded, he managed to draw Merlin into a conversation. Nothing spectacular—just what had happened in the castle that day, the servants’ gossip, how Merlin really didn’t see why all the wood had to be kept out in the yard because the staircase was bloody long and after going up it five or six times it was no wonder he had fallen asleep. Arthur hid another smile in his wine glass and told Merlin it was good exercise. There was a bit of an awkward moment after dinner, when the conversation lagged and Merlin looked uncomfortable again. He finally stood up and started gathering the dishes, muttering that he was going to go see how Gaius was doing. Merlin didn’t return for at least two hours, and Arthur finally gave up on waiting for him and got ready for bed. It had been a long day, and he sighed in relief when he finally relaxed into the pillows. He must have dozed off, for the next thing he knew, Merlin was quietly slipping in beside him. A few moments later, Arthur felt a sudden shock of cold against his bare leg. “Your feet are freezing, Merlin!” Arthur exclaimed, jerking away. “Sorry! I’m sorry—I thought you were asleep.” Merlin started to draw away. Arthur clamped his hand around Merlin’s arm. “Get back here,” he ordered. Merlin edged slightly closer. Arthur sighed and felt about with his leg until he found Merlin’s cold feet again. He made a mental note to find Merlin a pair of slippers. “Now go to sleep.” After a minute or two, he felt Merlin relax and wiggle his feet further under Arthur’s legs. Arthur winced but made himself stay still. As Merlin’s feet warmed up, Arthur realized that he rather liked the feel of Merlin skin against his own. It made him wonder what the rest of Merlin’s skin would feel like—if he slipped his hand under Merlin’s tunic, for example. His hand was actually moving towards Merlin to find out when Arthur came to his senses. What was he thinking? This was Merlin! He did not have any—any feelings like that when it came to Merlin. Deciding that it was simply the effects of the long day and too much wine, Arthur pushed the thought firmly from his mind and clenched his wayward hand in the blanket. * Merlin smoothed down the blanket on their—no, Arthur’s—bed and fluffed the pillows, making sure to put the fluffiest one on Arthur’s side. Arthur kept complaining that Merlin was hogging the pillows—when Merlin was doing no such thing. Frowning, Merlin punched the pillow a few more times for good measure and set it back on their—Arthur’s—bed. It had been two weeks, and Merlin was still here. No wonder he was getting mixed up. Every time he asked Arthur if he should move somewhere else, Arthur muttered that he hadn’t had time to talk to the steward yet, although Merlin had seen the two of them discussing repairs to the kitchen storeroom yesterday morning. Not that Merlin exactly wanted to leave. It was quite lovely, waking up all warm in Arthur’s bed each morning, spending the evening lying in front of the fireplace with a book and a goblet of mulled wine. After the first two awkward evenings, Arthur had handed Merlin a stack of books and told him to make himself comfortable. And when Arthur had some mulled wine brought up from the kitchens and had caught Merlin looking at the pitcher hopefully, he had given Merlin a glass. And then ordered it every night thereafter. And that morning—Merlin felt his face heat up just thinking about it. He had awoken to find Arthur pressed up against him, his arm draped over Merlin. After a frozen second, Merlin had determined that Arthur was still asleep. At first, he had been going to inch away, but then found himself putting his hand on Arthur’s arm. And then a sudden rush of images had flooded into his mind—pinning Arthur to the bed and kissing him, stripping off Arthur’s clothes, sliding his mouth down Arthur’s hard length. That had gotten Merlin out of the bed. A second later, he was standing on the far side of the room, willing down an erection and listening to Arthur murmur in sleepy confusion behind him. Merlin was trying hard not to think about it, occupying his mind with the other imminent disaster that was looming. Whenever he had been alone in his room, he had allowed himself to use his magic. Just for little things—heating the water, lighting a candle, levitating a clean tunic to the bed when he felt too lazy to get up in the morning. It had become a habit and now, as he began to feel more comfortable in Arthur’s rooms, he could feel his guard relaxing. The night before, he had almost used magic to pass Arthur the salt during supper. He had stopped himself just in time and spilled his wine all over the table, much to Arthur’s annoyance. No—things couldn’t go on like this. Merlin would have to sleep somewhere else. He’d demand that Arthur speak to the steward that evening. * The early winter night was already closing in when Arthur finally escaped from a meeting with his father and the council. Ilberd had been present as well, and Arthur beckoned for him to follow. “My lord?” Ilberd asked, hurrying to catch up. “I would like to speak with you privately for a moment. In my chambers.” “Certainly, your highness,” Ilberd said, bowing his head. Merlin wasn’t there—Arthur knew that he was down in the kitchens at this hour, waiting to collect supper—but it was quite evident that Merlin was making himself at home. Arthur had ordered several new tunics made for Merlin, along with a new pair of breeches, and over the past week they had managed to spread themselves over Arthur’s room. The books Merlin was reading were strewn about, along with a few half-empty cups. Merlin still kept putting away Arthur’s clothes and things, but apparently did not think he should clean up after himself. The strangest part was that Arthur didn’t mind. He rather liked the clutter—it gave his room a lived-in feeling, something it had never had before. Servants had always kept his chambers immaculate. Even when he was a boy, his toys were always quickly picked up and stored neatly away. Ilberd entered behind him and Arthur shut the door. “Are you feeling unwell, my lord?” Ilberd asked. “No.” Arthur sat down in his chair, leaving Ilberd—who was beginning to look uneasy—standing before him. “I want to speak to you about Merlin.” “Merlin?” “Yes.” Arthur’s voice hardened. “I know that you cast him out of his room. Told him he was unwelcome.” Ilberd cleared his throat. “I would hardly say—” “Do you know where he went?” Arthur leaned forward. “He was sleeping in the stables. The stables! In winter! He could have frozen to death.” “My lord,” Ilberd said stiffly. “I do not see how this is my fault. How was I to know the boy had nowhere else to go?” “Well, you didn’t bother to ask him, did you? You’re a physician. You’re supposed to care about the welfare of others!” Ilberd paled. “I do care, my lord. I assure you that—” “That you care about nobles? About people with enough influence and money to ensure that you are well fed and housed? That you reserve your concern for them and not for the hundreds of others who need you but are too poor to merit your attention?” Ilberd flinched and stayed silent. “As the court physician, it is your job to ensure the welfare of all of Camelot’s citizens. No matter who they are. Is that understood?” “Yes, my lord,” Ilberd said quietly, and he had the grace to look ashamed. “Good. You are dismissed.” Ilberd let himself out and a few minutes later Merlin arrived. “What did you do to Ilberd?” Merlin asked, laying out supper. “He looked like he was about to throw up.” “I told him that he was a cold-hearted bastard who was too full of himself to see when people needed help.” Arthur paused. “A trifle more diplomatically, though.” “Ah, well, he deserved it,” Merlin replied, trying not to grin. “He did.” And Arthur couldn’t seem to stop himself from reaching out and putting a hand on Merlin’s arm. “You must come to me, Merlin. If something like that happens again.” Merlin nodded slowly. “I will. I’m sorry—I just—you already thought I was useless most of the time.” Arthur’s grip tightened. “I don’t think that. I never thought that.” Merlin glanced at him. “Never?” “Well, perhaps that first week—when you forgot my sword,” Arthur admitted, and Merlin laughed. “But not now. Not now.” Merlin sighed and squeezed Arthur’s hand, before pulling away and sitting down. They had eaten most of their supper before Merlin spoke again. “Arthur, I was wondering if you could speak to the steward—about finding another room for me to sleep in.” Arthur paused and set down his piece of chicken. “Aren’t you comfortable here? If you need—” “I am,” Merlin broke in quickly. “I am. You’ve been—it’s been—nice. Very nice,” he added quietly. “But I can’t imagine you want me to stay here forever.” Arthur opened his mouth to say that of course he didn’t, and then suddenly realized that he did. That the thought of Merlin leaving—of Merlin’s clutter disappearing, of Merlin’s cold feet no longer jolting him into abrupt wakefulness, of no longer opening his eyes in the morning with Merlin warm and sleepy beside him—made him feel terribly unhappy. He cleared his throat. “I find it rather useful to have you around, actually.” He tried to make his voice sound unconcerned. “You’re on time in the mornings, for one thing. And I don’t have to hunt you down whenever I need something done.” “Well, yes, but—” “No,” Arthur said firmly. “You’re staying.” Merlin stared at him. “You really want—” “Why are we even having this conversation?” Arthur glared. “I certainly don’t have to explain my reasons to you. I want you to stay. So you’re staying.” Merlin looked down at the table, and Arthur thought he saw the beginnings of a smile on Merlin’s face. If Merlin started laughing at him… But then Merlin just said softly, “All right. I’ll stay.” And he sighed again. “Good.” Arthur studied Merlin carefully for another moment, and then gestured at the dishes. “Now if you’re so eager to be useful, you could clean this lot up.” “Right.” Merlin was definitely smiling now, but Arthur let it go. And not because he liked the way Merlin’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. * Merlin took the dishes down to the kitchens and then sought out an empty corridor. He leaned against the wall and shut his eyes. He couldn’t have said no to Arthur. Arthur had looked so—so hurt that Merlin wanted to leave. He would just have to be extra careful not to use his magic inadvertently. * The next morning, Arthur woke before Merlin. He propped himself up on one elbow and stared down at Merlin, who was huddled under the blankets. Gently, Arthur brushed his fingers through Merlin’s hair. Why had Merlin wanted to leave? Surely he couldn’t want to go back to a narrow, cramped bed in some cold room? Surely he couldn’t be unhappy here? He didn’t look it, but perhaps he was. Arthur’s fingers became a bit more forceful, just thinking about Merlin wanting to leave, and Merlin made a little noise and pushed into his touch. Arthur’s breath caught, and then he realized Merlin was still asleep. He kept up the gentle pressure, while pulling the blankets more securely around Merlin’s shoulders. Dammit, he was not going to let Merlin leave. He was going to take care of Merlin, keep him happy. Because Merlin was his friend and he enjoyed Merlin’s company. One of Arthur’s fingers wandered down to stroke Merlin’s forehead. Yes, just friends. Just friends. A week later, Arthur admitted to himself that his feelings for Merlin had gone beyond friendship. Every morning he had to restrain himself from kissing Merlin awake. He kept catching himself staring at Merlin’s mouth during the day. But he couldn’t let on to Merlin. Gods, Merlin might think Arthur had deliberately brought Merlin into his bed just for sex. Granted, getting to the sex was rapidly becoming one of Arthur’s main goals in life, but it wasn’t his reason for letting Merlin stay with him in the first place. But Merlin might not see it that way. Thankfully, Merlin didn’t seem to notice Arthur’s fixation on his mouth. Now that he seemed to finally believe that he was welcome, he was becoming more and more relaxed around Arthur. The other day he had actually taken a bath, and Arthur had walked in on him and spent the next hour trying to forget the sight of Merlin’s wet skin and the way his hair looked all spiky with soap. It hadn’t worked. And then Arthur discovered why Merlin had been nervous about staying. They had finished supper, and Arthur was trying to work his way through a stack of reports while Merlin lounged on the rug in front of the fire, yawning and lazily cracking open walnuts. “Give me a few of those,” Arthur had said, realizing that Merlin was going to eat the entire bowl if he didn’t speak up. But instead of getting up, Merlin had waved his hand, never tearing his gaze from the warm flames, and the bowl had drifted up and over to Arthur, settling on the table. After a minute or two, Arthur managed to shut his mouth. A minute after that, his mind went from a blank of pure amazement to screaming He’s a sorcerer! He can do magic! Magic! Magic! Magic! Arthur’s brain seemed to stick on that one word, repeating it over and over, each time more hysterically than the last. And Merlin—Merlin didn’t seem to realize what he had done. He was still stretched on the rug, sleepily looking at the fire. After a few more minutes, Merlin rolled over and gave Arthur a contented smile. “You done with those?” he asked, standing up and coming over to take the walnuts back. “Arthur?” “Yes. Walnuts. Excellent. All done.” Arthur’s voice came out a bit cracked and whispery. Merlin gave him a puzzled look, but didn’t say anything. He took the bowl and went back to the fireplace, lying down in front of it again. Arthur stumbled to his feet. He made it to the door, opened it, and tottered out into the corridor. He started walking, hardly noticing where he was going, and twice almost ran straight into a wall. Finally he arrived out on top of one of the towers, and the cold air jolted him back into reality. A reality where Merlin was a sorcerer. Arthur sank down, leaning his back against the wall. Merlin had magic, and he had never said a word about it. Never trusted Arthur enough to tell him. That hurt, and Arthur felt a rush of anger. But then he remembered that Merlin also hadn’t told him about sleeping in the stables. If he hadn’t come to Arthur with that, why would he have brought this to him? Merlin must be terrified. Terrified of someone finding out. Terrified of being executed. But if he had magic—why was he in Camelot of all places? Why had he stayed on as manservant to the crown prince of all people? The answer was so obvious that Arthur couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it before. Merlin was protecting him. He was using his magic to protect Arthur. A thousand moments suddenly took on a new light. Briefly, the thought occurred to Arthur that perhaps Merlin was simply trying to get close to him, that Merlin had some evil plan in mind. But no—no, Arthur would never believe it of him. Not his Merlin, who snored and always smiled a little when he put on the tunics Arthur had given him and loved cheese and had haltingly asked Arthur the other day if perhaps Arthur might teach him how to play Twelve Man Morris. But his father—the king—if he knew… He wasn’t going to know. That was all there was to it. Arthur would keep Merlin’s secret. He would keep him safe. But that night, when Merlin had crawled into bed next to him, and was settling down into the pillows with a happy sigh, Arthur knew—he knew what Merlin had done for him, how scared Merlin was, and—and oh gods, he loved him. He leaned forward and gently pressed his lips to Merlin’s. Merlin drew in a sharp breath, and his eyes snapped open. “Arthur, what—” Arthur kissed him again. Merlin blinked, looking endearingly confused. So Arthur kissed him once more. And this time Merlin kissed him back. “Arthur,” he breathed softly when they pulled apart. “I—” And then he suddenly rolled onto Arthur, pinning down his shoulders, and claimed his mouth again. “I take it you’ve wanted to do that for a while?” Arthur managed to say, a bit breathless. “Yes, but I thought—” “Don’t,” Arthur replied, and rolled Merlin over so that he was on top, pressing Merlin into the bed. Merlin complied for once and didn’t think or talk, just kissed Arthur and started tugging at Arthur’s shirt. As Arthur stripped it off, he had a sudden thought. It was probably ridiculous, but—well—there were certain stories. Rather bawdy stories and people usually stopped telling them when their prince drew near, which was quite annoying. But the stories, which were about sorcerers, suggested that—that said sorcerers could not maintain control of their magic when being physically pleasured. What if Merlin lost control? Now that he knew, Arthur was very curious to see Merlin actually do magic. Besides, it seemed silly for both of them to try and keep a secret from each other that both of them knew even if Merlin didn’t know that he knew and—well, it was confusing enough just thinking about it. Arthur didn’t think he could pull it off in actual conversation. So he proceeded to make Merlin lose control. First, he spent some time licking and sucking at Merlin’s collarbone. This made Merlin squirm a bit and groan rather loudly. When he cupped Merlin through his trousers and squeezed, Merlin arched up off the bed and started trying to undo his laces. Arthur stopped that, batting Merlin’s hands away. Merlin whimpered as Arthur slowly, ever so slowly, worked them open, stopping frequently to kiss Merlin or nibble a little on his ear. “Finally,” Merlin gasped, when Arthur finally pulled down his breeches to reveal Merlin’s hard cock. Arthur took off his own breeches and then divested Merlin of his tunic. The blankets were tumbled down at the end of the bed, and it should have been cold, but it wasn’t. In fact, the air was quite pleasantly warm. Arthur smiled and reached down to stroke Merlin. Merlin moaned and his eyes fluttered shut, but not before Arthur caught the glimpse of gold. “Look at me,” Arthur whispered, and Merlin did, his eyes widening as Arthur started licking his fingers, getting them nice and wet. Merlin pushed his hips up hopefully, and Arthur wrapped his hand around Merlin again. He bent down and sucked on one of Merlin’s nipples, and Merlin made a surprised noise. Arthur quickly glanced up and saw that flash of gold again. “Arthur—Arthur, I—” Merlin started to say, his voice shaking, but Arthur slid down and took Merlin in his mouth, and Merlin’s words cut off into a stuttered moan. When Merlin’s fingers wound into his hair, Arthur hummed, pleased, swirling his tongue around Merlin’s cock. “Oh, oh, fuck, Arthur,” Merlin gasped, and his hips thrust forward, his cock hitting Arthur’s throat. Arthur gagged and pulled back. “Sorry! Sorry,” Merlin said, his voice hoarse. His hair was damp with sweat, and he was breathing hard. “It’s okay,” Arthur murmured, pulling Merlin into a quick kiss. He could see the gold swirling in Merlin’s eyes for a second before Merlin closed them. Arthur went back to what he had been doing, licking Merlin’s cock before sucking it in again, and when Merlin put his hands back in Arthur’s hair, they were trembling. He felt Merlin tense and then he was coming. Arthur pulled off and looked up in time to see every object in the room—including the bed—suddenly levitate a few inches into the air. There was a humming noise, and it was hot enough that Arthur was sweating, his skin slipping along Merlin’s. Merlin shuddered and collapsed back into the pillows. The bed settled heavily back onto the floor. “That was amazing,” Arthur whispered, lowering himself onto Merlin. He rutted against Merlin’s stomach, his cock sliding in Merlin’s come. Merlin opened his eyes, looking dazed and entirely out of it. Arthur groaned and reached down to pump himself, and then came, spurting onto Merlin’s skin. Merlin whimpered, and his eyes flared gold once more. There was a soft ‘wump’ as a lump of soot fell down into the fireplace and a cloud of ash billowed into the room. “That—not so amazing,” Arthur wheezed, coughing as he got up to open a window. When he turned back, Merlin was backed up against the headboard, eyes wide with terror. “I—I can explain! It wasn’t what you think, Arthur, really!” Merlin swallowed hard. “It was just—I just—” “It was magic,” Arthur said calmly and got back into the bed. He reached for Merlin, and Merlin flinched away. Arthur sighed and lowered his hand. “Do I look upset?” “Yes!” Merlin paused and looked at Arthur again. “Or—no? Why—why aren’t you?” “I saw you doing some magic earlier,” Arthur admitted. “And I wanted to make sure—to see what it was like.” “So this—” Merlin choked and gestured at the bed. “You just did this to—to make me reveal it?” “What? No!” Arthur exclaimed, appalled. “No. I’ve wanted to do this for, well, quite a long time actually. But—but I did want to see your magic. I thought you might never tell me, otherwise.” Merlin looked away. “I’m sorry. I should have told you. I wanted to—so many times. But—but I was afraid. Afraid of what you would think of me.” Arthur tried to touch him again, and this time Merlin let him. He let Arthur draw him into his arms. “I think you’re brave,” Arthur murmured, kissing Merlin. “Loyal.” He drew his fingers through Merlin’s hair. “Wonderful.” He settled Merlin against him. “And I want you to stay. Stay right here with me. Always.” Merlin sighed and the tension fled from his limbs. He tilted his head, enough to kiss Arthur jaw. “I will.” * Listening to Arthur’s breathing, having Arthur’s arm wrapped around him, smelling Arthur’s skin—and the beautiful, freeing sensation of no longer having to hide his magic—Merlin didn’t feel lost anymore. He didn’t feel lonely and uncertain, the way he had ever since Ilberd had thrown him out. He had a home again. A home here with Arthur.

Disclaimer: I do not own Yu-Gi-Oh or Dragonheart; they both belong to their respective owners. I do own bits of the plot and an OC. Warning: Awkward lemon-ish scene. You'll understand when you hit it. Chapter Thirteen: Revelations Victory, with the Morningstar flies, Bringing the tyrant closer to his demise. The two dragons turned their heads to look back at the knights, their eyes dull as they waited for the orders from their masters. One flinched as Crump glared at him, quickly looking away. Aside from the one glance, the two humans ignored the dragons that were crouched on the ground, preferring to speak to each other. Crump held two edges of a map, watching as Gansley pointed out the two villages that they were called on to strike; one in their own kingdom and the other in the kingdom to the north, some way into the territory. Crump narrowed his eyes as he calculated the distance it would take to travel by dragon before giving a slow nod. "I'll go up north, seeing as you are more inclined to remain here." Gansley leaned back at his words, tapping his fingers on the map. "Fine. After all, it would be more prudent to have one of us remain near the boarder in case they attempt to escape. If only Gozaburo had sent more of us." "Our king has his reasons." Crump let go of his edges as Gansley began rolling up the map, stowing it away before walking over to his dragon, the blue serpent-like creature lowering itself closer to the ground to allow its master to climb onto its back. The older knight grunted at the effort it cost him to scramble up onto the dragon, carelessly swinging the pack that he had over his shoulder to the slip of leather that served as a saddle. The dragon grunted as the pack knocked against its side, which the knight didn't notice. He pulled on the long reins that lead to the head of the dragon, yanking his bonded dragon away before giving it a sharp jab with the spurs that the knight wore on his boots. "I'll start my fun then. Enjoy your flight, Crump." The shorter knight grumbled at the send off, clambering onto his own dragon, sneering at the crystals that grew from the dragon's legs before hauling himself aboard. The dragon went through equally rough treatment before being kicked off in the direction of the north, slowly gaining the altitude that its master desired. On his own dragon, Gansley circled over their camping area before turning his head, sending his dragon down the boarder line, keeping alert for the village. He spotted it through a break in the forest, yanking the head of his dragon down and giving it a firm tap on the neck, the signal for flame. He felt the creature whimper before obeying the order, blue tinted flames pouring from its mouth and onto the roofs below. The knight smiled as the villagers ran from their houses, panicking as they pointed up at the sky. He was too busy in his accomplishment to notice the black object speeding in from the south. Ryou shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun, his mouth falling open as he watched Atem move across the sky, amazed that a dragon could obtain such speed. He got a better hold on the tree he was on, being told to keep on the look out for any reinforcements. The poet glanced down for a moment, able to spot Bakura as the thief dodged through the people, shouting and gesturing for them to run to the forest. Yugi had insisted that Atem trying and entice the dragon and knight away from the village, but it was an equally good idea to remove the people from the area if Atem failed. Ryou looked down at his feet, smiling as he saw Marik tipping his head to the side, a smile on the pale gold dragon's face. "He's making good time, surprising for on in his shape." "What do you mean?" Marik's tail thrashed in the undergrowth, crouching slightly as he readied for Atem's impact with the other dragon. "He's not exactly in top shape. He's barely got enough fat to last for the thin times. But that's Atem." Ryou looked up a surprised roar, ducking to see around a branch. He saw the last moment of the impact, Atem digging his claws into the dragon before pushing off, causing the blue dragon to plummet a few feet before it caught itself. Atem steadied himself, pulling into a hover as he watched the dragon below him, flames flickering inside his open mouth. The knight and dragon took a single look at the villagers below before the dragon was pulled into a dive. Ryou squeaked as Atem followed, wings clamped to his sides as he followed after. The poet tore his gaze from the two dragons in the sky as Marik gave a shocked trill. He nearly fell out of his tree at the same time, watching as Yugi rushed into the village, the people stopping to stare at the man that they thought was dead. Yugi ignored them, staring up at the dragons. Ryou glanced up at the dragons, mouth dropping open as the blue dragon jerked in flight, suddenly leveling out. He saw the glint of the sun off a sword as the knight leaned over the dragon, the tip of the weapon aimed for Yugi. Then, Ryou was scrambling for the base of the tree, waving his hand to send off Marik to the rescue. He stopped his frantic movements as Yugi lifted an arm into the air, his hand in a fist like he was calling a hawk back. In the air, Atem rolled over, putting him on the other side of the blue dragon before the black and red dragon's wings dropped back to his sides, sending Atem dropping past the blue dragon towards the prince. Atem snapped open his wings, skimming just over the ground with one hand lowering as he got closer to Yugi. Ryou thought he saw a smile on Yugi's face as the prince grabbed onto the offered limb, hanging onto a claw as the dragon moved past. Atem flapped his wings, gaining altitude as the blue dragon came out of its dive. The black and red dragon turned around so he was facing the blue dragon, lifting his hand so that Yugi could clamber onto his back. Ryou breathed a sigh of relief as the move was completed, leaning back against the bark with a hand over his heart. He had thought that would have ended in disaster, with Yugi being captured or Atem crashing to the ground. Stirring from his recumbent position, Ryou once again kneeled on the branch and peered up at the sky, ready to alert Marik of any other dragons. And, once again, he found himself being drawn to the two dragons that were already in the sky. Atem had pulled out of his hover, rising rapidly to keep out of the way of the knight and his dragon, Yugi clinging to his back. The black and red dragon quickly ducked to one side as another bout of blue flame was aimed at him, twisting easily in the air before resuming his steady rise. Ryou leaned out as far as he dared, wondering why Atem didn't attack. He shook his head and glanced back down a the village, watching as Bakura dashed from house to house, rushing the few people left into the woods. The thief waved at Ryou as he passed, a cheeky smile on his face as he jumped onto the tree and easily scrambled up the trunk, situating himself on a branch close by his lover. "I deserve a reward for that." "Are you going to demand one every time we do this?" "Yes." Bakura sat back with his arms folding across his chest and a smug look on his face. Ryou rolled his eyes and returned to staring up at the two dragons. He saw Atem glanced down at the village once before stopping his upward movement, stretching his wings to their fullest before letting out a roar. The poet shrieked and jumped back, noticing that Bakura had jumped at the sound as well. He looked down at the sound of laughter, reaching down to whack Marik over the head. The pale dragon easily shook off the rebuke, lavender eyes shining dangerously. "They're in for it now." The poet looked up in time to see Atem dive again. Panicking, the blue dragon let out another stream of fire. Calmly, Atem let his own flames loose, the darker fire easily cutting through the blue fire. The blue dragon turned away, diving for the ground despite the frantic movements of the knight on his back. Atem followed, drawing close to the dragon and eventually racing side-by-side with the blue dragon. Ryou watched in confusion as Atem tipped his head to the side, apparently listening to the blue dragon before giving a slow nod. Atem's tail lashed out, the force behind it, sending Atem spinning but the black and red dragon caught himself. The blue dragon, however, lost control and slammed into the ground, giving a weak cry of pain before Atem landed on the ground. The black and red dragon considered his enemy for a moment before lowering himself to the ground to let Yugi off his back. Atem shot the human a stern look, the only visible sign that something had not gone according to plan before storming over the struggling dragon. The two exchanged some more words in a hushed tone, the distance to great for Ryou to hear what they were saying. He poked Marik for an explanation, but the dragon merely bowed his head. The poet glanced up in time to see Atem roll the blue dragon onto its back before plunging his claws into his chest. The blue dragon writhed on the ground for a moment before going still. Atem stepped away from the body, Yugi running up to lay a hand on Atem's leg as they stood watch over the dead dragon. "It's done." Ryou jumped at the solemn voice, surprised to hear it coming from Bakura. The thief quickly slipped down the tree, stopping to pat Marik's shoulder before gesturing for Ryou to come down. "Come on. Don't you want to scribble about this?" The poet gave a slow nod before following his lover, glancing at Marik before he allowed Bakura to lead him toward where the villagers had run to. They would stay here until Atem returned. The black and red dragon and Yugi were the ones setting the pace in this venture. Ryou felt a smile cross his face as he stepped into the place where the villagers had gone, waving at a few small children before being pulled away by Bakura. The poet was dragged through the main group of people towards the other side of the group, where Bakura pushed him down. The thief sat down next to him, stretching his arms over his head before sitting back. "And now we wait." "But what about the people? What should we tell them?" Bakura opened one eye. "They'll do our job for us. A few will talk about how the prince has come back from the dead with a dragon to help save them. They'll gather together and, by the time Joey and Duke get up here, there will be a willing army at their command." The thief sat up abruptly, motioning a teenager over. The teen hesitated before ambling over, looking surprised. Bakura, however, didn't seem to notice as he pointed toward the north. "Cross into the next kingdom and find the first village you can. Spread the word on that Gozaburo is going to attack villages with dragons. Try and get it to the girl who has the prince's child. She's probably one of his victims." The teenager went wide eyed before he nodded and took off at a run, leaving Bakura to settle back on the ground with a long sigh. Ryou stared at his lover before leaning back on his hands, watching the sun filter through the branches, looking for the first signs of leaves. "Do you think he'll be in time?" The thief snorted, keeping his eyes shut. "It's about an hour to the boarder and there is bound to be a village close by. The kid will be fine." "No. For the girl." Bakura shrugged. "Word spreads fast. The people will probably be gone when that dragon gets there. And we'll be right after the dragon. Nothing can stop Yugi and Atem when they are on a mission. Soon, this will all be over and you can go back to annoying me with your scribbling." Ryou chuckled at Bakura's term for his composing. He shifted so he could use Bakura as a pillow before he stretched out on the ground with a sigh of relief. "I like the sound of that. Atem and Marik will go back down south and Yugi will settle down on his throne with that girl and the child. Everything will go back to normal." The poet chuckled and looked up at Bakura. "I never thought I would say that." He didn't expect the sullen look that came over Bakura's face, the thief's russet eyes snapping open to stare at the branches above them. Ryou frowned and rolled over onto his stomach, gently prodding at Bakura's side. The thief pushed his hand away after a moment. "Yugi isn't going to leave the dragon." "But…" Ryou sat up, flailing as he tried to digest this new information. "He's the prince, the rightful king! It's his duty to sit on the throne, to take care of his people…to produce heirs! He shouldn't be spending the rest of his life with some dragon! That's not how these things go!" "He won't leave Atem for the same reason I stay with you." The mention of his relationship with the thief silenced the poet, Ryou dropping his hands into his lap and looking shyly at Bakura. The thief nodded before closing his eyes again. "I should be somewhere else, robbing nobles blind and living off what I can get. Instead, I'm following you around. I should be doing many things, but I'm not, because I'm with you. And I don't regret any of it." The thief tapped a finger against his head before revising his statement. "I don't regret most of it. "Ryou, you and I," Bakura motioned at the two of them, "are not how these things go. But we still seem to survive. Sometimes these things don't go like they are supposed to." The silence marked the end of the conversation. Ryou plucked at his sleeve as the thief settled down to wait for the dragons, leaving him on watch. The poet sighed, drawing up his knees and resting his chin on them. Bakura was always doing this to him, challenging his idea on how the world should work. To his mind, everything was clear. It always happened this way, not because it was right, but because it was the best for everyone. What kind of hero didn't give up everything they loved in the end? But, it wouldn't be fair to Yugi. Ryou glared at the ground at the thought, daring the little part of his mind that voiced that thought to speak again. It wouldn't be fair to Yugi because the prince was happy now, happier than any other time Ryou had seen him. Yugi would have to give up the one thing that gave him that happiness and Ryou would get to keep his. It was part of being royalty. But it didn't make it right. He sighed and dropped his head so his forehead banged against his knees, drawing a wince out of the poet. Why couldn't the world work like the tales? Then everything would be so much easier. A person could stay with the love of their life and rule the kingdom that was their by birthright. He groaned at the thought, resisting the urge to beat his head against his knees, knowing that Bakura would demand to know what was causing his mental anguish, and then laugh at him for his naivety. Muffled screams made the poet look up suddenly, turning his head to smile at Marik as the dragon circled anxiously above, too large to get through the trees. Ryou nudged Bakura and raced to the nearest tree, clambering up awkwardly and reaching up for the dragon. Marik snorted and lowered a hand, Ryou clinging to one claw as the dragon lifted him to his back, repeating the process for Bakura. The pale gold dragon turned north, Atem already hovering in the distance. "You should have brought that mule so I wouldn't have to haul you two around." Ryou chuckled at the mock annoyance that the dragon showed. "You said that as long as we were all going the same way, you could spare the affront to your dignity." "I could once." Marik snapped as he pulled out of his circling; now flying towards Atem. "But that was a one time thing. I am not a pack animal." "How long will it take for us to get to the next dragon?" Bakura cut into their bickering, leaning out from behind Ryou to stare off toward the horizon, russet eyes squinting as he tried to figure out the distance himself. "Considering that he has a good head start and knows where the village is? Probably tomorrow. I have a feeling that the knight won't trust his dragon in the dark, so will probably wait. Besides, simultaneous attacks won't have the same effect with the spacing. Your king needs the word to spread." "He's not our king." Bakura snapped out the words, making the dragon shrug. The motion pitched them from side to side. The dragon appeared not to notice, too busy catching up to Atem. Bakura gave a series of curses as they were righted, muttering something about 'dragons' before resting his chin on Ryou's shoulder. Sneakily, Ryou reached one hand to where Bakura had wrapped his arms around the poet's waist and quickly entwined their fingers before Bakura could pull away. He flashed a smile over his shoulder at the thief before settling in to enjoy the flight. Yugi pressed himself close to Atem as the dragon tipped himself vertically, trying to land in the dense forest below them. He felt the muscles of the dragon strain as Atem fought gravity to bring them down gently. Yugi shivered as he felt branches brush against his back, trying to press even closer to the dragon. There was a grunt from Atem before Yugi felt the dragon fall forward, all four legs on the ground. The prince sat up, yelping as he hit his head against a branch. He winced and rubbed the back of his head, looking down at Atem as the dragon carefully shook his own head, feeling guilty that his carelessness had caused the dragon pain. Carefully, Yugi slid from Atem's back, smiling as the dragon turned to look back at him, stretching out a foreleg to allow Yugi an easier slide to the ground. They both looked up at the sound of snapping branches and curses, the sounds marking the arrival of Marik somewhere else in the forest. Atem straightened up, easily moving through the cramped space and craning his head to see where the others were. Yugi followed him closely, stopping when Atem reared up onto his hind legs to see through the branches. "How close are we?" Atem tipped his head before taking a deep breath, releasing it as he came back to all fours. "Pretty close. There will be a few minutes delay getting there, but it's the best we can do without getting caught." "And how close is the other dragon?" The question got a smile out of Atem. "We passed him when night fell. Apparently, the human doesn't trust his bonded dragon. We'll be ready when he tries to attack in the morning. It won't be like the last one." "At least we got there in time." Yugi sat down on the ground, pulling his knees up close to his chest and staring off in the direction of his kingdom. It scared him that the other dragon had managed to get there before they had. If Atem hadn't headed off on his own, leaving him to run and the others to take care of themselves, then it would have been a lot worse. He didn't even know if the villagers had gotten out safely, but he was willing to trust the thief with his job. The prince sighed and rested his forehead against his knees, turning his head as Atem gave a questioning trill. He waved the dragon off. "I'm just tired." Atem nodded, sprawling in what little space they had with a long sigh. Yugi watched as the dragon made small adjustments to his position, frowning as he watched them. His head resting on a partially fallen trunk with a foreleg close to the exposed roots, the other foreleg at an odd angle to avoid a tree. His body twisted oddly to take advantage of a large enough space to accommodate his wings, which made him have to curl one hind leg close to his stomach and the other stretched out against a tree. His tail was woven through a small stand of closely grown trees, almost folding back on itself. Atem rolled one eye to look at Yugi, tipping his head slightly to the side at the expression that he saw on the prince's face. Yugi got up from his place on the ground, scrambling up the trunk of the dead tree to sit next to Atem. He ran his hand over the dragon's head, sighing when Atem simply closed his eyes under the attention. He leaned over to gently kiss Atem, the dragon's eyes opening quickly at the sign of affection. Yugi blushed as he remembered that he barely kissed Atem as a dragon. Still fighting his blush, Yugi repeated the action before smoothing a hand down Atem's cheek. "I'm sorry for making you do that." "Don't apologize. It wasn't your fault." Atem shifted, the dead tree creaking dangerously as he moved his head so it was closer to Yugi. The prince smiled and rested his forehead against the dragon, loving the warmth of Atem. He shivered as the dragon sighed, shifting closer to the dragon with an embarrassed chuckle. Apparently, Atem hadn't noticed because he went on after a short pause. "I just never thought…and he begged for it in the end, which makes it alright. I guess." Yugi shiver again, remembering how the blue dragon had pleaded for death. He pressed himself closer to Atem, trying to get the frantic voice of the dragon out of his head. "Morningstar, please. I don't want this anymore. Please, just kill me now before my soul is damned even more! I don't want to be forgotten!" "Atem," Yugi heard the dragon hum in response, "what did the dragon mean about his soul being damned?" "Dragons believe that they must earn their place in heaven…in the stars." Atem tipped his head back, eyes searching the sky before nodding toward a particular constellation. "There." Yugi leaned back himself, easily finding the configuration of stars. He pondered the shape before gasping in surprise. "The dragon…" "Yes." Atem nodded. "And if we don't prove ourselves worthy, we don't get rest." "What happens?" Atem shrugged. "We fade away; forgotten." "But, that won't happen to you!" Yugi panicked, clinging to his dragon. "You're the Morningstar! That must count for something!" Atem blinked at him, hesitating before responding. "It may happen even to me." Yugi pressed his hand against his heart, eyes widening as he felt the calm beat underneath his palm. If that other dragon had been afraid of being damned, wasn't Atem in the same danger? He had given his heart to a human, albeit freely. The prince looked up from his hand, jumping when he found that Atem was staring at him. Yugi tried to speak, unable to in the end and just settling for shaking his head slowly. He hadn't wanted this. For all the joy he had felt over the past months with Atem, he didn't want Atem to be lost after he died. "Yugi." Atem nudged his leg, drawing him back to the present. The dragon gave an awkward smile before hissing as he shifted his awkward position. "It might happen; it's not definite. And it wouldn't be because I gave my heart to you." The prince calmed himself, giving a faint whimper as he rested his head back against the dragon. Atem tried to gather the prince closer, growling when he position on the ground wouldn't allow him to. With a snort of disgust, Atem drew magic from the ground and shifted forms. Yugi sat up at the first brush of magic, tilting his head to the side as Atem shrunk, emerging from the black tendrils as a human on the forest floor. The former dragon shook out his limbs, peeking over his shoulder to give Yugi a smile. Yugi gasped, his heart beginning to pound in double time as he watched his lover. Atem noticed his look and motioned him down, taking a seat on the forest floor before lying back, exposing himself totally to Yugi's gaze. The prince bit down on his bottom lip, catching a moan before it could escape. Damn that dragon! He always knew how to get him riled up, and he shamelessly used it to his advantage; like now. Part of him wanted to ignore Atem, although he knew that he would end up down there with the dragon anyway, even if it was just harmless cuddling. But another part of him preyed to the gods that Atem would never stop having this affect on him. The prince quickly moved from his place on the dead tree, jumping onto Atem as soon as he was close enough. The dragon laughed as he caught Yugi, rolling over so he was pressing the prince to the ground. "Good try, my heart. But not good enough." "You should be exhausted after flying all day." Yugi whined, raising an eyebrow to show that he was saying things in jest. "Why can't you let me get you just once?" "That would hurt my pride as a dragon, love." The endearment was spoken as Atem nuzzled his neck, pulling back to kiss the tip of Yugi's nose in passing. "And I couldn't possibly do that." "Oh no. We can't have that." Yugi laughed as he pressed one hand to Atem's chest, pushing slightly to show that he wanted to get up. Atem sighed and let him up, still holding him close. Yugi snuggled closer to Atem's warmth, wondering how the dragon stood the chill that was still in the air. He rested his head on Atem's shoulder, looking into the dragon's red eyes from that vantage point. "Are you really tired from flying?" "Just a bit." Atem shrugged, the move jostling Yugi. The former dragon gave an apologetic smile for the action, to which Yugi replied with a roll of his eyes before he spun Atem around so he could reach his back. He rested his hands on Atem's shoulders, staring at the tanned back in front of him. Briefly, his fingers tightened as he felt a bolt of lust pass through him at the sight. The prince forced himself to focus before beginning to massage the man's shoulders. Atem gave a grunt of surprise and tipped his head to the side. Yugi slowed his kneading motions, shifting as he tried to see Atem's face. "Does it hurt?" "Yes." Yugi was about to take his hands away when Atem leaned back, resting his head on Yugi's shoulder, red eyes wide and pleading. "Don't stop." The breathy quality of the man's voice made Yugi shiver, tipping his head back as Atem nuzzled his neck, allowing the other full access. He felt Atem smile against his skin, shivering again at the warm breath that ghosted across his neck. He knew that he had just put himself at Atem's mercy, but found that he didn't care. One of his hands slipped from Atem's shoulder to stroke over the former dragon's arm. He whimpered and pressed himself closer to his lover, needing to feel his warmth. He clung more tightly as Atem shifted backwards, moving so he was nearly in Yugi's lap, still lavishing attention on Yugi's neck. "Please, my heart, never stop." Yugi was sure that they were no longer talking about his feeble attempt at a massage. He pushed Atem back upright with a groan, hearing a similar sound issuing from the former dragon. He forced his hands back to Atem's shoulders and resumed the kneading motions. Atem moaned and slumped forward, arching his back to press more of his skin into Yugi's touch. The human smirked and leaned forward to press a kiss to Atem's shoulder; slowly beginning to move his hands down Atem's back. The former dragon gave a soft whine, earning a chuckle from the prince. "You like that?" "Yes. Yugi, please, lower." The prince complied, his self control rapidly crumbling as Atem continued to respond to the treatment. Yugi abruptly stopped his motions and rested his forehead against Atem, wrapping an arm around Atem's chest to keep him from moving. "You're teasing me." "Me?" Yugi looked up to see a mischievous glint in Atem's eyes. "Never." Yugi scoffed and held Atem closer, shuddering at the contact. "Liar." Atem chuckled. "Well, I never intend to, but you respond so well. And the results…" What little control Yugi had snapped. One hand turned Atem's head so he could kiss the former dragon, tongue delving into the other's mouth as his other hand began to run down the former dragon's chest, playing with a nipple before moving down to his side. All too soon, Atem was writhing in his embrace, breathing heavily with the stimulation. He gave a whine as Yugi began to brush his fingers lightly across the former dragon's hip, pulling away from the kiss and panting for breath. Yugi gave Atem's neck a loving nip before pulling away, quickly shedding his own clothes and pouncing on Atem as soon as the annoying clothing was out of his way. He pressed himself against Atem, moaning when his lover's hand closed around his erection, giving the hardened flesh a firm stroke. "You're just trying to make me lose it." Yugi gasped as Atem chuckled, the hand around his member giving a squeeze. "I never see this side of you." Atem turned his hand to demand another kiss, leaning his head back on the prince's shoulder as Yugi bucked into the hand that was stroking his member. He heard the dragon laugh, head turning so he could whisper into his ear. "And, frankly, I love it." Yugi gave another moan, his breath catching halfway through the sound at Atem's chuckle. The former dragon gave his neck a playful nip before going back to whispering in Yugi's ear. "You're in charge this time. How do you want me?" The prince flushed at the words, whimpering as Atem sat back up, all contact with the warm body disappearing with that movement. Yugi shot forward, wrapping his hands around Atem's stomach and pulling him back, earning a short laugh from the dragon that quickly turned into a moan as Yugi rubbed himself against Atem's backside. The former dragon turned his head, Yugi taking the moment to pull him into a kiss, arms tightening briefly around Atem's stomach before relaxing. He pulled back only when he needed air. Yugi gasped for breath, smiling faintly at the sounds of his lover panting. He nuzzled Atem's neck, enjoying the soft keen that came from the former dragon at the motion. One of his hands began to trail down Atem's thigh, giving a breathy chuckle as the former dragon writhed, trying to bring Yugi attention to another part of his body. Yugi pressed a kiss to Atem's neck in apology. "Like this. Just like this." Atem had no argument. Mahad vaulted from his horse and ran for Tèa's small house, nearly running into Tristan as the brunette stepped out of the entryway. The two men blinked at each other before they both blurted out "Is it true?" at the same time. The knight took a step back nodding as he worked under the assumption that Tristan was talking about the same thing he was. "I saw the dragons myself, in the distance." He withheld the fact that he had recognized the coloration of one of them. There was no mistaking the red tints to the otherwise black dragon. It had returned after a year, daring to show its face where Mahad lived. What did the dragon want from the knight? There was no way for that trust to be gained back. "But I'll take care of them. They are on my father's land." His stern expression faltered as he looked at Tristan, the peasant obviously having no idea what Mahad was talking about. The knight took a step back as Tristan thought over the news, glancing back into the shack with worry. They were all in danger if there were dragons in the area, especially with the creatures fleeing from those that hunted them. It would be best if Tèa and the child stayed in the village. Mahad's train of thought trailed off as Tristan stared at the ground, expecting another reaction to his news. The man just shrugged before looking up at the knight. "I thought that you would have been the first to know." "Know what?" "A kid came from the next village over, spreading the news that he said came over the boarder from a kid over there. He said that this news came from a respected source, a white haired man who was there when this happened." Mahad stared at Tristan, his mouth dropping open. A white haired man? That was either Bakura or Ryou, which meant that this news had to be trustworthy. The two were the closest things he had to allies he had in this world, especially without the support of the royal family. Even after abandoning them, Mahad was sure that they would side with him in the end. He tried to urge Tristan on with his eyes, his voice not working anymore. He was confused as Tristan refused to speak for a while before sighing. "They said to spread the news that Gozaburo has dragons fighting on his side and that they will attack villages. Apparently, the original message came from a village that had been attacked." Tristan looked at Mahad before turning his head to look at the entryway to the shack, shifting so he was out of the direct line of sight. "They say that they saw Yugi." "What?" "Yugi was there, and he commanded a dragon to defend them." Tristan gave a shrug at the end, obviously having reached the end of his news. "I just want to know if it is true before I tell Tèa. It might kill her if hope is stolen away again." Mahad stumbled back a step, his mind rushing as he tried to process the information. The dragon that Yugi insisted they save appears; flying in the wake of rumors that Yugi was still alive. That creature would have never left Yugi alone, no matter what. It proved a better protector for the prince at the last minute. And Yugi had been reported to command a dragon. It had to be the same one. There were too many coincidences for this not to be true. Which meant that Yugi was still alive. The knight turned and ran for his horse, startling the brown animal as he quickly untied it and swung up onto its back. He turned the animal around, glancing back at Tristan before giving a quick nod. "I'm going to check up on these. Keep Tèa inside and have everyone on alert for a dragon, no matter what the color. Get everyone out if the dragon attacks and keep that child safe!" He kicked the horse into a gallop, leaning over the horse's neck as it ran down the muddied tracks of the village. He barely heard the yelps of the other villagers as they ducked out of the way to avoid his reckless ride, too focused on what might be ahead of him. Yugi, the one member of the royal family that he had failed utterly. He had forgiven himself for all his other mistakes, cleansing them by the care of Tèa and her infant. But the actions that had lead to the supposed end of Yugi's life could never be forgiven, even by the prince himself. The weight that this guilt caused still tormented the knight, sometimes keeping him from sleeping. Because then he would see Yugi being skewered again and he would be even more helpless than he had been originally. But this was his one chance to ease some of that weight. If Yugi was alive, then it was only the failure of keeping him unscathed. That was infinitely more bearable. He glanced up at the sky, watching as evening fell, the sun beginning to sink below the horizon, and calculated where the dragon would have gone. It had been heading in the direction of the thicker forest, which placed it very close to the village, but still hidden. Mahad shivered at the thought of a dragon lurking. If he hadn't seen the creature then he wouldn't have known. Without a pause, he sent his horse galloping into the forest, giving a curse as it quickly became too thick for the animal to get through easily. He jumped from his horse's back, tying the animal to the nearest branch before rushing into the undergrowth himself, forgetting that he had left his sword on the pommel of his saddle. Mahad raced awkwardly through the undergrowth, pausing to catch his breath and listen. It was still early in the spring, so there were too few animals to base the location of the dragon off the lack of sound. Nor would there be a trail to follow, since the creature would probably decide to linger in one spot. He gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to punch a tree, instead leaning against the trunk and gasping for breath. He was so close; his quarry was just out of his reach. The knight slid down to the ground, kneeling against the tree, nails digging into his palm. He wanted to see Yugi badly, to be able to actually talk to the man who was like his own son instead of relying on the memories of conversations they had once had. Even those were fading, details disappearing and leaving him feeling empty. Had he really forgotten exactly how Yugi's smile looked or how his amethyst eyes sparkled when he was taught something new? He could catch glimpses of the once plentiful instances, but it was never enough. Sighing, Mahad stood up from the tree, absently brushing off his pants before moving further into the skeletal undergrowth, his search no longer as desperate as before. With his thoughts turned inward, he almost walked out into the large open space, ignorant to the two that already occupied it. It was only the sound of a painfully familiar voice that made him stop. "Oh, gods, Atem." His head snapped up at the pleasure filled words, his mouth dropping open at the sight before him. Mahad instantly recognized Yugi out of the two men who were kneeling in the clearing, the prince behind the tanner version of himself. Neither of them had spotted the knight, probably because they were too engrossed in each other. Mahad tensed as Yugi raised his head from the man's shoulder, realizing that he was in plain sight. He took a slow step back, trying to keep himself from yelling at the prince. This was not the proper behavior for a king. He was supposed to be showing an interest in women, not fucking men. But the knight was ready to let the action go this once, considering that Yugi was alive at all was a miracle. He quickly ducked behind a tree as Yugi began to move, not wanting to see his prince commit this act. He had thought that Yugi was interested in women, knowing that the prince was no blushing virgin. Although, the knowledge that Mahad could count the women that Yugi had been with on one hand contradicted that fact. The knight let out a sigh, the air hissing out between his clenched teeth. At least this problem had solved itself before Yugi had taken the throne. The prince already had one heir and could probably sire another one soon enough, leaving him to entertain himself with whatever manner of lover he desired. A scream of pleasure had him peeking around the tree and wishing he hadn't as he got a glimpse of Atem with his head thrown back as Yugi reached around the other's side to stroke his penis. Mahad shook his head and ducked around the tree, trying and failing to get the image out of his head. While he didn't mind the idea of two men loving each other like this, it didn't mean that the knight particularly enjoyed having the evidence right in front of him. Mahad relished in his self imposed ignorance. "My heart…Yugi…please." The prince must have muttered something to his lover, because Mahad didn't hear the response to the pleading, only the scream of pleasure that followed. "YUGI!" Mahad didn't hear Yugi follow the other man into his climax; too busy pressing his hands to his ears. Normally, he wouldn't have stayed to watch, instead finding another spot to wait for his charge. But the fear of losing Yugi against had kept him close, much to his embarrassment. Taking a deep breath, the knight peeked around the tree, leaning against the trunk for support. The two men were still panting as they recovered from their orgasms, Yugi vaguely stroking Atem's side with a frown. His lover turned his head to the side, probably whispering a question because Mahad heard only heard Yugi respond, and then only barely. "I miss it." Atem gave a shaky smile, now resting his head back on Yugi's shoulder. "I know, love, but I would kill you any other way." Yugi moaned at the shift, his reply slightly muffled by the skin of Atem's neck as he turned to kiss it. "The sacrifices I make for you." Atem laughed and pulled away from Yugi. The prince whimpered at the action, wrapping his arms around himself as Atem stood up. The prince seemed to be thinking over something, tapping a finger against his arm before he looked up at his lover. "Why do I have to choose between cuddling and you?" The smile came back to Yugi's face as Atem knelt down by Yugi, gently nuzzling the juncture between his neck and shoulder. Shadows danced up the man's arms, tangling around Yugi as well. The prince gasped, shivering before letting out a groan as the shadows stroked over his body before retreating, concentrating on the man in front of him. The silhouette of the man shifted, stretching out until it resembled the outline of a dragon before the shadows disappeared, leaving the familiar black and red scaled dragon. Mahad could only stare as the dragon let out a low purr, continuing to nuzzle Yugi as he wrapped himself around the prince. Yugi reached up, resting one arm along the dragon's head as the creature settled to the ground, arranging itself so that Yugi was pressed close to Atem's chest, nestled between his forelegs. The dragon shifted his head then, raising its head so it was over Yugi's shoulder, the purr continuing as Yugi stroked him. "Is that better, my heart?" "Yes." Yugi tried to wiggle away from the dragon's hold, eyes falling shut as it kept him in place. "Although the purring…" The sound increased at the mention, making Yugi bite his lower lip to keep a sound from escaping. "Should stop…" "Really now?" The dragon moved his muzzle, gently licking Yugi's neck. It paused for a moment before lowing drawing the tip of its tongue down Yugi's chest, making the prince squirm. "Atem." Yugi tried to push the dragon away, his halfhearted attempts failing as he moaned, allowing the dragon to do as he wished. His constant mutters of the dragon's name continued, running into one word as the dragon came closer to the prince's reawakened erection. Mahad tensed as the dragon suddenly looked up, head lifting away from Yugi as it scanned the area. The knight gulped and stepped back behind his tree, pressing himself back against the trunk and hoping that the dragon had not seen him. One hand reached for his sword, closing on air. Mahad looked down, muffling a groan of annoyance as he realized where his sword was, back with his horse. He hit the back of his head against the tree, silently cursing himself for being an idiot. "Atem? What's wrong?" The dragon snorted in response, the sound making Mahad go still again. "If you wish to live, I suggest you show yourself now, human." Yugi mumbled something that Mahad couldn't hear, being shushed immediately by the dragon. "I can smell you here. Now, show yourself!" The knight hesitated a moment more before walked out into the clearing, keeping his eyes glued to the ground as he approached the two. He nearly stopped when he felt the angry gaze of the dragon on him, only walking forward because he heard Yugi gasp. "Mahad?" He looked up at the prince, watching as the prince scrambled for his clothes, finally accepting them from the dragon. Mahad let Yugi pull on his pants before the knight crossed his arms, radiating disapproval. Yugi blushed, glancing away for a second before meeting the gaze, something new from the prince. Usually Yugi would refuse to make eye contact for as long as the scolding would last, blushing the entire time. Mahad hesitated, wondering what to do about this new development before deciding that he didn't care. Yugi was still alive and he was here. Mahad rushed over to Yugi, pulling the surprised prince into a hug. He ignored the snarl of rage as the dragon interpreted the move as an attack, clinging tightly to the one he thought he had lost. The knight fought back tears, hating the way his voice cracked as he spoke. "It's true. You're really here. Yugi, I thought I'd lost you." "Mahad…" He was pulled away from the prince, hesitation obvious in the purple eyes before Yugi allowed Mahad to hug him again, this time returning the hug. "I'm sorry." "No, I'm sorry. I should have been there with you. I should have been able to protect you, but I failed." The knight pulled away, letting his arms fall back to his sides as he examined the prince. Yugi was still the same as he remembered, although he had some burn marks on his shoulders from time spent out in the sun. There was also a large scar on the left side of his chest, the skin eerily glossy. Mahad clenched his hands by his side at the obvious reminder of his failure, but found himself staring at the scar. It reminded him too much of another scar he had witnessed, in the exact same place. He brushed his hand across the skin, frowning as Yugi stumbled away, the prince hastily pulling on his shirt. Mahad curled in fingers back to his palm, brow furrowing as he continued to stare at the prince, his gaze never leaving the place the scar was, the skin now hidden under Yugi's shirt. Yugi had been stabbed through the heart; the knight knew that because he still saw the moment in his nightmares, still woke up screaming. That was fatal, he knew that. He had seen the same injury once before, and the person had lived only because Aislinn had taken pity on them. Had taken them to a dragon. The knight looked up at the dragon quickly, looking between the beast and Yugi. He glared at the dragon, marching right up to the creature and only stopping when it lowered its head to stare back at him. "Set him free." "What?" "I don't know what kind of twisted magic you used on him, but I order you to let Yugi go now." Mahad tensed at the growl from the dragon, ignoring the warning as he turned to point at the prince. "You cannot control him any longer. His people need him! As his protector, I order you to let him go!" "I refuse." The dragon pulled Yugi close, the prince not fighting the beast as he was pressed up against the black scales. Mahad took a step back as the dragon raised a wing over the prince, the creature obviously keeping him from Mahad. "You have no choice. We need him to be king. We need him to lead the people against Gozaburo." "I only have one heart to give, knight!" The dragon snarled, looking back as Yugi emerged from the shelter that the dragon had created with his wing. The prince glared at Mahad before laying a hand on the dragon's side, the motion indicating what side he had chosen to support. The dragon sighed at the contact, the initial ferocity in its eyes disappearing. "And I will not see Yugi like that again." "Yugi…" Mahad hadn't even heard the dragon's final statement, too busy staring at the prince as he deserted him. Yugi glanced at the ground before looking up against and slowly shaking his head. The knight stepped forward, any further motions towards the prince deterred by a low growl from the dragon. "As long as I live, I will protect my people, but not as their king." Yugi spoke the words slowly, seeming to think over every one before it was voiced aloud. "I've got a new life, Mahad, and a family-" "What about your mother, Yugi? What about the queen? How do you expect me to tell her that you have run away from all of this?" There was a sudden silence from the dragon, the nearly continual rumble stopping as the dragon pulled its head up. It blinked slowly before glancing down at Yugi, the ferocity suddenly gone, lowering his head so the tip of his muzzle rested on Yugi's shoulder. Mahad paused at the motion, staring as the dragon went abruptly from aggressive to caring. "Love-" "Don't call him that!" The dragon ignored Mahad's outburst, Yugi slowly turning to face the dragon, losing contact with the creature. Its red eyes darted away for a moment before meeting Yugi's again, the creature giving a long sigh. "I should have told you this earlier but things got complicated quickly. I am sorry. Your mother was killed the night he captured my father…the night you ran away. I'm sorry. I wasn't there in time." Mahad stiffened at the news, not doubting the dragon's words. Of course the beast would withhold that information from them, just to see the humans that it held under its thrall suffer. A creature would never lie about anything like this. He looked up as Yugi gave a pained whimper, swaying in place as his violet eyes suddenly became unfocused. Mahad felt an ache in his heart as he looked at his prince, knowing that Yugi had been closer to his mother than his father, since the former king had been busy. Aislinn had been a steady feature for all of Yugi's life in the castle, always there for him. And they had both thought that she would be there when he got back. The knight took a step forward as Yugi seemed to come back to himself, wrapping his arms around himself. "She's…Killed?" He took a step forward, ready for the hug that Yugi was sure to demand. The prince couldn't have grown out of that in this short amount of time. Mahad came to a shocked stop as Yugi stumbled forward to the dragon, the creature shifting so that Yugi was leaning against it. It lowered its head, pressing it against Yugi's side as Yugi shuddered against it. Mahad took a step back, staring at the scene before him in confusion and horror. Why would Yugi turn to the creature before one of his own kind? Even if the creature had a hold on Yugi's mind, the prince should have turned to something familiar instead of foreign. His hands clenched into fists as he watched them. None of this was right. The dragon rubbed his head against Yugi, a soft trill coming from the creature. "I'm sorry, so sorry, love." "Don't call him that!" The dragon turned his head around at the shout, now noticing the command from the knight. The creature hissed, never pulling too far from Yugi. Mahad glared at the dragon, wishing that he could just plunge his sword into the creature's heart, but that would just tear Yugi away from him again. Emboldened by the lack of further reaction from the dragon, Mahad walked forward, intending on pulling Yugi away from the creature. "He already has a child and a woman that loves him. He's not yours." He snatched his outstretched hand back as the dragon snapped at it, retreating quickly as the beast stood up and began to advance towards him. Mahad swallowed as he saw flames flickering in the creature's mouth, wishing that he had brought his sword. He found himself unable to look away from the crimson eyes of the dragon as the creature spoke. "He already has a mate, human. He is mine and no one else's! No power on this earth will be able to take him away from me." Mahad flinched, raising an arm over his head and peeking out from under the limb as the dragon raised its head, mouth open and ready to breath his flame. The knight tensed, hand again groping for the sword that wasn't there in the small hope that he had been wrong the first time. He was so preoccupied with his imminent demise that he almost didn't hear Yugi's voice whisper, "Atem." The dragon stopped its attack, snapping its mouth shut and seeming to swallow before it looked down at Yugi, enraged crimson eyes softening. Mahad relaxed from his defensive stance, looking in awe at Yugi, who was standing by the dragon with one hand pressed to the creature's leg, the other still wrapped around him. The dragon immediately lay back down on the ground, stretching out a wing invitingly. Yugi gave a nod before shuffling into the shelter. The dragon glared at Mahad and snorted once before ducking his head under his wing. In the sudden silence, Mahad found himself staring at the dragon, trembling as he realized what had happened. Yugi had saved him from death, but had still chosen the dragon over everything else. Frustrated, he ran a hand through his hair and stormed back through the undergrowth, seeking his horse. Still stewing, Mahad untied the animal and mounted, roughly turning it back toward his father's home before giving its sides a harsh kick. Automatically, he leaned forward as the horse galloped out of the woods, snorting as Mahad urged it even faster, not really caring that it was almost too dark for him to see properly. Yugi had chosen the dragon over him, over all his people. The dragon had saved him by putting half of his poisoned heart in Yugi, turning his mind away from everything he loved and offered a perfect body for Yugi to lust after, trapping what remained of his heart. How easily the prince had been won by that creature. Mahad growled at the thought, knowing that Yugi would have never done this if he had been in his right mind. It was obvious that Yugi was under the thrall of the creature. And Mahad had to get him out before Yugi forgot who he was entirely. He looked up as his horse slowed, intending to kick the animal again, when he realized that he was close to his father's house. The knight winced and steered his horse around the small village where Tèa and her son were living. He couldn't face them right now; the news could wait until he figured out what to do about Yugi. There was no way that he would allow Tèa to live under the false hope that he could return the prince to his normal state, it was better that she continue be ignorant. The soft sound of his horse's hooves over wood shook him from his thoughts, the knight looking up at the manor that was before him. He steered his horse over the small bridge and toward the stables, numbly slipping from the animal's back and stripping the saddle from it. Mahad led the horse into his stall, removing the bridle before putting the tack on the ground, making a mental note to clean his equipment in the morning. He left the stable, leaving his sword still attached to the pommel. He was suddenly too tired to care. Mahad ran a hand over his face before entering his father's house, avoiding the main rooms before jogging up to his room. He stripped down to his pants before flopping into his bed, wrapping the blanket around himself and staring out through the small window at the stars. A memory of doing the same thing when he was little came across his mind before he dismissed it. He didn't want to think about the past right now, because then it would bring up horrible memories. He groaned and flipped the blanket over his head, knowing that he was reacting childishly to Yugi's defection, but he couldn't help it. All his hopes and dreams had been shattered in an instant, and he was out plans. Read and review please. Criticism is always welcome.

Disclaimer: I do not own Yu-Gi-Oh or Dragonheart; they both belong to their respective owners. I do, however, own bits of the plot. Chapter Five: Messes Two brave knights charged as one; Their iron blades flashing in the sun. Yugi stepped forward and placed his hand on the dragon's side, gasping at the texture of the scales. They felt like leather, completely different to how Yugi thought the tough-looking scales would feel. And the dragon was warm, a comfortable warmth against his palm. He began stroking the dragon's side, suddenly reluctant to stop. It was so much better than he imagined, being able to touch a living dragon instead of a dead one. He turned and smiled up at the creature when he felt the dragon's eyes on him. "Warm." The dragon nodded, an amused rumble sending vibrations up Yugi's arm. The prince bit his lip to hold back a gasp at the pleasurable sensation, already craving more. He pulled his hand away, carefully cradling it to him as he walked back to his meal, morosely turning the rabbit on its spit. He wished that he had made the fire closer to the dragon. He pulled the rabbit away from the fire, examining it before setting it back down with a sigh. "I could…" The dragon trailed off as Yugi looked up at him, confused by the dragon's sudden avoidance of eye contact. Yugi leaned back onto his hands, the motion enough to urge the dragon on. The creature shifted, leaning his head closer to the fire. "I could help you with that." Yugi nodded, his eyes unfocused as the dragon came closer, carefully raising his head before blowing a stream of fire over the rabbit. The prince watched the dark flames lick the rabbit, holding out a hand as a signal to stop the same time the dragon closed its mouth and pulled back. Yugi pulled the spit from over the fire, examining the rabbit before taking a bite, purple eyes filling with worry when he saw the dragon staring at his half eaten deer. The dragon seemed to notice this, the tip of his tail twitching before he looked back at Yugi. "Most people would lose their appetite watching a dragon eat." The prince shrugged. "I chose to come here. Don't let me stop you." The dragon nodded slowly, arching his neck to bite into the haunch of the deer before pulling back, jaws snapping shut around the piece of meat. Yugi turned his attention back to his own food, reminding himself that it was rude to stare. But he couldn't help himself, dragons had always held a fascination for him, especially after all the stories his mother had told him. It was interesting, being raised with those stories. From the knights he heard how dragons were cruel beasts that lived to torment humans. From his mother he heard about the intelligence of dragons and the wonders that they could do. He, himself, was torn on how to see dragons other than the pity he felt when Mahad had slain another one. Yugi knew that they didn't deserve their treatment, but so far had seen no signs of the intelligence that his mother claimed they had. Until he had met this one. Yugi looked up from his rabbit, watching as the dragon finished off his deer, lowering his head to lick the blood off his claws. The dragon sensed his gaze, looking up and meeting Yugi's gaze for a while before standing up and walking over to where the other two deer were. Yugi tipped his head back to watch the dragon, fingers twitching on the stick he was holding, the sudden urge to draw upon him. He had felt awed when he looked at the other dragons, finding their different shapes, scale colors and patterns of flight fascinating; but he had never seen one as beautiful as the one who was walking close to him. Despite his ill health, the dragon still showed signs of strength, visible in the muscle that ripped right under the black and red scales. His head was about half of Yugi's height, if the horns that started over each eye were not counted in the measurement. The dragon's muzzle came down much like a bird-of-prey's beak, different from the many rounded muzzles that Yugi had seen. In the firelight, the dragon's scales glittered black, turning red as the light fell on them in a certain way. Both the hind legs and the forelegs had four claws, the fourth attached to the back of the hand like a thumb or to the back of the hind foot like a spur. Wings rose from the dragon's shoulders, the membrane pulled tightly around the bones that made up the basic structure, with one claw at the point where the dragon folded them back on the body. The wings too looked black until the light touched them, bringing out the red that shaded the outer edges. The dragon shot him an odd look, settling down closer to the fire and Yugi as he pulled one of the deer closer to him. Yugi blushed, realizing that he was caught staring again. The dragon huffed, a bit of smoke coming from his nostrils. "Am I really that interesting to you?" "Yes." At the dragon's jerk of surprise, Yugi found he had to elaborate. "I've never seen one of your kind a alive or not fighting for its life. It's nice to see a dragon just being." "So, you've seen a lot of dragons slain." There was a warning growl to the dragon's voice. "None that I wanted to." Yugi glared down at his rabbit, pulling a piece of meat from the carcass and staring at it like it was the cause of all his problems. "I've never wanted to kill things, besides what I need for food. I understand that much, but it doesn't mean that I'm happy with it. But Mahad, he seems to want me to be like that, ready to kill for anything because…" Yugi waved his hand, not really knowing where he was going with the rest of the sentence. He stared into the fire, chuckling harshly, mostly to himself. "I'm a knight of the kingdom, such as it is, and I've never even had to use my sword. And there's part of me that likes it. What kind of knight am I?" "A good one." The dragon replied around a mouthful of meat, swallowing as his gaze remained up at the stars. "'His blade defends the helpless…'" Yugi looked up abruptly, recognizing part of the old code of chivalry. The dragon looked at Yugi out of the corner of his eyes, mirth sparkling in the crimson depths of his eyes; probably laughing at the shocked look on Yugi's face. The dragon tipped his head, firelight making the edges of his scales look red. "What? Why shouldn't I know the code of humans? I've been around long enough." "How old are you?" The dragon tipped his head to the side, a chuckle rumbling through his chest. "A few hundred years, I guess. I don't really keep count. Age isn't important to me. I'll live for, at least, a few millennia…hopefully." Yugi tossed the remains of his dinner into the fire and walked over to the dragon, hesitating before resting a hand on his shoulder. The dragon turned his head to look at Yugi before pressing his head into Yugi's side with a sigh. Yugi froze at the sudden warmth on his on his side, looking down at the dragon while his hand moved vaguely over the dragon's side. The prince frowned as he found a patch of disturbed scales, running his fingers over the cracked surface. He stopped as the dragon pushed his head a bit harder into Yugi's side. "Why did you let me do all of that?" "All of what?" Yugi was staring at the disturbance, running his fingers around the small dip that it created in the scales. "You let me nearly swallow you…just to prove a point." The dragon gave a shudder, the motion throwing Yugi closer to the dragon's shoulder. Yugi looked up as the dragon pulled a wing over Yugi, pushing his own head into the little shelter that he had created. The prince started at the frightened look in the dragon's eyes. "I could have eaten you, I was about to, and you just sat there." Yugi leaned against the dragon's shoulder, suddenly reluctant to leave the warmth. He closed his eyes as he thought, hearing the concerned rumble of the dragon, but ignoring it for the time being. There was no reason that he could think of. His whole plan had hinged on the shock it would give Mahad, perhaps enough to scare the knight into stopping his obsession. Yugi was a prince without a kingdom, a knight without a purpose. He honestly thought that that was no real purpose behind his existence now. Mahad talked about rebellion, but Yugi had seen the people, there would be no rebellion while they were beaten down. All their hopes, both Mahad's and Seto's, rested on him. But he couldn't do anything; which was why it wasn't such a big sacrifice to have offered himself like that. But even when the dragon was about to swallow him, Yugi had known that the dragon wouldn't eat him. The prince opened his eyes, meeting worried crimson with a shrug. "I trust you." The dragon blinked slowly at him, beginning to draw back his head. Yugi reached out, grabbing the dragon's muzzle and giving a gentle tug to encourage the dragon to return to the shelter. He ran his hands over the dragon's head, enjoying the leathery feel of the creature. He rubbed just above one of the red eyes, listening to dragon sigh as the touch relaxed him. Yugi smiled at the purr that he earned with the action. "I believe in you, dragon." "I have a name." The ferocity of the statement was missing as the dragon leaned into Yugi's touch. The prince laughed, trying unsuccessfully to smother the sound. The dragon gave him a playful bump with his muzzle. "It's not dragon, it's Atem." "Well, Atem, I'm Yugi." Atem gave a content hum and pushed his head closer to Yugi. "Then tell me, Yugi, why I shouldn't steal you away to my cave and make you do this everyday." Yugi gave the dragon a light tap with his other hand, which immediately began rubbing along the top of the dragon's muzzle. Atem wiggled a bit, eyes falling shut with a groan. Yugi giggled at the dragon's reaction. "Wouldn't you prefer a princess to do that sort of thing?" One eye opened lazily. "A disgusting squealing thing? No," Atem raised his head so that the tip of his muzzle rested on Yugi's shoulder, "I'd rather have you." Yugi grabbed onto Atem as he swayed, his legs wanting to give out under the stimulus. The dragon didn't seem to notice, chuckling as he pulled away. He raised his wing back into its natural position, turning back to the deer. Yugi remained in place, reaching one hand out for something to steady him. He found himself leaning against the disturbance in the scales, looking at the rough circular shape. Yugi tapped Atem's shoulder, the dragon tipping his head and licking blood off his muzzle. "What's this?" "Arrow." Atem's voice seemed oddly choked. He swallowed the meat in his mouth, shaking his head. "About four years ago. I got most of it out, except for the head." "Does it hurt?" Yugi ran a finger around the circle, backing off when Atem shifted his shoulder, the end of the arrowhead glinting dully in the firelight. "Sometimes, when I'm overusing the muscle, but nothing horrible." "Do you want it out?" Atem blinked at the question, a rumble in his chest showing his confusion. Yugi reached up to stroke the scales, smiling as Atem leaned into the touch. Silence dropped between them as the dragon took the time to ponder the question. Yugi watched as Atem's claws tapped on the ground. He reached up, placing his whole hand over the messed up scales. "Because I can probably get it." "Really?" The red eyes were back on him, glittering slightly in the dying firelight. Yugi nodded, his gaze never leaving Atem's as his hand drifted up to that patch, fingers easily finding the edge to the arrow. Silently, Atem shifted his shoulder so that Yugi wouldn't have to stretch up, letting the prince grab onto the arrowhead. Yugi adjusted his grip on the small piece of metal, looking at Atem until the dragon gave a nod. Yugi pulled back, gritting his teeth against the pained grunt of the dragon. He closed his eyes, stumbling back and dropping the arrowhead. Cautiously, Yugi opened his eyes, staring at the dragon's shoulder. A small amount of blood dripped out off the reopened wound, trailing down Atem's shoulder. Yugi moved closer to the wound, watching in awe as the blood turned from a luminescent red at the start to a dull red, almost black color, as it left the veins. His study of the dragon was interrupted as Atem moved his head, licking the wound to clean up his shoulder. The dragon pulled back, turning his head in contemplation before nodding to himself, looking at Yugi with the motion. "Thank you." "You're welcome." Yugi smothered a yawn, looking back towards the main group. Mahad had long since gone to sleep, probably sulking over the fact that Yugi had chosen to spend his night with the dragon. Bakura and Ryou were also asleep, tangled in each other and the blankets. Yugi smiled as the poet snuggled closer to the thief, earning a smile from the man as Bakura subconsciously pulled Ryou closer. There was a vacant spot between Mahad and the two, the spot that Yugi usually took when he wasn't staying up sketching the dragon that they had killed that day or forcing himself to practice his sword work so he could fall into an exhausted sleep where his conscious couldn't plague him. At least he was guaranteed a good night's sleep tonight; they had saved the dragon instead of killing it. Maybe this could become a regular occurrence. He should go back over to Mahad and sleep, but he couldn't make himself leave the warm presence of the dragon. Yugi trudged over to his pack, pulling out the cloak he used as a blanket and wrapped it around himself, shuffling back over to the dragon. He leaned against Atem's side, smiling at the faint gurgling that the dragon's stomach made as it worked on digesting food. The prince reached out and stroked the dragon, giving a sleepy chuckle as Atem's hind leg twitched as Yugi found a ticklish spot. The dragon stopped eating to shoot Yugi an annoyed look, the faint chuckle that he gave dispelling any serious implications. The prince curled up, pulling the cloak more securely around him and let his eyes fall shut. He heard Atem shift, and the smell of smoke as the dragon pushed dirt over the smoldering embers. His eyes opened a fraction as there was a faint vibration from behind him and the sound of a soft trill. He tipped his head so he could see Atem, surprised to see the dragon looking at the stars and humming to himself. He settled back down, listening to the happy hum that came from the dragon. Yugi looked up at the stars, the smile still on his face as he drifted to sleep. "If you're going to help her, take the passages." Kisara jumped as Seto wrapped his arms around her, whispering in her ear. She turned around, finishing tying her robe up. Seto smiled at her before heading for the door. "I'll meet you in the yard with a horse." He slipped out, leaving Kisara to walk over to the fireplace and press a stone to the right of the mantle. She stepped to the side as the flagstone shifted to the side, revealing a damp passage. Kisara stepped into the passage, ducking her head as the stone closed, rubbing her arms as darkness descended over her. Kisara carefully made her way down the stairs. She reoriented herself to head for Gozaburo's chambers when she reached the bottom of the steps, resting one hand against the wall as she began to move through the darkness. She could see well enough in the dark, probably better than most humans, but still not as good as her sight had been as a dragon. She could see vague shadows in the pitch dark where human would have seen nothing. Kisara winced as her palm was scraped against a sharp stone, pulling it back from the wall with a hiss. She smothered the sound as she realized where she was, a faint smile crossing her face. Kisara peered at the wall for a moment before she pressed on a certain stone, stepping onto the staircase that led into the next room. She ran up the stairs, carefully poking her head out of the gap to look around the room. To her relief, Gozaburo was fast asleep, a blanket thrown haphazardly over him. She clambered further out of the gap, hands tightening into fists as she saw the girl from before. The brunette had curled herself into one corner of the room, holding the tattered remains of her clothes to her body as she rocked back and forth. Her face had tear tracks through the dirt, although her tears had long since dried. Kisara could see red marks and bruises, probably from where she had struggled, all over her skin. Kisara shook her head and crept across the room, sending an angry glare and Gozaburo before kneeling down by the girl's side, one hand hesitating in the air. The girl seemed to notice her presence then, darting away and gasping when her back came in contact with the wall. Kisara immediately lowered her hand, a wavering smile on her face. It seemed like enough to convince the girl because she crawled back over, her hands dropping from the strips of cloth to cling to Kisara's shoulders. "Help me, please!" "Can you walk?" Kisara stood up, offering a hand to the girl. The girl nodded and stood up, whimpering before she leaned into Kisara. The two of them made their way back down into the passages, the girl giving soft whimpers as she forced her sore body to move. Kisara kept herself silent, waiting until they were standing at the bottom of the stairs in the passage and watching the flagstone roll back before she spoke. "I'm going to help you get out of here. But once you're out of the castle, you're on your own. I have to stay here and help Seto." "What does Seto care?" The girl was shivering in the cold, shuffling along beside Kisara as she guided her down through the darkness. "He's going to be king eventually. What promises does he whisper to you at night? What makes you think that he'll keep them?" Kisara wanted to protest, say that Seto was different from what they saw in public. But it would be a useless exercise. The girl was already set against the royal family and no amount of convincing would urge her to change her mind. Even if it did hurt to listen to someone openly abuse Seto for the protections he had set up around himself. Kisara shook her head and shifted her hold on the girl, supporting more of her weight to allow the girl to rest before she was forced to ride. "Let's just say that Seto doesn't see eye to eye with his father. Isn't that enough?" The girl shook her head. "We need someone who will care about us. We are starving out there, surviving on dragon's meat. Just today they dragged in a one that some knight had killed." Kisara paled at the statement, not listening as the girl continued on with her rant. She knew that the food shortage had been bad, but she had never thought that people would resort to doing that. Kisara swallowed quickly, fighting the urge to throw up. She just couldn't imagine anyone being able to do that. But, these people didn't care about dragons. It was evident enough in the way they talked about them. She felt her stomach rebel against the thought, the nausea disappearing as worry clawed at her. She lived in the eternal fear that she would look out and see Atem's carcass being dragged into the village to be consumed. She frantically searched for something to take her mind away from the idea, frowning as the nausea returned. "What about the true king?" "The son of the witch?" Kisara looked away quickly in an attempt not to hit the girl. She had seen enough of Yugi to form her own opinion of the young teen before she had begun to talk to Seto. Even then, it had nothing but raise her opinion of the boy. And hearing those less informed just discount him like that angered her. Kisara's silence must have answered for the girl, because she nodded. "I remember seeing him once when Gozaburo blinded Joey's sister. I think he'd be alright, he looks nice." Kisara pushed the door out of the passage out, leading the girl through the shadows until they reached the stables. She nodded at Seto, smiling as he silently held out the reins to the horse. The girl hesitated before taking them, scrambling up onto the horse and wincing as she did so. Seto kept his hand on the horse's shoulder as he looked up at her, speaking in an urgent whisper. "Go back to your village and don't show your face for a while. My father should forget about you soon." He stepped away and walked back to the castle, leaving Kisara to smile and pat the girl's knee and lead the horse to the gates. The girl stared at the reins that she held in her hands for a long while before she looked up at Kisara. "Thank you for this. But what do I do now?" "Find something." Kisara shrugged, backing away. The girl looked away before kicking the horse forward, wincing at the movement. Kisara flinched in sympathy, knowing that the girl must be in pain from what Gozaburo had done to her. She waited until the girl was out of the gates before she turned and walked back to Seto, not surprised to see him waiting in the shadows. He reached out a hand for her, guiding her to the entrance that would bring them out closest to their room. Unfortunately, it took them close to the dragon. Kisara stepped close to Seto as they passed the black bulk. The dragon stirred, raising his head and slowly opening empty brown eyes to look at the two. He took breath of air, eyes widening for a moment before he gave a low growl. Kisara found herself shoved behind Seto as the brunette glared at the dragon, backing them toward the castle. To her surprise the dragon gave a dry chuckle, keeping his brown eyes on Kisara. "You keep a careful watch on your mate, human. You wouldn't want your father to get his hands on the child you've sired." Seto forced Kisara inside, quickly grabbing onto her hand and pulling her back to his chambers. Kisara let him do so, her mind still reeling with the shock. It couldn't be right. But she had never thought that any of this could actually happen. She had just kept going, not thinking about the consequences. None of which bothered her. All that she held dear was here with Seto. Her family had long left for other parts of the world; places where they wouldn't be hunted down. And Atem was somewhere out there, stuck living the life of a prey animal as he was forced to hide. Because he wouldn't leave his father or her on their own as long as he breathed. So that left her with Seto, the one who had managed to capture her heart. She sat down on the edge of the bed, still staring off into the distance with a faint smile on her face, not really watching as Seto paced the floor in front of her. He suddenly sunk to his knees on the floor, holding her hands as he looked up at her. "It is true?" "I don't know. But we can trust that dragon, I promise." Seto was up again with her words, pacing again. Kisara shifted, lying back and staring up at the ceiling. She turned her head, frowning slightly as she watched her lover pace. "It's not that bad, Seto." "It will be, once my father finds out. He'll use it as an excuse to get rid of you both." Seto sighed at finally sat on the edge of the bed, looking up at her seriously. "He will, Kisara, and we both know that. Perhaps it would be best if you…" Kisara sat up, staring up at Seto as she figured out the words that he couldn't bring himself to say. The inability to vocalize them said enough for her. She reached out and tugged on his hand, urging him up lay by her side, settling back down by his side and looking at him. She traced a finger down his face, looking at his side as his hand twitched, obvious eager to hold her, but he restrained himself; already getting ready to send her away. She leaned in to kiss his forehead, resting her own against his as she stared into his blue eyes. "We both know that you could do that. You would spend every day with me, which isn't the point." He sighed, looking away. "I could do it, just to keep you safe." "Seto…" "I don't want to lose anything else." Kisara almost missed the whispered words, only catching them because Seto's eyes flicked back to meet hers for a moment before looking back at the wall. She sighed, wrapping her arms around him, just holding him as he continued his whispered confession. "Everyone…even Yugi is gone…and I…" "You just sometimes just don't know what to do." Kisara finished his sentence, stroking his back slowly, feeling him relax. They didn't need to say anything else. There would be no more talk of sending her away because it would hurt them both too much. It was Seto's way of saying that he loved her too much to let her go and it was a comfort at the same time. It meant that she had found a way past the icy mask that he put up. She snuggled into him with a long sigh, hearing him imitate her before he settled into sleep. Kisara gave him another kiss before following him into sleep. Tèa slowed the horse down to a walk as soon as she could, not able to sit through the jarring ride. She raised a hand to wipe away the new tears that had come with the ride out before shaking her head, one hand clenching on the reins. She had more important things to do than cry. She looked up and turned her horse so it wouldn't head for her village. She didn't want to return before she had accomplished something. Then she could show that she was better than this. It was the one thing that she had to prove; that she was more than the whore that the king had made her. She whimpered, shaking her head at the thought. She bit her lip to keep from crying. It wouldn't help. What she needed was a plan, a sure plan. A plan to avenge her father's death and her own rape. Tèa took a deep breath to calm herself. First and foremost, Gozaburo had to die. Luckily, it seemed that Seto and his lover seemed willing to help. She knew that, assuming that nothing went wrong, her friends would help; maybe even the whole village. But only if the odds were in their favor. But a rebellion wouldn't work again, at least without a figurehead. And the people would not back Seto; they wanted someone who was closer to them. She nearly pulled her horse up as the thought struck her, almost disregarding it immediately. It didn't matter, she was already spoiled. And, better yet, it would end this cycle. If there was a child of the true king, one with common blood, then the people would rally behind it. Yugi, as they saw him, was too weak and too much like his mother; but still the better choice. Perhaps the addition of good blood would get rid of the taint of the witch. And there was the sympathy to be gained from a murdered love… Tèa drummed her fingers against the saddle as she thought, ignoring the shivers that ran down her body. It would humanize the son of the witch further, if he was seen with a commoner, showing his concern for the people. And then, they would love him and any offspring even more if they found him ruthlessly slaughtered. Then they would fight for his progeny. And they could get a king that cared for them. She turned her horse, urging it toward the neighboring village to her own. They would probably know where Yugi was and know her little enough to not hear of her earlier plan. There she could rest and then talk to her friends. Tèa nodded to herself, blue eyes resolute. This plan would work better than her last, she was sure of it. Bakura divided his attention between watching Yugi and Mahad spar and attempting to read Ryou's scribbles. The thief scoffed, only seeing lines and loops, a word appearing every now and then, but none of it making sense. He squinted against the glare of the sun, turning his head to watch the thing he could comprehend. He jumped as Ryou sighed and leaned back onto him, shooting an annoyed glance up at Bakura. When the thief finally condescended to make a questioning noise, Ryou rolled his eyes dramatically. "The muse isn't speaking to me." "How dare she." His sarcastic remark earning him a slap from the poet. "I'm serious, Bakura!" "Just write about those two practicing or make something up!" "But, 'Kura," the thief winced at the pet name, "I want something exciting, something that will capture the hearts and minds. Something that will be remembered forever." "This is about as memorable as you can get." Bakura ignored Ryou's pout as he leaned back on the rock they were seated on, enjoying the warmth. Between the river and where they sat were Yugi and Mahad, the prince easily keeping up with the drill. Behind them, standing in the center of the river, was the dragon, watching the whole proceedings with interest. Bakura couldn't think of any stories that he had ever heard of that ended up like this; a knight who went out to kill a dragon and wound up befriending it. Not even the stories of the dragon obsessed clans of the south had ever come to this conclusion. Ryou sat up and went back to his scribbling, his writing even less legible than before. Bakura gave up trying to read it and focused instead on the two knights as they stopped and backed off. The dragon splashed closer to shore, lowering his head to talk to Yugi. The prince eagerly turned to converse with the creature, one hand leaving the hilt of his sword to rest on the dragon's muzzle. Bakura narrowed his eyes as he watched the two interact, suddenly suspicious. He was about to move from his rock when Mahad brought up his sword, lunging forward. The dragon's eyes flicked to the attacking knight, something like fear flashing through them as he backed up. Yugi spun around, panic evident in his features as he saw the knight. The prince brought his blade up to guard, bracing himself against the lunge. The two knights came to a halt, Mahad visibly straining as the tried to push Yugi back. Surprisingly, the prince held his ground, gritting his teeth before shoving Mahad back and beginning his counterattack. Bakura watched the swordplay, ignoring Ryou's exclamation of excitement. As a thief, he was used to carefully watching people, often spending what little free time he head simply watching people as they went about their business. Even though he had only known Yugi for a short time, he was able to see that this was not typical behavior. The prince's counterattacks were never this fierce; they usually had to be coaxed out of him as the prince tended more towards defense than offense. But now they were forcing Mahad to back away as the knight had to work to keep himself from getting cut. The thief snorted as Mahad laughed and stepped away, obviously calling an end to the practice. Bakura watched Yugi advance one more step, sword ready to run through his opponent when he realized what was going on. Yugi gave a sheepish smile and dropped his sword point, looking back at the dragon who was giving off a low growl. Mahad didn't seem to notice the dragon or Yugi's behavior, rolling one shoulder and shouting, "Better, Yugi!" The knight turned away, still laughing as he walked back to their packs. Bakura ignored the man for the moment, instead focusing on the prince. The thief slid from his perch on the rock, thinking over the emotions that had flashed across Yugi's face. There had been panic and then anger, the first real anger that Bakura had seen from the prince. It wasn't difficult to figure out why; Yugi had thought that the knight was going to try and kill the dragon again, so he had defended the creature. He reached them as the dragon had rested his head on the bank so Yugi could wrap his arms around it, gently stroking a spot above the dragon's eye. Bakura was shocked to hear a sound like a purr coming from the dragon, not quite sure to make of the sound. His eye widened as he heard Yugi whispering to the creature and the dragon responding in his own low mutter. The thief stopped when the dragon's eyes flicked up to him, the motion making Yugi turn around. Bakura crossed his arms, the dragon taking the hint and splashing away before ducking under the water. Yugi waited until the dragon had resurfaced before turning around, sliding his sword back into its sheath. He waited for Bakura to talk, becoming more agitated as the thief simply remained silent. Finally the prince snapped. "What?" "I'd be careful if I were you." "Be careful of what?" Yugi groaned as Bakura ambled over to another rock, leaning back against it to get out of the direct sunlight. The prince followed him into the shade, resting one shoulder against the rock. Bakura noticed that he oriented himself so that he could see the dragon at all times. "You and the dragon-" "Atem." Bakura jerked out of his slouched position, eyes wide at the interruption. Yugi was never like this. The prince blushed as he realized what he had done, ducking his head. "His name is Atem." "By the gods! Yugi, don't do this to yourself." "Don't do what?" Bakura glared at the prince, waiting for him to stop playing stupid. His own russet eyes widened when he realized that Yugi had no idea what he was talking about. The thief sighed and relaxed, keeping his voice low so that Mahad couldn't hear him. It didn't matter if the dragon heard him or not, because Yugi would just tell all of this to the dragon anyway. "You're getting too close to the dragon. Just remember that its not human." "Atem is a he, not an 'it'. And it's not like that. We understand each other." "I'm sure you do. But that doesn't make it right. He's just a creature, probably plotting to kill us right now. He can never be human." Yugi's hand twitched toward the hilt of his sword, his purple eyes widening in surprise at his own motion. He crossed his arms, digging his fingers into his arms to keep them from moving. Bakura following the motion with a knowing nod. "Yugi, do you know what you are doing?" "Saving the few dragons that I can! They're not as bad as everyone thinks they are." "No they're not, but that doesn't make them human. It…he doesn't think like us." "The closest it gets to that is fascination. We both fascinate each other. Nothing more." Bakura raised an eyebrow, tapping his foot as he turned to look at the dragon, noticing that he had turned his head to look at them. There was no doubt that the dragon could hear and understand what was being said, he was an intelligent creature. But, in the end, the dragon was a creature, not the romanticized notion that Yugi had in his mind. Bakura turned back to the prince, retort ready when Yugi beat him to it. "Shouldn't you be worrying about Ryou? Others see that as more unnatural than my friendship," the word was stressed, "with Atem." "I don't care what people think. It's their own loss." "Yes, but I'm sure Ryou does." Bakura forced himself not to look over at his lover, instead clenching one hand into a fist. "And what makes you think that you can just keep him all to yourself? Or that he will even stay with you when he gets bored?" Yugi pushed away from the rock, walking back to the bank. "Worry about yourself first, thief." Bakura didn't watch the prince go, rolling his eyes and letting out his breath in a huff. As much as he hated to admit it, Yugi had a point. And it was something that he refused to think of. There were times for living in the moment and times for thinking ahead; this situation was one of the former. Mostly because he still had no idea why he had been drawn to Ryou. It had started out as another job, cut the purse away as the poet strolled around, lost in thought. Then, when Ryou had given chase, it had been about getting away as fast as he could. Until he had pined Ryou against that wall. He could have killed Ryou but, instead, he found himself wondering why he couldn't kiss the poet. And it had spiraled out of his control after that kiss, to the point where he spent his nights staring up at the sky wondering how he would get out of this mess. If he could get out of this mess because, as messes went, this was a nice one. But it was so out of his normal course of action. He wasn't one to dive in without thinking and ignoring the consequences. Bakura rubbed a hand over his eyes before walking back over to Ryou. He was just going to continue to ignore everything and live in the moment. There was no group of people that he hoped to impress or even tried to change himself to suit their opinions. He could just continue on like this and ignore the rest of the world. There was still the voice in his head that said he was in for heartbreak later, but Bakura could ignore it. His conscious had been crushed long ago; the little voice would soon follow. He sat back down on the rock with Ryou, surprised when the poet looked up at him with worry. Whenever Ryou got into one of his writing moods, he tended to ignore the rest of the world, something that Bakura was not happy with, but he considered it a tradeoff for the days when he snapped at the world. The thief just gave a shrug before slipping back into his place. Ryou smiled at the chance to lean back up Bakura again and give him a kiss on the underside of his jaw. The two of them settled back down, Ryou reaching for his papers and beginning to scribble again, Bakura closing his eyes and just listening to the sound. He was content with is life for the first time in a long while, and he was willing to do anything to keep it like this. But he would be able to let this go, he promised himself that. He would be able to move on after Ryou. Read and review please. Criticism is always appreciated.

Disclaimer: I do not own Yu-Gi-Oh or Dragonheart; they both belong to their respective owners. I do own bits of the plot and my OC. Warning: Character death, blood Chapter Fourteen: A New Purpose And so it came to be that the King and the Prince were reunited Through the efforts of a lady with love unrequited Tèa gently patted her son's back, smiling as he burped and pulling him from his place on her shoulder to cuddle him close. She stroked his back as she moved silently to the entryway, peeking at the colors that were splayed across the sky as the sun rose. She leaned against the frame, smiling at the scene before her; a village waking up in the early spring, the men staggering out to their jobs as the women begun their day. This was the sight that she wanted to continue to see for the rest of her life, with only one thing missing in the equation. Tèa ran her hand through the soft fuzz that was on her son's head. She still missed Yugi. The brunette sighed, giving her son a kiss on his forehead, stroking his cheek with a finger as he blinked up at her. Her son, despite his small size, had survived long enough to be given a name. Tèa turned to go back inside, her mind drifting as she took one last look outside. Her thoughts were occupied with the perfect name, not allowing her to recognize the oddity of the scene in the village. At first, the short man standing in the lane didn't bother her. It wasn't until she saw the glint of iron in the rising sun that she gasped and clutched her son closer to her as she backed away. The man laughed, adjusting his hold on the sword as he stepped forward. He made a small motion, a mere moment passing before a green dragon flew low over the village, breathing a stream of fire. Tèa jumped as the screaming started, attempting to calm her son as he started to cry at the noise. Her head snapped up as the man spoke. "It was easy to find you, girl. Now, hand over the child." "No!" Tèa rushed from the small house, running towards the manor house. If she could get to Mahad, he would be able to keep her safe. He had promised. She gasped for breath as she began to dodge around the men who were rushing from their tasks. Tristan grabbed her as she ran by, looking panicked as he stared up at the dragon. Tèa clung to her friend with her free hand. "Gozaburo is after me! He knows I'm here!" "Go to Mahad." He gave her a shove in the same direction she had been running before joining the flow of men again. Tèa nodded to herself before breaking into a run again, glancing down at her son. "Don't worry," she whispered to the sobbing baby, "everything will be fine. Nothing will get you, I promise." His screams increased at the sound of trees breaking. Tèa spun around to see a black dragon pushing out from the dense forest, roaring in fury. She hesitated before rushing onward, her panic rising. Now there were two dragons, which made it more difficult to escape. She tried to run faster as she reached the open land between the village and the manor house, stumbling over the uneven ground. Tèa came to a stop after her third near fall, turning to look back at the place she had called home, only now realizing that she was crying. Hastily, she wiped the tears from her eyes and turned back towards her destination, picking up a stumbling run. She sighed in relief as she saw soldiers beginning to run towards the village. The next moment, she slipped, quickly turning herself so that she would take the brunt of the fall. The wind was knocked out of her on impact, the world spinning around for a moment before she was able to move. Dazed, she turned her head to the side, eyes widening as she saw the knight walking calmly toward her. Tèa scrambled to her feet, shifting the hold on her son as she started to back away. Another roar drew her attention briefly to the dragons, the black dragon grabbing onto the green one and forcing the other's neck up to cut off the flames. The knight grunted and reached up to massage his own neck before dropping his hand and continuing his own advance. "Just hand over the child and I'll let you go. You're a pretty enough girl. I'm sure that you deserve only the best. After all, it will save your life. One worthless child for your own life." "Go to hell!" Tèa snapped at the knight. How could he call her son worthless? How dare he assume that about her? How dare he think that she would willingly give up her son's life for her own? She glanced down at her son, her anger softening as she gazed at him, reaching out to wipe a few tears from his face, before returning her gaze to the advancing knight. Her eyes widened as she saw Tristan running up behind the man, gesturing for him to get away. He didn't listen to her, throwing himself at the night. "Get away from her!" The knight snorted and turned around, slashing his sword across Tristan's throat before he turned back around with a roll of one shoulder. Tèa watched in horror as her friend fell to the ground, blood running down the front of his shirt and mixing with the soil. She looked back up at the knight, heart beating faster as he flicked some of the blood off his sword with a look of disgust on his face. He shook his head before continuing to advance, Tèa finding herself unable to move and desert the body of her friend. Before now, the threat of death had seemed far away. Until now. Now it seemed all too real. The knight lunged forward, Tèa turning at the last minute so the sword went through her side instead of through her son, screaming in pain as the knight backed away in surprise. She gave a whimper before she fell to the ground, curling around her child as she still attempted to protect him from the knight. She opened her eyes weakly as she heard the knight walking around her "Stupid girl." And then a roar reverberated through the air. Atem shoved the green dragon to the ground, smirking as it struggled, its motion broken off with an awkward squawk. The black and red dragon looked up at the sound, snarling as he saw the knight standing over a fallen woman. Atem gave a roar and swung his tail, sending the knight flying. He glanced down as the green dragon grunted in pain at the knight's hard landing, but didn't move otherwise. Atem nodded and stepped away from the dragon, the motion bringing the village into his line of sight. The men-at-arms surrounded the place in an attempt to put out the flames. At least some of the village would be salvaged instead of the entire place being destroyed. Yugi would be happy. He turned to look at a long scratch on his shoulder, gotten from his clumsy break from the forest before beginning to clean it. He growled at the memory, glad that the wind had shifted to bring the scent of the dragon with it, warning them that the attack had started. And, as he had promised his mate, he had gotten to the village within minutes of the initial attack. Atem paused in his care of the wound at the sound of frantic scrambling and muttering. He looked back at the green dragon, staring in confusion as the dragon clawed at his own scales. The black and red dragon reached over to stop the other dragon, eventually having to lean on him to stop the motion. The green dragon looked up with pleading eyes. "Please, Morningstar. It happened again…and this time I helped. I promised that it would never happen again, but it did. And I helped. Please, please just kill me!" "What?" "The chick!" The green dragon jerked his head in the direction of the woman, now shuddering at the sight. Atem was about to look at what was bothering the dragon when he felt claws dig into his foreleg. He snarled, flames rising in his throat when the green dragon didn't release his leg. Another look at the green dragon showed that he had no idea what was going on around him, lost in his own world. Frantically, he looked at Atem, claws relaxing and digging into the foreleg. "They killed and left us all…all alone. I had to watch them all die and I promised it would never happen again. I promised the stars, Atem. This…" The dragon gave a keen, the sound making Atem jump back as the dragon went back to thrashing on the ground. He tipped his head to the side before approaching the dragon cautiously. This dragon must have been a victim of the random killings that had gone on about one hundred years ago, that was the only explanation for his behavior. Atem winced and looked away, remembering the mutilated bodies that he had been forced to look at; all to enforce the idea that as Morningstar, a title that he didn't understand at the time, he should be able to stop this when he was older. He sighed, stepping around the dragon. "Okay." He nudged the dragon onto his stomach, planting a foreleg at the end of the dragon's back before grabbing the neck in his mouth. Atem closed his eyes and pulled the neck up, pressing down with his whole weight on the rest of the body. When he could feel the tension in the neck, he gave a vicious shake, feeling the bones snap under the stress. There was a soft exhale a moment later as the dragon died instantly. Atem gave a mournful rumble before lowering the dragon's neck back to the ground, carefully realigning it properly. There were enough wounds from the battle between the two of them earlier that any passing dragon would think that this one had lost a fair fight. And that was the more honorable death. Atem stepped away from the body, turning to look at the woman as he walked over. He made sure to circle around so he was approaching her from the front, lowering himself into a crouch and pressing his wings against his sides to appear smaller. He saw a flicker of fear in her blue eyes before she gave a faint smile. "Thank you." "Don't." Atem settled on the ground, tipping his head to the side. He thought he recognized this human, but he couldn't remember where. Giving up for the moment, he rested his head on the ground. "I'm sorry I was too late to save you." "Yes, but you can still save him." "Who?" "My son." The woman gently moved the bundle away from her, Atem hearing the soft sounds of whimpering from it for the first time. The dragon took a sharp breath, eyes moving back to the green dragon as the information began to add up. Gozaburo wouldn't have sent someone after this woman unless she was of some importance, which meant that she was the one who had carried Yugi's child, the one that she had died trying to save. He lowered his eyes to look at the child before glancing back up at the woman, watching as she gave a weak smile. "He's all we have. Please, take care of him." Atem returned the smile, shifting so his forelegs were no longer folded awkwardly. "I promise to take care of him." The woman nodded, looking at her son before beginning to push the bundle towards him. Atem reached out with a claw, carefully halting the movement and shaking his head. "For now, just keep him close. I'll stay here with you." "Thank you." Atem gave a purr in response, watching the woman as she propped herself up enough to give her child a kiss on the forehead before slumping back to the ground, the life leaving her blue eyes a few minutes later. Atem closed his eyes, bowing his head in response to her passing, respecting the woman. She had been brave enough to keep Yugi's son away from Gozaburo and keep up the spirits of the peasants, even at the cost of her own life. A loud whimper drew his attention back to the bundle. Carefully, Atem picked it up with his mouth, awkwardly scooting backwards before shifting so he was facing away from the body of the mother. He set the baby down between his forelegs, craning his head to look more closely at the infant. He found wide purple-blue eyes staring back at him, blinking slowly as the baby fought against sleep. Atem gave a purr, lowering his head to nudge some of the blanket away. He stopped, still hovering over the infant as the baby began to sniffle again. "Hush, little one. There is nothing to worry about." Atem rested his head by the infant, watching as the sniffling stopped as the baby watched him, seeming to think before reaching out. Without thinking, Atem moved so the baby's hand was resting against his muzzle. To his surprise, the baby gave a sleepy giggle, the hand moving away before landing on a different spot. Atem gave a chuckle of his own, pulling his head away. He watched the baby's lower lip tremble, sighing before curling so he could drape the end of his tail over his foreleg, the tip just within reach of the infant. The baby gave a giggle before grabbing onto the tip of Atem's tail, the purple-blue eyes falling shut soon afterwards. Atem shook his head with a laugh. "Just like your father, little one." He shifted so his head was resting right beside the infant, surprised at how quickly he was becoming attached to the little human. He had expected to hate the baby because it wasn't his, something that his instincts should be fighting against. Instead, he was getting fiercely protective of the infant. It reminded him of the one time he had seen Critias with his last clutch of eggs before his mate died; watching the usually sullen and snappish dragon carefully turn the eggs so they heated evenly and even talking quietly to them. Atem sighed, giving a gentle purr as the baby shifted at the sudden rush of air, still not letting go of the tip of his tail. Experimentally, Atem tried to lift his tail out of the infant's grasp, smiling as he watched the baby grasp it with his other hand as well before the dragon gave up. He was stuck, and he didn't mind. He could quite happily lay here and watch the baby sleep. But then what happened when the infant woke up. Atem blinked slowly at the realization. Eventually, he would get hungry and there was no way to provide for the baby in their little band of males, unless they somehow found another human female willing to nurse the infant. Atem growled at the thought, not willing to let anyone touch his little one. He stopped the sound abruptly as the infant made a distressed noise, turning pressing his head softly against the infant. "I'm sorry, little one. Sleep now. Everything is alright." The baby gave a sigh and curled up tighter, getting a better hold of the tip of Atem's tail as he did so. The dragon found himself smiling again, and he didn't want to stop. They would figure out what to do with the infant when the boy woke up, probably finding a goat or something that would provide milk. He wouldn't let his little one go to any other female that would try and take him away. It was irrational, but Atem didn't mind that fact for once. If things got too bad, they could always fly the infant down to the humans in the south and leave him with Solomon for a few days, the thought also distasteful to the dragon. But he wouldn't put his little one in any unnecessary danger. Atem gave the infant a soft nuzzle, stopping the motion abruptly when he heard the sound of someone approaching. He relaxed when he realized that it was Yugi. Atem lifted his head away from the infant, giving a trill as the baby began to shift and whimper. "I'm still here, little one." "Atem?" The dragon looked up, watching Yugi as the prince picked his way over the uneven land, couching by the dead body of the knight before looking at the dragon. The prince sighed, absently rubbing his shoulder before trudging over to Atem, his slow pace breaking into a run as he saw the body of the woman on the ground. He crouched by her, staring at the wound in her side before glancing up at her face. Yugi gave a squeak of surprise before scrambling back, looking up at Atem. "It's her. Oh gods, he killed her." "I'm sorry, love. I wasn't fast enough." "No." Yugi shook his head, slowly standing up. "Don't apologize. We both tried our best. It just wasn't enough." He bit his lip in thought, eyes widening as he realized something. Atem tipped his head to the side as Yugi quickly spun around. "What about her child…my child?" "Love-" "Oh gods." Yugi was pacing now. "I didn't see it with her, so it must have been in the house. But that one's been burnt, unless Crump killed it somewhere else. We…we need to find it." "Yugi, he's fine." Atem chuckled as his mate turned on his heel to stare at him, motioning the prince over with a jerk of his head. "I have him." Yugi hesitated a moment before rushing over, clambering over the dragon's foreleg in his haste. He slid carefully to the ground, his eyes wide as he stared at the small bundle beside Atem's leg. Slowly, the prince walked over, Atem quickly lowering his head to steady his mate. Yugi crouched on the ground, keeping one hand on Atem to keep himself steady. Atem laughed at Yugi's exhale of amazement, arms reaching out before he pulled them back. "Can I…" "He's your son, my heart. You are allowed to pick him up but," Atem gave his tail a twitch, watching as the infant increased his grip on it, "just keep in mind that I am stuck like this until he decides to wake up." Yugi laughed and scooped up his son, turning to sit against Atem's foreleg with the dragon's tail over his shoulder. Carefully, the prince moved the blanket out of the way so he could see his son's face, the dragon peering as well. He had been too afraid to try and unwrap the baby before, suddenly very aware how large he was compared to the infant. Atem gave a trill as he looked over the infant's features. "He looks like you, love." "Yeah." The word was spoken on an exhale. Yugi glanced up at Atem. "Is it normal to not want to put him down?" Atem shrugged, not taking his eyes from the two. "I've never had any of my own. I was too young until this year." Yugi nodded, tipping his head to the side as he continued to study his son's features. "Did she tell you if he had been named yet?" "If?" Atem pulled his head back, blinking in confusion. He had never assumed that the baby didn't have a name. It wasn't until Yugi had brought it up that he remembered that he had never asked it of the mother. The dragon waited for Yugi to elaborate as the prince nodded. "It's a common practice not to name a child until you are sure that it will live. It's considered back luck or something." Yugi looked up at the dragon and shrugged. "I wasn't named until nearly a month after I was born, it was that bad for me." "Then…what did they call you?" Atem was trying to wrap his mind around this strange human tradition, not sure that he really wanted to understand. "My mother usually called me the usual pet names for a child. To everyone else I was the prince or the king's son or the baby since Seto was older than me." Yugi laughed sadly. "If it hadn't been for my mother, I would have been known by those names for seventeen years. She was the one who finally demanded that they name me officially." Atem snorted. "That's nonsense." "How do you do it?" Yugi threw the challenge at him, smiling to let the dragon know that he was not mad for the slight made to his culture. "Well, the longest a chick will go without a name is a day or two, usually because the parents couldn't decide before. But the parents usually spend a lot of time with their offspring, tending the eggs. Apparently, you get to know them pretty well." Atem shrugged to show that he was guessing about this. "Humans may carry their offspring with them, but dragons can hear their offspring in their shells. We are more aware of them from the start." Yugi gave a short laugh. "Makes more sense than what we do." He turned his head to look at his son from another angle. "Pick a name." "What?" Yugi shrugged. "I think you deserve the honor of naming him since you saved him." The dragon blinked quickly. "But…he's yours." "Yes. And I am your mate. Therefore, he is yours as well." Atem looked away, scanning the area around them and realizing, for the first time, that this was not the place to be discussing this. He turned back to Yugi as the prince tapped his foreleg. "He is our son, Atem. So, you choose the name. I don't care if it is human or dragon" "He might." A look of determination crossed Yugi's face. "I'm not going to let them use him for their fight against Gozaburo. I've seen what happens in that world and I don't want a part of it any longer. If he wants that world when he's grown, I won't stop him. But I want to keep him away from all of that, for now. Until then, it doesn't matter." Atem gave a slow nod, eyes glancing up at the sound of another human approaching. He felt Yugi press closer to his leg, cradling the infant close. Atem moved his head so he was hovering over them, growling at he watched Mahad run towards them, the knight stopping to gaze in horror at the body of the woman. The knight knelt by her, gently sweeping the hair from her eyes before glancing up at Atem. The dragon nearly flinched back at the look of pure hatred in the knight's eyes. "You killed her." "I did no such thing. It was that knight. Besides, why would I want to kill her? She was nothing to me." "She would have taken Yugi away from you, that's enough for a heartless creature like you." Atem gave a warning growl that the knight ignored, the human now looking around himself for something. "Where's her son?" "Safe." Atem started at the sound of a sword being pulled out of its scabbard. The dragon growled as Mahad advanced, somewhat distracted by the feeling of Yugi trying to loose the infant's fingers from his tail. Ever so slowly, he felt the grip on him leave, Yugi pushing away from the dragon and leaving Atem barely enough time to move away. He was still too slow, Mahad's sword catching on his foreleg. Two cries of pain rang out as Atem and Yugi reacted. The dragon turned to find his mate, eyes widening as Yugi fumbled with the infant for a moment, frantically trying to keep his hold on his son. Atem snarled and turned on the knight, whipping the sword out of his hands with his tail. He shoved the knight onto his back, pinning the human to the ground. He tried to control his temper, struggling against the part of him that demanded he attack and rip the knight to shreds for hurting his mate and nearly injuring his little one. With a trembling breath, Atem pulled away, backing up so he could lie on the ground. He turned to glare at Mahad as the knight struggled up from the ground, lowering his shoulder so that Yugi could climb up onto his back, the prince having to go slower than normal with his precious load. The dragon snarled as Mahad began to walk towards them, the sound enough to keep the knight back. Satisfied that the human wasn't a threat to him, Atem pulled his head up, slowly standing as he felt Yugi tap his shoulder. "You will not threaten Yugi or Kysen again, knight, or you will regret it." Mahad glanced up at Yugi once, seeming to plead with the prince to refute Atem's words. Atem looked over his shoulder to see the prince slowly shaking his head, adjusting his hold on the infant as he leaned forward to pat the dragon. "Come on, the others will be worried." Atem gave a stiff nod before breaking into a jog, running for a while before launching himself into the air. He banked to head back to the forest, catching sight of Marik as the pale golden dragon circled, probably searching for them. Atem glanced down at Mahad, the knight standing alone in the field before pulling himself upright and hovering, waiting until Marik spotted him. The black and red dragon jerked his head, indicating that they were heading back for the other side of the boarder before resuming his flight, listening to Yugi as he spoke to his son. "So, Kysen?" Atem winced, peeking back over his shoulder. "Yes. Do you mind?" Yugi treated him to a huge smile. "Not at all." Mahad stomped around in his rooms, viciously shoving things into saddle bags. He had made up his mind. He could no longer just sit in the background knowing what Gozaburo was up to. He had to do something to help the people he had watched with Yugi; tried to protect with Yugi. He would fight in the memory of his prince as he had been. It was no longer enough for him to be a drifter under his father. He threw the bags over his shoulders, walking from his room. He passed his father, giving the elderly man a serious nod, surprised when he had it returned. Mahad slowed to watch his father pass by, suddenly noticing how old he was. Something told him that this would be the last time that Mahad would see his father and he found that he couldn't discount his time back among his own people. It was a minor distraction in the scheme of things, but not a bad one. Mahad gave a wave to his father before continuing out into the yard. His horse looked up as he walked out, Mahad taking the reins from the boy and watching as the child ran off, smiling sadly. With a sigh he secured his saddle bags onto the saddle before swinging up onto the horse. He turned the brown horse toward the road, urging the animal to a trot as he left the house, purposefully keeping from looking at the village. He knew that if he did look he would see the small crosses the marked where the bodies of the villagers lay. He knew exactly where Tristan and Tèa were, buried side by side as befitted a married couple. Mahad looked down at the pommel of his saddle for a moment before looking forward again. Luck was not with Tèa and Yugi. The two were very much alike and could have been happy together if that dragon hadn't poisoned the prince's mind. He would have been happy to serve under Tèa as queen and she would have been a good one; strong where Yugi was weak and harsh where Yugi could be too lenient. It was the perfect match, barring the fact that Tèa had not been royalty. But then, Yugi's mother hadn't been royalty either. The knight quickly steered himself away from those thoughts, not wanting to think of Aislinn at the moment, still mourning for the loss of one of his first friends in that kingdom. He blinked as his vision blurred, a precursor to tears. He sighed and wiped the moisture from his eyes before allowing his horse to slow to a walk. If all went well, he would reach the boarder in about three days, and then it would be another day or two until he reached the villages close to the castle. Then, he would find the resistance that had to have sprung up by now and inform them of the news. Tèa was gone, but her son was still out there and alive. Yugi was alive too, but they could expect no help from him. Hopefully, he could get in contact with Seto, something he had failed to do in his initial assault, and get help from inside the castle. He would also have a force of peasants behind him, probably with just rudimentary weapons training. But the plan was simple, just attack and kill the dragon. Everything would be over once that cursed dragon was dead. He groaned as he realized how wrong he was. Then there was another dragon to slay to free Yugi from his clutches. It would kill the prince again, but it was better to do that than allow him to be used by that dragon for its twisted desires. He only hoped that he could get Tèa and Yugi's son out of its clutches before something happened to the infant. Perhaps, if he got Yugi alone, he could coax the real prince out from under the spell and then he could take him away from the accursed beast. Then, they would get the rightful heir to the throne back and his successor without any more blood spilled. Even as the thought cheered him, Mahad knew it would never work. The dragon had too strong of a hold on Yugi to ever let him go. He gave a soft curse before focusing his gaze on the horizon. At least he had a good plan this time. Everything else could be gone over as it came up. Joey glared at the temporary camp that the villagers had set up, recognizing a few from his own home. The rest were from other villages, fleeing for safety from another attack by Gozaburo. And he didn't blame them for being this cautious. He had seen the ruins of his home, amazed that it had disappeared so quickly, leaving nothing but patches of damp ash on the ground. He sighed at the memory of the image, his eyes falling shut as he rubbed at his temples. There was nothing for it but to move forward. He glanced up as Duke walked back towards him, the men of the villages following. They all looked annoyed that they had been pulled from their tasks. Joey pulled his hand away from his head, wincing as the women followed close after the men. He pulled Serenity closer to himself, wanting to keep her away from the others and just needing her support in his endeavor. After all, he was about to attempt to change their lives. It was something that he didn't want to do alone. He cleared his throat as the people came to a stop, gathering in a crowd. Hoping to calm them, Joey gave a lopsided smile before clearing his throat again. "I see you all survived the dragon attack. Has he tried anything else?" "Not since your village, Joseph." Joey winced at the use of his proper name, having associated it so long with his father and hated it for that reason. The blonde rocked backwards a bit, placing both hands on Serenity's shoulders. He was about to speak again when another voice spoke up, Joey turning his head to look at a woman in the back. "I saw two dragons heading north. There will be another two burned to the ground soon enough." There was a series of grumbles as the people discussed this, grouping together into pairs or threes to talk about their misfortune. Joey kept a hold on his temper before beginning to speak again, being sure to pitch his voice so he could be heard over the crowd. "Then I say we do something about it!" "What can we do? Gozaburo has armed men and dragons. What will our farm tools do against him?" "I know one dragon that would be willing to help." Joey frowned as the crowd took a step back, their muttering increasing. The blonde gave his sister a gently shove, the movement drawing the people's attention back to him. "He healed my sister!" It was a lie, but it was enough to get their attention. "He gave her sight back and is kind to us humans. And he wants Gozaburo gone as much as we do." "How can we trust a dragon?" "Look what happened the last time we tried to resist. Gozaburo took the throne!" "Yes. And your friend there paid the price for arguing against the king." Joey looked over at Duke, wincing as the green eyed man reached up to cover the scars on his neck, the sleeves of his shirt covering up the other scars on his arms from the fire. He shook his head, turning to look back at the crowd. "That was because we were not organized. We didn't stand together. If I have learned one thing from this, it is that if we help each other than we are stronger than anything Gozaburo can throw at us." Joey smiled at the few nods that he was beginning to get, the people's fear of their tyrant quickly overridden by the evidence that was being shown to them. "We've got Tèa safe in the north and her son, by now. They'll come back down when they hear that we've started to win against Gozaburo, and Mahad will come with them. They haven't given up, so why should we?" "It's the smart thing to do, boy." The blonde glared at the man who spoke. "No. The smart thing to do would be to rid ourselves of a king that doesn't deserve his throne. We had a good king and we let ourselves be tricked. Now, I plan to fix that." "You can't do it alone. Remember what happened to the prince?" Joey felt Serenity place a hand over his in warning, stopping him from blurting out that Yugi was alive. They still weren't sure of the reaction that they would get, not knowing what to think of the prince's miraculous reappearance themselves. They would be told, in the end, but only when Joey was sure that they could win against Gozaburo. He smiled down as his sister, thanking her for the save. "I don't plan to. The real question is, do you want to live in this slavery for the rest of your lives?" The crowd went silent for a while, shifting as they thought over his question. Joey smirked when he saw a few begin to nod, glancing up at their neighbors before looking back at him. The blonde refrained from punching the air in victory, knowing that he had them now. They wanted to kill Gozaburo as much as he did, the list of the king's crimes against the people too long to begin to think of. They would fight for their kingdom and for their prince, the son of Yugi and Tèa, perfection for the peasants. The child would be a king to understand them. And, if by some miracle the pale gold dragon did agree to help them, then this whole plan would be a success. Seto carefully moved from their bed, resting a hand against Kisara's cheek as she moved restlessly. He waited until she had calmed before walking to where the crib was. Carefully so as not to disturb the infant that slept in it, Seto leaned over. The faint moonlight drifted over the small features, the grey eyes closed as his son slept and the dim light highlighting the black hair. He tensed as Mokuba gave a soft whimper and reached out for something. Automatically, Seto reached a hand into the crib, the smile returning to his face as his son gripped his finger, sighing in contentment. The blue eyed man wasn't sure how this compulsion to check on his son had come about. But, every night since his birth, Seto had woken for no conceivable reason at least twice a night just to look at his son; these instances different from the times when his son's cries summoned Kisara from her sleep to feed him. Seto adjusted his stance, glancing back at his lover before looking back into the crib. He didn't understand his need to check on his son, even when he knew that nothing was wrong. He just needed to watch his child because he was amazingly there. The feelings were similar to those that had appeared when his cousin and then little brother had been born, the latter the namesake of his son. He remembered peering in on them and wondering why they were so little and why none of them could play properly with him. But he had been oddly content with the simple games that he had been allowed to play with them. And he remembered that those had been the times that he had laughed the most. He had been genuinely happy then, not the silent child that he learned that he had to be to avoid his father. He ran his free hand through his hair with a long sigh, smirking as Mokuba gave a soft coo. Vaguely, he noticed that the motion had disturbed the blanket that was covering the infant. Seto reached down to fix it before he was even aware of what he was doing. His eyes widened, hand stopping halfway out of the crib. His gut told him to jerk away and escape, find somewhere where he could pull the mask back over him and rebuild the ice around his heart. Right now, he was vulnerable. He could be hurt when he was like this. And now was not a time to be vulnerable. Seto retracted his hand from the crib, tensing as a hand was rested on his arm. He relaxed when he turned his head, watching as Kisara rested her head on him, too short to reach his shoulder. Her hand slid down his arm, snaring his other hand and entwining their fingers before looking up at him, giving a mock gasp. "You're smiling. The end of the world must be upon us." "You've seen me smile before." "Yes, but you were prompted." Kisara raised their joined hands, dropping a kiss on the back of his. "It's nice to see you so happy, but you need your sleep as well." "I was just checking on him." Seto turned his glare on her, knowing full well that it had no effect on Kisara. "What are you doing up?" "The same." Seto sighed again as she relaxed into him, shaking his head as he carefully freed himself from Mokuba's grasp. He turned around, wrapping his arms around her and resting his chin on the top of her head. "Is this natural?" He felt her laugh, the sound slightly smothered. "Is that's what worrying you?" She pushed away, looking up at him. "It's alright to be this worried about him. It is natural. I've seen dragons doing the same thing. It just means you care." Seto gave a stiff nod before sweeping Kisara off the ground, carrying her bridal style back to their bed. Kisara laughed again, shifting so she was curled up against him. Seto held her close as she drifted off to sleep, his eyes drifting to the crib as Kisara's breathing evened out. It was time to do it. They were no longer safe in the castle, especially with Gozaburo making his final moves towards his grand goals. And there would be a time where Seto could no longer protect them, the feelings of inadequacy bothering him. He wanted nothing more than to be able to defend the little family he was starting, the need to keep them close surprising him with its intensity. But it was for the best. Perhaps Kisara could find Yugi down in the south. His cousin would be willing to protect them and keep them out of trouble until Seto had settled things in the kingdom. Or maybe the peasants would keep Kisara away from Gozaburo if he promised to help them, as much as it hurt his pride to stoop to asking for help from the lower class, the idea not helped by his hatred of feeling helpless. Seto pushed the thoughts out of his mind, allowing himself to just live in the moment, a habit that he seemed to be falling into. To his surprise, it didn't bother him as much as it would have. Seto gave a weak chuckle, the motion of his chest enough to encourage Kisara to stir. He soothed her by rubbing her back, watching as she fell back to sleep. Yugi smiled as he happily accepted Kysen back from Ryou, smirking at the slightly disappointed look on Bakura's face. He hadn't expected the thief to take to the child like that, Bakura's usually stern features relaxing when Yugi allowed him to hold the infant; even going as far to take him from Ryou to comfort Kysen when he started to cry and managing to calm the sobs from the child. And, through it all, Atem had hovered at his shoulder, tensing every time that the infant was passed between two people. Yugi had expected him to jump in and snatch Kysen away the couple of times that Bakura and Ryou arranged the baby awkwardly in their arms. He turned his smile on the black and red dragon, chuckling at the purr that Atem gave. Yugi walked over to a more secluded spot, frowning as Kysen began to squirm. The infant was hungry again. He changed his course, walking over to his pack and pulled out a small container, shaking his head at the oddness of it. Bakura had come up with the whole set up, once again startling Yugi. The thief had snuck into a nearby noble's home, stealing the objects that he needed before holing up for the rest of the afternoon with Marik. In the end, they had turned out a few flasks with a strange top on them. Yugi shrugged to himself; it didn't matter how strange they were, they worked. Bakura had also solved the problem of supplying milk, taking one of their water skins and taking milk from the noble's goats as well. While it solved their initial problem, there was a downside to this arrangement. To keep Kysen in good health, they would have to stay much closer to human civilization instead of hiding out in forests. There was a better chance of getting spotted or, worse yet, caught by those who were still loyal to Gozaburo. Yugi sighed and sat down, leaning back against Atem as the dragon settled behind him. The prince shifted Kysen to a more comfortable position, offering him the strange container and relaxing when the infant accepted it. He was always afraid that Kysen would reject the strange thing, leaving them with no choice to find a woman willing to nurse him, something that Atem had rejected outright when they had discussed the problem initially. Yugi looked up at Atem as the dragon chuckled, smiling himself at the enthusiastic sounds that he heard from his son as he fed. "Slow down, little one," Atem dropped his head over Yugi's shoulder, "there's enough for you." He laughed at the interaction between his son and his lover, the sound trailing off as he saw Marik approaching cautiously, stopping a good distance away. Yugi tipped his head to the side, not sure how to take the behavior from the usually brash dragon. From behind him, Atem gave a nod, the pale gold dragon beginning to move forward again. He sat up straight as he felt Atem move, the dragon curling up around Yugi and Kysen in a manner that was obvious protective. Yugi glanced up at Atem, surprised to see the crimson eyes narrowing, a sure sign that Atem was angry. Marik must have noticed this too, because lowered himself closer to the ground, looking hurt. "I'm your friend. You told me I could approach." "You can." "Not with that look." Marik took a step back, and Yugi couldn't blame the dragon. Atem was looking murderous, his muscles tensed and a glare focused on Marik, although the latter was softening as the pale gold dragon backed away. Marik sighed, sitting back on his haunches. "You can trust me, Atem. I have no interesting in stealing your mate or harming the infant. You can trust me." "I…I know." Atem hung his head, a sigh shaking his body. Yugi shifted, placing Kysen against his shoulder and gently patting the baby's back, staring worriedly at Atem. The dragon had yet to look away from the two, finally resting his muzzle against Yugi's side. The prince stood up when the baby finally let out a burp, cradling Kysen close as he walked over to Marik and ignoring the warning growl that Atem gave. Cautiously, the allowed Marik to look at the infant, nearly flinching back as the dragon tipped his head to the side. "Huh. I don't see what the big deal about this thing is. It's just a little package of water and flesh." The observation earned a snarl from Atem, Marik laughing at the black and red dragon. "It's the truth, Atem, don't deny it." The pale gold dragon tipped his head to the opposite side with a sigh. "But he is cute from some angles. I guess it's a redeeming factor." Marik looked up at Yugi, the prince stunned by the serious look he saw in the dragon's eyes. "Keep him safe, Yugi." The prince nodded and backed toward Atem as Marik walked to find his own place to sleep. Yugi felt his legs give out as he sat down by Atem, wincing at the move. Thankfully, Kysen was too sated from his feeding to notice, being lulled to sleep by the warmth of his father and the dragon that was curled around them. But the baby was still fighting sleep, one tiny hand reaching up to play with his father's blonde bangs with a frown. Yugi laughed, twisting so that Kysen could touch the dragon. The baby gave a smile before drifted to sleep. Atem gave a purr, gently licking the baby. "So much like your father, little one." Yugi gave the dragon a gentle poke before lying down on the ground himself, Atem resting his head beside Yugi. The prince allowed Atem to rest in silence before he spoke. "Why didn't you want Marik to come over?" There was a long pause before Atem spoke. "Dragons will sometimes kill off the chicks of one mated pair to give themselves another chance at winning a mate." The dragon huddled closer to Yugi. "It doesn't happen a lot anymore, but the thought still…I don't want to lose you." "I told you that you won't." Yugi rested a hand on Atem, smiling softly as the dragon finally relaxed. He reached up to stroke the dragon, watching as Atem opened one of his eyes, looking over Yugi and Kysen. Yugi began to worry as Atem continued to gaze at them. The dragon had been like this before they had left for this endeavor, which had led to him transforming and the two of them entwined, Atem whimpering and scrambling for his mate whenever Yugi shifted away. He bit his lip and began to trace a finger around Atem's scales, slowly working his way towards the dragon's eye. The motion brought Atem out of whatever trance that he was in, the crimson eye blinking before flickering down to Yugi. He saw a glimpse of fear in the dragon's eye before Atem had gathered his emotions back together. The prince scooted up so he was able to place a kiss on the leathery skin, smirking at the jerk that the dragon made, the creature still not used to that kind of affection while in this form. "What's wrong?" Atem looked like he was going to avoid the question before he closed his eye, allowing Yugi to run his finger around the softer scales that were below his eye. The dragon gave a soft groan, waiting until Yugi had removed his hand to open his eyes. "I've been running from this title for so long. I'm trying to run from my destiny. No matter what, it will catch up with me. I'm scared." Yugi sat up as Atem closed his eye again, tears starting to run from them. He kept one arm around his son as he held the other one out, offering his unoccupied side to Atem. The dragon pressed his head into Yugi's side, the warm tears soaking Yugi's shirt as the dragon trembled. The prince petted the dragon, searching for the spot under Atem's jaw. He slowed his search as Atem began to speak, glancing behind him as Atem dug his claws into the ground. "I don't want to die, Yugi. I don't want to drag you down after me. I'm scared that I'll disappear, lose myself forever because I've tainted myself…and I don't care." "Tainted?" Yugi froze at the words, violet eye widening as he realized what Atem had done. The dragon had sacrificed everything to keep him alive. But he had been chosen, in a way, to give up his life for the dragons. What would Atem's gods think of this? He was about to move away when Atem gave a keen, moving one foreleg so that Yugi couldn't escape. "Don't leave. I can't bare it alone. Please, Yugi, stay." The prince gasped when Atem looked up at him, the dragon's crimson eyes pleading with him. Yugi stretched back on the ground, placing another kiss on Atem's face. The dragon snuggled as close as he could get, rubbing the tip of his muzzle against Yugi's stomach, only stopping when he found skin. Yugi tensed as Atem's warm breath washed over his skin, holding his breath for a moment before relaxing as Atem stopped moving. He flipped his hand over so he could touch the dragon, staying awake until he saw Atem slide into a restless sleep, following his lover soon afterwards. Personally, I think it's too cute when Atem and Seto are watching over their kids. Please read and review. Criticism is always appreciated.

This is a tale of a Knight who slew a Dragon and vanquished evil. -The Chronicles of the Morningstar and Dragonheart A brief history of the struggles during the reign Of King Seto as set down by Ryou, a simple poet Chapter One: Plans and Promises And, thus, did the scythe our king's life take; And, with it a new tyrant make The sun shone down on the ruins of a fortress, making the white stone seem even brighter. From the fallen stones came the sound of shouts and wood striking wood. A tall knight, wearing no armor, backed out of the shadow of one of the stones and ducked to avoid hitting his head on a low archway. A young man followed him, a wooden sword held in guard position in front of him. The young man was equally as tall as the knight, both of them unusually so for people in the kingdom. The young man stared at the knight through dark brown bangs, the rest of his hair tied back at the base of his neck. There was a flicker of a smile on his face, the emotion making the dark blue eyes glitter for a moment before the young man lunged at the knight, forcing him back. From one of the rocks, a hand appeared over the top, followed by the rest of a small boy. He grunted as he clambered to the top of the rock, swaying on his perch before sitting down and watching the two combatants; every now and again brushing his blonde lightning-shaped bangs out of his purple eyes. He rocketed to his feet as the young man managed to get behind the knight, cheering out his cousin. "Get him, Seto!" On the ground, Seto laughed at his younger cousin's enthusiasm, the laughter disappearing when the knight abruptly spun around and met the thrust easily. Seto grunted as he was thrown backwards, falling to the ground. He looked up, letting his head drop to the ground as the knight leveled the wooden practice blade to his throat. "Better, Seto, but you're still dead." The remained in those poses for a while before the knight extended a tanned hand to help Seto up, smiling as the young man roughly brushed himself off. Seto brought the practice sword up to guard position as soon as he was ready, earning a laugh from the knight. "Ready already?" "No fair, Seto." The smaller boy slipped from his perch, easily scaling down the rock to rush to his cousin's side. "You promised that I could have my turn when this bout was done." "But I thought you didn't like violence, Yugi." Seto smirked at his little cousin, watching as Yugi crossed his arms in annoyance. "I don't, but father wants me to learn." Yugi looked angry for a second before the emotion was brushed away, leaving the familiar smile on his face. The brunette rolled his eyes and passed the blade to his cousin without a word, stepping away to the water jar that waited for them. Yugi eagerly gripped the hilt of the sword, staring down the knight in a good imitation of his cousin. The knight laughed before getting into a guard position, looking expectantly at Yugi. The smaller boy hesitated for a moment before lunging forward, tripping and falling on the ground. Seto jerked forward a step from his place at the water jar, stopping when he heard laughter from the boy on the ground. Yugi stood up, wiping the dirt off his face, while attempting to settle back into his previous position, still laughing. The knight, on his part, had managed to keep from laughing, but there was a smile on his face. "Yugi…" "I know, I'm dead. But I'll get it this time, Mahad!" Yugi checked his balance by bending his knees before looking back up. "Only turn your back to a corpse." "Very good, Yugi." Mahad moved forward, Yugi quickly snapping up the wooden blade to meet the slash, tipping his blade so Mahad's would move away from his body. Yugi began to back up slowly, the knight keeping up the slow pattern of thrusts and blocks as the two practiced. Once he was sure of himself, Yugi started to move faster, that the cue for the knight to speed up himself. They lasted a minute at this speed before Yugi lunged forward, allowing Mahad to duck around Yugi's sword and place his wooden blade at Yugi's neck. "Dead, my prince." Yugi groaned and wiggled out of the hold to face off with Mahad again. Seto chuckled at his cousin's enthusiasm, bringing his cup to his lips again to drink. He was glad that Yugi had called him out, he had been getting tired of being beaten by Mahad. But, that was why their mothers had requested that Mahad teach them, he was simply the best in the kingdom. A yelp pulled his attention from his thoughts to the mock battle in front of him. Seto set down his cup quickly and jogged over to where Yugi sat on the ground, wincing as he stretched out one leg, ignoring the bleeding cut that ran over his calf. Mahad prudently backed out of the way as Seto dashed up, dropping to the ground beside his cousin and peered down at the wound. Yugi took one look at Seto before rolling his eyes. "It's just a cut, Seto. I'm fine." Seto swallowed his retort, getting to his feet and helping Yugi up. He watched the smaller boy like a hawk as he tested the leg before turning his attention back to the knight. Yugi gave Mahad a short nod, the signal sending them off again. Seto remained close though, wanting to keep an eye on his cousin. Seto had acted like a big brother Yugi since he had been born, watching over him as they grew up in the castle together. Even when his own little brother had been born, Seto had still given the young prince the same amount of attention as before. The over protectiveness had only come when Seto's younger brother, Mokuba, had died because of the plague that both Yugi and Seto had survived. He crossed his arms and watched as Mahad caught Yugi again, the young boy smiling before throwing himself back into another practice bout. Seto shook his head, turning to look down the hill that the ruined fortress was set on. He flinched at the sound of Yugi hitting the ground again, tempted to turn around to see if his cousin was alright, but he was distracted by the sight of a rider galloping up the hill toward them. Seto narrowed his eyes, walking quickly back to the packs that lay discarded by a boulder, reaching for the hilt of his sword as the rider appeared, ducking his head as he rode under the arch. The sounds of practice stopped from behind him as Mahad and Yugi noticed the rider. He relaxed a fraction as he recognized the rider, the angry expression on his face turning into a sneer as he recognized one of his father's knights. Seto buckled his sword around his waist, glaring at the man pulled his horse to a rough stop. "The king orders you to take your pupils back to the castle." The knight had to keep turning his head to deliver the message as his horse pranced nervously in a circle. "The peasants have rebelled!" Yugi gasped while Seto and Mahad exchanged solemn looks. There had been no reason for the peasants to revolt before, the current king was a kinder than his father. There had to be a reason behind it, one that the knight would not give up so easily. Seto glared up at the knight, dismissing him with a cold wave of his hand before he walked back to where the three of them had tied their horses. His cousin followed him, waiting until the knight was gone before speaking quietly. "Why are they doing this? What has father done?" Seto took one look at Yugi's large purple eyes before sighing, his own eyes softening. "It's probably a misunderstanding. The king will go and sort it all out." Yugi nodded, taking the reins of his palomino horse and walking it over to a rock so he could scramble up into the saddle. Mahad handed Yugi his pack before receiving the reins to his own steed. Seto waiting until their mentor had mounted before pulling himself up onto his own horse, frowning when it tossed its head nervously. He circled the horse, searching for the thing that had disturbed it before giving a small shrug. He didn't have time for foolishness now. They had to get Yugi home before the peasants decided to turn their hatred on him. Seto would kill himself before he let anyone lay their hands on his cousin. With an irritated sigh, Seto kicked his horse forward, ducking under the low arch as he galloped after the two other riders. A round, blunted head rose from the rocks, blue eyes blinking as she watched the riders retreat. She focused on the brunette rider, giving a soft coo as she clambered over the rocks, settling in a clear space. Her white scales blended into the rocks around her, making the dragon seem like she was part of the landscape. The dragon craned her neck, trying to watch the riders until they were hidden but the hill. The dragon sighed and relaxed her neck, setting it in a gentle arch as she closed her blue eyes in thought. "That's him?" The blue eyes snapped open immediately at the sound of the voice. She turned her head, hissing at the dragon that strolled out from behind the ruins of the castle. The second dragon shook his head, staring at the riders. "He's a human, Kisara." "I know that." Kisara snapped the words back at the second dragon, sighing as he looked hurt. She lowered her head to the ground, giving a mournful trill before speaking again. "I'm sorry for snapping at you, Atem. But I feel sorry for him." Atem snorted, earning another glare from Kisara. "You can't pity ice." "He's not like that all the time. He's only cold because he lost the two people who cared for him." Atem gave a grumble at the statement, but allowed Kisara to carry on. "He's cold so he doesn't have to feel pain, Atem. And I feel sorry for him because he won't let anyone else in." "Kisara," Atem shook his head, the sun glinting off his red and black scales, "you're too sympathetic sometimes. It won't work; you're a dragon and he's a human." "There are the old ways, Atem." Kisara stood up, glaring at the black and red dragon as she walked away. A growl made her pause, turning back to look at her friend as he argued with himself. The black and red dragon paced among the stones for a minute, wings held slightly away from his body in his agitation. Atem finally paused, turning to look at her. "I'll help you, if I can." Kisara smiled. "Thank you, Atem." The black and red dragon nodded, folding his wings back against his body as he walked back toward the ruins of the castle. "I've got to get back or father will worry. The humans have been behaving strangely of late." "Strangely how?" "They're killing dragons, Kisara." The blue eyed dragon gasped, quickly pressing herself against the ground, trying to make herself smaller and blend into her surroundings. "Why are they doing that?" She whispered the words, making Atem have to lean down to hear her. "We have a treaty that we will not break. Why do they hunt us?" Atem gave an inelegant shrug, his red eyes becoming distant. "I don't know. Just, be careful Kisara." The white dragon nodded, lifting her head from the ground as she watched Atem walk off, knowing that the news must have frightened him more than he was willing to say. Atem was like that, holding his emotions in and keeping others out by lashing out or becoming cold. Her thoughts on her friend were brought to an abrupt stop as sounds drifted to her ears. She stood up, turning her blunt head to look in the direction of the noise. It sounded like a battle, a human battle. And her human would have to skirt around the edge of the battle. He wouldn't be safe. She opened her wings, pushing off the ground with a grunt of effort as she beat the appendages to gain height. Kisara turned effortlessly in the air, craning her neck to search for the riders before beginning to follow at a discrete distance. They might not ever need her help, but she wanted to be there in case her human got into trouble. Gozaburo watched as his brother rode toward the group of peasants who were brandishing farm weapons, keeping his own horse back. The king smiled at the peasants, the expression wavering as he saw that they remained angry. Gozaburo snorted and pulled his horse even further back. He didn't want to get involved in these matters, peasants were no concern of his. As long as they worked hard and did not pass the plague on to their superiors, he was content to let them be. Besides, the peasants were the happiest when they were complaining; nothing would make them happy. But his brother apparently thought he could. He returned his gaze to his brother, watching as the king dismounted to talk to the peasants on their level. Gozaburo smiled as he watched a blonde man tighten his hands around the scythe he held, glaring at the king. It wouldn't be long now. He especially didn't want to get involved in this matter because he was the one who had started it, sending his loyal knights out to fabricate rumors about the royal family and the future. He hadn't been specific, just enough to cause unrest among the lower class. Anything to get them riled up, because then the king would go down to settle them, and there was a good chance that he would be attacked. Gozaburo jumped as the first scream erupted, his horse rearing as it tried to run from the sudden noise. He pulled the animal back down, turning his head to see the king fall under the blade of the scythe. He narrowed his eyes, jerking his mount around and pointing to the group of peasants. "They have struck down the king!" The blonde man looked up in surprise, glaring at the knights on their horses before letting out a feral yell and charging forward. Gozaburo stared at the man before urging his horse away, not having an expected an attack on himself. The horse neighed in fear as more peasants surrounded him, Gozaburo yanking the horse around in a tight circle as he realized that they were outnumbered. He shouted for the soldiers, urging them to cut the peasants down. They complied, angered by the callous slaughter of their beloved ruler. Gozaburo smirked and aimed his horse for an opening in the circle of peasants, wanting to escape with his life. He caught sight of a young red headed girl right before she darted out in front of his horse, a young blonde man following her out, holding a sharpened stick in his hand. Gozaburo tried to turn his horse at the last second, tumbling out of the saddle as his horse bolted to the side. He screamed as he fell, the sound cut off as he hit the ground. Before he could get up, the young blonde tripped over him, calling out for his sister as he fell, the stake tumbling from his grasp, his body falling on the blunted end. "Serenity!" Gozaburo gasped as the stake plunged into his chest, piercing through skin and muscle before stabbing into his heart. The man screamed, clawing at the air before going limp. Through blurring vision, he saw the young blonde gulp and scramble to his feet, running before the knights could rush over. Gozaburo turned his head to watch the blonde go, too weak to do anything. "My lord!" He rolled his head back as one of the knights rode up, leaping from the saddle to lift him from the ground. Gozaburo let out a gurgle, the closest he could get to a word before he was gently lifted into the saddle. The knight sprang up into the saddle, steadying Gozaburo with one hand as he wheeled his steed around. "Finish with these peasants!" Gozaburo tried to scream as the motion of the galloping horse aggravated his injury, instead falling into a stupor as the pain became too much. He could only feel the movement of the horse's shoulders under him, the hand the knight had on his chest and the encouragement that the knight spoke as he urged his steed away from the slaughter. "Hold on, my lord." He forced his eyes to remain open, wanting to stay awake and aware; instinct telling him that to slip into unconsciousness would mean succumbing to death. He wanted to live to exact his revenge on the two that had put him in this position, fixing the face of the red haired girl in his mind before the images began to slip away. Seto snorted in distaste at the sounds of battle close by, urging his horse to run closer to Yugi's, wanting to keep his cousin from seeing the horrors of battle. For all of his bravery, Yugi was still a bit naïve when it came to the workings of the world, and Seto didn't want to be the one responsible for shattering the way Yugi looked at the world. From his place beside his cousin, Seto could see Mahad wincing at the sound, shooting angry looks in the direction of the battle. They would get a lecture later, one that Mahad was very fond of. The knight still clung to the old code of stories, which was useful up to a point. Seto could see the merit in the code, but wondered what the use was if no one else in the world acknowledged its existence. His musings were cut off by a loud shout. Seto turned his head around, eyes widening as he saw a young man with black hair and a red headband around his forehead pointing at him, a rusting sword in his other hand. "There's the future tyrant!" Peasants burst out of the undergrowth around them, some running across the open field that boarded the other side of their path. Seto pulled his horse into a more defensive position beside Yugi, seeing that Mahad was doing the same thing on the other side of the prince. They would defend Yugi until their last breaths, anything to keep their prince safe. The peasants raced after the horses, losing ground to the fleeter animals. Seto looked behind him, sighing in relief when the chase was abandoned, leaving them room to breathe. He turned back to front, slumping. His posture stiffened again when he felt a hand land on his calf, tugging him from the saddle. He hit the ground with a cry of pain, his right arm breaking as it came in contact with the ground. Seto scrambled to his feet, left arm going to support its useless partner. He faced off against the peasant, gritting his teeth against the pain. He couldn't draw his sword without letting go of his arm, and he was nearly hopeless with his left hand. His best chance at survival, no matter how much it annoyed him, was to run. Seto glanced once at the peasant, scowling at the young man whose brown hair was styled to a point on the front of his head before turning to run. He ducked his head as the man laughed, shouting to the other peasants who had joined in the chase again once they had seen that one of their prey had been unhorsed. "Look at the coward!" He was almost tempted to turn around and face them despite the odds, but he looked up. Yugi was staring back at him in worry, one hand clutching the pommel of his saddle as he stared at his cousin. Seto gave a rough shake of his head. No, he couldn't let Yugi down. A hand caught his shoulder, spinning him around and throwing him to the ground. Seto grunted as he hit the ground, cradling his broken arm close to his chest. The peasants loomed over him, Seto recognizing the black haired man and the brunette from before. The group leered at him, all reaching for their weapons as they prepared to kill the young noble. A roar from the sky interrupted their motions. As one, the peasants looked up, cringing away from the shadow that swooped overhead once before landing on the ground behind Seto. The young noble tried to tip his head back to see what had arrived, stopping when one white clawed leg landed close to his head. Seto looked up, mouth dropping open as he stared at the dragon. White scales covered its body, the ones closer to the top of the dragon possessing a blue sheen to them. A long neck was extended low over him protectively, the oval shaped head of the dragon stopping just in front of the peasants. The dragon gave a low growl, the sound startling the peasants into flight, most of them dropping their makeshift weapons in fear. The dragon seemed to nod to itself before it retreated, the foreleg moving away from Seto. The brunette got to his feet, swaying slightly as a bolt of pain ran through his arm. He shook his head to clear it, looking up at his rescuer in awe. Intelligent blue eyes blinked back at him, the eyes situated just before the series of three long, rounded scales that extended like shield over the first part of the neck. From the shoulder extended powerful wings, the membranes between their supports almost transparent in the sunlight. The back of the dragon was bare of spikes, a smooth curve down to the long tail, which was twitching back and forth in agitation. The dragon rocked most of its weight back onto its hind legs, the motion bringing Seto's attention back to the dragon's head. He lingered a moment on the eyes again before he looked at the spike that sat at the edge of the dragon's mouth, three more spikes pointing to the neck of the dragon. Not really thinking about what he was doing, Seto reached up to pet the dragon, pressing his palm against its muzzle. He jumped when the dragon seemed to lean into the caress, breathing out softly at the contact. Seto's eyes widened as his fingers began to stroke the dragon's muzzle. He was surprised that the dragon was warm, instead of cool. He realized that he was staring into one of the blue eyes and dropped his hand abruptly. He sidled around the dragon, jogging over to where Mahad and Yugi had stopped their horses, stopping to look awkwardly at the dragon. He swallowed before shakily saying, "Thank you" before rushing back to his horse. Seto paused with his good hand on the stirrup, looking back as the dragon turned its head to stare back at him before slowly flapping its wings and rising to the sky. Seto looked away as the dragon wheeled away, staring at his fingers, flexing them slightly as he remembered the warmth of the dragon. It was only when Mahad cleared his throat that he swung himself back up onto his horse, gasping when the motion jarred his arm. He settled into the saddle, looking over at Mahad who was giving him a worried look. The knight leaned over in his saddle to examine the broken arm. "We should get you back as fast as possible." Seto nodded, cradling his broken arm again and pulling on his normal mask. It wouldn't do to have Yugi see him in pain. He wouldn't want his cousin to worry. He offered a crooked smile to the tri-color haired teen before urging his horse on his legs, hoping that the castle wasn't too far from where they were now. He was about to speak to Mahad about this when a knight galloped past, Seto recognizing the man that was slung over the front of the saddle. Before he could point it out, Mahad was spurring his horse into a gallop, Yugi following. Seto winced to himself before sending his horse forward, knowing that he would be in pain the whole journey back to the castle. Aislinn looked up from her folded hands, standing up and rearranging her skirts as the sounds of men yelling echoed down the hall. She daintily leaned over and blew out the single candle that flickered in front of the golden cross, her eyes going to the carved dragons to either side of the cross. She turned slowly to face the door to her quarters, the eyes of all her carved dragons fixed on the woman. Once she had been a proud woman; slim, tall and fearless. The years had worn away at her, although she still retained her good looks; waist length red hair and a slim body. But the years showed in her eyes, the purple eyes that had once sparkled with joy were now dim with the wear of life. She had lived through the death of her clan, watching as her future father-in-law slaughtered her family and then carried her off to be the bride for his son. But she had learned to love the king of this foreign land, falling in love with the compassionate man who had taken over the throne from his ruthless father. As she still loved him as passionately, just as she loved her only son. It was worry for him that had aged her quickly, the baby boy born early and so small that many had feared that he would not live. And many still worried that he would not survive long into the first years of his reign. Aislinn, however, managed to push those worries far into the back of her mind, just worrying that her only child was happy. Because he would be her only child. She was beyond the years of child bearing and had lost all the others that she had attempted to bring into this world. So Yugi had been brought up with his older cousin for company and briefly with his younger cousin, while the boy had lived. Aislinn sighed and looked at the dragons that she had commissioned on the event of the death of Mokuba and his mother, smiling briefly at the image of a larger dragon nuzzling a chick crawling out of an egg. Then the pressures of helping to raise another boy had entered her life, and she worried about Seto like he was her son; but only when his father wasn't around. For, as much as she loved her husband, she could not stand his brother. Her hands clenched into fists at the thought of Gozaburo, hating the man because he was so much like the previous king who had slaughtered her village. Because he would not be the kind of king the kingdom needed. And, most importantly, because he thought her Yugi was too weak to rule. Aislinn calmed herself as Lector walked into her room, standing for a long while looking her in the eye before bowing, Aislinn bristling at the subtle slight to her status. She smoothed her face over as Lector stood up from his bow, small black eyes tracing over her figure in a way that made her want to shiver. Aislinn calmed herself before taking a step back. "My lord?" The knight came out of his daze looking back to the door before motioning for whoever was waiting behind it. He looked back at Aislinn with a slow smile. "The peasants rebelled against us. The king and his brother went to stop it." Aislinn had noticed that none of Gozaburo's five favorite knights had gone to support their king and their master. Her morose thoughts were stopped as her son came rushing into the room, looking worriedly over his shoulder as Mahad walked in. Aislinn sighed at the sight of Mahad, the knight a good friend of her and her husband. Her joy was short lived as she saw that the knight supported Seto, the young man's right arm dangling useless by his side. Aislinn moved to her nephew's side, guiding him over to the small cot in the room and kneeling to look at the injury. She quickly set the bone back in its proper place, hesitating in her wrapping of the injury as Lector scoffed openly. Aislinn steadied herself before going on with her duty. She had to remember that most of the people in this kingdom were backwards, relying on witchcraft to explain what they could not instead of using logic. She tied off the bandage and patted Seto's good shoulder, sighing when he shifted away from the contact. It was a balm to her heart that Seto wasn't as closed with Yugi or herself, afraid that the boy would lose himself to the emotions that he worked so hard to suppress, a quality that she blamed Gozaburo for. "It will hurt for a while, and don't attempt to do anything strenuous." Seto gave a sharp nod before getting off the cot and walking over to stand by Yugi. The smaller of the two looked up at his cousin with concern before beginning to walk over to his mother. He was interrupted as a knight burst into the room, struggling with Gozaburo. The knight gave a quick bow to Aislinn before hauling the noble over to the cot, flinging him onto the hard surface with a grunt. The king's brother groaned. The knight who had brought Gozaburo in bowed to his queen again, speaking in a soft voice. "I'm sorry, my queen, but your husband is dead; slain by the very peasants he was trying to help." Aislinn stiffened, holding herself together when she would have burst into tears. She walked over to Gozaburo, looking at the wound in his chest before shaking her head. "The wound is deep." She looked back at Lector, hoping that the man got her point. The knight merely shook his head and walked over, grabbing her shoulder and putting pressure on the joint. Aislinn bit her lip. She would not show any signs of weakness; she wouldn't give him the pleasure. "You will heal him, or your precious son will go onto the throne. How long do you think he will survive, especially with these peasants? A year? Three?" Aislinn caved at that, looking at Yugi. She wanted him to grow up a little more. He was only seventeen, and he looked so frail. The queen drew herself up to her full height, moving around her small sanctuary. "Lector, call for a pallet and men willing to carry it; quickly if you want your master to live. Mahad, please escort the boys to their rooms, Seto will need all the rest he can get, and then accompany me." The two knights bowed, Lector leaving the room first. Mahad and Seto left right after, leaving Yugi to hesitate before running over to his mother and pulling her into a fierce hug. "Can father really be dead?" Aislinn stroked her son's hair, looking over at Gozaburo. She nodded, returning her gaze to her son. Yugi accepted this in his normal quiet way, although tears began to form in his large eyes. "Does everyone really think that I am that weak? That I'll die that quickly if I take the throne?" The questions didn't need to be answered, because Yugi already knew the answers. The ideas were spoken widely around the castle and no one thought to look in the shadows or crevices where Yugi hid. The teen sighed, still hugging his mother tightly. "I miss him." Aislinn nodded, tears coming to her eyes. Suddenly, she wanted to be alone. "Go off to bed Yugi, try to get some reading done." "Yes, mother." Yugi stood on his tip toes to give his mother a kiss on the cheek before scurrying off down the hall. Aislinn moved to kneel in front of her cross again, tears streaming down her face as she arranged her skirts. She looked up, staring at the jeweled eyes off the carved dragons and silently cried for the husband she had loved, the country she had grown attached to and her son. Mahad rode next to the queen, envying her calm. The whole kingdom was about to fall apart and Aislinn was looking up at the cloudy sky. He shook his head, glancing down at the pallet that was being brought along, the reason for their slow pace. Gozaburo's five pet knights surrounded the structure, sticking close to their master as Aislinn led them further up into the hills. The queen was right to bring a knight that she could trust, especially with the king gone and Yugi's health a doubtful thing. Gozaburo would push for his right to the crown. As long as Yugi stayed safe, then the kingdom would have a chance. And with the favor that she was securing now, Yugi would remain safe for a long while, maybe even long enough to take his place on the throne. Mahad knew that Yugi was stronger than most people thought. His thoughts were interrupted as one of the knights stumbled, angrily glaring up at Mahad and the queen. "Where is that crazy witch taking us?" Mahad tightened his hold on the reins, the only thing he could do to prevent himself from turning around and hitting the knight for disrespecting their queen. He glanced over at Aislinn, only noticing that she merely straightened her posture. He turned his head to hide his smile, Aislinn would be alright; she was strong enough to stand on her own. But, as her friend, he would stand by her. A sorrowful trill reached their ears, some of the horses screaming in fear as they picked up the scent of something. Mahad quickly looked over his shoulder, seeing the bearers of the pallet shiver. He turned back to face front, gasping as a black shadow flew over them, disappearing among the crags that Aislinn was leading to them to. Mahad saw the creature land, a crimson eye visible for a moment before the creature disappeared. The knight took a tighter hold of his horse's reins, looking over at his queen. To his surprise, Aislinn was looking after the creature with a look of longing. Mahad was reminded of how much he still did not know about the queen's origins. All he knew was that she had been brought from one of the conquered clans to the south; the people that they knew nothing about. Aislinn did not often talk about her former home, probably still holding a grudge against her father-in-law for destroying her home. Aislinn turned her horse abruptly, urging the placid mare up a sharp slope. Mahad rushed after her, loathe to lose the queen in this stark place. He was about to shout for her to wait for the others when he saw the queen pull her mare up in front of the entrance to a cave. Mahad stopped his steed as well, staring at the great rent in the earth with a dazed expression. The cavern yawned open like a maw, threatening to swallow them whole if they attempted to enter. What light was allowed through the clouds and the few torches that they carried with them, didn't penetrate the darkness far, a faint sputter of light against the pitch black as the rest of the cavern. Mahad found his hand straying to the hilt of his sword as the trill echoed from the depths of the cave, the echoes caused by the rocks creating an eerie effect. His contemplation was disturbed when Aislinn dismounted from her horse, motioning for the knights to move up. Mahad followed her lead, noticing that Lector did the same while the four other knights remained mounted. Aislinn passed one of them the reins to her mare without a word, motioning for Mahad to follow her. "The pallet bearers will follow us in, and Lector, if you wish. The rest of you remain outside." Mahad followed the queen into the mouth of the cave, partially drawing his sword as the torches failed to illuminate very far into the darkness. He jumped at the sound of something moving over the rocks, the sound mingling with the ever present dripping of water from the ceiling. The knight glanced back at the pallet that was following them into the cave, noticing that the bearers were looking increasingly nervous. The knight shook his head and walked quickly to keep up with his queen. The darkness pressed in all around them, making the journey seem to last forever. Mahad had lost count of the minutes that they had spent walking, the passage of time sucked off into the shadows that surrounded them. The knight did breathe a little easier when they were led into a large cavern, the path they were on constricting as two subterranean lakes rested calmly on either side of the group. As they entered the large cavern, the trilling abruptly came to a stop. Mahad got a glimpse of something moving in the shadows, the large shape moving with more grace than it should have. His hand tightened on his sword as he watched the thing move, getting a whiff of spices as the creature moved from the deeper shadows, the darkness of the cave still obscuring it from their sight. "Your song is sad, my lord." Mahad jumped as Aislinn spoke, her voice filled with more life than he had heard for years. The creature turned its head to look at her, soft brown eyes starting out of the shadows. "There are no stars tonight; the clouds hide the bright ones from our sight." The creature looked up at the roof of his cavern, like he was trying to see through the stone in the vain hope that he could make the clouds move away from the sky. It pulled itself together to look back down at the queen. "Aislinn, queen and last of her people." The queen nodded at the recognition, stepping forward despite the small sound of protest that Mahad made. "Whose people loved your kind and called them friend above all others." The creature nodded, the motion abruptly turning into a shake as it snarled. "The moon weeps red tears for the ones that have been slaughtered." "Not by my hand, or my husbands, or anyone with true loyalty to us." Aislinn was standing right in front of the shadow now, one hand held out in supplication. The creature shifted to look down at her from its ledge. Aislinn took this as a good sign because she knelt down on the ground, earning a gasp from the knights. Why would a queen lower herself in front of a beast? "We seek to keep your friendship not to destroy your kind." The creature paused before it ducked its head, a long sigh echoing around the cavern. "Why have you come?" "The king's brother is injured." Aislinn turned to gesture at the pallet, the creature following her gesture. Mahad noticed that she did not mention that her husband was dead. The creature snorted in disdain. "The injury is deep and you have no love for this man. Why do you ask this of me?" "For my son." Mahad heard the whisper only because he was the closest to the queen. He stared in amazement as the creature gave a startled rumble, turning to look back at something else in the shadows before turning back. Aislinn lowered her eyes to the ground, staring at her hands. "Please, they have killed my husband…and he is the only thing that I have left." "I understand. Bring this man forward." Aislinn motioned for the pallet bearers to come forward, stepping daintily out of the way. Mahad looked up at another deep rumble, staring into the deepness in the vain hope that he could see something else. His attempts were thwarted, but he saw movement in the shadows as the creature turned to growl at whatever was in the darkness. "Hurry up, creature, before this man dies!" Mahad cringed at Lector's impatient tone, the brown eyes of the creature moving back to the group of humans. The knight thought he saw fangs as the creature moved forward with a snarl. "Patience, knight!" The creature bellowed out the words, sitting back on it haunches. Mahad drew his sword at the action, staring up at the creature in awe. It towered above all of them, the light from the torches now touching the creature's stomach, showing thick black scales. Mahad shifted to the side as the creature spread its wings for balance, the black appendages flapping a moment before becoming still. "Witness the wonders of an ancient glory." The creature roared in pain, sudden red light flaring from the creature itself. Mahad raised the arm that was not holding his sword up to shield his eyes, watching in morbid fascination as the creature plunged its claws into its chest, removing a beating chunk of light that it lowered toward the injured noble. Mahad took a step back, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. The light disappeared into Gozaburo's chest before a small stream of flame appeared out of the darkness, cauterizing the wound. The king's brother let out a groan, one hand moving weakly as the fire stopped. The creature nodded to itself, muttering as the bearers moved back to remove the injured man from the cave. "Half my heart to make you whole. My strength to purify your weakness." Lector rushed out after his lord, leaving Aislinn and Mahad in the cavern. The queen gave a bow to the creature before following meekly after the knight. Mahad looked after them, hesitating before going to kneel before the ledge. The creature paused, looking down at him as Mahad placed the point of his blade into the rock and knelt. "I thank you, noble creature." "Noble?" The creature chuckled over the word before leaning over to look at the knight. "What has brought this on, human?" "You have just saved the prince, and for that I am grateful. He will rule as his father did instead of becoming a tyrant as his grandfather. Your actions have just brought about peace." The creature gave a worried rumble, Mahad looking up as the creature placed a hand over the wound in its chest. "That I am not sure of knight. But it was too important to leave this to chance." Mahad stood up. "I promise that to be at your service, if you too wish to protect our future prince. And I swear, so long as no harm comes to him, I will never injure one of your kind." "I will hold you to that, knight." Mahad bowed to the creature and rushed after the queen, not wanting to stumble his way out of the cave in the dark. Akhnamkanon stepped down from the ledge as the knight disappeared up the passageway to the surface, wincing as the move stretched the wound in his chest. The black scaled dragon looked back down at the self imposed injury before gently flattening a scale over it, leaving the wound to heal. He looked back as his son moved from the shadows, the smaller dragon moving to his father to look at the scale that covered the wound before settling on the ground. Brown and crimson eyes turned back to the shadows as another black dragon moved from the ledge, snarling. "You had no right to do that. What makes you think they will keep their promise?" "I had every right because it was mine to give!" Akhnamkanon turned on his brother with a hiss, watching the dragon back down. "It is better to take a chance than to hide and let ourselves be killed off one by one. I would not wish that fate on any dragon." Aknadin backed down, but gave his brother an annoyed hiss, nearly falling over as the younger red and black dragon. The younger dragon sprung from his place on the floor, pinning his uncle against the rough rock. He growled, mouth held slightly open above Aknadin's neck. "You have no right to argue, uncle. This is for the good of our kind." Aknadin scoffed, trying to reach up and claw at his nephew's belly, stopping when he realized that he could not move. "I thought you would be able to see through the flaw in this scheme, Atem Morningstar." The younger dragon growled at the hated title, pushing his uncle further into the rock. Aknadin coughed at the motion, his hind legs scrambling at the scales of the dragon above him while he tried to snap at Atem's neck. When he realized that he was stuck, Aknadin slumped back, glaring up at the younger dragon. "Humans have ceased to care about dragons. They think of us as unintelligent creatures only fit to slaughter. The time for peaceful coexistence is past. We have no business dealing with humans any longer." "It is not your choice." Both dragons looked up at Akhnamkanon, Atem stepping away from his uncle at the look his father gave him. The black scaled dragon drew himself up to his full height, easily towering over Atem and Aknadin. "It is mine. Perhaps you will have your say when I am gone, but for now my word is law." Akhnamkanon gracefully pulled himself back into the shadows of the ledge, Aknadin following after his brother with a hiss at Atem. The black and red dragon stood his ground, waiting until his father and uncle had disappeared into the depths of the cave before walking up the passage and pulling himself out into the cool night air. He made an awkward hop to a rock, balancing easily on his perch as he looked over the valley between the two hills, easily spying the white rocks of the old fortress. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the human structure before he turned his attention to the little group that was winding their way down the hill again. Atem shifted, black wings opening slightly for balance as he leaned over, nearly falling as another dragon flew overhead. Atem resettled himself, looking up to glare at the dragon as she circled in to land, her white scales making her easily spotted in the night. Atem slid from his perch as Kisara landed on the ground, tipping his head to one side in confusion as his friend hissed at him. "Kisara?" "They hurt him. Those idiots hurt him and they were going to kill him! Can't they see that he's on their side? He's not like his father!" Atem stepped to the side to allow the white dragon to pass, sighing as she did so. More about the human she had become obsessed with. He stretched himself out on the ground, wincing at the first contact of his warm scales against the cool earth. Atem ducked his head as Kisara continued her pacing, carelessly stepping over him. "If I hadn't been there they might have-" "Kisara." She turned back around to look at him, the anger in her blue eyes fading as she stared at her friend. Atem watched the white dragon slump before settling down on the ground as well, letting Atem drape a wing across her back in comfort, a low croon rumbling from him to soothe the frazzled nerves of the white dragon. After a long while, Kisara finally looked up at her friend, the resolve in her blue eyes cutting off the croon that Atem was making. The black and red dragon sat up a little straighter, about to question her on the emotion when Kisara spoke first. "I think I love him, Atem." "What? Kis-" "Atem." The calm way she said his name stopped any protests. He found himself staring at her with his mouth partially open and his eyes wide. Kisara moved away from his wing, letting the limb drop to the ground. Atem swallowed and pulled his wing back to his side, looking at his friend questionably. Kisara looked away for a minute before looking back at him. "I'm afraid." "Kisara." He was stopped when she turned her head toward him, scooting even further away. Atem resettled himself, pressing himself flat against the ground. The act of making himself smaller seemed to help the white dragon. Kisara gave him a thankful look before tipping her head back to look at the sky. "I do, Atem. I spend the hours that I'm not hunting watching him, even when he's in the castle. I don't know why I'm drawn to him, I just am." Her claws drummed on the ground as she lowered her head, sure signs that she was done thinking over something important. "It would kill me if he died, Atem." "What do you want to do?" "I want to be like him, a human." Atem froze at her words, his eyes widening as he finally comprehended her words. She wanted to become human. The words kept running around in his mind, not giving him a break as he stared at his friend. Kisara had gone back to staring at the stars, her eyes glazed over in thought. Atem looked back down at the ground, surprised to see that his claws had dug into the earth. He carefully extracted them, staring at them. Kisara had never been happier than when she had been watching that human. And, while Atem could never figure out why she enjoyed it or what she got out of it, but he had accepted it as a part of her character. And, while it had annoyed him at first, he had gotten used to it. It was Kisara, the one of the few that had seen him as himself first instead of his title, whatever it truly meant. Atem tapped a claw on the ground for a moment before he looked back up. "What do you want me to do?" He was not ready for the joyful look that passed over her face. Kisara stood up, reaching out to brush her wing over his neck. "You really mean it?" "Yes." Atem knew he was getting himself into deep trouble, probably more than he could comprehend, but he didn't care. This was Kisara. The white dragon looked over the landscape, her blue eyes distant. "When I change, I'm going to need someone to protect me until we find him. And once I change," she shuddered, a hint of blue running along her scales with the motion, "I might not ever be able to come back." "Kisara…" She laughed, the soft noise drifting into the night. "I'm not strong like you, Atem. I'm just me. But I'm strong enough to protect my human and that's alright." The black and red dragon nodded, lowering his head to rest on his forelegs. Kisara stared at him for a moment more before getting up. The two remained in silence for a long while, the quiet broken as Kisara spoke again. "Don't stay out too long, you could get cold." Atem nodded vaguely, already lost in his thoughts as Kisara walked away. He looked up briefly as she flew overhead, heading for the place she called home, probably for the last time. His eyes focused back on the ground in front of him, not really seeing the rocky soil. He had known Kisara since they were chicks, the white dragon the one of the few friends he was able to make before he was rushed into the whole affair of his title, which his father refused to tell him about. The blue eyed dragon had been weak as a chick, something that still bothered her today. Kisara refused to believe that she had grown. Atem shook his head, eyes falling shut as sleep claimed him, forgetting about where he was. He refolded his wings, shifting until he found and comfortable spot on the cold ground. Gozaburo slowly came awake, aware of a slight pain in his chest. He raised his head from the rocking pallet that he was being carried on, scowling when he saw that the queen and Mahad were riding ahead. He let his head fall back, disgusted that he had been put in Aislinn's debt. He remembered his wound well enough, it should have been fatal. The fact that he was still alive meant that the witch had done something to it. He was started out of his thoughts as Lector walked up beside him, leading his horse and giving a short bow. "It is good to see you awake, my lord." "What did you promise her?" The words came out as a low growl, the anger behind them startling Lector. The knight looked away. "We promised that no harm would come to her brat since the king was dead." Gozaburo almost sat up at the tidbit of information that he had forgotten. Of course, the king was dead, slain by the very peasants that he cared so much for. Gozaburo leaned back with a smile, his change in mood encouraging Lector to lean over him. "What now, my lord?" "Now we strike against the queen and kill the only heir." Gozaburo found his eye caught by the ruins of the white castle on the hill. He stared at the ruins, suddenly feeling slighted by all that his older brother had managed to accomplish. "And we will rebuild that castle." Lector glanced over his shoulder at the ruin. "But that will take many men!" "Use the peasants who rebelled against us. It is only right for the crime they committed." Gozaburo smiled to himself as Lector nodded quickly. "We will rebuild that castle to be greater than that of my father's and my reign will be the one remembered, not the one of my weakling brother." "We will start as soon as you are well, my lord." "No. We will start tomorrow."

Chapter Three: Lost All alone the players make their stand; Spread across this wasted land. Four Years Later Joey readjusted his hold on the rope, looking over at his two friends before the team of men began to pull the rope, sweat glistening on their skin. The blonde grunted at the exertion, growling as the platform that held the stone slowly began to move, conveying the white block up to join its fellows; where it would be loaded onto a sledge and pulled up the hill to the new castle. There the stone would be laid among its brethren and shaped to perfection by the master masons and their teams, who were working to complete the new castle. The once ruined fortress glistened from the hill top, the white stone catching the sunlight and sending it back to blind the eye. The darker stones, the ones closer to grey than white, were used in constructing the lesser structures, the order from the king being that his castle had to be white, like the original fortress. The walls that surrounded the castle were also made up of the rejected stones, built to mimic those of the original castle. Four years of nonstop work, and Gozaburo's castle was close to being completed. Finishing touches were being made to the building, the last stones smoothed and plans checked over for the final time. The castle would be ready for winter, when the king would take residence in his new abode. The gentry talked endlessly about the opening of the great castle, wanting to see the king ride to his new home in glory. The peasants could care less. Joey stopped pulling at the shout from the overseer, the red headed man giving them all a nod of thanks before shielding his eyes to see the signals of those on the top of the quarry, granting his workers a break. Joey let himself collapse to the ground, giving a weak nod to Tristan and Duke as them moved to sit next to him. All three men kept their eyes on their overseer, pleading mentally that a break would be called. The red headed man looked back at them, rolling his shoulders as he walked away. "Take a break, boys. They say that they're waiting for further orders." The others on their team fell to the ground where they stood, often rolling onto their backs and closing their eyes as exhaustion overpowered them. On his part, Joey merely wiped the sweat from his brow and slumped against the rock he was using as a backrest. Four years of work had almost quelled the rebellious boy who had been ready to give his life for a cause. Now, he worked to support his family, or what was left of it. His father was now an old man, bent by years of toil in the quarry and sour from disappointment. What little money Joey received for his job, he kept to himself. His father could spend his own meager rewards on drink, but Joey had to take care of his sister. He saw the two men beside him shift upright, both of them tugging at their clothes as they tried to look presentable. Joey sat up, a smile breaking across his face as he saw his sister carefully picking her way across the quarry, men pausing in their work to help her across difficult obstacles. He cupped his hands around his mouth before shouting, "Serenity!" The pretty red headed woman turned toward his voice, her smile increasing in size as she picked her way over to her brother, pulling off the water skin she carried and handing it over. Tristan took it first, taking a small sip before passing it over to Duke, who moved slightly to the side to allow Serenity to sit next to her brother. Joey reached up to guide her down, frowning at the cloth that covered her eyes, her pretty…Joey looked away in sorrow. It had been a long time if he had forgotten what color his sister's eyes were before they had been burned. His hand clenched on his thigh as he remembered the day. And how their prince failed to save her. But most of his anger was directed toward Gozaburo. The tyrant had no reason to blame a girl for what Joey had done. "Brother." Joey was pulled out of his thoughts as Serenity ran a hand over his face, her smile faltering. "Why are you frowning?" "It's nothing." Serenity didn't look convinced, but she let the subject drop, leaning back to enjoy the time with her brother. Joey smiled at the motion, pulling her closer to his side when Duke and Tristan began to look with interest at his sister. As much as he felt that the two men were his brothers, he would not allow them to make advances toward his sister. Or, at least he tried to keep them away from his sister. Joey shifted, about to tell them both off when the sound of an arrow whistling through the air made him stop. The three men were on their feet in a moment, the blonde pushing his sister behind him as he watched a party of noblemen ride into the quarry. His eyes narrowed as he recognized the king, his son and three knights. Gozaburo was lowering his bow, smirking at his son who looked disgusted with the whole affair. On the other hand, the knights and a few of the gentry were smirking. "A good shot, my king." "A very good shot." Joey growled, meeting the king's gaze as Gozaburo glanced over at him. The man stiffened for a moment, tilting his head to the side before smiling a fraction. Joey thought he was going to go after Serenity again when he saw a familiar brunette girl run up to Gozaburo. His eyes widened as he recognized Tèa, one of the girls who he had grown up in the village. Joey hesitated for a minute before pushing Serenity to Tristan, a stern glare warning the man not to use this surrender to his advantage. The blonde began to walk slowly to where Tèa was walking to the horses. He glanced at where she had come from, his brown eyes softening in sympathy. Her father was leaning against a cut of stone, breathing heavily as he tried to rest. It was hard for the older men and they often died while working in the quarry. Tèa's father was one of the last of the older generation still working here, one of the few who had not been crippled by the work. "Oh look, a moving target." One of the noblemen smirked at his own joke, a glare from a knight silencing further laughter. Gozaburo, however, broke into laughter, grabbing another arrow and drawing his bow. Joey moved faster, almost reaching Tèa before Gozaburo relaxed his bow. "You have some spunk in you, peasant." Tèa kept her eyes trained on the ground, her voice only loud enough for those around the king to hear. "Please, my lord, my father is old and exhausted. He would only slow the work down." She looked up, her blue eyes becoming more determined as the king remained unmoved. "He is an old man, he can do you no more harm." Gozaburo nodded, a strange look crossing his face before he drew his bow and fired again. Joey leapt forward, knocking Tèa to the ground. He sat up, quickly looking her over and sighing when he realized that she had not been harmed. A scream from the girl made him turn his head, mouth dropping open in shock. Tèa's father was still leaning against the rock, but his sightless eyes stared up to the sky, an arrow buried in his chest. Joey was shoved away as the brunette woman ran for her father, the move earning a laugh from the king. Joey looked back, fighting to keep his face neutral as Gozaburo leaned over and spoke to his son. "This one has more spunk than that maid you insist on bedding." Seto scowled and turned his horse around, urging the animal back to the castle. The rest of the party followed after him, Gozaburo remaining behind to leer at Tèa as she looked back at him. He nodded to her, keeping a tight hold on his prancing steed. "I always said that death should be a release, not a punishment." The king kicked his horse in the sides, the already flighty animal bolting after its fellows, leaving the quarry workers in stunned silence. Most turned back to their work, avoiding the dead body and the girl that sobbed over her father. They were all aware that they could be next. They were all hardened to the sight of death, and it had ceased to bother them. Joey looked at his friends and sister before moving over to kneel by Tèa, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. Tèa tensed at the move before relaxing, turning her head to look at Joey with tear filled eyes. "Why?" The blonde merely shrugged, looking down at the ground. "We'll give a proper burial tonight, I promise." Tèa nodded, waving him back to work. Comfort given, Joey stood up, intending to move back to his friends but was stopped by what the brunette muttered. "I'll kill him. Just watch me. I'll kill him for what he has done." Joey shivered and walked quickly back over to his group, pulling Serenity away from Tristan and pointing her toward Tèa. The red headed girl looked up at her brother. "What happened Joey?" "The king killed Tèa's father. I need you to keep an eye on her today, alright?" Serenity nodded before making her way across the quarry, kneeling down next to Tèa before encouraging her to head for the village. Joey heaved a sigh of relief before turning back to his work, his overseer summoning them for another block. He didn't want anyone else he knew dying at the hands of their tyrant, there were enough funerals anyway. The sun shone gently over the field of wheat, the golden stalks swaying in the breeze. It was warm for fall, the summer seeming unwilling to give up its hold over the land between the hills. Peasants made their way through the wheat, cutting it down as they prepared to harvest the bounty that they had struggled to grow, their morose faces telling the true story. They would get little of what they worked for, most of it going to feed the ravenous nobles. One man was completely oblivious to the working going on around him, riding down the road on a brown mule as he stared at the scrap of parchment that he was writing on, often speaking aloud as he muttered words to himself, finding their fit in the epic that he was struggling to write. Once and a while he would chuckle to himself or offer a phrase to the mule, who would snort and shake his head. The sun shone off his white hair as he flicked a piece out of his brown eyes, squinting against the glare of the afternoon sun. He sighed irritably and tapped his quill against the wood he used as a firm surface to write on. "When the sun high in the sky did sit, With wheat waving in perfect peace; Then came a weary traveler..." Ryou stared at the lines of verse before uttering an angry sigh and scratching out his writing, the three lines joining the other crossed out verses. He tapped on his tablet again, looking between the mule's twitching ears, but not really seeing anything. He sighed and sat back up, biting his lip before plunging back into his verse. "The sun doth shine While dark descends, And what once was mine Is now shared among friends..." The white haired man beamed, looked back up and stroking the mule's neck. "What do you think about that?" The mule gave a snort, Ryou smirking and turning back to his work. The mule decided that he wanted to stop, making the poet's quill scratch across the parchment in a bold line, partially obliterating the only progress he had made that day. Ryou frowned, tucking his quill behind his ear and picking up the reins, shifting so his tablet was balanced over his knees. He gave the mule a dainty kick, slumping when the creature lowered his head and gave a shake, Ryou lunging for his tablet as it threatened to fall off the mule. He glared at the animal, kicking it repeatedly before letting out a loud groan of frustration. "Bakura, move your ass!" There was silence for a moment, broken by the rustle of wheat as another man moved out of the shade of the stalks, walking up to the mule's head. He stroked the mule's forehead, looking up at Ryou with mischief in his russet eyes. "Tsk, poet, why do you speak about my fine steed like that? After all, I let you ride him while I walk." Ryou groaned at the smile on Bakura's face, hating the good mood that the thief was in. "You shoved me up here this morning saying that I was slowing you down." "Yes. I did and you were. You had to stop and scribble your tripe and then rush to catch up. I'll never reach the boarders of this kingdom at this pace." Bakura turned his attention back to the mule, giving a soft cluck and pulling on the reins. The mule obliged immediately, moving forward at a good pace, much faster than its original speed. The thief gave the creature a pat before moving back to walk at the poet's knee. "I will never understand why you are in such a rush to leave this place. Your livelihood depends on taking money from people, does it not? So why rush through a country and not even try to make money." "Poets can't see anything that was not created by their imaginations, can they Thoth?" The words were addressed to the mule, who nodded his head almost in agreement. Bakura responded with a laugh and a smack on the mule's shoulder, the animal simply grunting, used to the thief's moods. Bakura turned around to walk backwards, looking and Ryou. "Can you not see, poet, that this land is starving? What good would it be to squeeze juice from a stone?" "And I thought you didn't have a heart?" Ryou smirked at the look that crossed the thief's eyes. Bakura turned back around, walking to Thoth's head. The poet winced, knowing that he had offended the thief, still learning the mood swings that affected his companion. "There is still a code of honor that we observe. We refuse to take from those that have nothing because we remember the time when we were like them. I don't see the nobles holding to their code of chivalry." Ryou sighed, reaching forward to touch Bakura's shoulder only to draw his hand back as the thief rolled his shoulder away. The poet lowered his eyes to the writing in front of him. He knew that everything that Bakura said was true, but it still hurt every time the thief pointed it out to him. Ryou absently reached for the quill that was behind his ear, going for the one way that he kept the pain from overwhelming him. He set the tip of his quill on the paper, pondering words for a moment before reaching over to dip the tip in the ink pot he had tucked in a pocket. "Such sorrow clouds what once was bright, And still we flawed beings walk on, 'Gainst the eternal night..." "Ryou." The poet looked up as Bakura looked over at him, the thief sighing and running his hand through his hair. "It's no fun when you're sulking." The poet smiled and stuck his quill behind his ear again, getting a black streak in his hair. He leaned forward, smiling at the thief. "It's no fun when you are being serious. You should laugh more." Bakura flashed a cocky smile at Ryou, rolling his eyes back to the front. "When there is a reason, I will laugh. Your poetry, for example. Now there's a good reason to laugh." Ryou fell into their usual mode of existence. The easy banter would last until they met another person, when Bakura would close up again. Until then, the poet would enjoy this interaction. "You enjoyed it very much last night." The thief gave a wide grin, the grin that said Ryou was going to lose this round. "Oh yes, because it was interrupted by your lovely screams." The poet blushed, looking away as Bakura brought memories of the past few nights up. He had never thought he would end up in a relationship like this, not really quite sure how it had started. Ryou remembered having his purse cut from his belt, realizing this and chasing after the thief. He had managed to keep up, only to find himself against a wall being thoroughly kissed. And then he remembered waking up the next morning, wondering how he had gotten himself into this mess. Not that he minded. He was about to retort when screams came from the peasants behind them. Ryou turned on the mule, eyes widening as he saw the shadow move across the field. He reached for Thoth's mane as the mule bucked, calling out in fear as Bakura tried to calm him. They had a moment of calm before the dragon landed, long neck stretching back the way it came and roaring. Ryou slipped off the mule's back, scrambling to stand beside Bakura as the dragon limped away, a lance dangling from under its foreleg, half of it broken roughly off. The poet peered out from behind the thief, eyes widening as he saw a knight on a dark brown horse come riding up, sword drawn. The knight looked down at them, dark eyes flashing with anger as he held his horse steady with one hand. "Where did it go?" Ryou pointed since Bakura had his hands full with Thoth. The knight wheeled his horse without a word of thanks, urging the animal towards where the dragon was. Both of the men looked toward where the dragon had disappeared to, Ryou jumping as he heard a yell and then a roar. Clumps of earth and dust flew into the air, obscuring what the knight was doing. Every once and a while, a scaled tail would rise, end separated into blades, before it fell back to the ground. Ryou caught a glimpse of the dragon's head rising above the dust, the sun glinting off the sickly yellow scales, before it slammed back down. The poet rushed forward, intending to get a better look for his own tales, when there was a human scream of pain. The poet stumbled to a stop, one hand groping for Bakura's shoulder as he stumbled back. Horrible images rushed through his head, his imagination fueling them. He barely felt Bakura pat his shoulder, the thief hesitant about showing emotion in public. They both startled at a cough from the direction of the plume of dust, the shape of a human resolving itself from the cloud as the knight stumbled out of the dust, coughing and waving a hand in front of his face to clear the air in front of him. The knight looked back, shrugging when he seemed to realize that his horse was missing, his attention suddenly grabbed by the approach of more horses and humans. Ryou felt the hand on his shoulder slip away, the only hint he had of Bakura moving away to hide again in the wheat. The thief was not taking any chances that his fame had spread, it was useless getting caught. The poet turned his head slightly, noticing the waving stalks that marked where Bakura had disappeared before looking back as the horses and their riders stopped by the knight. "Well done, good sir." The noble gave a vapid smile, the expression slipping as he looked toward where the dust was just beginning to settle. "Is the beast truly dead? I have heard tales of intelligence in these creatures." The knight held up a tooth, the noble relaxing at the visible evidence. The sharp tooth was lowered again as the knight held out his hand, raising an eyebrow. "Those tales are greatly exaggerated. These are beasts like the deer and the dog, nothing more. Now, about the payment..." "This service has a price!" Ryou couldn't hold himself back any longer, eyes widening as he drew attention to himself. He hadn't meant to speak, but the slaughtering of his ideals right in front of him had been too much. He had always believed that knights fought and killed dragons for the honor and to keep people safe, not for money. The poet flinched as the noble smiled at him and the knight glared. "This one raised a good point. Why not do it out of the kindness of your heart? Shouldn't you be satisfied with honor?" "Kindness will not feed my belly or honor shoe my horse." The knight wiggled his fingers, turning his glare back to the noble. "These times are harsh as we are ruled by a harsh king." "It is treason to talk of your king like that." "He is not my king." The knight snarled the words out, one hand clenching around the tooth that he held. "I bend no knee to Gozaburo." "Then you will get none of his coin. Leave, unworthy man, or you will lose your head." The noble spun his horse around, motioning for the peasants to keep working before looking down his nose to speak at the few that were closest to him. "Drag that carcass back to your village. It has enough meat to last you a while without coming to beg to me." Ryou stared as the noble galloped off; leaving the knight to roll his eyes and continue along the road on his own. The poet gathered the reins of Thoth, considering his options. He could follow Bakura to wherever the thief went, continuing on his path of sin and pleasure. Or he could follow the knight and finally have someone to base his poetry off of. He tired of writing of the few nobles that graced this land, or the king that sat so far away on his throne. The poet nodded to himself before making to follow after the knight. He was seized by Bakura as the thief emerged from his hiding place, his fingers digging into Ryou's arm. The poet didn't look back, giving his arm a faint jerk to try and get away. The thief scrambled closer, clutching Ryou back to his chest to keep him from moving; Thoth jerking his head up and sidling away. Ryou couldn't help but shiver as Bakura hissed into his ear. "What do you think you are doing?" "This is my chance, Bakura! I can finally write an epic to end all epics. People will talk of me forever! This is the thing I have been looking for all my life!" Ryou struggled against the hold, trying to keep his eyes on the knight who was walking down the road. He was abruptly turned back around, Bakura glaring at him in a way that scared him and set his heart beating faster. "You can run away now, but you'll regret it." "What?" Ryou managed to get the word out before Bakura pulled him into a forceful kiss, bending Ryou backwards as he clawed at the other man. The poet managed to get a squeak out as Bakura came up for a quick breath before claiming Ryou lips again. Bakura broke the kiss, his lips still hovering over Ryou's as he spoke. "But remember, you are mine." The poet shivered, stepping away from the thief. Now he really didn't want to leave, not with everything that Bakura had promised with that one kiss. He shifted nervously, looking between the knight and his lover. The thief finally threw his hands up into the air before he snatched up Thoth's reins and began to pull the mule after the knight. Ryou remained in place, stunned by the sudden turn of events. "I'm not letting you out of my sight, poet!" Bakura called back over his shoulder, making Ryou blush before the poet scrambled to catch up with the mule and its owner. The thief quickly wrapped an arm around Ryou's waist. "You're mine and I don't let what's mine wander off alone." "But, your escape-" "I'm the King of Thieves if your poetry and your screams are anything to go by." Ryou quickly looked away, cursing himself for the things that he said in the midst of passion. Bakura gave his waist a gentle squeeze before letting go and walking faster. "Now, catch up with your destiny before he escapes you." Ryou nodded before running after the knight, only partially listening to Bakura complaining to his mule under his breath. "Sir Knight! Please wait!" The knight turned at the summons, rolled his eyes, but slowed down enough for the two to catch up. Ryou fell into step with the knight, feeling Bakura's gaze on his back, almost daring the knight to make any move on Ryou, probably wanting to kill him with one of the knives that he held so dear. Ryou looked over his shoulder with a glare, that enough to calm Bakura down for the moment. When he turned back around, the knight was staring expectantly at him. Ryou ducked his head, looking aside before drawing himself together to look at the knight. "While your motives are lackluster and appalling, I am fascinated by the life you chose and wish to chronicle your adventures." "There is nothing to write about. Just a man trying to make a living." "Please, I-" "Mahad?" All three men came to a sudden stop at the sound of the voice, the knight moving first and rushing toward the sound. Ryou scowled and followed, not wanting to lose his chance. He sprinted after the knight, stumbling as he encountered rough parts of the road. He darted into the last row of wheat, stopping in shock as the knight spun around to face him, his sword drawn. A small teenager peeked out from around the knight's back, his purple eyes widening in fear as the two men approached them. Ryou heard Bakura stumble up behind him, cursing the mule with what little voice he had left. The curses trailed off abruptly as the thief caught sight of the boy. He dropped the reins of his mule, not noticing that Thoth wandered to the side, reaching out to munch on the closest stalks. Bakura shoved Ryou aside to get a better look at the boy. "You're the prince aren't you? Or should I address you as king?" The boy sighed and stepped out from behind Mahad, the motion making Ryou reconsider his initial impression of the prince. While he was short and still had a boyish face, the prince was not a boy. The young man carefully held the reins of Mahad's horse, the purple eyes narrowed into a glare at the thief, an expression that did not sit well on the prince's face. Ryou himself was feeling stupid, not having noticed the particular hair that the prince had, something that could not be forgotten. His hair rose above his head in natural spikes, the ends tipped in red with the rest of the hair was black, except for the bangs that framed his face with their jagged lines, which were blonde. A few of these were shaken out of his eyes as the prince took another step forward. "I am and no." The prince backed off a step as Mahad threw out an arm to block him from moving any further. The knight was pointing his sword at Bakura, obviously torn between running the thief through or snatching the prince off his feet and carrying him away. The knight finally shoved his sword back into his scabbard with a grunt of disdain, pointing angrily at Ryou as he turned to mount his horse. "You will get your wish. If you fall behind, you will be left behind." Ryou swallowed nervously, walking over to where Thoth was eating happily, snatching the reins and clambering onto the mule's back. Bakura took up his customary place by Thoth's head, the thief glaring daggers at the knight's back for threatening them. The poet was surprised when the prince gave them an apologetic glance before disappearing into the stalks of wheat. Ryou urged the mule after the knight, his head jerking to the side as he heard the sound of a trotting horse as the prince rode up on his palomino. The four headed away from the field, Mahad leading them into the forest of pines. Ryou shivered as they entered the dark forest, his mind already racing as he created verses in his head. Atem let his eyes fall shut, stretching out in the sun as he tried to soothe his stomach. The knight who had been foolish enough to challenge him this time was three miles away from his home under the waterfall, his remains half digested. The dragon groaned, pressing head against the ground as what little meat he had eaten that day attempted to come back up. It was always like this on days that knights came after him. He would end up having to snatch them up in his mouth and bite down, no matter how much he tried to avoid it, the events turned out the same. His temper would get away from him and he would come back to himself, feeling the human slide down his throat. Then, Atem would rush a good distance from his home before throwing up the remains. And then his stomach wouldn't settle for what seemed like forever. The dragon raised his head, feeling too sick even to enjoy this extended warm weather. It meant that he could live for a little while longer off what the land had to give him before resorting to stealing from the people or flying away to hunt. The only good thing about the cold weather was it meant that the knights stopped coming to challenge him, which gave him time to recover. He stood up shakily, making his way over to the water before swallowing down a few mouthfuls, shuddering at the motion. It was bad if he was reacting like this. He had lost almost all the weight he had put on during the months when the knights were still busy with their repairs. He was more skin and bones than fat, which would be troublesome in the winter. And it was getting worse as the years went on. Atem turned his head to look in the direction of the castle, red eyes narrowing as the caught sight of the sad grey building. The one on the hill opposite where his uncle once lived was nearly complete, which meant that the king would spend the winter there. His chance to strike and free his father was then, in the confusion of moving a whole household. He groaned as his stomach rolled again, the motion making him rear up and clutch his belly against the pain. At least it would pass, eventually. Or, at least until the next knight came. Atem gave a low growl, stopping when the sound hurt his already complaining stomach, head dropping as he clenched his teeth against the pain. The dragon searched out a good spot in the sun, hoping that inactivity would settle his stomach, as it had the other times. Atem curled up as best he could, positioning himself toward the entrance to his home so that no other knight could surprise him. As he did this, he pleaded to the souls of the dragons who had come before him that no others would come. He didn't want to continue doing this, not when everything he did disgusted him. Not when he was the last dragon he knew of that even dared to still live in the valley. He rolled his shoulder slightly, automatically shifting it to a position that would not hurt it, especially with the arrowhead embedded out of his reach. Atem sighed and let his eyes shut, exhaustion pulling at him. "He called me a what?" Seto leaned back against the wall, shaking his head as Kisara fell back upon their bed, laughing hysterically. He rested his chin on his chest, waiting for the woman to calm down, all the while smirking to himself. It had been a wonderful four years, if he could bring himself to forget about the peasants and the disappearance of his cousin. At times he almost could, with Kisara there to comfort him and draw him out of the protective walls he had built around himself. He moved from his place by the wall, scooping up the woman so he could hold her, and pulled her close. Kisara seemed to understand because she calmed her laughter and returned the embrace, tucking her head into his chest. Absently, Seto ran his hands over her back while staring at the wall. This wasn't like him at all, but he couldn't find the strength to change it. He had been drawn to this woman since she decided to help him, her manner refreshing compared to all the other woman that fawned over him. But that shouldn't have been enough to make him move so quickly. And, when the haze from sex had cleared, all he could think about was keeping this woman close and never letting go. The thought should have scared him, even when he thought back on it now. Instead, the feeling was just stronger. Kisara was the only one who could see through him, a quality that he had never thought he would like or need. From her, he craved it, partially wanting to be called out for his tendency to close himself off. She was the one who treated him like a human instead of his title, the only one who would openly disrespect him just to get a laugh or a flash of emotion. Kisara reminded him that he was human after a long day of acting like ice. She shifted in his hold, the motion drawing him back to the present. The woman reached up and ran her fingers over his cheek, staring into his dark blue eyes. Seto let her, watching what her eyes did as she read him. At first, there was confusion, then worry and then, finally, they cleared. She raised her other hand, holding his face in one place, afraid that he would look away, as she spoke. "Yugi is alright, Seto. He has Mahad with him. He'll come back when he's ready." Kisara had hit on the other thing that continued to bother him. His cousin's disappearance, while a god send, was beginning to wear on him. Seto had been used to knowing where Yugi was exactly, or been able to guess. But now, he had no idea where the younger man was. He had lost the rest of his family four years ago, and it troubled him still. There were times, when he was exhausted from following his father around and playing the dutiful son, that he would think he heard Yugi's voice in the castle. Those were the nights that he would run to Kisara and simply hold her close. He must have made a sound while he was lost in thought, because Kisara was stroking his head and gently dropping kisses over his face. Seto let her carry on, surprised when the hug shifted so she was cuddling him close; an honor that had always gone to him. When Seto tried to struggle back into the dominant position, Kisara held him tight. "Just relax, Seto. It will be alright. We'll get to Yugi before your father does, and this nightmare will end." Seto nodded before pushing away, watching as Kisara absently ran a hand through her white hair. She confused him often, a constant enigma. There were times she would act flighty in his presence, just joking around and encouraging him to let go. But her eyes were often serious past the surface, deep and calculating. And Seto could never figure her out completely. She acted older than her age, sometimes to a point that frightened him. Although he would never admit it. He reached for her, drawing her into a standing hug before beginning to kiss his way up her neck. She tipped her head back to give him the freedom to do whatever he wanted, her blue eyes sparkling with laughter. Seto backed her up, lowering her gently to the mattress before laying himself over her. She broke the kiss for a moment to smirk up at him. "If this is the way you treat your maids, I would love to know how you treat really ladies." Seto accepted the challenge, thankful that she was offering him a way out of his worry. A way to just forget for a few minutes. He smirked back at her, watching as her own expression wavered. "I'll show you then." Yugi sat on the far side of the fire, gently turning the stick in the coals, every once and a while poking a few away from the center of the fire. He could hear Mahad setting up their camp, arguing with one of the men who had accompanied them. Mahad was obviously unhappy with the arrangement, but Yugi was glad for the company. The knight had changed so much over the time they had been wandering. Mahad was sullen more often, driven by the need to kill any dragon he came across. And his instructor had never been like that before. Yugi sighed, removing another likely coal before pushing another one further in. He thought it had to do with the sudden removal of everything Mahad held dear. The knight still stuck to his code, but it was a tenuous hold. One that Yugi knew would break if something threatened him. He looked up as the poet walked over to his side of the fire, the motion making him glance up at the other man as he glared at Mahad. The two men passed each other, finding their prepared sleeping spots apart from each other before curling up into their cloaks. Yugi sighed as the tension disappeared, smiling at the poet as he glanced away from Bakura with a blush on his face. Finally, Ryou sat down, staring at Yugi's actions. "What are you doing?" Yugi considered his coal, tentatively reaching out to touch it. He decided it was cool enough to handle, the calluses on his hands protecting him. He gave a wistful smile. There was a time when he had been soft, a true noble. Now it seemed like there was nothing of that softness left. He had been kicked out of his childhood as he stood waiting for Mahad in the rain. He reached behind him for the piece of bark he had peeled off a birch tree, turning it in his hands before picking up the coal and beginning to sketch lines on it. He felt the poet lean over, looking over his shoulder to see what he was doing. Yugi smiled and shifted so that Ryou would have a better view before turning back to his work, ignoring the ashes that were getting on his hand, eyes glazing over as he recalled the dragon that Mahad and slain that day. A few long strokes created the back and the tail of the dragon, the wings sketched above the shoulders and spread in preparation for flight. The hind legs were drawn next, bunched as they prepared to throw the dragon into the air. Yugi drew in the forelegs, already folded up to the chest. A long sinuous neck was joined to the shoulder, leading up to the rounded head, bare of any spikes since they had long broken off. Yugi leaned closer to his drawing to draw the eye, frowning as it turned out to be staring up into the sky, a blank look in it. He shook his head and quickly went back over his lines before adding shading and details. A whistle from the poet behind him drew his attention back to the present. Yugi responded to the whistle with a blush, shaking his head. "It's not really that good." "Looks good to me." "It's just something I do." Yugi stared at the sketch, carefully placing it to the side and wiping off his hands. He turned to the pack he had sat behind him, opening it to take out the stack of other pieces of bark. There were eleven in total, this new dragon making twelve. Yugi placed a blank strip of bark over his newest drawing and added it to the pile, resting his hand on top of it with a sigh. "Are those all pictures of the dragons that Sir. Mahad has killed?" "Yes." The response came after a brief hesitation, the way Ryou's eyes seemed to sparkle throwing him off. The poet leaned back and shook his head, glancing back over to the knight. "Twelve dragons in four years, that's nearly three a year. A great feat!" Yugi paused in putting the pictures back into the pack, one hand clenching in the fabric as he forced himself to answer. "I guess it is." "Guess? Gozaburo's knights can barely kill one a year, and those knights are becoming fewer as they try to slay this one dragon." Ryou settled back on his hands, smiling up at the stars as he continued to talk, oblivious to Yugi's discomfort. "They say this beast is fiercer than any other dragon; his scales as dark as sin and as red as blood. Some knights have returned from battling this beast and they never again leave the castle to face another dragon. He is a true prize to be captured. Have you heard of this dragon, prince?" Yugi finished tying the pack shut, brushing his hand down the front as he closed his eyes with a sigh. He would never know why Mahad decided to go on this killing spree. It had been perfectly calm travel, just trying to get Yugi away from Gozaburo. And then, instead of gathering up allies to return to reclaim his kingdom, Mahad had started searching for dragons. Yugi agreed that it brought in a fair amount of money that they needed, but he still wasn't sure that it was the right thing to do. The one time he had confronted Mahad on this, the knight had just remained silent. And the silence had stretched between them for days, leaving Yugi alone. He didn't want to repeat the experience, so he had let the subject drop and allowed Mahad to carry on with his work. But Yugi now didn't temper the hurt in his eyes when Mahad came back with another dragon's tooth to fix onto his shield or limped away from a kill, leaving Yugi to pet the dead dragon's muzzle and apologize. While Mahad wiped them from the face of the earth and collected their teeth, Yugi immortalized them in his drawing and memories. To him, they were amazing creatures, filled with a strange grace when in flight. He had seen them in fear and anger, and they never ceased to amaze him. And Mahad could never see that, the knight never saw past the beast and to the intelligence that lurked behind their eyes. He startled when he realized that Ryou was still waiting for his answer. Yugi opened his eyes and stared into the fire, staring at the abstract shapes that were slowly dying as the fire burned low. "I've heard so many stories about dragons like you describe that they all run together. There's a tale like that everywhere we stop." "They say that this beast is the last one in this kingdom, all the others have fled." Yugi swallowed harshly at that, biting the inside of his lip to keep the tears from falling. He always got more emotional after Mahad killed a dragon, almost hating his protector for what he was doing. His posture stiffened, trying to block the enthusiastic poet out as he rambled on. "So it would be quite the prize. And, finally we could have peace. Well…peace enough with a tyrant in place." Ryou stood up with a stretch, looking longingly at Bakura before shaking his head. "I'm off to bed. New adventures tomorrow. Goodnight, prince." Yugi raised a hand in farewell, not even watching the white haired man make his way over to Bakura and snatch half of the blanket away before cuddling up to the thief. He stared at the fire for a moment more before abruptly standing up and grabbing his sword. Yugi stomped to the edges of camp, pulling the blade out of the scabbard and beginning to go through some drills on his own; as it had been since Mahad had started to hunt dragons. As he worked, Yugi muttered the code that Mahad had drilled into his head. "Inside the table's circle, under the sacred sword, a knight must vow to follow, a code that is unending; unending as the table-a ring by honor bound." Yugi lunged forward at the last word, twisting to parry an invisible strike to his head before sweeping his sword low. He snapped it back up to guard position, eyes flicking to the right as he began to speak again, the ends of his sentences coinciding with strikes and parries. "A knight is sworn to valor." Yugi ducked, rolling one shoulder to swing around, his sword's edge slashing into an invisible opponent's stomach. "His heart knows only virtue." A block with his sword held behind his back before the blade was swept back around. "His bade defends the helpless." The sword winked in the dull moonlight, as Yugi brought it back to guard, shifting it slightly more to the right. "His might uphold the weak." Yugi shifted, bending he knees more before he lunged forward, one hand dropping from the hilt of the sword, clenching like he held a shield, to block his side. "His word speaks only truth." The hand with the invisible shield dropped back to the sword as Yugi recovered forward, shifting to block a low attack. "His wrath undoes the wicked." He flicked his blade up, raising it over his head before burying the tip in the ground. "The right can never die if one man stands and still recalls. These words are not forgot if one voice speaks them clear. The code forever shines if one heart holds in bright." Yugi fell to his knees behind his sword, one hand still resting on the hilt as the other arm rested on the guard at the base of the pommel, allowing Yugi to drop to rest his head on it, shoulders shaking as he sobbed. Kisara cautiously pried herself from Seto's grasp, placing a kiss on his forehead when the man moaned in his sleep. She smiled at Seto before wrapping a robe around her body and walking outside. She was careful to stay in the shadows, aware that Gozaburo and his knights were still up, probably finalizing the plans to move to their new castle. The king was impatient to get away from this castle, probably because it reminded him of everyone that he had killed to get to this point. She shivered and clutched the robe closer to her, moving out to the far corner of the courtyard where the dragon was kept. For a moment, she couldn't see Akhnamkanon in the shadows, mourning the loss of her keener sight. The dragon shifted, brown eyes opening slowly as he became aware of the woman who was standing before him. Akhnamkanon stared at her, head tipping to the side as he let out a sigh. "You are…but you smell like a dragon." She didn't dare try to free him, not willing to risk her life with Seto for the dragon. Kisara shook her head, white hair drifting down to cover her eyes as she shuffled closer. At least she could give him comfort. "Akhnamkanon." The dragon started at his name, head raising a bit, chains rattling with the move. "How do you know my name, human?" He paused, eyes fluttering closed as he took a deep breath. The dragon let out a small grumble as he opened his eyes. "Kisara." "Yes." She walked up to place her hand on his muzzle, tears forming in her eyes before she rubbed them away. "It's me." "But I thought…" His eyes moved to stare at the wall. "I heard them all scream as they die, and I never know who it is. My son could been dead five times over for all I know. Have you had any news?" "None. I'm as stuck here as you are." Akhnamkanon frowned. "But, surely this is a dream. You shouldn't be stuck here with me." "It's no dream, Akhnamkanon. You are still stuck here. But I am really here." Kisara took a step back as the dragon hissed, moving his own body back to avoid her touch. She watched as he snapped at her, the threat obvious as he began to speak again. "Why have you done this, Kisara? Why did you become a human?" "I…I wanted to." "Did you do this to save your own hide while my son is still out there?" "No! No!" Kisara swayed in place, the glare that Akhnamkanon was directing at her keeping her in place. "I did this before you were captured. Atem watched over me and helped me get here. And I'm happy here. I belong here." "You belong with your kind, Kisara! Not among the humans." "I am loved here." "It's false. All of these humans are false." Kisara wrapped her arms around herself, closing her eyes. Akhnamkanon had changed since she had last spoken to him, becoming more like his brother. And she should have seen that he would change instead of holding onto the hope that he would be there for her, the one who could understand the whole of her instead of just appreciating everything she was as a human. She had given up being a dragon, as she should accept that. Give up everything that went with being a dragon and resign herself to being a human. And Seto was enough for her to make that choice. She looked up at the black dragon, noticing that Akhnamkanon refused to meet her gaze. She gathered the robe around her again, turning around to speak over her shoulder at him. "Seto is not. I will stand by him and try to help you." Kisara walked away with her head held high before Akhnamkanon could retort. She kept the façade until she walked into the castle. She then broke into a run, suddenly needed Seto by her. Kisara ducked into the servant's staircase, avoiding Gozaburo and his knights. She ran up into the hallway, spotting Seto's room a few steps away and she gratefully rushed toward the door, slipping in and jumping back into bed with him. The motion woke up the man, Seto opening one eye sleepily before opening her robe to rest his hands against her skin. He pulled back a moment, now fully awake as he stared at her. "You were outside." "I can't go back." Kisara wrapped herself around Seto, ignoring the shocked look he shot her. "I can never go back." Seto lowered them both down, using one hand to draw the covers back up before he held her. Kisara sobbed into his shoulder, not even hearing the awkward words of comfort that Seto whispered to her.

Disclaimer: I do not own Yu-Gi-Oh or Dragonheart; they belong to their respective owners. I do, however, own parts of the plot and Kysen Warning: Blood, character death. Chapter Eighteen: To the Stars And as we watched the golden motes rise to the sky, The draconian gods descended from on high. Atem jumped at the screech, turning to face the sound. He immediately recognized the nearly skeletal dragon as his uncle, shoving Yugi out of the way the next moment as he felt claws rip at his scales. Atem screamed in pain as he was pulled off the ground, his uncle much larger than him. He grunted and pulled away from Aknadin in midair, flinging his wings open to hover as he waited for his uncle to turn around. He bared his teeth as he felt the wounds that he had already gathered that night stretch under the action, feeling blood rolling down his scales. He shook his head, gathering his thoughts back together as his uncle turned back around. "What are you doing?" "You let that human kill Akhnamkanon, your own father! Have you no shame!" Atem blinked, mouth partially open as he tried to think of an answer. His uncle had obviously seen their plan go through, but he knew nothing about it. Atem snapped his mouth shut, looking up at Aknadin with wide eyes as the dragon flew closer. "It should have been you!" Atem flipped over, executing a roll as Aknadin followed him, looking over his shoulder to see his uncle snapping at his tail. Atem banked, trying to throw him off and find a place to talk to him. He twisted, heading for the ground and skimming along it. He landed for a moment, pushing off as soon as Aknadin followed him to the ground, twisting around as his uncle clumsily turned to look at him. "It's not what you think. We had to, or else he would have suffered!" "Is that what your human told you?" "You saw him." Atem snarled, glaring at his uncle as he mentally cursed him for not being able to understand. "You know that he wouldn't have survived. We came to save him and he asked for death. It was too much for him!" "No." Atem felt his blood run cold as his uncle shook his head, pulling himself nearly vertical to stand up to his uncle's glare. Aknadin smirked at him, opening his own wings again. "You should have been able to save him. You have magic, you could have used it." "It would have killed me!" "That's what you were born for, Atem! It's what was always going to happen to you! It should have been you!" Aknadin launched himself into the air again, Atem quickly flapping to gain altitude. His mind worked overtime as he twisted in the air, avoiding the claws of his uncle. Aknadin had gone crazy after staying wherever he had been all these years. And he hadn't been stable after the death of his family, clinging to his brother through it all. He couldn't just save all the dragons by carelessly throwing himself after a cause. He couldn't just give up on Yugi's second chance on life like that. There was nothing he could do. "Listen!" Atem turned, grabbing a hold of Aknadin's neck and leaning in to glare at his uncle. "I would have saved him if I could, but I couldn't. He wouldn't have let me kill myself to save him." "Then I'll just have to do the honor." Atem screamed in pain as Aknadin's claws dug into his stomach, ripping gashes into his scales. He hissed and pushed away, staring down at the bleeding wounds in horror. Yugi. His head snapped up, looking back at the castle. Yugi was hurt. He took off for the castle, ducking under Aknadin to escape from his uncle. Unfortunately, Aknadin followed him, pouncing and pushing him down into the ground. Atem gasped as the air was pushed out from him, momentarily distracted from the claws in his back because of that. Abruptly, feeling was returned to him, making him cry out in pain. He turned his head as Aknadin leaned over, no sanity left in his eyes. "Since you are too cowardly to do the deed, I will do it instead." Atem could do nothing but stare up as his uncle, mouth moving as he tried to form words. He was honestly scared by Aknadin's behavior, not sure how to handle it. His uncle was larger than him and stronger than him, even when he was so underfed. Aknadin had more experience fighting and he didn't have to worry about every injury transmitting to Yugi. Gods. Yugi. And Kysen. "Don't worry, little one, I'll come back." "Don't say that unless you're sure." "I mean every word." Atem groaned and rested his head against the ground, body trembling as he felt his uncle shift, the claws digging deeper into him. Yugi would be in so much pain right now. And he wouldn't have any idea what was going on. He would just know that Atem was somewhere, getting hurt. And, being Yugi, he would rush out to see what was going on. Atem knew that, no matter how much Aknadin wanted to complete whatever insane ritual of killing him that the dragon had thought up, that he would not hesitate at the chance to hurt Yugi. Atem's eyes widened at the mental image of a broken Yugi begging him for help. He snarled and pushed his shoulders up, dislodging his uncle. He would not allow that to happen. Atem scrambled free, turning to hiss at Aknadin as the other dragon stepped forward. He waited a moment before launching himself into the air, tipping his head to see Aknadin following. Without a second thought, he called up his fire, feeling it ready at the back of his throat. He flipped over, using the move to drop behind Aknadin and let out a stream of fire, rolling away as the dragon screamed in pain and turned to breathe his own measly stream of fire at Atem. The black and red dragon easily stayed out of the way, heading for a higher altitude. He could just wear Aknadin down and everything would be easier to explain to the exhausted dragon. His eyes widened as he saw Aknadin shoot past him, tail lashing out to catch Atem in the jaw. The black and red dragon grunted, pulling up to look up at his uncle. He had a moment of confusion before fire covered him, making him writhe as he pulled out of the stream. Atem snarled and lunged for Aknadin's back, claws tearing in before he pushed away. His uncle snapped at him, following. Panting for breath, Atem lead the way through a series of acrobatics, eerily similar to those conducted during the mating flights. But these brought them into contact every time, each pulling away with more lacerations than before. Atem snarled and tipped his head to the side, just missing having his eyes gouged out. Aknadin screamed as one of the horns at the back of Atem's head sliced through his hand at the move, giving Atem the time to retreat a bit. Blood dripped off the both of them, brilliant and bright where it first emerged from the wound, dulling to black as it rolled away from the source. Aknadin had the worst of it, his flight already unsteady after a few moments of combat. Atem smiled, red eyes sparkling with hope. There was a chance that he could win this thing after all. He lunged forward, hind claws digging into Aknadin's legs as his front claws tore at his uncle's throat. Atem had a heady moment of victory before he felt a claw tear horizontally across his chest, ending on the left side, lifting up one scale and marring the others. Atem tried to pull away, snarling as he realized that Aknadin had a good hold on him. He ducked his head and released his hind claws, ready to protect his throat and stomach. But the attack never came. Instead, Aknadin just stared at Atem's chest. Atem glanced down after a moment of confusion, swallowing when he realized that that lifted scale revealed the scar that sat over his heart. He winced as Aknadin held him tighter, fighting the urge to writhe to get away from his uncle. Aknadin made an unintelligible sound of surprise, looking up at him while he reached one claw out to tap the exposed scar. "You did this." He nodded, not knowing what else to do. Aknadin looked back down at the scar, trembling. Atem was about to make another break for it when Aknadin looked back up, anger in his eyes. "You father gave up half his heart to save you, and you gave your heart away to a human. Why would you do such a thing? This," Atem screamed as Aknadin pressed the claws of one hand around his heart, the tips digging into his skin, "belongs to the dragons alone, not some human. "Now who…" Aknadin blinked before he shook his head. "No. You couldn't have. Would you dare give it to that assassin?" "Atem!" He turned at the sound of his mate's voice, giving a sigh of relief as he saw Yugi standing on the battlements, leaning heavily on the stone with one hand resting over his heart. Atem turned back to his uncle as Aknadin gave a hum, not liking the sound at all. He didn't have long to contemplate the sound as Aknadin removed his claws from around Atem's heart and dug them into his shoulder. Atem heard Yugi scream in pain, but the sound was drowned out by Aknadin's growl. "You did! How did he convince you of that, Atem? Did he offer you a way out of your title, because there is no way out!" Aknadin laughed, the sound making Atem tremble and begin to struggle again, the need to get out of there taking precedence over pain. His uncle shook him, his attention going back to the dragon that was keeping him still. "How many times have I told you that you belong to the dragons?" He let go of Atem, the black and red dragon dropping for a few feet before he opened his wings, nearly sobbing as his wounds throbbed. He skimmed over the ground, stumbling through his landing as he turned to face his uncle. Everything hurt now, his vision swimming in and out as he tried to cope with it. He shifted as his wounded shoulder, the one that Gozaburo had hit earlier protested, lifting his foot from the ground and sighing when the pain disappeared. He looked up in time to see Aknadin plow into him. The both of them went sliding along the ground, scales tearing off as they came into contact with the rough ground. Atem was the first to untangle himself, taking to the air immediately and taking advantage of the breathing room. He looked wearily over at Yugi, who was still hanging onto the battlements, purple eyes wide as he watched Atem. The dragon nodded in his direction, barely having time to dodge the next attack by Aknadin. He turned to face his uncle, the action too slow as he tired. Aknadin snatched him up again, Atem slumping in his hold as he felt all his energy drain away. He was just too tired and too beaten down. His eyes closed for a moment, allowing himself a brief moment of surrender before he would go back to fighting. His eyes snapped back open as he felt Aknadin's claws tear through his wing membranes, head tossed back to scream his pain to the stars. The thin membranes were too easily shredded, rendering him unable to fly. Atem snarled, turning his head before scrambling over his uncle. If he didn't move then Aknadin would have let him drop to the ground. And he was not going down that easily. He dug his claws into Aknadin, wincing as his uncle rose, twisting in the air as he tried to throw Atem off him. The black and red dragon kept an eye on the ground, smirking when they were high enough up. He reached up to bite down on his uncle's neck, using that as a distraction as he shifted to get into a better position. The next moment, he tore through Aknadin's wing membranes, his smirk growing wider as his uncle screamed in pain. Quickly he attended to the other wing, rendering them to a similar state as his own. Then he pulled his torn wings to his sides and forced Aknadin to close his own. Gravity exerted its mastery over them a moment later, pulling them back towards the ground. Atem shifted, clawing at his uncle as Aknadin tried to move. He snapped at his uncle's neck, using every trick he knew to keep Aknadin from flipping them over. He could survive this fall only if Aknadin took the brunt of it. He looked down at the ground, closing his eyes a moment later for impact. He felt Aknadin stop struggling a moment later, one thought ringing clear in his mind. Sorry Yugi. Aknadin screamed as they landed, their combined weights shoving the older dragon into the ground. Atem was thrown free on impact, all his weight landing on his left hind leg. He screamed as the bone snapped under the force, frantically clawing at the slope to slow his slide down the hill. Atem gritted his teeth against the pain as his muscles trembled, finally coming to a stop. He hadn't slid far, but it still gave Aknadin the upper hand. Atem groaned and pressed his head into the ground, unable to bring himself to care. Neither of them was in any condition to continue to fight after this anyway. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to collapse. For the longest time, he just allowed himself to breathe. A couple of coughs escaping from him, even the expansion of his chest making his wounds ache. He pressed his forehead against the ground, his claws digging into the ground as he tried to ride out the pain. In a few moments he would feel well enough to summon his magic and use it to patch himself up. And then he would find a nice place to not move for a long time. Or maybe Marik and Kisara would be nice enough to help him back south. He hissed as he shifted, trying to take the weight off his broken leg. Atem groaned as he managed to flip himself over, sighing now that the pressure was gone. He lay there, panting for air until a familiar voice made him look up. "Atem!" He blinked as he saw Yugi being nearly carried over, leaning heavily on Bakura as the thief grudging helped the prince along. Atem whimpered as he saw Yugi trip, the prince nearly falling to the ground, only Bakura's quick reflexes keeping him up. The human went limp in Bakura's grip for a moment, one arm around the thief's waist and his other hand holding onto Bakura's arm. And even still, Yugi was sliding to the ground. Ryou rushed up behind them, trying to help hold the prince up. The dragon had enough of this, rocking slightly so he was on his stomach instead of his side. Atem looked back, carefully pulling his good leg up under him and stretching the broken hind leg out so that it wouldn't be used when getting up. He looked back at Yugi, noticing that his movement had caused the prince to look up. Atem gave a soft trill before rocking onto his feet, biting back a scream of pain as he limped forward. He saw Yugi waver, trying to hurry his hobbling. "Don't move, love. I'll come to you." He fell back to the ground closer to Yugi, the prince stumbling over to him as soon as he was down, leaning against Atem's head for support. The dragon gave another soft trill as he felt Yugi's tears hitting his scales. "Hush, my heart. Everything is alright." "It hurts." Yugi managed to get the words out through clenched teeth, shifting so the weight was off his left leg. "How can you stand it? It has to be worse for you!" "Oh, Yugi." Atem was about to close his eyes when he saw movement from behind them. He had come closer to Aknadin while trying to get to Yugi and hadn't even noticed it. He saw Aknadin's head come up, eyes glazed over in pain. Atem saw hatred flicker through Aknadin's eyes and watched the dragon attempt to stand up, fear shooting through him when Aknadin managed the feat. He tensed, watching his uncle before suddenly springing forward, leaving Ryou to rush and catch Yugi before he fell. The two dragons collided in the air, Atem shoving Aknadin back to the ground. They both fell back to the ground, another snap of bone breaking heard. Atem opened his eyes cautiously, surprised to see Aknadin's neck bent at an awkward angle from an impact with a rock. He sat up a bit, hissing in pain before sinking back to the ground, too tired to do anything else. He had just helped kill his father and uncle. Atem closed his eyes with a moan, wanting to stop feeling. His eyes snapped back open at the sound of shuffling, tipping his head so that he could see Yugi being helped back over to him. Atem nodded his thanks to Ryou and Bakura before he caught Yugi again. The prince winced as he stretched up to rub the spot above Atem's eye, drawing his hand back as it hit an open wound. Atem tried to make a comforting sound, but failed. He settled for a smile instead, content to have Yugi close. "Gods!" He opened one eye at Kisara's exclamation, the woman looking at the two bleeding dragons on the ground. Atem saw Seto pull her close, keeping her away from both of them as they came to stop. He gave a thankful nod to Seto, not wanting Kisara fussing over him right now. He just needed a few more minutes to himself before he tried to heal himself with magic. Atem whined as Yugi slid to the ground, unable to support himself anymore. "Love?" "I'll be fine…but, gods," Yugi looked up at him, one arm shaking as he reached up to touch Atem, "it must hurt worse for you." This time, he managed a purr, leaning into Yugi's touch. His purr stuttered to a stop as he saw Mahad walking up. He still did not trust the man but, since he was important to Yugi, he could tolerate the knight. Mahad was probably just here to help Yugi. Atem was distracted from further thoughts about Mahad as Marik and Paladin circled to find a place to land, the smaller dragon squeaking at the sight of Aknadin's dead body. Looking at the other dragons, he didn't notice Mahad pulling Bakura aside and whispering to the thief, or the thief's reaction of surprise before he finally nodded. The next thing that Atem was aware of was that Yugi was being pulled away from him. He weakly tried to reach out for his mate, eyes widening as Mahad walked around him. He tried to shrink away from the knight, but his body wouldn't allow much movement. A weak snarl escaped him as he saw Mahad stop by his chest, suddenly wishing that he had the energy to roll onto his stomach. "What are you doing?" He shuddered as the knight reached out to touch him, running a hand parallel to the cut on his chest until it was resting over his heart. He watched as the knight turned his head one way and then the other before looking up at Atem. "Can you heal yourself?" "In a while, yes." Atem snapped out the words. "Enough to get me somewhere where I can heal properly. I'd need more than one dragon to heal me magically at the moment." "And Yugi?" "He'll be fine." He was growling continuously now, the vibrations hurting his wounds. "As long as I am fine, he will be." Mahad sighed, taking a step back and running a hand through his hair. "Is there a chance that you won't recover completely?" When had the knight cared this much about him? Atem bared his teeth, but refrained from snapping out the answer that he knew Mahad wanted to hear. It was as good a time as any to face the facts for himself. There was a chance that he wouldn't have the free range of moment that he did before, or that he would always limp because his hind leg couldn't take that much pressure anymore. Atem sighed and shut his eyes. "There is a small chance that I might be a cripple for the rest of my life." "I see." Atem trembled at the cold sound of his voice, eyes wide as he watched Mahad look down at his heart before glancing back at Yugi. Apparently, that was a signal of some sort because he heard Yugi yelp. He turned his head, wincing when his muscles protested. But it was enough to see Yugi. He snarled as he watched the thief keep a hold on the struggling Yugi. Atem stretched out his neck, trying to reach his mate, only to stop as Mahad lightly slapped him on the shoulder. "None of that, dragon." "What are you doing?" He stared at the knight, snarling when Mahad reached for him again. "Let him go. Now!" "I can't. He'll hurt himself." The knight's calm tone of voice made him pause, staring at Mahad with wide eyes. Atem glanced up at Yugi, whimpering as he noticed that the prince had stopped struggling, keeping his weight off of his left leg. A tap on his chest, just above his wounds made him look back down at the knight. Mahad gave a smile. "There we go." Atem jumped at the sound of a sword being pulled out of its scabbard, breathing coming faster as he watched the steel being pulled free. He whimpered at the sight of blood, trying to wiggle away, but not able to. He heard Yugi scream out something, his heart pounding too loud to hear what he said. "No…please…" "Don't beg, dragon. It won't do anything." Mahad stepped closer, whispering so Yugi couldn't hear him. "I can't take the chance that our king will be a cripple. The people already don't like him as much as his son." "But…if you do this, then Yugi will die too." "There are others who can lend him their hearts." "It doesn't work that way!" Atem looked up at Yugi trying to summon his magic to protect them. He didn't want to leave Yugi. "Listen, dragon." The knight hissed the two words out, sounding more like himself. Reluctantly, Atem looked down at him. Mahad looked up at Yugi before the detached look left his eyes. "I would rather have Yugi hate me for all eternity than watch him struggle through life in pain until the end of his days. He's been through enough already." "Please…" "No begging, dragon. We both know you're not like that." "But you're a knight of the old code. 'His might upholds the weak.'" "Don't quote that to me." Atem winced as the knight snapped at him, trembling at the touch of steel against him. "I know the old code, but it is a human code alone, dragon, made for humans; never animals." "Mahad…" Atem tried to get any words past his throat. He had seen this coming, he had felt like he was trying to dodge fate, and here it was coming to get him. It was never going to be a dragon that had killed him, but a human, trying desperately to get his world back together. And the dragons…how would they take it? He gave another whimper as he finally realized the truth about the Morningstar. Their deaths were interpreted however the dragons wanted and, in the end, it was just a meaningless death. And he would still never see Yugi and Kysen again. "Mahad…just let me live." "No." Atem gaped at him, watching in frozen shock as Mahad moved, the point of his sword pressing against the scar once before Mahad backed up. "No! Mahad don't you dare touch him!" He could hear Yugi struggling behind him, unable to look at his mate. "You know this won't free him." Atem snarled the words out. Mahad gave a shrug before bracing himself. "There's always hope." And then he lunged forward. And then the sky exploded. Yugi slumped against Bakura, eyes flickering up towards the sky as a bright light descended from the stars. He squinted against the glare, his breath catching as two dragons appeared from the ball of light, both of them descending on the hill. The first was a red dragon, its body long like a snake with an elaborate configuration of horns on the back of its head, and what looked like a blue jewel nestled just above where the crown of horns started. Spikes ran down its sinuous body and ended in a flicking tail. It's wings rested just above two small front legs, the back legs equally small, looking like they were just made for resting on. This dragon twisted and turned in the sky for a moment before easing its red body towards the ground, it's lower mouth opening as it finally touched the ground. Yugi shivered under the gaze of its solid yellow eyes, looking away and finding that he was looking at another dragon. This one was gold and almost looked like it was made completely of metal, this one built more like Atem than the first dragon. The gold dragon had scales that surrounded its hawk-like head that resembled a headdress and even more decorative scales above its shoulder, elbows and on the outside of its knees. The outstretched wings had metal feathers, resembling bird wings more than dragon wings. The dragon glanced up at him, solid red eyes narrowing as it folded its wings shut against its sides. Yugi jumped, unable to tear his gaze away from those eyes as the dragon crouched on the ground. As he followed the gold dragon, he found himself staring at Atem. He gasped and pulled himself free from Bakura, the thief too absorbed in the appearance of the newest dragons to bother about him. Yugi hobbled over to Atem, collapsing when he reached his lover's head. He nearly sobbed in relief when he saw that Atem was still breathing, although it had sped up as he stared up at the golden dragon who was crouched above him. Worried for his lover, Yugi ran his hands over Atem's head as he looked back at the other dragons, hoping that he could get their help in calming Atem down. Marik, Kisara and Paladin were as low to the ground as they could get, although Kisara had given a deep curtsy to the two dragons before Seto had pulled her back to his side. Yugi looked at the two dragons who had become his friends, wondering what was going on. He licked his lips before standing up, using Atem to brace himself. He winced at the pain in his left leg, looking over Atem to see Mahad splayed out on the ground with a look of fear on his face, his sword forgotten by his side. Yugi sighed in relief, leaning against Atem and stroking his head. "It's alright now. Calm down." The golden dragon leaned over to snap at Yugi, stopping when Atem weakly moved his head, baring his teeth briefly before his eyes slid closed. Yugi immediately began looking Atem over, assuring himself that his lover was alright. He ignored the stare of the golden dragon as he limped towards Atem's back, intent on checking out the damage. Yugi came to a sudden halt as the golden dragon leaned over, its claws blocking his path. He blinked, surprised when the dragon ushered him back to Atem's head. Its red eyes were suddenly less frightening and more pity filled as the dragon looked at him. The golden dragon rocked back on its haunches, nodding at its red partner. The two exchanged long looks, no words spoken, but there was obviously still communication going on. The prince saw the red dragon tense before it finally nodded, although it didn't look quite as happy with whatever agreement they had just come up with. Yugi didn't care, as long as his lover would be alright. He gently stroked Atem's head, trying not to tense under the curious stare of the two dragons. "You'll be fine. I promise. See, you didn't have to leave me." There was a minute shake of his head, the most movement that Atem could accomplish at the moment. Yugi sighed, leaning his forehead against Atem before kissing the dragon. There was a faint rumble that might have been a purr. Yugi smiled, just pressing as much as his aching body against Atem's warmth as he could. They enjoyed a moment of quiet together before something made the hairs on the back of Yugi's neck stand up. He sat up, eyes widening as he watched Aknadin's body dissolve into golden motes of light. He spun around to face the castle, similar golden sparks rising from within the walls and drifting down the hill towards them. Yugi pressed close to Atem again, trying to protect the dragon from the golden motes as they surrounding him. He flinched away from them, surprised when Atem tried to lift his head to touch them. The motes hesitated before dropping down to touch him. The faint vibration came as Atem tried to purr again, eyes falling shut as the golden dust drifted along his body. Then, they drew away, the particles that had been Aknadin and Akhnamkanon mixed together so it was impossible to tell which was which anymore. They drifted into a cloud above Atem, still reluctant to leave their relative. It wasn't until the red dragon nudged them that they began to move, slowly moving up into the sky. The red dragon pushed off the ground, circling himself around the cloud of gold and pushing his muzzle into the middle for a moment before unwinding himself and nudging them upwards. Yugi leaned backwards, watching the dragon guide the two souls to the sky, smiling when the recognized their destination as the dragon constellation. He was glad that the both of the dragons had gotten their place in heaven, both of them having gone through much. Yugi stroked Atem's head, looking down to see him following the progress of his father and uncle. The prince leaned down to kiss Atem, sighing at the feel of Atem by him. He wasn't going to lose Atem. Everything would be fine. He started when the golden dragon gently nudged him out of the way, jumping at the burning heat that came from the dragon. It blinked in apology before reaching down and picking up Atem, slowly opening its wings as it lifted the black and red dragon. Yugi sat down on the ground, limbs not strong enough to hold him as he watched the gold dragon. He chewed on his bottom lip as he stared at Atem, hating that his dragon wasn't moving much, just hanging limp in the other dragon's hold. It reminded him too much of their first day in the south, when he had no idea what was going on. The prince started out of his thoughts as he saw the golden dragon bend its knees, getting ready to fly. But that meant that it would be returning…and it was still holding Atem. Which meant that it was taking Atem back with it. Yugi slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes going wide as the dragon looked back down at him, tipping its head to the side at the human's strange behavior before glancing up at the stars and pushing off the ground. Yugi tried to dart forward, landing hard on his stomach with a cry of pain. He felt Mahad's hand on his shoulder, but ignored the knight as he stared up at the dragon that was taking Atem away. Frantic, he turned to Marik, their eyes meeting. "Please, don't let them take him." "Yugi…" Marik finally shrugged, looking down at his claws. "There's nothing I can do. The gods have made their choice." "No! I promised him…" Yugi tried to stand up, ruthlessly shaking Mahad's offer of support off as he stared up at the sky. The conviction in his voice died to a mere whisper as he realized how far away the golden dragon was now, drawing the light back around itself and Atem. Yugi wrapped one arm around his stomach, feeling it roll, and placed one hand on his heart, wanting to make sure that he was still alive, because this all felt like a horrible dream. He swayed in place, ready to fall to the ground again at any moment, but only staying up through sheer force of will. "I promised him that he wouldn't lose us." His mouth suddenly felt dry as he realized what was happening. How would he tell Kysen? The infant would look for Atem, knowing that the dragon should be there. How was he to get Kysen to sleep without the comforting warmth of the dragon? How was he supposed to sleep without Atem there? Yugi whimpered, holding himself tighter as he puzzled these things over. What would happen now? If Atem was really being taken by the gods to the dragon heaven, then that would mean that his heart would be stopping, which would kill Yugi too. And he would let it happen, he wouldn't accept another heart from another dragon because, deep down, he knew that it wouldn't work. It was a one time thing, and his second chance had just disappeared. He sunk to his knees, his whole body quaking as he realized the enormity of the situation. What would happen to Kysen now? Would the infant be forced into the world of politics, crowned king with a regent and never learn of life outside the castle? Would he even be told about his father and the dragon, or would Yugi just appear in time to help the rebellion and then quietly die a noble death? Yugi turned his head to look at Kisara, watching her nod slowly. They had an understanding. Yugi could trust Kisara to look after his son once all of this was over. "Yugi?" He stiffened at the sound of Mahad's voice, turning his head back to face front. He didn't move as Mahad knelt down beside him, trying to see his face. "My king?" Yugi wanted to say something, say anything to the knight who had worked so hard to end his happiness. But Mahad had also been there through it all. He understood why Mahad had done all of this, and that just made it worse. He could see both sides of this so he couldn't just blindly place blame as he wanted to. His personality would not allow it. He would have to see this thing from both sides. He closed his eyes, feeling the last of his tears fall. He was done crying now, there was just nothing left. He sighed and slumped. "Help them clean up, Mahad." I hate you. He wanted to say that. He wanted to scream it out and turn on Mahad, wanting to know why the knight had conspired to take the one thing that meant most away from him. Why he couldn't accept the way this had turned out? Why didn't the knight get that the world had changed and that you had to change with it? But Mahad would go on in his way, teaching the old code to the next generation while they all strayed far from it. He had grown away from Mahad somewhere along the line, finding that he could understand the knight, but never follow him with the blind devotion of before. Mahad had changed or Yugi had grown up or a bit of both. He winced as Mahad patted his shoulder and stood up, shooing the rest of them back to the castle, probably for a celebration. One that he wouldn't have joined even if he could. He had planned to spend the night with Kysen away, or at least for a bit of it, and comfort Atem any way he could. They could celebrate later when the death was not so fresh. And then they would have gone back south to spread the news. Yugi winced. His grandfather would never know what happened to him, the one family member that he had left would never know. He tipped his head to look back at the stars, easily finding the dragon constellation. A smile crossed his face, all too easily seeing Atem up there now. It would never look like all of those dragons he had sketched in his small attempt to have them remembered again. It would always look like the dragon that had been taken away from him too soon. He rested a hand over his heart, his smile turning sad. "I love you, Atem. You and only you." His eyes went wide, hand falling from his heart as he watched the stars. The stars in the dragon constellation were beginning to pull inwards, surrounding two new stars in a greeting ceremony. They circled around each other, circling until they were in a close group. For a moment, all of the stars seemed to glow more brightly, even expanding before they all exploded outwards into little golden pieces. Yugi gasped, lifting one arm to cover his face at the bright light. He froze at the roar that echoed through the sky. His arm dropped back to his side, mouth dropping open as the shape of a dragon, outlined in the gold from the stars, appeared in the sky. The outlined dragon stretched its wings out, looking like it was about to take flight, head tipping back to give another roar. Yugi's eyes widened as the golden light began to drift behind the dragon, bringing out the red on the outer edges of its wings. He then realized how close the dragon was. Heart beating fast, Yugi scrambled to his feet, not aware that he felt no pain when doing so. The dragon folded its wings, plummeting close to the ground before snapping open its wings and skimming up to the hill toward Yugi. The prince let out a laugh as the dragon flew past him, the wind from its passage nearly knocking him over. He steadied himself, about to turn around when wings blocked his view of the hill, the barrier making him back up into the familiar head and feel of it pressing against his back. Yugi spun around, pulling Atem close to him and reaching up for the spot above his eye, glad when there was no blood there. Atem purred, the real sound and not the faint vibration of before, and pressed even closer to Yugi. "My heart…love…" Atem let out a groan as Yugi leaned against him, kissing the warm scales. "Yugi." The prince gave another weak laugh, cuddling Atem close. He quickly brought one hand down, the other finding that spot beneath Atem's jaw that made the dragon squirm. Yugi gasped as Atem moaned, the vibrations from the sound going right through him. He returned the sound, leaning against his lover as he panted for breath. "I thought…" Atem shushed him, pulling his head back so he could look Yugi in the eyes. "So did I. But I'm here, I'm whole, and that's all that matters." The wings were withdrawn and folded back against Atem's sides as the dragon knelt. Yugi gleefully scrambled up onto the dragon's back, clinging to Atem as he stood back up. Both of them looked back to the castle at the loud cheer that came from the courtyard. Atem looked at Yugi, tilting his head to the side. The prince shook his head, running his hands over Atem's scales, unable to get enough of the feel of his dragon. "It's not for us. Besides, we have one person waiting for us." Atem smiled, opening his wings and giving a powerful downbeat to launch them into the air. He didn't rise into the sky, but instead skimmed over the ground, just rising high enough to not run into trees. Yugi laughed and sat up straight, sucking in deep breaths of the night air as they flew. A rumble from Atem warned him to lean close to him as they dove into the trees. Yugi carefully opened his eyes when the slap of branches against his back was gone. He stroked Atem's neck one more time before sliding off the dragon. He bounced slightly upon landing, running ahead and enjoying the feeling of having his left leg working properly again. He heard Atem laugh as he followed him at a more sedate pace. Yugi gave a little skip step as he turned around, motioning for Atem to hurry and only getting the dragon to walk faster. He rolled his eyes at the dragon before nearly running back to the place where he had left Kysen. Yugi came to an abrupt stop as he saw a burned man kneeling by where Kysen and Mokuba were. He looked up, seeming surprised before he recovered. He pushed away from the two infants, smiling at Yugi and Atem. "I can see why she loved you and I'm glad she found you before she died." The prince blushed and looked away, staring at his son before looking up at the burned man. The man smirked and touched the marks on his neck, shaking his head. "I got these protecting her…and him too." He sighed, flicking his hair out of his eyes. "But, I have to ask, what happens now. Her plan was to have him-" "Kysen," Atem interrupted. "Yes, Kysen." The man smiled at the name. "Well, Tèa wanted him to be king, like his father was supposed to be because he would understand us. But now that you're here…" "No. I can't. And I plan to raise him." The man nodded, the smile not disappearing from his face. "I bet he would be happier away from all of that royal mess. I know it was hell when I dealt with it and that was only the edge. Besides," the burned man paused, "I wouldn't want Mahad teaching him how to survive in the world." Yugi stepped forward to collect Kysen, staying kneeling when Atem walked up to the man, lowering his head to look at the man. "Do you want those marks to be healed?" "They can be annoying sometimes," the man seemed to think it over before waving his hand, "go ahead. But just leave something somewhere." "Like old scars." Atem smiled before the black tendrils of magic jumped from the ground, wrapping around the man and gently brushing over the burn marks, fading them until Atem called the magic back. The man rubbed his hands over the scars, a smile on his face. "I wish you luck, Yugi." He stared at the prince, tapping his arm with a smile on his face. "Or should I call you the name that the poet fashioned for you?" Yugi and Atem winced, the prince looking over his shoulder at the man. "And what is that?" "Yugi Dragonheart." The man gave them a wave farewell before walking off, leaving Yugi sputtering as Atem dangled his head over Yugi, peering down at Kysen. They stayed like this until a shout brought Yugi out of his slightly shocked state. He turned, rocking Kysen as he started to complain. It was Atem who greeted the two coming through the woods. "Kisara and…mate." "You…you…" Kisara finally rolled her eyes and rushed forward to hug her friend, tears of joy running down her face. "You impossible dragon." Atem smirked before looking Seto up and down, finally snorting. "He'll do…I guess." Seto folded his arms, giving the dragon a long glare before leaning back over to Yugi. "So, why do you keep the dragon around Yugi? Not that I'd trust him with your lives anymore." Yugi waved off his cousin with one hand, beginning to pace, the motion sending Kysen to sleep. The prince smirked as he saw Seto attempting to discretely look at his son, one eyebrow rising as he saw the likeness between Yugi and the infant. Yugi smiled at his cousin. "Yes, he's mine. And the dragon is my…mate." He never thought he would never get his cousin to display complete surprise, but he managed with that one. Seto's mouth hung open, closing every once and a while as he tried to form words. Yugi shook his head, walking back over to Kisara and smiling down at the infant that she held in her arms. Ignoring his cousin for the moment, he waited for Kisara to finish checking over her son before talking to her. "I'm abdicating from the throne, and I'm taking Kysen away from this. If he wants to come back one day, then he can, but I don't want to. This world…it's changed and I can't look at it the same way anymore. And, the people never really wanted me in the first place. They've only changed because I was the only one that could help them." Kisara nodded understandingly, walking over to stand by Seto. "It's alright Yugi. You just enjoy yourself." She paused, taking Seto's hand before handing Mokuba to his father. Yugi smiled to himself as he watched Seto's mask slip a bit as he held his son. "Just come back for the coronation and possibly the wedding, if they demand it." "You!" Yugi held out a hand to keep Atem from lunging forward. The dragon snarled before finally backing down, shooting angry glares at Seto. "We'll make it. See you Seto." He motioned for Atem to get down, easily climbing onto the dragon's back and leaning forward to protect Kysen from the branches as they took off. He gave a quick wave to the two below before clinging to Atem as the dragon rose back into the sky. Atem immediately turned toward the south, wings beating steadily. There was a comfortable silence that stretched between them as they flew towards the south, neither of them in any hurry to return. Yugi smiled down at Kysen, sleeping soundly, before tucking the infant's blanket tighter around him. He caught Atem looking over his shoulder before searching the sky ahead of him. The prince gave a sigh, tipping his head back and enjoying the wind over his face. One more chapter left. Read and review please. Criticism is welcome.

Disclaimer: I do not own Yu-Gi-Oh or Dragonheart; they both belong to their respective owners. I merely own bits of the plot and Kysen. Chapter Sixteen: War Cries With freedom and peace to fight for, The villagers marched off to war. The stars seemed dimmer tonight, fitting since it matched his mood. His eyes automatically sought out the dragon constellation in the sky, leaning back against Atem's warmth with a sigh. At least his lover was back to normal, and was sleeping off the deer he had just consumed. Yugi gave a faint smile, running his hand over the dragon's head, earning a purr from the creature. His smile disappeared, still not perfectly content. Seto was still at the mercy of Gozaburo, and Yugi had a feeling that it would end badly for his cousin unless something was done. He leaned forward and rested his hands against his knees. "What's bothering you, my heart?" the warm breath across his back relaxed him. Yugi turned his head slightly to see Atem, leaning back against the dragon. He glanced at his side where Kysen lay, fast asleep, chuckling at the grip that the baby had on the tip of Atem's tail. Assured that his son was fine, Yugi looked at the dragon, Atem gently nudging his leg with the tip of his muzzle. In response, Yugi held open his arms, inviting Atem to rest his head in his lap and cuddling the dragon close when Atem accepted his invitation. "All of this. It's gone too far and we're the ones that have to stop it." He paused, looking over where Kisara slept, Paladin curled around her. Yugi remembered her crying herself to sleep, trying to hold the sobs in before finally allowing them loose, but even then they were muffled. She was trying to be strong despite of all that had happened. Even Bakura, Ryou and Marik were looking hassled, the usual ease of their interaction fading. This whole idea was stretching them to their limits, when they all just wanted to find a place where they could relax. He ran a hand over his face, tipping his head to look back at the stars. "I have a duty to my people, but I spend all the time wishing that we could go back south, away from all of this. I hate that I ran away for so long, I hate that I was too weak to fight back. But, I wouldn't trade any of my time with you to get what I want. We're all so close to breaking." Atem nodded in agreement, crimson eyes rolling up to look at the stars as well. They spent a few moments in companionable silence before Atem gently pressed closer to Yugi. "You would be a great king, Yugi. I know it." "But…" The dragon snorted, the sound cutting Yugi off. "You would be a great king, that doesn't mean that you should be king. You have a cousin that could do the job well enough, and the peasants would accept him. It is fine to want something for yourself." "I'm their prince, Atem." "I understand that, Yugi. But you always have the choice to abdicate, and then you'll be free." Yugi heard the implied 'and you could stay with me', even if Atem didn't voice it. He stroked the dragon, his arms tightening around Atem's head. It was still a frightening concept; that everything that they had built together could be torn apart in mere moments. And it left them clinging to each other in desperation, not wanting to be broken past the point of no return. Because they both knew that they would fail if that happened. Atem gave a hum as Yugi found the one spot above his eye. "And then it would be just you, me and Kysen; as long as we live." "Sounds nice." The prince found the dragon constellation in the sky, smiling as he stared at in. In a way, it resembled Atem. But, in a way, it resembled every dragon that he had seen if one looked at it right. He tipped his head to the side, listening to Atem laugh as the dragon watched him. "What are you doing?" "Star gazing." Atem looked up at the sky, Yugi guiding him to the constellation that he was looking at. "That one." "Oh." Atem sobered for a minute before laughing, the sound slightly strained. "My least favorite of all the stars in the sky." "Why?" "It's a reminder of everything." Atem stared at Yugi, the prince clearly seeing the debate in his lover's eyes before the dragon looked back at the constellation. "The stories say that the first Morningstar created that out of her own body, a place for all the good dragons to go after their lives. They say that, because she gave up her life for every dragon, the gods put her likeness, and the likeness of every other Morningstar up there, as a reminder and for a guardian for our heaven. Every time I look up there, I see me. It's like a death sentence." "I can see you up there," Yugi pressed a kiss to Atem's head as the dragon squirmed, "but I can also see others. It's a matter of perspective. But, that's a nice story, better than the ones that we have." "And what's that?" "Our fates are predetermined, but the priests always talk about how the nobility are sure to go to heaven in the end. Still, we never know. But people still try, even knowing that they might not get into paradise." Yugi shook his head. "I don't know what to think about it. I just feel that it might not be right." "Sounds wrong." Atem was drifting back to sleep, encouraged by Yugi's rubbing fingers and his full stomach, the human laughing at the sleepy yawn that the dragon gave. Atem scowled at him before pushing Yugi back onto the ground, nudging his shirt out of the way before pressing his muzzle to the exposed skin. Yugi clamped a hand over his mouth to keep from moaning too loud and waking Kysen. He was never prepared for how hot Atem was compared to his own body temperature. And it felt so good. Yugi pulled Atem's muzzle back down when the dragon went to move away, staring at his lover through lust filled eyes. The dragon smirked before purring, the vibrations making Yugi arch up, gasping for air as he breathed, "Atem, oh gods, please." The dragon chuckled, but pulled his head away, keeping it low enough to hover over the frustrated human. Yugi made a weak swipe at Atem, the dragon easily pulling away from the blow, still laughing as Yugi pouted. "Spoil sport." "Now, love, would you want to wake Kysen?" Yugi settled for a glare instead of a retort, preferring that to anything he could come up with. The prince sat up, stiffening and gasping as Atem worked the back of his shirt up and pressed his muzzle against the skin there. "On second thought, there are others who would watch him." Yugi nodded as he felt Atem begin to nuzzle his back, the action causing the shirt to ride up more. Impatiently, the prince tore the article of clothing off, nearly screaming as Atem took the moment to press his head against Yugi's back, feeling the claws of one foreleg beginning to carefully trace up his leg. "Or, you could just be really quiet." Yugi was about to agree with Atem when he heard hoof beats, head turning in the direction of the sound. Usually Atem would have heard anyone coming close and stopped. But, apparently, Yugi had distracted him sufficiently enough to nearly ignore his surroundings. His thoughts disappeared the next moment as he felt Atem run his tongue along his spine, gasping at the feeling. "Find some other human to molest, dragon." Atem growled, looking up from over Yugi's shoulder as Mahad rode into their clearing, the other dragons looking up at the sound. Yugi scurried for Kysen as the baby began to cry, angry at being woken suddenly from his sleep. He cooed to the infant, Atem curling closer to them. Kysen kept his grip on Atem's tail, a wince passing through the dragon showing that it had changed into a death grip at the sudden fear of seeing a strange man. Mahad glared at Atem and Yugi, ignoring the growling dragon. "Put your shirt back on, we have to talk." "Busy right now. You'll have to wait." Yugi felt odd snapping at his instructor like this, but he was feeling slightly angry himself. Mahad had no right to tell his lover off like that and Kysen had woken up, which meant that he would be occupied for a while calming the infant back down so they could sleep. Right now, he didn't want to hear anything Mahad had to say, especially since most of it was aimed at Atem. Out of petty spite, he stayed shirtless for a few moments longer until he remembered that Kisara was there was well, leaving Kysen in Atem's care as he hurried to pull the article of clothing back on, blushing furiously. He was reaching out to accept Kysen from Atem when Kisara intercepted the infant, sitting back down on the ground with a smile. She nodded at where Mahad was tying his horse to a low branch. "You and Atem go and listen to him, he might have a plan to save Seto." Yugi sighed, Kisara taking the agreement as a sign of indecision. "Please, if we have one chance…" Yugi gave a stiff nod, walking over to his former mentor with Atem at his side. The prince tensed as Mahad turned around quickly, scowling at the presence of the dragon before motioning Bakura and Ryou over. The two dragged themselves from the warmth that Marik offered, looking like they were going to fall asleep on their feet as Mahad crossed his arms. "The peasants have had enough, they plan to strike at the next possible moment." At Atem's snort of disbelief, Mahad glared at the dragon. "I've seen them and they are competent enough to take Gozaburo as his guard is now. They request your help with this overthrow." "Me?" "They think you have some sort of power over that beast." Mahad motioned at Atem, earning a growl from the dragon. "'That beast' is standing right here and can understand everything that you are saying." Yugi rested a hand on Atem, calming the dragon down. "Atem and I could help with the dragons." "That's all I wanted to ask." Mahad glanced up at Atem before rolling his eyes, looking in disgust at the assembled dragons. "But, apparently, we'll have even more help than before." Yugi shook his head. "Those two don't take part in this at all. We don't want them to get hurt." "I suppose this 'we' is you and that creature." Yugi silenced another growl from Atem, now scowling at his mentor. "Yes, because Atem and I care about what happens to our friends." "They're not even intelligent-" "Mahad." Yugi snapped out the name of his mentor as he patience shattered, the sound startling the knight into silence. The prince gave a sharp nod and crossed his arms, leaning back slightly. "I will help you with this, but I will not tolerate you insulting the dragons. Are we clear?" The knight gave a disgusted snort. "You sound like that dragon." Yugi bit his lip to keep from commenting, turning his head away before sighing and looking back at his mentor. He was furious with Mahad for being so thick-headed, but he was too tired to keep it up. Right now he just wanted to curl up with Atem and sleep, but Mahad would expect them to go to the peasants to oversee the rebellion. He sighed and rubbed his forehead, relaxing when he felt Atem press his head against his back. Absentmindedly, Yugi reached back to pet the dragon, eyes going unfocused for a moment as Atem purred. Mahad cleared his throat, bringing Yugi out of his daze and making Atem remove himself from Yugi. The prince nearly whimpered at the loss of contact, needing something to keep him from lashing out at the knight. He glanced down at the ground as he took a deep breath, slowly looking up at Mahad with a nod. "We'll follow you and speak to the leaders of this rebellion tonight." The knight turned and strode back to his horse, leaving the small council to scatter. Yugi slumped and shuffled back over to Kysen, accepting him from Kisara and gently rocking the baby as he waited for the others to assemble. He jumped as the leather of his pack bumped gently against his side, smiling as he accepted the pack from Atem. The expression wavered as he looked at Atem for a moment, lowering his eyes as the dragon draped a wing over him, ducking his head to join Yugi under the wing. Contact was reestablished instantly, Atem pressing his head against Yugi's side, both of them heaving a long sigh at the presence of the other. Hesitantly, Yugi placed a hand on Atem, leaning back against the dragon's head as he shivered. "I'm with you no matter what, Yugi." "Let's get this over with." The prince reluctantly stepped away from Atem, waiting for Kisara and Mahad, who were both on horseback, to start off before following. Atem trailed behind him, always staying close enough that Yugi could feel his body heat, the simple presence of the dragon relaxing him. Once they were all following Mahad, Yugi looked back over the group, closing his eyes with a sigh. They all looked so worn down. There was no way that the peasants would accept them like this. Apparently, he had been turned to a mystical being. It would be a harsh blow to their moral if their hero looked as ragged as he felt. And what would they think of Atem? Would they treat him like the horses or other animals that were commonly seen? No brains and just a thing to be commanded? Yugi shuddered at the thought, not liking the idea at all. He knew that Atem was intelligent and he couldn't stand anyone belittling his lover. And he didn't want the peasants calling for Atem to do tricks or tasks for them like he was another one of their creatures. Yugi didn't want to see his proud dragon broken like that, all because he was helping Yugi. He resisted the urge to scream in frustration, knowing that it wouldn't get him anywhere. When had life gotten so complicated? He couldn't remember it being this hard when he was younger, even when he had been on the run. But, the moment that he wanted something for himself, the world had to try and take it away. Was it too much to ask to be selfish for once? He had already played the part of the martyr and had lived; an experience that he didn't want to repeat again. Yugi blinked when he realized that he was rubbing the scar over his heart, forcing the hand down so he wouldn't jostle Kysen. "Stay close to the shadows." Yugi obeyed Atem's command without question before he looked up at the dragon. Atem was staring up at the sky, wings twitching where they were folded on his back. Yugi kept quiet, motioning behind him for Bakura and Ryou to remain silent as well, Marik already searching the sky too. Up by the front, Kisara had also moved her horse closer to the shadows, only Mahad remaining oblivious to the threat that the dragons had sensed. Yugi bit his lip to keep from making a sound, distracting Kysen with a finger to keep the baby from making a noise until Atem lowered his head. The prince shivered at the murderous look in the black and red dragon's eyes. He glanced back up at the sky, knowing whatever had attracted their attention was long gone by now, before questioning Atem. "What was it?" "Rex." The dragon hissed out the name, teeth showing as he did so. Yugi tensed, holding Kysen more in the shadows in a protective stance. Atem shook his head, reassuring Yugi with the motion. The dragon wouldn't be this relaxed if Rex was coming for them now, but that still didn't mean that Yugi felt safe anymore. The prince took one more look up at the sky before staring at Atem, pleading for an answer. Atem complied, lowering his head and moving closer to Yugi. "He's probably out scouting for Gozaburo. It's getting too dangerous to move, especially with Rex working with them. It's only a matter of time before Gozaburo decides to force my father to do the same thing, although that might do the job for us." Yugi reached out and stroked Atem's cheek, the corner of his mouth turning up in a sad smile. "I'm sorry. I wish that we could do this differently, I really do." Atem shook his head, eyes staring at the ground. "You and me both, love. But he's suffered enough over these years and I have to at least stop him from suffering." He fell silent for a moment, glancing up at the sky. Yugi followed his gaze before looking down where he was going, not wanting to trip over a branch. Atem was staring up at the dragon constellation in the sky, a sorrowful look on his face. "He did it for me…and I owe him for that." Yugi nodded, holding out his hand in an invitation for Atem to come back to him. The dragon took up the offer, resting his muzzle against Yugi's hand. The prince flipped his hand over, petting the dragon. Atem sighed, leaning into Yugi's touch as they walked along. Gozaburo tapped the table before him before standing up and beginning to pace in front of the long table at the head of the hall. He glanced down at Lector where the knight knelt on the ground, ignoring the shivering man for the moment as he thought over what the knight had told him. They had found the remains of the dragon that had gone to scout the south and east, or what little remained of it. The body of Nesbitt they had brought back to the castle for proper burial, which Gozaburo would leave up to the priests; he cared little for the knight. Especially when the person had failed him so spectacularly. He would have left Nesbitt to rot and be eaten by the forest animals for his failure, but he would not fault his knights for compassion, as long as it was not shown to their enemies. Still, he was down to only one dragon, one knight and a handful of loyal soldiers. Too low for the current situation. Peasants had been leaving their villages for days, anticipating the next attack and leaving him without a work force and the fields unplowed. There would probably be a famine this winter because of the lack of crops, or most of the food ruined because of the frost because the peasants were too lazy to work. But that was the least of his worries as well. They were probably gathering together to try and overthrow him. Worse was the fact that a mere two villages would supply enough people to easily defeat him, and more villages were emptying by the day. He lifted a hand to rub at his temples, his fingers bumping into the crown that he wore. Gozaburo snarled and ripped the crown from his head, staring at it for a moment before placing it back on his head. No matter what, he would not throw this crown away. He had worked hard to earn it, worked hard to keep it. Worked hard for that idiotic son of his to have it after him, which was never going to happen now. He shoved the crown back on his head and continued pacing, not really noticing that he had stopped. He had to plan for the eventuality of his own death, no matter how distasteful the subject was to him. As he saw it, he had two options. One was to find a woman and marry her, thus producing a legitimate heir. Or he could simply steal Seto's son away from that woman and train him the right way. Either way would work and Gozaburo didn't really care which in the end. He just wanted an heir to carry on his line. He would probably end up doing both, just to have an heir and a spare, something that he had not accomplished before and was now paying the price. Gozaburo snapped out of his thoughts as Lector cleared his throat, reminding the king of the presence of the loyal knight. He scowled down at the man before waving him off. "Double the guards and fly another scouting round tomorrow. I want to know what those peasants have planned." "What about the dragon and the woman who escaped?" "They'll come back. I have what they want, remember." Gozaburo scoffed as the knight dashed off to follow his orders, allowing himself to slump for a moment before walking outside, hoping some fresh air would cure his headache. He ignored the frantic bows of the servants and some of the soldiers, preferring to pretend that they didn't exist at the moment. He just stared at his feet, growling when they lead him to the corner of the courtyard where the dragon was tethered. Gozaburo glanced at the dragon, shaking his head when he realized the creature was smiling. "What are you so happy about?" "I saw what happened. You're running out of people to hide behind, human." The king leaned back against the nearest wall, frowning at the sudden spark of life in the dragon. He was too used to the creature being submissive and quiet. He absently scratched the back of his neck before looking up at the night sky. He rolled his head to the side at the faint clatter of feet running up stairs as his orders were carried out, returning his gaze to the dragon as the sound died out. "That shouldn't make you happy. The less people I have, the closer you are to your death." "I beg for that time, human." The dragon strained forward, snapping his jaws shut a good distance away from Gozaburo. "I've seen my son flying around and beating down your captives. He's coming to kill you." "Why should I be scared?" The dragon gave a slow smile, tail twitching. "Just suffice to say that you should be. I eagerly await the time when you realize that you have underestimated everything." Gozaburo waved the dragon off, relieved when the dragon said nothing more. He tensed as the chains rattled as the dragon sought a new position, only relaxing when he heard the creature's breathing even out. Abruptly, he decided that he had enough air for the evening and turned around to go back inside, slipping through the huge doors and heading for his chambers. He cast a single glance at the dungeons, smirking as he thought of Seto down there. He waved on of the few men-at-arms he had left over to his side, watching as the man appeared nervous. "Prepare for an attack on the peasants, as soon as possible. I'll have Lector and his dragon cover you so they will not be able to harm you. Move quickly, I want this settled." The man nodded before rushing away, leaving Gozaburo to continue to his chambers. The dragon was wrong; there was nothing that could stop him. Especially any dragon. He was invincible. Bakura grumbled at being awake so early in the morning, but Mahad had insisted that they all be up and about, even if they had been up nearly all night looking for the peasant's camp. The thief sidestepped a clumsily swung sword, tipping his head to the side as he watched it slam into the tree trunk. With a sigh and a shake of his head, he returned to looking for his lover, still partially paying attention to the practicing peasants all around them. For peasants, they were good with what they had. This revolt would probably make a difference. He gave a short wave to Kisara as he passed, the motion completed before he thought about what he was doing. Bakura gave a short hiss and clutched his arm, hating that he was actually being friendly to someone. Thankfully, the woman didn't notice, too busy outlining the layout of the castle to the leaders of this band of rebels, Yugi and Mahad included. He left them to their planning, breaking into a jog when he saw Ryou lower his bow, wincing at something. The poet turned to give him a wave before striding off to retrieve his arrows. Bakura caught up to his lover as the poet sat down on a rock, sitting down beside him. Almost immediately, Ryou began to lean over, a huge yawn coming from the poet. Bakura smirked and pushed Ryou back upright, earning a glare from him. "I'm tired. Can't I just rest? Or would you rather have me killed for something stupid I do tonight?" Sighing, Bakura pulled Ryou back over, letting the poet lean on him again. Ryou snuggled close with a happy sigh himself. Bakura jostled him, holding back a laugh as Ryou squealed at the motion, earning a glare for his efforts. When Ryou had finally turned away, Bakura resettled himself. "Not for long though. Mahad might demand something of his only archer." "Tell him to shove it then." Bakura stared at his lover in shock, surprised that the usually mild Ryou would suggest such a thing. He smirked as Ryou drifted off to sleep; he was rubbing off on the poet. He shifted with a sigh, wincing as Ryou dug his fingers into his shirt, preventing further movement. Bakura glanced at his lover before finding a comfortable position within the limits that Ryou allowed him. At the sound of Ryou's gentle breathing, Bakura turned to look at the camp again. The peasants were still working, some drifting to the planning session. He thought he saw a flash of black and red fabric, but he was distracted by the appearance of the pale gold dragon. Marik gave them a nod before flopping on the ground, staring up at the bare branches. After a moment, the dragon sighed and looked back over at them. "Paladin and I have been thrown into this as a distraction." "Are you going to do something about it?" Marik growled as he shook his head, glaring over at the knight. "He has them convinced that we can't think on our own, that we belong to specific humans." Marik gave an annoyed snort, turning his head to the side. "Stupid humans. We don't have to stay here and help them." "Then leave." Bakura shrugged at the dragon's baffled glance. "I would if I could, but it's in my interest to stay. Once Gozaburo is gone I have my hunting ground back, no more conscious to tell me that I should stop." The dragon tipped his head to the side with a laugh. "You have a conscious?" "Underdeveloped, but yes." He gave a mock glare at Marik, attributing his current jovial mood to the lack of sleep. "How else you explain how you are still around to annoy me, dragon?" That earned another laugh from Marik, the sound trailing off into a groan as the dragon stretched. Bakura leaned to one side, taking Ryou with him to avoid an outstretched wing. Marik grumbled as he settled back down, lavender eyes blinking drowsily. "Can't wait to get back; the weather up here is still horrible. Makes me want to find a nice desert to curl up in and get warm again." Bakura shook his head, leaning on one arm as Ryou began to fall from his shoulder. Absently, he ran his other hand through the poet's hair, eyes staring off into the distance. He hadn't thought much about what to do after all of this because 'all of this' seemed like it would go on forever. He had never thought one small prince and a bad tempered dragon would be enough to bring Gozaburo to this point. He had been ready to move his area to some other place far away from the slowly dying kingdom. That was, of course, after Ryou was ready to move on. Never had he thought that he would be sitting and waiting for his part in the rebellion, still under the command of that same prince and his dragon. He had told Ryou once that this was the tale of a lifetime, but he had underestimated how amazing it really was. Bad planning on his part; he should have been ready for everything. "How's Atem taking this?" Marik gave a choked laugh. "The peasants are merely worshipping him, but only because they think Yugi can command him. They keep shouting these things about magic and a gift from the gods. Yugi is just ignoring it, but Atem is nervous. It's annoying to be treated like an object while your mate is held above you. Mates are equals, unlike humans." Bakura gave a snort of agreement, looking up as Yugi walked over them, Atem appearing a moment later so Yugi could lean against him. The five of them fell into silence as they drifted to sleep in their exhaustion. The thief didn't know how much time had passed before Yugi was shaking him awake. Bakura shot upright, helping Ryou from the ground with a smile. He glared at Yugi as the prince waited for them, Atem hovering behind him like a shadow. "Mahad says we attack tonight." "It's too soon." "For us, maybe, but the peasants want to attack while Gozaburo is still reeling from his loses. Our part in all of this is relatively simple." The thief snorted in disgust. "And has he told us of this minor part we play? I don't want to throw my life away uselessly." "You're with us," Yugi gestured at himself and Atem, "going after the dragon while the others attack the castle itself. Mahad wants us to take out Lector and his dragon before letting the peasants even approach the castle." "Which is where he is using the other dragons as bait." Bakura scoffed, not liking their part in this. "Does he know that the dragons want to rip his head off for that?" Yugi shook his head, rubbing his forehead with a long sigh. The thief let the subject drop, dodging Ryou's elbow as the stood up. Bakura dropped his hands to his belt, running his fingers over his collection of knives before resting his hands on his hip. "Enjoy the last time you are in command, shrimp. The time of you bossing me around is coming to an end." Bakura started at the look of thanks that the prince gave him. He had not expected Yugi to see through him so easily, translating the false scorn to find what Bakura really meant. The thief shook off his disbelief, walking with his small group as they went back to the main camp. He was startled to see Kisara there, one hand resting easily on the pommel of her sword with fierce determination in her eyes. He briefly searched for Mokuba before chiding himself for his stupidity. If Kisara was leading a group to rescue her husband, then she wouldn't be taking the infant into battle. He would be staying behind with Kysen. Bakura ducked out of the meeting, leaving Ryou to pay attention so that the poet could immortalize the fiasco, instead following Atem. The black and red dragon glanced back at him before ignoring him completely. The two of them had an understanding, one brought about by a similarity in thought. They both lived off other beings, surviving in their different ways. Atem saw the thief's profession as something that he did merely to survive, not judging him on that since Atem couldn't quite fathom why humans had the need to store such things in their homes. Bakura easily acknowledged the dragon's intelligence, the creature having to possess some spark to have survived this far. Of course, neither was willing to admit their respect for the other, so they ignored each other's presence. He was not surprised when the dragon stopped to bid farewell to Kysen, Atem laughing as the baby reached up for him. Bakura crossed his arms and watched the rare show of tenderness from the dragon. He would never have guessed that Atem would be so careful with the small human. The thief turned his head away, giving the dragon his moment of privacy. Kysen gave a short sob as Atem pulled away, the dragon gently shushing the infant. "Don't worry, little one, I'll come back." Bakura froze at the phrase, his mouth falling open as his jaw went slack and his eyes widened and unfocused. He shivered at the memory that rose to the front of his thoughts. He was crouched in a dark cellar, holding his treasured blanket close to him as his mother motioned for him to be silent. She gave a weak smile that he returned, standing up on his tip-toes to get a kiss on the forehead. His mother patted his messy hair as he settled back down, wrapping the blanket around him to keep him warm. She gave him a little nod before starting to lower the door to the cellar. "I'll come back." He nodded. She never came back. "Don't say that unless you are sure." Bakura didn't even realize that he had spoke until Atem shot him a confused look. When the thief said nothing more, the dragon gave an irritated snort. "I mean every word." The dragon turned and walked off into the tress. Bakura glared after him, wrapping his arms around himself as the phantom touch of his old blanket draped itself around his shoulders. He shook himself and stomped off to find Ryou and demand comfort to keep himself safe from the loathed memories of his past. Mahad was shocked to find the dragon splayed out in the dim light of the evening. He had thought that the dragon would be back at the camp with the rest of its group. He stared at the ground, cursing the fact that he missed the earlier disappearance of the dragon. He was about to turn away and leave, the presence of the dragon in his place of thought breaking the calm that he was trying to feel, when he saw the dragon's tongue flick out. The knight stilled as the stared at the dragon, realizing that he had never seen this behavior before in the dragon. He took a step forward as the dragon shook its head, freezing again when its crimson eyes were suddenly trained on him. The dragon stared at him for a moment before returning to his staring out at the trees. "Something is coming; you can nearly taste it on the wind." Mahad scoffed at the nonsense, not flinching as the dragon turned his head with a snarl. The knight waved the beast away, leaning back against the nearest tree. "Of course it is. We strike against the king soon. And you should be happy; you'll have your precious father back." "Don't taunt me, knight. I am perfectly aware of what we must do to end the suffering of the humans up here." The dragon didn't even look away from the point he was staring at, instead slumping a bit as he spoke. "And I know it's what you wanted to do when Yugi got hurt the last time. I don't like it, but it is the only thing to do." "Your opinion on this doesn't matter, beast." Mahad tapped his fingers against his arm in anger, watching the dragon twitch at his words. "I put up with you merely because Yugi does. And I don't know how he does it." "I have not influenced him in any way." "So that's what you call it." The dragon finally turned his head, a growl escaping it as it stared at Mahad. The knight smiled, happy that he had finally gotten a reaction from the dragon. "Apparently the beast can learn. After all, seduction is just a step above what your kind does on a regular basis." The dragon snarled, moving from his position on the ground to loom over Mahad. "What do you have against me knight? I have done nothing to harm you or Yugi!" "I swore to wipe out every dragon on this earth!" Mahad glared up at the dragon, not flinching from the anger in the red eyes. "Your kind is no better than vermin, able to take over the minds of others by a simple thing that should be a gift. Gozaburo would have never tried to kill Yugi if that creature hadn't given him that heart and corrupted him." "If anything was corrupted, it was the heart!" The dragon snapped its jaws shut in front of Mahad, backing away a moment later. "You just never saw what Gozaburo really was or refused to see it. I don't know which and, frankly, I don't care. Once this is over, we're going back to where we belong." Mahad was about to retort, glad that the dragon finally realized that he was truly not wanted when something stopped him. There was a possibility that this creature wasn't talking about just the other dragons. The knight curled his hands into fists, feeling his nails dig into the palms of his hands. "Yugi is staying here to become king and his son will remain as well." Mahad smirked up at the dragon, ready to deal the final blow. "And whatever unholy name you presented Yugi's son with will be changed. And you will release the hold you have over Yugi if you want to live." The knight barely had time to scramble out of the way as the dragon lunged forward. He winced as he rolled on the ground, cautiously getting to his feet as he saw the dragon pushing away from the fallen tree. The creature looked at the trunk before turning to Mahad with a snarl, stalking forward. "You will not take them from me!" "I am merely putting them back where they belong." "Then you will kill him." Mahad's retort died as the dragon loomed over him again, his mind running over the words that the creature had just spoken. He immediately went for denial, hand reaching for his sword as he stared at the dragon. "No. It's his duty. He had trained for this his entire life." Mahad drew his sword, pointing it at the dragon and laughing when the creature took a step back. It wasn't so tough when it was threatened; just like every other dragon he had killed. He calmed himself and looked up at the dragon, making sure to keep his voice steady. "Yugi knows what he must do, and nothing you have said to him will change that." The dragon sighed and looked away, one crimson eye rolling to stare at Mahad after a moment. "Will you condemn him to that misery, knight?" Misery? The knight shook his head, his other hand now holding up the one that was clutched around the hilt of his blade, attempting to prevent a tremble. "It's his duty. He knows this, dragon. He was born for it." "Then why not Seto?" "Yugi is the heir!" Mahad snapped off the answer before he could think, the quick reply earning a rumble from the dragon. The dragon snarled for a moment before the sound turned into a bark of laughter. Mahad wavered as the dragon took a step back, turning so its side was facing the knight. The sword nearly dropped out of his hand as the creature looked over its shoulder at him, smiling. "You don't trust Seto." "Of course I do! I raised him as well!" "No." The dragon settled on the ground, tail twitching. Mahad found himself staring at the tail, watching it move as the dragon spoke. "You don't trust him enough. There is some little part of you that worries that he may be like Gozaburo in the end; that he'll mess up this little place as much as Gozaburo did. But you know he'll never harm Yugi, so you intend to use my mate as a buffer." The last word came out as a snarl before the dragon seemed to calm itself. "But that leads me to question if Yugi was really the son of your former king?" "Of course he was!" Mahad lunged forward, the point of his sword stopping just centimeters from the dragon's hide. "Don't you ever question Aislinn's fidelity! She loved her husband too dearly for that." The creature snorted, looking up at the stars, ignoring the sword that was hovering by him. "Tell me, knight, have you ever loved someone?" "Of course I have! I'm not as cold hearted as you, dragon." The creature rolled his eyes, turning his head to look at Mahad. "Have you ever loved someone you couldn't have." Unbidden, the images of laughing purple eyes and long red hair sprang into his mind, but Mahad quickly shook the images away. Of course he had loved Aislinn, she was his queen. Loyalty and love went hand in hand. Besides, who had not fallen in love with the exotic woman who had been so gentle. The woman who seemed to understand everything with those expressive purple eyes of hers. The woman who cared deeply for every person in their small kingdom, even if they were not her people by birth. It was impossible not to fall in love with Aislinn. At least, for those who knew her well, to others she was just a stranger in their midst. They had been friends, the two people in the court from different places. Mahad had been a knight from a small manor in the north, but the best friend of the former king. Aislinn had been the scared girl from the south who had no one to cling to but the one man to show her compassion. In searching for something familiar they had found each other, and Mahad had fallen in love with her, even though she never returned his feelings, she only loved her husband in that manner, as was right. The knight swallowed, trying to clear the blockage that suddenly appeared in his throat trying to choke him. Yes, he had wanted her to be his, but he had understood that she never could have. There might have been the slim chance, if Yugi had immediately taken the throne, that she could have consented to marry him. But that was impossible now. He was barely aware that he had dropped the sword to the ground, blinking to focus his eyes as the dragon moved, standing up again. Mahad stared up at the creature in awe, not quite knowing what to do. Instead of attack him, as he thought that the beast might do, the creature merely stared down at him. "Then you know how I feel, knight. And I will not lose this chance. I promise you that I will fight every step of the way." Mahad opened his mouth to respond, but found there was nothing he could say. The creature had managed to best him this time, even if the beast had crushed some of the morals that people held dear, he couldn't fault the beast for following what it thought was right. The knight gave a shrug, making the motion a signal of his defeat. He wouldn't fight against the creature anymore tonight, but there would be another confrontation when it came to Yugi again. He would get Yugi his throne any way necessary, as it was his birthright. And the knight still didn't trust that the prince was still in his right mind, but that could be easily changed when the dragon was removed. He was distracted from his thoughts as the little white dragon flew over them, landing heavily on the ground and panting for breath. Mahad stared at the creature as the black and red dragon ambled over, helping the smaller one up. The white dragon nodded its thanks before glaring at Mahad. "I've lured the knight and his dragon out, but they've brought soldiers as well." The black and red dragon smiled, giving a short burst of laughter before looking up at the sky. "Then let's give Rex his proper welcome then." Mahad ignored the two dragons, scooping up his discarded sword and rushing back towards the camp. A smile made its way across his face as he raced for the small army. This time it would work, this time Gozaburo would fall. There would be peace again. He nearly fell as he jumped awkwardly over a fallen tree, listening to the cheer that rose from the peasants as he appeared. Apparently, the news had spread. The knight nodded and motioned for the peasants to begin their attack, laughing at the black and red banner with the silhouette of a dragon that was hoisted up as the peasants rushed from their camp. He couldn't even bring himself to wince at the earsplitting roar that came from the black and red dragon as it took to the air, his own scream lost in the sound that echoed into the still night. Please read and review. Criticism is always welcome.

Disclaimer: I do not own Yu-Gi-Oh or Dragonheart; they both belong to their respective owners. I do, however own bits of the plot. Warning: Lemon. Not only that but a first attempt at a lemon. Chapter Ten: Mates A man by noble name and not by birth right' Did burn in the flames that night. It was probably a bad idea to have come down to the village. Ryou flinched as another person walked close to him, pressing his sweating palms back against the shack. He closed his brown eyes and took a deep breath before leaning forward to peer around the corner. No matter how stupid the impulse bad been to come down here, Ryou was still glad that he had done so. Soldiers mounted on horses herded the villagers into the center of the village, making them stand in front of Gozaburo and the priest who held a flaming torch in his hand. The king's cold blue eyes scanned over the peasants before staring directly at one. He motioned the priest forward as the soldiers forced a young man out of the crowd. Ryou got a glimpse of green eyes before the man was forced to his knees, the soldiers binding his arms behind his back. Ryou shrank back to his hiding place as the priest looked up, spreading his arms as he spoke. "You are in danger of losing your immortal souls, my children! You allowed yourselves to be ruled over by a man under the enchantment of a witch! You allowed the son of the witch to grow into adulthood and sire a child of his own! Not only that, but you allowed the child to escape. I urge you to tell us where the mother is heading so that the proper actions can be taken!" There was silence following the announcement, the villagers looking around themselves. Ryou gripped the side of the building tighter; trembling as a few of the villagers appeared like they were going to talk, holding their tongues at the last minute. As the moments passed, Gozaburo became more restless and Ryou relaxed. As much as these people feared for their souls, the admonishing of one priest was not going to turn them against the child that they had placed their hopes and dreams on. Now the girl and her child would have the time to get to Mahad, this action by Gozaburo showing that he had already lost them. "Burn this one, that blonde and the red head." Ryou stiffened at the cruel order, stepping away from the shack. Gozaburo yanked his horse around, obviously tired of dealing with the peasants. "They are the ones who protected her." The soldiers acted on their king's orders, shoving through the crowd towards the victims. The villagers reacted by pushing the two victims toward the back, closer to Ryou. The poet hesitated for a moment before lunging forward and elbowing his way through the crowd. He reached out to grab the blonde's shoulder, dodging a punch thrown by the young man. He gave a smile of apology to the startled young man before tugging them away from the crowd. "Come on." The blonde paused long enough to scoop the red head into his arms before racing after Ryou. The poet glanced over his shoulder once to see if they were coming before dodging the soldiers that were coming after them. He pulled his bow from where it was slung over his shoulder to use against swords, catching attacks and shoving them away. Since they had been in the back of the group and away from the main body of soldiers, Ryou and the blonde hit open ground quickly, Ryou keeping a tight hold on his bow as they raced for the forest. Behind them, the cheers started as the villagers realized what was happening. Feeling good, Ryou gave a final wave before pushing through the forest. The two young men exchanged weak smiles, slowing under the cover of the trees. Hopefully they could lose their pursuers in the forest. Their euphoria disappeared at the pained scream that came from the village, the wind shifting to bring the scent of smoke and burning flesh to them. Ryou choked on air as the circumstances added up in his mind. That first young man must have not been taken away from his captors, and now there were burning him, as ordered. The poet held a hand up to him mouth as he struggled to suppress his gag reflex at the smell, stepping away from the blonde in case he did lose control. He looked up abruptly as the blonde jerked forward. "Duke!" "No!" Ryou winced as the blonde glared at him. "We have to get out of here before they do that to us!" The blonde hesitated for a moment, looking down at the girl he held in his arms before finally nodding. Ryou pulled him in the right direction, letting go as they both settled into a jog. The poet looked over at the girl, his heart sinking as she realized that, even though she was blind, she knew exactly what was going on. She had her head tucked into the blonde's chest, whimpering. His decision to keep going, although it was the right one, still felt wrong. It was not in his nature to leave another behind. He was still suffering guilt from allowing Yugi to run off to slay the dragon on his own. He jumped at the sound of hoof beats, quickly pulling the blonde onto the rocky path that led to their hideout. But, if the soldiers were still after them, then they couldn't stop for long; long enough for him to grab the things that had been left behind by Bakura. Then they would have to hope for the best. Ryou could only hope that they would find Bakura before he messed up their chances, because the thief would be better at finding them a place to hide. But Bakura had said that no one would find them while they were up at the waterfall. Ryou shook his head to clear it of thoughts, nearly falling on the treacherous path. They sprinted from the path to the small bit of forest that boarded the bank of the river, the thunder of the waterfall masking the sound of hoof beats. Ryou dashed out into the open, hurriedly gathering up the few belongings he had, not hearing the blonde until he rested a hand on Ryou's shoulder, shouting to be heard over the waterfall. "What are you doing? There's a dragon here!" "Not anymore!" Ryou bit his lip at the mention of the dragon. It had disappeared with Yugi three months earlier like Mahad had done, leaving them alone without a protector. The poet shook his head, carelessly slinging his bow over his shoulder and holding the pack over his head, not wanting any of his work to get wet. Although, he was sure that he could rewrite it if any damage was sustained. It was better to be safe in the end. He walked to the bank of the river, stepping into the frigid water before looking at the blonde. "Come on!" The blonde followed him, whispering something to the girl that he held before jumping into the water and wading through it. Ryou stumbled along behind the blonde, his shorter stature making it difficult to keep up. He began to shiver, holding the pack of his chest as he stepped up onto the opposite bank, nodding at the blonde before jogging off. The two easily lost themselves among the trees, ducking behind trunks as the soldiers rode up to the opposite side of the river, talking amongst themselves in low voices. Ryou watched them and mentally cursed the fact that they were not leaving. "Why are they just standing there?" Ryou glanced over at the blonde as he muttered to himself, leaning out from behind his hiding place. "There's a dragon here. It must have heard us already." The poet opened his mouth to correct the blonde when something dropped from the sky with a roar. Ryou fell to one knee as the blonde curled himself around the girl. The dragon circled low over the open space before dropping into the river with a splash. The soldiers scattered, sending their horses racing back into the trees as the dragon stood up from its crouch, sniffing the air before turning its head to look directly at them. It gave a laugh, stepping partially out of the water. "You humans are so easy to scare." The dragon's tail twitched in its mirth, matching the smile that was on its face. "You can come out, I won't eat you. Nasty little things. Humans are very bad for me, you make my stomach complain." Ryou was the first to step out, drawn by the resemblance of this dragon to Yugi's dragon, the same configuration of the horns and body type. But this one's scales were gold, shading lighter into an almost silver color on the underside of the dragon. And this dragon had lavender eyes, much friendlier than the crimson eyes that Yugi's dragon had. The scales around this dragon's eyes were black, outlining the edges of the eyes. The dragon gave a snort, reminding Ryou that he was openly staring. He ducked his head, making the dragon laugh again. "Why would armed soldiers chase after you? You aren't anybody important to the humans." "We just need to get out of Gozaburo's kingdom." The dragon nodded, casting a look over his shoulder. "I don't blame you. I've been staying up north, but the dragon-slayer settled up there and I thought that it was time to return south. Hopefully, I've missed all that mating season nonsense." He clambered all the way onto the bank before stretching out on the ground, pushing one foreleg out further than the other. "Get on. I might as well take you along." "Why? Isn't it beneath you?" The dragon snorted, rolling his eyes. "You must have been talking to Atem. They way I see it; I'm doing us both a favor. I still go south but I have a reason to explain my absence and you get away. Plus, I don't want to have to save all of you again." Ryou hesitated, plucking nervously at the sleeve of his shirt as he stared at the dragon. The creature finally growled, sticking its neck out so it was nearly nose-to-nose with Ryou. "Listen, human, don't look for an ulterior motive because there isn't one. It's simply that we are going the same way. We'll save energy and help each other, like it used to be." The dragon pulled back with a huff. "I swear, you humans get stupider with each generation." "How can we trust you?" The blonde stepped out the trees, now holding the red head's hand, still keeping her close. The dragon tilted its head to look at the two, its gaze continually sliding over the girl. "Dragons have caused nothing but problems for people, always stealing our animals to fill their bellies." The dragon shrugged. "One must eat. Is she blind?" The blonde pushed the girl behind him. "What if she is?" "I have someone who might be able to cure her." "Her eyes were burned out." The dragon winced. "Then it might take a little longer, and probably a favor from Atem. But it could happen, only if you will come with me." Ryou scrambled up onto the dragon, too intrigued by the promise to even consider listening to his fear. He had never seen real magic before, only heard the condemnations of the priests and the older stories that told of times when all could do magic. The poet reached down to help the girl up, holding her tightly as she nearly overbalanced. He gave her a smile before looking down at her protector, who was glaring up at the two of them. The dragon shook its head, lowering his head to return the glare to the blonde. "Tell me why I would harm humans who have done nothing to harm me? It makes no sense; except, apparently, in your human logic." "Fine!" The blonde threw up his hands and stormed over the dragon, clambering up onto the dragon's back and giving a very unmanly yelp as the dragon stood up and flapped its wings a couple of times. It turned its head and gave them a slightly manic smile before launching itself into the air. Ryou pitched forward, clinging to the girl in front of him as they rose into the air. The dragon circled a few times before turning south with quick wing beats. It tipped its head to look back at them. "We'll be arriving at our destination late tonight. No sense in enjoying the flight down there with humans inclined to complain." The blonde huffed and looked away while the red head laughed. She reached out to pet the dragon, letting out a gasp at the texture of the scales. "So soft and warm." The dragon laughed, lowering its head to scan the forest below them as it flew, probably still on the look out for Gozaburo's soldiers. Ryou reached up with one hand to hold his bow, looking down at well. It was probably best to have two pairs of eyes searching the ground. Bakura shook his drenched hair out of his face, glancing through the trees. The short rainstorm had caught him by surprise, leaving him soaked and annoyed. The thief tugged on the reins, the mule following his master happily. Bakura glanced back at Thoth, giving the reins a shake to get the animal's attention. "You're a mule, act stubborn for once instead of prancing!" Thoth ducked his head and looked at Bakura with wide brown eyes. The thief groaned and pushed the mule away. "You've been spending too much time with Ryou." He sobered at the reminder of his lover, stroking the mule's muzzle absently before moving forward. He had to keep moving to find a place where he and Ryou could safely hide. Gozaburo would be searching the hills once that girl gave him the slip, which would be bad news for him and the poet. The soldiers' fear of their king was greater than the fear of the dragon. Bakura rubbed his face, turning to tie Thoth to a tree before scrambling up the trunk. From a higher vantage point he would be able to see where he was going, as well as pin pointing possible places for them to hide. He yelped as he slipped on the tree, clinging to the wet bark until he regained his balance. Cursing the rest of the way up, Bakura pushed his head out of the evergreen's needles, carefully planting his feet so he wouldn't fall over. He began to scare the area, praying that he would see something. The forest rolled on around him, the seemingly unending sea of branches taunting him. He bit back another curse as he punched the branch he was on. Soon the snows would be worse and they would lose their chance to run. He shifted, squinted as something caught his eye. The forest gave way to flat land in the distance, the change barely visible to him. Bakura's eyes widened as he stared in that direction, mentally estimating the length of time it would take Ryou and him to get there. He shook his head before scrambling back down the tree and dropping to the ground. He reached out to calm Thoth out of habit as he thought over the plan that was forming. There had always been stories about the clans who lived in the south, but he had thought that the previous king had destroyed all of them; which would be perfect for them because Gozaburo wouldn't follow them. But he had thought that about the last place. That would teach him to do a good deed again. And there was a chance that there would be people instead of the empty plains that he was expecting, people who were less inclined to turn them over to the king. Bakura nodded to himself before swinging up onto Thoth and giving the mule a kick, pulling on Thoth until they were heading back to where Ryou was waiting for him. Bakura smile as the mule lurched into a gallop, surprised at the speed the animal was going at. If his estimation was right, it would only take a week to reach the end of the forest, if they kept up a good pace. It was a good amount of time to get away from Gozaburo, considering that Bakura had managed about a day of travel before he had come to this plan. He became lost in his thoughts, not noticing when Thoth gave a frightened bray and tried to run away, Bakura simply pulling on the reins to slow the mule. He scowled as Thoth began to attempt to dart off to the sides, leaning forward to glare at the creature. "What is wrong with you?" The thief looked up at the sound of wing beats, pushing the almost familiar sound of his mind until Thoth began to buck in an attempt to ease the hold that Bakura had. He growled as he pulled the mule's head back up, tipped his head back in time to see a set of claws close around him and the mule. There was a grunt as the dragon pushed off the ground and took off. Bakura clung to Thoth as the ground dropped away beneath him, cursing and glancing up. His mouth dropped open as he saw Ryou waving at him from the dragon's back, the poet entirely too cheery for the situation. The thief sat up on the squirming mule, shaking his head as the poet laughed. "What are you doing?" "Getting a ride to safety." Safety? "What did you do?" Leave it to Ryou to attract trouble while he was gone. Bakura looked up at the dragon before glancing back at Ryou, raising an eyebrow in a demand for an answer. "Later!" Bakura gave a huff at the casual brush off of his question. He cursed and sat back, staring down at Thoth as the mule's struggling slowed, the animal quickly exhausting himself. Bakura waited until Thoth went limp in the dragon's hold before he stroked the mule's neck, trying to comfort them both as he seethed internally. He hated not being in control and having information withheld; it usually meant that he was in danger. He hated the feeling of being helpless; it brought up too many bad memories. He tangled his fingers into Thoth's short mane and took a deep breath to calm himself before glancing around. At least they were heading in the right direction. Tèa was shaken from her sleep, wincing at the stiffness in her neck and back from her cramped position against Tristan. She rubbed her eyes, realizing that the horse had stopped moving. She blinked and looked down the hill that they were halfway down, her eyes following the pine forest until it became fields, grass just beginning to yellow around the edges and dark clouds threatening rain above them. Tèa tipped her head to the side, enjoying her first glimpse of a new country. She continued to stare as Tristan urged the palomino forward, the horse stumbling it its exhaustion. She patted the horse's neck, speaking more to it than to Tristan. "At least we got away from Gozaburo." "Yes, but now we have to find this Mahad. And who knows how long that will take." Tristan looked resolutely ahead, keeping one arm around her waist to steady her as the horse tripped again. "In the meantime, it would be best to pretend that we were married around everyone but Mahad." "But-" "I know you want to remain loyal to the prince, but it is for your own good. You won't be treated like a whore while you are here, I won't let that happen. Besides, it would be safer if no rumor spreads this time. Perhaps we can even give this kid the start of a normal life." Tèa smiled fondly, resting one hand on her stomach. Soon they would all be safe from Gozaburo; the king was too cowardly to attack a neighboring kingdom. He was more inclined to wallow in his riches and pretend that she no longer existed, probably breaking the spirit of the people. But she wasn't going to let that happen. They had been too long under the control of Gozaburo. Tèa jolted out of her thoughts as Tristan turned the horse to the side as the palomino let out a whinny. There was a response from the small town at the base of the hill, from a brown horse by the fields. The man astride it looked up abruptly, hesitating before kicking his horse into a canter towards them. Tristan tensed, getting ready to move when Tèa placed a hand on his arm. The man didn't draw the sword that was resting against his side, so he was not coming to harm them. She was curious as to why he had even come to investigate them, another pair of people running from Gozaburo. They couldn't have been the only ones desperate enough to flee from the harsh rule and certainly not interesting enough to draw the attention of a rich man, as the horse and sword marked him to be. The man pulled his horse to a halt, the two animals trying to touch noses as their riders pulled them back. The man stared at the palomino horse before glancing up at the two riders. Tèa was surprised to see open shock on his face as he looked at them, one hand reaching up to brace on the neck of his horse. "Please, tell me where you got this horse." "Is it yours?" Tristan nudged the palomino over, placing Tèa out of reach as the man continued to stare intently at them. Both of the peasants relaxed as the man shook his head. "No, but I would recognize it anywhere. It belonged to the prince." "Are you Mahad?" Tèa clamped her hands over her mouth as she blurted the question out, drawing the man's attention to her. She ducked to avoid Tristan's glare, sure that she had spoiled everything when she caught the end of the nod that the man gave. She sat up straight, staring directly at him. "You are Mahad." "Yes." He gave a short bow with a sharp laugh. "Former protector to the prince of the kingdom below, but no more. Now, I merely help my father oversee those under his care. And what are you two doing here?" "The king ordered her death," Tristan nodded toward Tèa, "so we escaped while we could. The man who gave us this horse told us to find you." Mahad shifted on his horse, looking down at the ground. "I don't know what I can do for the two of you, but I do commend you for getting your wife out of danger." "I'm not his wife." Tèa saw Mahad look up in confusion, probably noting the careful way that Tristan held her. She gave the knight a smile, wanting to be sure that he was looking at her when she spoke. "I've seen you before, Mahad. I was at the village where you and the prince stopped before you attacked the castle and I was at the village where you rode from to come here. And I need your protection now, because the prince's child is in danger." "Yugi's…" Mahad stared at her for a long time, his mouth open in shock. Tèa sat back, stroking the palomino's neck as she waited for the announcement to sink in. The former protector of the prince rocked back in his saddle, nearly falling off his horse as his eyes widened. He sat back up, staring at Tèa. "If this is a lie, you will not be able to stop me from killing you." "It's not a lie, Mahad." Tèa kept her smile, feeling Tristan grip her tighter with the threat that the knight has issued. "I promise that. We had to run to keep it safe from Gozaburo. But all the villagers were willing to support this child when he grows. This is their one hope and they will fight so it can have a place on the throne." Mahad sighed, rubbing his temples before jerking his head down toward the village. "Come, I will take you back to my father's lands, but you will stay in the village. I'll make up a story so that you can stay there and in my sight. I will do my best to keep you safe, but don't take that as support for your cause. I have no reason to keep fighting anymore." "Would you fight for Yugi's child?" The knight paused, in the middle of asking his horse to turn around. His hands tightened on the reins, the motion almost unnoticeable. Mahad glanced back at Tèa, seeming to think it over before giving a curt nod. "I owe it to Yugi. I carelessly wasted his own life. I will make sure that his child has a better life than his father." Tèa returned the nod, Tristan urging the palomino after the knight. She watched the knight for a while before looking back around at the country that they were in. It seemed to be a nice place to be, even though she was still worried about her friends back in the village. What plans would Gozaburo have for them? She shook her head, refocusing her gaze on the road ahead. All she could do was look ahead and hope for the best. Yugi leaned back onto his hands, looking up to watch as a few dragons wheeled on the early morning thermals. He restlessly drummed fingers on the ground as he waited, looking around at the others of the clan who had gathered to watch the dragons perform their courtship dances. A few of the mated pairs were sprawled out in the open space, talking to human friends or conversing with some of the older dragons. Yugi jumped as Hermos wandered over to stretch out by him, eyes not leaving the sharp horn that was on the tip of the dragon's muzzle. His eyes traveled over the spikes that decorated the back of the red dragon, forcing a smile on his face when Hermos looked over at him. To his surprise, the red dragon chuckled, giving himself a shake, the motion making the spikes on his back rattle together. "Don't worry; I'm not plotting to kill you. You just picked out the best place to watch this. Besides, Atem would attempt to murder me if I touched you." "A…" Yugi cleared his throat as his voice cracked. "He would?" Hermos gave a short laugh, abruptly cutting off the sound as he stared at the human. Yugi shifted nervously under the calculating gaze of the dragon, glancing down at his pants until Hermos had looked away, listening to the dragon sigh. The prince looked up through his bangs, watching Hermos stare up at the sky. The dragon sensed his gaze and looked at Yugi out of the corner of his eye. "Atem suffered abuse from humans for four years and then he gives up half his heart to save you. You must mean something special to him if he is willing to risk his own health for that." "I saved his life before." Yugi was trying to steer away from the conversation, the confusion that had bugged him most of the night. He remembered faking sleep to wait until Atem had fallen asleep and then had spent the rest of the night watching the dragon, occasionally reaching out to soothe him when Atem seemed to be suffering from bad dreams. But it had given him time to think over everything that he had heard. The purple and brown dragon, Rex, had accused Atem of loving him, not knowing that Yugi was human. And Atem hadn't denied any of the claims, but he hadn't spoken about it. Yugi preferred not to think about his relationship with the dragon, the conversation with Bakura from what seemed like lifetimes ago still running through his head. Even the thief had been able to see that there was something more between him and the dragon that the fascination that they both used as an excuse. And there was no reason that Yugi should have enjoyed the dragon's touch as much as he had. Yugi shrugged, his thoughts scattering. "It was merely returning the favor." "Yugi," the prince jumped at the use of his name having thought that the dragon didn't know it, "Atem cares about you. He's warned off all the females to be able to stay close to you." "He said-" Hermos snorted, stretching out one hind leg. "He says many things. But, his reaction when we told him what we had done to him and he was coherent enough to understand was to curse us for putting you in danger. He ranted for about an hour before Timaeus managed to calm him down. And it took everything we had to keep him there instead of flying back to you as soon as he thought he was ready." "Nobody could possibly want Atem with me." Yugi chewed on his bottom lip. "He's important to all of you. Rex said that his job was to produce chicks and then die for your cause. With me…he can't do that." "Ah, the cause." Hermos sighed, his eyes raking over the few dragons that were still posturing on the ground. Yugi found his gaze focused on Atem, staring at the black and red dragon as he scanned the crowd. Their eyes met and held, Yugi suddenly reluctant to look away from Atem. The prince was aware of the females who were circling in the sky, jealous of them. They were the ones who got to fly with Atem, the ones who got to hold his attention for brief moments while he was stuck on the ground. Atem would be kept away with him until night fell, meaning that Yugi would have to stay on the sidelines all day. It wasn't fair. "To be honest, I don't think anyone knows what the cause actually is." Yugi quickly looked back at Hermos, blushing as the dragon gave him a smug look. "There are those who think that we should kill all humans while there are those who believe that we should try to reinstate our friendship with humans. Neither is going to happen on the scale that we want it. Humans in the kingdoms don't understand the old ways like the humans do here. They are scared of change and resist it by hiding behind their stone castles. To kill humans would lead to useless slaughter that would end the dragons. As for Atem's place in this," Hermos shook his head, "that title is empty and useless. Atem was just born in a time when the humans were starting to turn against us and we panicked. That's how a chick, got chosen for the task of sacrificing himself for the sake of all dragons." "Does he know this?" "Atem was probably the first to figure the title out. As for the rest of the dragons, they still cling to the hope that Atem will do as he is destined, even though it goes against all instincts. They threaten that they will take the title away from him, which is more of a blessing than a threat." Hermos paused for a minute, tapping a claw against the ground. "But I do think that dragon who gave Atem the title was right about one thing." "What?" Yugi turned to look at Hermos, surprised to find the dragon studying him closely. "The Morningstar is supposed to lead the dragons by example, show them how to live their lives. And Atem is doing just that, if they only knew how to look." The last word was nearly drowned out by the cheer that the observers gave as the male dragons launched themselves into the air. Yugi joined in the shout as he saw that Atem was the first off the ground, easily beating Rex and the others as he sought out a thermal and began to rise on it. A female from the outside of the group hesitated for a moment before shyly joining him. Yugi raised a hand to block the sun, smiling as he watched Atem give a nod of his head before beginning to circle around the female, careful not to touch her. Their dance had barely begun when another male shot from the group of males who were scanning the flying females, pulling her away. Atem quickly switched directions, using the thermal to rise up into the air and observe the dragons from above. Yugi smiled to himself, letting his eyes drop to the other dragons, noticing the series of acrobatics that the males put on to attract the females to them. Atem only dove back into the mass a couple more times, rising twice with another female. The longest one lasted was three minutes before a male stole her away. The prince let his eyes drop from the antics in the sky when Atem had been hovering above the group for five minutes. He tangled one hand in the short blades of grass, eyes becoming unfocused as he thought. It was obvious that Atem was going to keep himself unattached for as long as Yugi lived, no matter what happened. That kind of devotion was new to the prince, being much more used to the girls who flirted with him on a temporary basis until another noble became more attractive to them. Yugi had always seen himself as one who would only love one person, wincing at the memory of the girl in the village before his stabbing. That had been a mistake, the one time his judgment had slipped and he was not about to do that again. He learned from his mistake. And the only time anything had seemed right in the past four years was when he was with Atem. The dragon was the one that Yugi found always on his mind. Was that was love really was? An extended fascination with someone? Yugi flopped backwards onto the ground with a sigh, closing his eyes as he wracked his brain for the answer. The bards and poets that he had listened to had always made love seem like a whirlwind of untamable, violent emotions that took control of a person. But Yugi had never felt more in control than now. It was nothing like the stories, nothing that he had ever experienced. And that was what confused him. How was he supposed to know what it was when he had never experienced love before? He guessed he had experienced lust with that girl in the village, but never love. Yugi sighed and ran a hand through his hair, resisted the urge to groan in confusion. "Don't bother, you'll never figure it out." Yugi looked up as Hermos spoke, the red dragon smiling down at him before returning his gaze to the dragons in the sky. "I still haven't figured it out, even after those wonderful years with my mate." "I'm sorry." Yugi saw Hermos nod, acknowledging the apology. The red dragon's tail twitched before he spoke again. "All I know is that it's different for everyone but just as confusing. And I don't think anyone has ever figured it out. So, I just gave up and enjoyed it. I advise you to do the same." Yugi reached up and rested a hand over the scar on his chest, rubbing the area through the rough fabric of his shirt as he thought things over. Something nagged at the back of his mind, slowly unfolding as he watched Atem pull out of his hover and lazily circle over the flying dragons, sometimes executing a loop or two on his own. The poets had always said that you gave your heart to the one you loved, and Atem had literally done that. Somehow, the simple thought banished all of Yugi's confusion, leaving him with clear thoughts. He sat up and looked over at Hermos. "Can dragons do magic?" The question earned a scoff as the red dragon rolled his eyes. "Can dragons do magic? Of course we can! We are about the only creatures left who can." "Then, could you turn me into a dragon, just for a little bit." Yugi looked up, his hand clenching in the fabric of his shirt. Atem had been showing his love to Yugi for a while now, and it was Yugi's turn to respond. He shifted to face Hermos. "I want to be able to fly with him, to show that I love him too." "You're a brave human, Yugi." Hermos stood up, stretching as he did so. "There is a chance that you could be stuck like that." Yugi shrugged and rose to his feet. "I have nothing waiting for me back home. Everything that I want is here." Hermos glanced over his shoulders before walking off, Yugi jogging to keep up with the dragon. He glanced once over his shoulder at Atem, a smile crossing his face. He wasn't hesitant about this decision, like almost all the others he had made in his life, except when he had decided to save Atem. It wasn't like he was going to lose anything. In fact, he would gain someone who saw him as Yugi instead of the prince, someone to use to get rid of their problems. Yugi was reluctant to try and fight against Gozaburo again; if he lost then he would be dead. If he won then he would be ruling a kingdom, and he knew that he was unfit for that job. Seto was much better than he was, his cousin being able to handle the nobles and large crowds of people vying for attention. Those situations just made Yugi want to find a corner to hide in. He would abdicate the first chance he got. Anything to be able to stay out here with Atem in this little corner of peace. He nearly ran into Hermos as the dragon stopped, motioning for Yugi to stand in front of him. The dragon briefly circled Yugi before sitting back on his haunches, tapping the ground with one claw. "As a warning, this may hurt. Just close your eyes a picture a dragon in your mind to help guide the magic." He was about to do so when Hermos gave a trill, the red dragon seeming confused about something. Yugi opened his eyes, seeing Hermos tip his head to the side. "You may want to remove your clothes." Yugi immediately blushed, the dragon still too lost in contemplation to notice. "I'm not sure how the magic will affect clothing, especially during a change like this." Yugi followed Hermos' orders, hastily taking off his clothes before shutting his eyes and picturing a dragon in his mind's eye. At first, it was a carbon copy of Atem, but Yugi flinched and began editing the mental image. First, the black scales had a hit of purple at the edges instead of red. The wings shaded from black to red to yellow as they reached the ends and the basic body shape was more delicate than Atem's. Yugi was holding the picture in his mind when the first tendrils of magic brushed against him, the cold sensation making him open one eye and stare at the red flames that licked at him. A snort from Hermos made his eyes snap shut again, concentrating on the dragon that he held in his mind and praying that this would work. He didn't feel the change, just an odd stretching sensation and a shift in his mind. Suddenly, some matters were no longer important, fading into the backdrop of his mind as another thought was imposed on him. Atem was still unclaimed, but how long would that last. Yugi reeled with the strength of the thought, opening his eyes as he stumbled over his legs. He titled his head to the side and looked down at his four legs, flexing his claws experimentally in the dirt before unfolding his wings and looking back at them, smiling as the sun brought out the colors in them. Yugi folded them neatly against his sides and looked over at Hermos, bowing his head in thanks. The red dragon returned the motion. "Rest for a while, just to let the magic settle, before you try anything. They will be up there all day." Yugi settled himself on the ground, turning his head to look at the soaring dragons, surprised that he could still see them at this distance; they were indistinct, but still visible to him. He gave a happy coo before resting his head on the ground, purple eyes falling halfway closed and tail twitching occasionally as he sunbathed. Atem smiled at the fourth female that he had flown with, watching as her green eyes sparkled as she was led off by a jealous male. They would be happy together. Atem regained the altitude he had lost, glancing quickly back to where he had seen Yugi sitting, worry beginning to tug at his mind as he realized that the human was no longer there. He shook his head to dismiss the worry. Yugi could have just been called to help his grandfather or gotten hungry. He was sure to be back. Atem swallowed and looked up at the sun, his crimson eyes flickering closed. His moment of relaxation was broken as something brushed past him. He opened his eyes, backing away from the thing that had moved in on his personal space. He caught a glimpse of brown eyes before he felt something wrap around him, the dragon very careful to keep out of the way of his flapping wings. Atem turned his head with a snarl, glaring at the dragon who had dared be this forward with him. "Vivian!" The female dragon giggled, bobbing her head in greeting, which made the sunlight glisten off her yellow and back scales. Vivian had managed to wrap her snake-like body around Atem, her small forelegs resting comfortably against his side as her head was lying partially on his neck. Her own wings where folded as she let Atem carry the both of them, the extra weight making him struggle to keep up in the air. Atem turned away from her, gritting his teeth as he focused on flying, finally breaking out of his hover as the strain on his wings became too much. With a snarl, he flipped over onto his back, the sudden movement throwing Vivian from him. The serpentine dragon gave a hiss of displeasure before making her way back to him, her body moving sinuously as she flew. The black and red dragon backed away, baring his teeth as a warning for her to keep away. To his relief, Vivian listened to this warning, staying a good distance from him but making a slow circle around him. "Why are you resisting me, Atem?" "I told you I wasn't interested." Atem snapped the words out, looking for a way out. He stiffened as he heard a laugh from beside him, turning his head to see Rex rising towards him. The black and red dragon groaned, he thought that Rex had attracted a mate. Apparently he had sent her away as quickly as he had found her. Atem snarled at the newcomer before folding his wings to his sides and allowing himself to drop below the two dragons. Vivian immediately followed, Rex right behind her at a slower pace. Atem looked at her before snorting and turning his head away. "Did you hear what I said?" "But that was for the common riffraff, not for me." She gave him a sultry smile, the expression making him shudder. "I'm much better than the other dragons, I promise. A fitting mate for the Morningstar." "Don't waste you time, Vivian." Rex cooed at her, the female dragon looking at the other male with some interest. "He's been corrupted by the humans. He only has eyes for his Yugi." "Yugi?" "His lover." Rex gave Atem a wink, ignoring the growl that the dragon gave him. "You should have heard Atem calling for him last night, moaning his name until I came along." Rex paused, staring at Atem as if he were daring the black and red dragon to push him farther. Atem bared his teeth, the move earning a smirk from Rex. "Then he was begging me to fuck him." Atem roared and slammed into Rex, holding the purple and brown dragon's wings down. Rex gave a squawk of surprise as the two plummeted to the ground, Atem slowing their fall quickly. He glared at the dragon, digging his claws into him as Rex wiggled. The black and red dragon attempted to keep a hold on his temper. If he got into a fight, then his injuries would also transfer Yugi. For the human, he could stand more blows to his pride. While Atem struggled to bring himself back under control, Rex whimpered and opened his eyes. Atem glanced down at the dragon as he gave a chuckle. "So, you really do like that Atem. Want some-" The black and red dragon lost what little control he had gathered back. He raked his claws down Rex's stomach before letting the dragon drop. Rex screamed before he opened his wings. But Atem wasn't going to let him off. He dove and pushed Rex to the ground, pressing the purple and brown dragon into the dirt. Before Rex could react, Atem placed one hand on Rex's neck and the other between his shoulders, digging his claws in before leaning over the other dragon. He could hear the other dragons and humans running over to see if they could break up the fight before one of them was injured. Atem turned his head to snarl at the watchers; he didn't want to be pulled away, he wanted this dominance issue to be solved now. He had once been on the top and it chafed him to sit at the bottom. When he was sure that the others would not interfere, Atem leaned over to growl at Rex. "You will be silent." "Why?" Rex's voice shook, making Atem smile. Finally the purple and brown dragon was scared of him, which was the first step to earning Rex's respect. Atem jerked out of his thoughts as Rex attempted to gain control of the situation. "Am I right?" Atem gave a little bounce, hearing the bones creak dangerously under him. Rex screamed and writhing, stopping when Atem laughed. "You know what, I think I like this; you under me, screaming, and begging for mercy." "But I wasn't-" Rex screamed as Atem bit his neck, the black and red dragon shaking his head to rip some of the scales away. Rex scrambled at the ground, nearly sobbing as Atem pulled back, tipping his head to one side before shifting so one of his hind feet had the spur pressed to Rex's side; compensating for the shift by moving the hand between Rex's shoulders to his wings. He smirked and dug his claws back into the dragon. "Now beg." "Please Atem…" Rex cried out in pain as the claws dug into him, writhing as he tried to get himself away. "Please what, Rex?" Atem was nearly cooing now, tail twitching as he fought against the laugh that was bubbling in his throat. "You know I love to hear you beg. Tell me what you want." "Please stop. Just stop!" "Good boy." Atem let off and backed away, smirking as Rex made no movement. He had reclaimed his status without a fight and Rex was sure to never bother him again. Better yet, Rex's little group of followers would leave him be. Atem turned to look at Vivian, the yellow and black dragon hesitating before taking a step forward. Atem snarled at her, causing the female to startle and take off with a look of shock on her face. She had probably never been rejected before, at least not by a male she had truly desired. Atem followed her flight path with his eyes, watching her fly towards the dragons closer to the human camp. She would probably be back out tomorrow, eventually bothering him again. Hopefully another dragon would attract her attention and she would leave him alone, as slim as that chance was. Atem growled to himself and shook out his wings, the muscles sore from the long bouts of hovering. He was considering taking a break to go hunt, preferring something other than the slow cattle, when he heard Timaeus snort in surprise. "We've got a late one." Atem looked up, eyes widening at the graceful black dragon that flitted in and out of the group above. His wings fell to his sides, all thoughts of hunting banished as he watched the newcomer bank before diving back through the group. His eyes easily kept track of the black dragon, watching in awe as the sun brought out the purple highlights in its scales and the red and yellow on the edges of its wings. Without thinking about the motion, Atem launched himself into the air, chasing the black and purple dragon that teased him. He got a glimpse of a violet eye before the dragon spiraled upwards, Atem quickly following after. They broke through the other dragons, the smaller black and purple dragon shooting a coy glance over its shoulder. Atem took up the challenge, speeding up so he could match the other through a series of loops and spins, making sure to come close to touching his partner but never coming in contact. As they pulled out of a tight corkscrew, Atem found himself staring at the purple eyes of the dragon, staying still as the smaller dragon moved closer. A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth as the dragon spoke, easily recognizing the voice. "Atem." "Yugi." He tipped so the tip of his wing brushed against Yugi's back, the smaller dragon arching into the touch, a dreamy smile coming across his face. Atem gave him a nod before staring a new series of acrobatics, this time taking every opportunity to brush against Yugi, making the black and purple dragon shudder and slowly stoking the fire that was growing. He sighed as Yugi began to tentatively return the caresses, trembling as he forced himself to carry out the courtship properly instead of just taking Yugi now. Atem threw his head back, exposing his neck to Yugi as the smaller dragon trailed the tip of a wing over his stomach on a loop. Slowly, the touches became frequent and bold, cracking Atem's self control until there came a point where Yugi was nearly resting on Atem's back. The black and red dragon gave a soft groan before flipping himself over and hovering so he could catch Yugi. He held Yugi close, feeling Yugi struggle to hover as he panted for breath. He clung more tightly to the smaller dragon, lowering his head to nuzzle the sensitive spot under Yugi's jaw. Yugi gasped and scrambled for a better hold on Atem, tipping his head back with a moan to give Atem more access. "Why?" Yugi answered the question with a soft keen of pleasure. Atem chuckled at the response, but it wasn't the answer he wanted. As much as he wanted to take Yugi away and continue to render him senseless, he wanted the answer to this one question. He shifted his attentions and gave Yugi a nip on his neck, tensing as that caused Yugi to rub against him. Atem groaned and rested his head on Yugi's neck. "Please, love, concentrate." "Only you." Yugi dropped his head to nuzzle Atem. "I only want you. It seemed best to show you like this." "My Yugi." Atem gave a happy purr as he held the smaller dragon close for a moment before letting go and heading for the far side of the encampment, glad that the humans had migrated close to the forest this time. It would have made what he was about to do much more difficult if there hadn't been a secluded place for them. He glanced over his shoulder, pausing as Yugi hesitated for a moment. Without thinking about how human the gesture was, he held out a hand for Yugi, waiting until the smaller dragon brushed his claws against the offered appendage before continuing to lead Yugi away from all eyes. The continued their flirting as they flew, unable to keep from touching each other. Atem was the one to flip Yugi over in midair as they reached a secluded spot within the edges of the forest. He helped the smaller dragon to the ground before folding his wings and resting lightly on top of Yugi. Yugi groaned and arched up against Atem, making the larger dragon moan. Yugi scrambled to get out from under Atem and onto all fours, Atem watching the struggles through hazy red eyes. He struggled to gather his thoughts so that he could think, enjoying the feel of Yugi under him. He shook his head and gave a soft purr, pressing back against Yugi as the smaller dragon stopped his struggles, panting for breath. A whimper escaped Yugi, the smaller dragon too far gone to notice the sound. Atem lowered his head to nuzzle Yugi's neck, moving slowly up his neck until he was whispering in Yugi's ear. "I want this to be perfect. I want to hear you screaming my name as you come." Yugi moaned, rubbing against Atem at the husky tone of voice. The larger dragon bit back a moan, forcing himself to focus. "I want you to feel nothing but pleasure." "Please." Yugi whimpered out the word, writhing as the vibrations from Atem's purr ran through his body. Atem smiled before resting one hand against Yugi's rapidly beating heart, the solemn manner of the action partially dragging Yugi out of his daze. "My heart," Atem brushed his claws over the area as he whispered the endearment, "do you trust me?" "Always." Atem nodded, closing his eyes as he drew magic out of the earth. He opened them when he felt Yugi's shape alter under him, shrinking until he was human again. The dragon smirked fondly, lowering his head to nuzzle Yugi's chest, listening to the human gasp. He pulled away, resting a claw on Yugi's lips to prevent the human from speaking before he turned the magic on himself, focusing on becoming human. There was a faint tingle over his skin before the magic faded, Atem hesitantly opening his eyes to watch as the last of the black tendrils were sucked back into the ground. He looked back up at Yugi, the human sitting up with wide eyes, before shrugging and holding his arms out. "Good enough for you?" "Gods yes." Atem yelped as Yugi pushed him down to the ground, laying himself over Atem. He pressed his lips to Atem's, the former dragon letting the human have his way, submissively opening his mouth as Yugi brushed his tongue against his lips. As Yugi dominated the kiss, Atem let his fingers wander up the back of Yugi's legs and onto his back, loving the shiver that the other gave as Atem let his hands caress Yugi's sides. One hand reached up to tangle in Yugi's hair, encouraging a deeper kiss as Atem rolled them back over, silencing the small protest that Yugi gave. The human laughed into the kiss as Atem brushed over his side again, rolling his hips so their members brushed against each other. Yugi broke off the kiss to moan, eyes fluttering shut as he blindly grinded against Atem. Atem leaned down to nuzzle the exposed skin that he could reach, kissing and nipping his way up Yugi's neck. The human wiggled, creating more of that delicious friction. Yugi reached up and cupped Atem's face in his hands, pulling him from his work on Yugi's neck, amethyst meeting crimson. "I need you, now." Atem pushed Yugi back instead of responding, nudging the prince's legs apart as he offered two fingers for Yugi to suck on. He groaned as Yugi eagerly took the fingers into his mouth, his other hand clenching against the ground before he reached out to trace over Yugi's body. His fingers briefly toyed with Yugi's nipples before tracing around the scar on his chest before continuing down the prince's body. Yugi moaned as Atem brushed over his penis, arching up into the touch. Atem took the chance to remove his fingers, giving Yugi a quick kiss on his chest in apology. The prince slowly propped himself up on his elbows, glancing down his body at Atem. "Are you sure you want to do this?" The former dragon chuckled, a finger tracing around the tip of Yugi's member before closing his hand around Yugi and giving a harsh pump; smirking at the strangled cry that the motion brought. He reached down with his wetted fingers and circled Yugi's entrance, smirk growing wider as Yugi continued to squirm. "Just because I've never done this with a human doesn't mean that I'm totally ignorant. I still have a good few hundreds years on you." He slid a finger into Yugi, looking up at the prince's face as Yugi's inner muscles clamped down around the finger, trying to force it out. Atem shifted up to kiss Yugi's chest, looking up as his finger brushed over the bundle of nerves, making Yugi buck up, crying out in pleasure. Atem repeated the motion to hear the sound again as he nuzzled Yugi's chest. "That's the spot." He pushed a second finger in, brushing both over Yugi's prostate before scissoring the digits, calming the whimpers that emerged from Yugi's mouth as he finally leaned up to kiss the prince's lips. Feeling that his mate was adequately prepared, Atem removed his fingers and positioned himself at Yugi's entrance. He raised his hand to cup Yugi's check, rubbing his thumb over the smooth skin. "This might hurt, love." Yugi shook his head, wrapping one arm around Atem's neck. "I don't care. Please." Atem gave a nod and pushed into Yugi, biting back a moan as Yugi gave a cry of pain, the hand that resting on his back clenching and digging Yugi's nails into his skin. Atem winced, stopping to give Yugi time to recover. He began to move forward again when Yugi relaxed, fully sheathing himself in the prince as he began to tremble. Yugi rested his forehead against Atem, hand still twitching where it rested on the former dragon's back and panting for breath. Atem brushed one hand over Yugi's side, waiting for the prince to adjust as he forced himself not to move, his own eyes sliding shut at the feeling of being surrounded by Yugi. The prince glanced up at Atem through his blonde bangs, giving him a weak smile as permission to move. Atem returned the expression before pulling out of the prince. Yugi gasped and clawed at Atem, trying to draw him back in. Atem hesitated a moment before sliding back in with a grunt, Yugi giving a scream of pleasure as Atem brushed across his prostate. After a few awkward thrusts the two settled into a rhythm, Atem speeding up as Yugi clawed at him. He returned to kissing Yugi's neck, listening to the unintelligible sounds that his mate made. Yugi moaned, letting his head drop to the juncture between Atem's neck and shoulder, panting. Atem growled as Yugi tightened his inner muscles as Atem brushed his prostate. He wasn't going to last much longer, already worked up by the proper dragon courtship and the part of his mind that was still telling him that the mating should have ended by now. The difference in their body temperatures as well as the muscles that closed around his penis as he moved were just pushing him closer to that edge. He reached down to stroke Yugi's member, listening to the scream that the prince gave. Yugi clung to Atem, raising his head to stare right into the crimson eyes. "Can't..." Yugi interrupted himself with a scream as Atem hit his prostate on his next thrust. "Gods, Atem!" Atem nodded and purred, nuzzling Yugi as the prince bucked, beginning to shudder. Yugi lasted a few more thrusts before the came, screaming Atem's name as his release splattered over Atem's hand and their stomachs. Atem grunted as Yugi's muscles clamped down around him, shuddering as he quickly followed Yugi into climax. He screamed out his mate's name before collapsing, catching himself just over Yugi. The prince blinked up at him before sleepily pulling him close, squeezing as Atem went to pull out of him. "No. Stay. Warm." The prince cooed as Atem pressed a kiss to his neck, remaining on top of Yugi as they both came down from their high. He attempted to pull out of him again, only to be stopped by Yugi, the prince still holding him close. "Cuddle." Smiling at the order from his barely coherent mate, Atem complied, resting his body on top of Yugi's and closing his eyes. Yugi's hands still roamed over his back as Atem reached up to brush the sweaty bangs away from Yugi's eyes. "I love you." Yugi smiled, hands stopping their wandering to pull Atem closer to him, nuzzling the former dragon's shoulder. "Love you too." Rex snarled as he stalked through the dragons that were lying on the ground, trying to ignore their mocking stares and failing. He quickened his pace, reaching the small group of five dragons that were still loyal to him, although they were smiling too. He snapped at the face of one, watching as the small white dragon went tumbling back, whimpering as the others laughed at his misfortune. Rex's tail twitched, happy that the attention had been directed away from him. It was bad enough that he had come out of the first mating flights without a mate, losing the females to other males, but it was worse that Atem had managed to best him without expending much effort. His neck still hurt from where the black and red dragon had bitten him. He curled up on the ground, watching the group that surrounded him with a sense of skewed happiness. At least there were these few who still looked up to him. He was still on top somewhere. Rex gave a sleepy smile before closing his eyes, beginning to plot to himself. Vivian would no longer accept him, especially after what Atem had done to him. No female would allow him to follow them after what Atem had done, not unless they were desperate. And Rex had been looking over all the females that he would try to go after all during those months in the desert. But he would never get any of them now. He snarled and dug his claws into the ground, opening his eyes and raising his head to glare at the north, cursing the black and red dragon who had done this to him. There had to be some way to get his own back. Some way to take away everything that Atem held dear. Rex hissed to himself, ignoring the confused looks he got from the dragons around him. Atem had said nothing about his time in the north since they had last seen him. All Rex knew it that something had caused him to lose most of his weight and bring a lot of pain that left the black and red dragon unable to move for nearly two months. And it had all come from the north. The purple and brown dragon flipped himself more onto his side, staring at the stars before narrowing his black eyes. If he really wanted to, he could go find the humans that had driven Atem to this point, but he knew that the world had changed since they had been chicks. Humans were no longer inclined to help the dragons, but saw them as dangerous creatures; no longer capable of intelligence. He drummed his claws against the ground before standing up, decision made. He no longer cared about how humans thought about him. If Atem did as he was destined to do, humans would no longer matter. So, this wasn't dangerous at all. Rex rolled his shoulders before opening his wings, gently flapping them as he considered the distance. He knew vaguely where Atem had spent most of his life, some narrow little valley towards the north; a few days easy flight. And Rex intended to take his time. There was no reason to rush to help the humans or rush Atem towards his destiny. It would be his present to the newly mated dragon, a few months of bliss before destruction. He chuckled as he looked over at the five dragons, watching as some of them crouched low to the ground. "Follow me. We're settling things." A few nodded immediately, walking over to stand by him. Only the small while dragon remained pressed to the ground. Rex glared at him until the small dragon ambled over, reluctantly spreading his wings under the glare. Satisfied, the purple and brown dragon turned his head towards the north with a grin before leaping into the air and taking flight. He moaned as another cool cloth was pressed to his skin, a cold hand running over his forehead as another painted something onto his arms. He tried to pull away, the difference in sensations too much for him right now. The movement was stopped by another person, their soft mutter the last thing he heard before he slipped into sleep. "It's alright. We pulled you from the fire before it got too bad." Yay, the moment you had all been waiting for. And I just couldn't kill Duke. Read and review please. Criticism is always welcome.

Disclaimer: I do not own Yu-Gi-Oh or Dragonheart, they belong to their respective owners. I do, however, own bits of the plot. Warning: Slight amount of blood. Chapter Eight: Separation Although it seemed so dark that night, There was a speck of hope, of light. Mahad stared at the back wall of the shack, barely aware of the food that Ryou was shoving at him. He refused to look anywhere but at the wall, misery slowing his thought process. Finally, after hours of silence, Mahad leaned forward and resting his forehead against his one good hand, the other held close to his chest by a sling, and let out a soft moan. He had failed spectacularly. He had failed the people by being unable to kill the king. He had failed himself by once again casting himself into the world as a useless knight. He had failed Aislinn by being unable to protect her son. Most of all, he had failed Yugi. He choked back a sob at the thought, the images never leaving his head. He shut his eyes, events still playing behind his closed eyelids. Yugi getting his wrists grabbed and pulled above his head, the sword falling out of his hands. Gozaburo walking up behind Yugi and driving his sword through Yugi's heart. Yugi collapsing on the ground. Bleeding. Dying. It was even worse knowing that the dragon had been right. The dragon had said that the attack would never work; it had said that the attack would be suicidal. And it had been right. It had been able to get to Yugi faster in the end. It had been able to protect Yugi better than Mahad ever could, even to the point of shoving Mahad away. The dragon had held Yugi's attention while Mahad was forced to the background, a place that he wasn't comfortable with. It forced him to remember the last time Yugi had come to him with his problems, halting the thoughts when it brought up the image of a happy smile and sparkling amethyst eyes. It would have been better if Bakura hadn't dragged him out of the chaos that the dragon had caused. He would have been preferred an honorable death after his prince than live on knowing the true depths of his shame. Now he had nothing but a title that meant nothing, a sword, a horse and a broken arm. Nothing that really mattered anymore. Mahad looked down at the stale bread in his lap before picking the food up and standing, swaying as his head pounded. He ignored the pain, trying to head back to where he had tied his horse. The knight stopped when Ryou stood up and resting a hand on his uninjured arm, looking over his shoulder at the younger man. The expected question was never voiced, Mahad not trusting his voice. Ryou nodded to himself, seeming to decide something. "Where are you going?" "Away." He wasn't bothered by the ambiguity of the statement. He would just risk the direction that his horse took, probably heading back to his home in the north. He had no lands of his own like the other knights, just the job of protecting the prince. He could return and help his father with the manor and people, somewhere that would keep him away from anyone that had known him while he was here. Mahad rolled his shoulder, the poet releasing him with the motion. "But it would make more sense for us to stick together. You can't defend yourself like this." "I don't care." Mahad walked on, hearing Ryou begin to shout his name before the poet was stopped. The knight didn't have to look back to know that the thief had halted his lover, and he was glad of the action. He didn't want to be followed and his horrible mistakes written down for the rest of the world to remember for eternity. He walked faster, almost walking into a blonde man as he stepped out of a shack, the younger man escorting a familiar girl out into the open. Mahad paused at the familiar face, meeting the tear-stained blue eyes. He took a step back as the girl pulled away from her companion and stood in front of him. "Is it true?" He nodded and quickly walked away, nearly running when he reached the horses. He fumbled with the reins, pulling his brown horse away from the others and scrambling up into the saddle. He turned the horse quickly and gave it a harsh kick. The animal started into a gallop, heading north towards the old castle and up into the rainy country. He leaned over the horse's neck, flinching at the sound of the whinny from Yugi's palomino back in the village. He twitched his reins as his own horse tried to respond, urging it to a faster pace. But even the wind that whipped past him couldn't wipe the images from his eyes. Bakura led Ryou back to the horses, keeping a strong hold on the poet's wrist to keep him from dashing after the knight. He glared at his lover before tossing him up onto Thoth's back and untying the reins before leading the mule off. The thief paused once, shaking his head at his own foolishness before rushing back to untie the palomino before jumping into the saddle and turning the horse after the mule, who wasn't listening to Ryou's frantic attempts to move it forward. Bakura smiled and leaned down to regain his hold on the reins, leading Thoth away. He looked at the poet out of the corner of his eye, snorting as Ryou scrambled around in the saddle. "Sit still, he doesn't like that!" "But-" "That knight has no idea what he is doing. You won't get anything out of him, Ryou." Bakura pulled on the reins, encouraging Thoth to lumber up and stay with the palomino horse. "He's going to hide from the world. It's what his kind does when something like this happens!" "What else can you do when something like this happens?" The outburst reminded how much Bakura didn't know about Ryou. He stared down at the poet, suddenly wondering where he had come from. He was obviously from some noble family or profession that required learning written letters. And his usual tendency toward polite conversation and behavior was a big indicator that he was once part of that noble caste, but Bakura had never noticed it as that before. He had always thought it was a quirk. He turned his eyes away to look at the road before them. "You carry on as best you can, because lying down and wishing that you were dead too won't do anything." "But what if you can't?" Once again, Bakura found himself staring at Ryou, wishing that he knew more about his lover. He shrugged, making sure to keep eye contact this time. "You force yourself to. Eventually, you won't be able to feel the pain. It's the only thing you can do. Running away only means that the problem is still there, following you." Ryou looked abruptly away, meaning the Bakura had hit a nerve. The thief was tempted to pull up the horse and force Ryou to talk, wanting to learn more about the past that Ryou was obviously referencing. The brown eyed man stared back at him before giving a harsh shrug, the motion calling the conversation to a close. Bakura dropped his eyes, giving Ryou his own space as he turned to look down the road. With the conversation over, his mind began to work on the next step. They were bound to be noticed, both sporting distinctive white hair. And there was no hope that Gozaburo would have mercy on them as they had tried to kill him. If anything, the king would squeeze even more out of the peasants, making it impossible for Bakura to ask anything of them. He had come from stock like this and understood what fear could do to people. He would not ask them to do such things. So, that left them with the only option of getting out of the kingdom before Gozaburo got the chance to do anything. Bakura scowled at the thought of running, his gut instinct telling him to stay in the valley between the hills. Surrounding them were small kingdoms, where the leader and the rest of the people existed in equal squalor, meaning that there was no chance for him to practice his profession. If they traveled even further out they reached the edge of Bakura's knowledge, the thief having never ventured into the plains or scrubland that surrounded them to the south. If they stayed, then they would have to hide in the forest and depend on their wits to keep them safe or find a place where they couldn't be found. The more he thought over this new idea, the more he liked the sound of it. He tilted his head to the side as he turned the thought over in his head. There had to be plenty of places that Gozaburo wouldn't look for them or places where knights would never dare to go on their own. Someplace where it would be easy to defend… Bakura quickly turned the horse toward the pine forest, searching for the path they had taken up to the waterfall where they had first met the dragon. No knight would be willing to go back there with the dragon's reputation and most would assume that he was still there. They would be safe and, Bakura couldn't believe that he actually was considering it, Ryou would be able to continue his story. The thief ducked his head as they entered the forest, the fragrant scent of the pines assaulting him. Bakura snorted and leaned forward, narrowing his eyes as he peered through the trees. He looked over at Ryou, surprised to see the poet pulling himself out of one of his funks. Usually they would last for hours, maybe a day, as he sorted through whatever past the poet was struggling through. He looked up at Bakura with worried brown eyes. "What are you doing?" "We're hiding in plain sight. Believe me, it works." Bakura let go of Thoth's reins as they moved around a small sapling, his eyes widening as he spotted the narrow path that they would have to climb. Somehow, it had seemed easier before. But he had been on the ground and leading a mule, not on a flighty horse. His hands tightened on the reins for an instant before the urged the palomino in front of the mule, flinching as the horse stumbled as it stepped on the rocky path. When he felt that the animal was less likely to send them both plummeting to their death, he turned to smile back at Ryou. "Besides, you want to continue that tale of yours." "Is it even fair since the prince is dead?" "He'll stay that way then." Ryou blinked once before his face twisted in confusion, the sight very endearing. "But…he's dead." Bakura wanted to curse the gods for getting him stuck with this poet. He shook his head, surprised to feel a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. Apparently, he enjoyed the curse of the poet's dense moments. The thief shoved the sentimentality to the side. "Immortalized in word and verse. I believe you said that once." He didn't need to turn around to see that Ryou's eyes had widened in comprehension. He felt the gaze of the poet turn away as Ryou focused his gaze on the sky, probably already planning out the next events of his poem. With the poet's silence taken care of, Bakura returned to his frantic clinging to the saddle, glaring at the space between the palomino's ears. Seto held out an arm to stop Kisara, his eyes narrowing as he glared at his father. Gozaburo gave him a content smile from his place at the head of the table in the great hall. Seto hesitated for a moment before giving Kisara a gentle shove back into the corridor. He didn't want her around when he confronted his father about the night before. She didn't move for a moment, making him think that he would have to order her away, but then she was gone, silently slipping into the shadows. He turned his head slightly to watch her go, most of his attention focused on his father. He stepped into the great hall, crossing his arms across his chest and glaring at the king, who was still smiling at him. Seto raised an eyebrow and sat down in the chair across from Gozaburo, tired of waiting for a reaction. "What happened last night?" Gozaburo waved off his question, finally looking down at the cup that was in front of him. "A minor skirmish, nothing more." "Then why was I not allowed to help?" Seto prevented himself from showing any emotion other than the raised eyebrow. "When I went to the door to go and help, I was rushed here with the rest of the women and children." "A mere precaution." "I saw the courtyard this morning." That got a reaction out of his father, the man choking on his wine as he looked up at Seto. Their eyes met for a moment before Gozaburo finally looked away. Seto snorted in distaste. "It was littered with bodies, most of them torn apart, broken on the ground or burnt to a crisp. That was no minor skirmish last night. Now, I'll ask you again, what happened last night?" "Does it really matter?" Gozaburo was looking at the dark wine in his cup, gently twirling the it in his fingers. "We were victorious in the end. Nothing else matters." Seto leaned forward, slamming his palms onto the table. "What if they come back? What then, father? Will we lose more of our men to a 'minor skirmish'?" "They won't return, I can assure of that." Gozaburo gave a slow smile at made Seto shiver. He looked away for a moment, not wanting to look at his father at the moment. With a long sigh, Seto turned his gaze back, relieved to see that the smile was completely gone from his father's face. "Tell me then how you can do that." "We killed Yugi." Seto almost collapsed at the offhand way that his father informed him of the news. His hands gripped the edge of the table, knuckles turning white as he stared at the floor. Seto blinked slowly, the information still processing in his mind. Yugi. His little cousin. No, it couldn't happen. Seto took a deep breath, gritting his teeth as he looked back up at his father. He shifted his stance so he was leaning threateningly over the king, nearly growling as he spoke. "You cannot be serious." "You will find, Seto, that I am." Gozaburo casually tossed his sword to the surface of the table, the iron blade clattering as it hit the wood. Seto's eyes were drawn to the large red stain that ran over most of the surface of the blade, eyes widening in horror. One hand cautiously reached out for the sword before he jerked it back to its place gripping the front of the table. His father raised an eyebrow at the movement before motioning with the hand that held the cup. "I didn't clean it so you would believe me. I stabbed him right through the heart. Now there's no more competition for the throne." Seto barely heard the last part, pushing away from the table as his mask of indifference shattered. His own father had killed Yugi, the one he considered a brother, even after years of separation. And he had thoughtfully planned out how to tell Seto of Yugi's demise, even to the point of presenting him with the sword that had ended his cousin's life. He wasn't sure if he wanted to cry or kill Gozaburo, but the latter choice was slowly gaining precedence. He forced himself to stand upright, glaring at the sword before snatching it from the table and walking over to the doors that lead to the courtyard. Hearing his father chuckle from behind him, Seto yanked open the doors and tossed the weapon to the first stable boy that was walking past. "Clean this. I don't want a single speck of blood left on it when you are done." The boy gave a quick bow and scurried off. Seto turned around, slamming the doors behind him and storming back to glare at his father. Gozaburo just chuckled at his son's antics, raising his cup to his lips to take a drink. "That won't help the situation one bit." Seto snarled and knocked the cup from his father's grip, sending the gilt object crashing into the wall and letting the wine spill to the floor. Gozaburo tapped his fingers on the table before standing up, glaring at his son. "You let your emotions control you." "He was my cousin!" Seto didn't care that he was out of control for once. He hadn't let his mask slip when Mokuba had died, or when his mother had died, following his father's example. He had even held back his anger when Gozaburo had killed Aislinn, Kisara taking up most of his attention. But this was one time he was not going to allow himself to hold back. It was Yugi! "He was like my brother, and you killed him!" "As long as he lived he was going to incite rebellion." "Do the peasants look like they can rebel? Yugi was harmless, he wouldn't have encouraged them to rebel if the cost was too high! He would have been content to sit back and let you rule!" Seto kept his mouth open for a second longer before snapping it shut, finding he had nothing left to say to his father. He turned around, intending to storm back up into his room. He jerked his shoulder out of the grip that his father had on him, earning a glare from Gozaburo. "You forget that I do this for our line. Remember that, Seto." He brushed off his father's words and stormed back up to his room, beginning to pace the floor as he waited for Kisara's reappearance from wherever she had gone. They needed to talk about their plans for the future instead of avoiding the subject. They needed to work in the fact that Yugi would never come back and take the strain of the throne away from them and gather together loyal forces. Seto wasn't going to sit back and let his father get away with Yugi's murder. Seto stared down at the desk on one side of his room, the piece of furniture having been moved to his private rooms when he could no longer stand the chance that he would meet his father while he was working on keeping the kingdom in order. He walked over and stared down at the pieces of paper that littered the surface, the move having disturbed his usually clean state. As he stared at the wood and paper, he knew that he had to find Mahad. Their old mentor and protector would join their side, eager to help kill the one who had killed their prince. Mahad could also help where Seto's knowledge of strategy and the populace was splotchy. Between the two of them, they could find a way to wrestle the kingdom out of Gozaburo's grasp. And then… Seto reeled, leaning against the desk as he realized what a rebellion would mean. He would have to take the throne, a throne that he never thought would belong to him. The throne that he would never feel belonged to him. It would always be Yugi's throne and Yugi's crown, not his. His father had stolen it from his cousin and Seto was taking it in memory of his cousin. He rubbed his temples as the thoughts began to rush around in his head, realizing that he had been referring to his cousin in the past tense. He walked over his bed and flopped down onto it, resting an arm over his eyes. He resigned himself to waiting for Kisara, suddenly needing the comfort that she offered to him. Suddenly, he didn't want to stand on his own. Kisara slipped out through a side door, holding up a hand to her mouth as she crossed the courtyard to where Akhnamkanon was chained down. The black dragon rolled an eye to look at her before sighing, the chains rattling with the motion. She took her hand away from her face to give him a smile, noticing the slight burn marks on his scales. At least there was some life back in the old dragon's eyes. "You've come out here to ask what went on last night." She nodded, one hand holding the fabric of her dress slightly off the ground. "I heard Atem." Akhnamkanon sighed, eyes shifting away from her. "He was here. He was working with the few people who wanted to overthrown Gozaburo. But…" He trailed off for a moment, his eyes darting to one corner of the castle. Kisara tried to look around him, but Akhnamkanon simply shook his head. "I'm afraid that he will become like you, willing to give up everything." "But I-" "Not that I think that is wrong." Akhnamkanon hastily amended his statement, looking sheepish for the first time that Kisara could remember. The dragon shifted, looking up at the sky. "No, I shouldn't think that is wrong, especially with what I've done to myself to keep him safe from what fate awaits him. But I can't help but worry, because he will have made the same mistake I have." "What mistake?" When the dragon was silent, Kisara moved closer. His words had increased her worry for her friend. She jumped at the snort that came from Akhnamkanon, realizing that the black dragon was crying. She knelt by his head, resting one hand on his muzzle as she waited for him. "Kisara, he was so thin when I saw him. And I've heard the knights talking and they've been driving him crazy." He moved a bit farther away from her touch, acting like it pained him to be in contact with another creature. "And he was willing to defend a human over his own father. He was frightening so see him when they killed the human, because he went crazy, even striking at those who were on his side. But, I'm afraid it's too late for Atem." "Too late? Akhnamkanon, what do you mean?" "They stabbed that boy, right through the heart…" "What boy?" Kisara shook her head, reaching out to touch the dragon again but only to have him pull away again. "What boy are you talking about?" "He was the prince, Kisara. Aislinn's son." "Yugi." Kisara saw the dragon nod, her own hand coming up to rest over her heart. So that was what the commotion was about last night. Yugi had tried to free the kingdom from Gozaburo, and failed. She dropped her hand, one finger tracing invisible patterns on the stone as she waited for Akhnamkanon to continue. "He's given the boy his heart, Kisara." She looked up, eyes widening. Both of them had known what had happened to Akhnamkanon and why he was imprisoned. But then, why had Atem gone ahead and made the same mistake his father had? They knew how this would end, humans could never accept that they were tied to a dragon without trying to dominate the creature. It was why she had given up that form to be with Seto. But Atem wasn't like her, he wouldn't change from a dragon, he was too proud for that. He had always seemed to look down on humans, hating them for what they were doing for the dragons. Still, he had been kind and always willing to listen when Kisara had talked endlessly about Seto, teasing her about the affection she felt for 'her human'. It had never occurred to her that Atem would find a human that he could tolerate, let alone tie his life to like that. Part of her refused to believe it, urging her to speak. "What makes you think that?" "If you had seen him, then you would have known." Akhnamkanon shuddered his eyes staring fixedly on the castle wall. "If you or I had come out to try and help that prince after they had stabbed him, Atem would have killed us both without a second thought." "But, he knows us! Why-" "Wouldn't you do the same if someone injured your human?" The cool logic calmed her for a moment. Kisara looked down at the ground before stepping away, heading back into the castle. A soft rumble drew her attention back to the dragon, Akhnamkanon straining against the chains that held him against the ground. "When the time comes, could you do it?" "Do what?" "Kill me." He didn't seem to notice how her eyes widened. "You or your human. It doesn't matter. But there will come a point when this existence isn't worth much anymore." She didn't want to, but she found herself nodding anyway. She could understand his thinking, no matter how much it repulsed her. There would come a time when this arrangement wouldn't work, and Akhnamkanon was at the mercy of the humans, a place where the proud dragon would rather not be. It was the least she could do for him. Kisara winced at the direction her thoughts were taking, stiffening at the soft sound of the dragon's voice as he whispered, "I wish you and your mate luck with your brood, Kisara." Tears came to her eyes as Kisara turned to smile at the old dragon before she rushed back into the castle, coming to an abrupt halt. Calming herself quickly, Kisara darted toward a servant's stairwell, preferring to take that route over accidentally meeting Gozaburo on her way up. She paused halfway up the stairs, gasping for breath before continuing at a more sedate pace. Once at the top, she peered into the corridor before walking gracefully over to their chambers, opening the door and stepping in. Her eyes widened as she saw Seto sprawled across the bed. Kisara moved to her side of the bed, sitting beside him and running a hand through his brown hair. He lifted the arm his had over his eyes to smile at her before letting the limb drop back to the bed with a sigh. "My father murdered my cousin." "Yugi will be alright." Seto blinked up at her, before shaking his head. "Yugi is dead, Kisara." "No. He's still alive." She cut off a yelp as Seto sat up and shoved her away. "I am already mocked on a daily basis by my father, I do not need you to help him with that job." Kisara sighed, absently resting one hand against her stomach as she thought. Of course that had not been the best approach for Seto, Yugi had meant a lot to him. She should have known that Gozaburo would have taunted him about his cousin's death. She stood up, walking up behind Seto and placing her hands on his shoulders, holding tight when he meant to shove them off. "I am not mocking you, Seto. A dragon saved your cousin." "A dragon…" Seto began to scoff, the emotion behind the action disappearing as he realized what she meant. Before Kisara could react, he pulled away, turning around and yanking her close. "Like what that dragon did to my father?" "Yes." "Gods." Seto slumped, Kisara hastily holding him up. He rested his forehead on her shoulder, taking in a shaky breath as Kisara ran her hands down his back. "He'll be alright." Kisara led him back over to the bed, laying them both down as she continued to soothe her lover, relaxing only when she heard him sigh. "The dragon will take care of him, I promise that." Seto made a muffled noise of disagreement before closing his eyes and pulling Kisara close to him in a hug. She let him hold her, reaching back to run her hand through his hair again. Yugi was sent tumbling to the ground, looking up quickly as the dragon that had carried him flew away. It landed a short distance away, looking back at him with a hiss before glancing up at the other two dragons that were flying in. Yugi ignored the other one, only having eyes for the dragon that carried the limp form of Atem. The dragon shot a glare at him before landing gently, the sun shining off its green scales. It set Atem down gently on the ground, its tail quickly curling around the smaller dragon as Yugi tried to rush over. The dragon looked over his shoulder with a disgusted snort. "Haven't you done enough, human?" "No, you don't understand…" Yugi jumped at the strangled sound that Atem made, one hand dropping to hold his own stomach as it cramped. He winced, almost falling to the ground with the pain. He stared down at the dirt, panting for breath. He barely noticed the green dragon stride off, too focused on himself. What was going on? He hadn't been in pain like this before, there was no reason for it. He looked up, staring at Atem for a moment, mind weakly shuffling back through his memories, mouth falling open. He had been killed earlier. Gozaburo had stabbed him through the heart. If that was the case, why was he still alive? Yugi scrambled to his feet, running over to Atem and taking up his station at the black and red dragon's head. He made a soothing noise as one red eye opened, searching for him as Yugi stroked Atem's head. The dragon's mouth opened, looking like he was going to speak, but he could make no sound. Yugi smiled, fingers seeking out that one spot above Atem's eye. "Don't worry, I'm still here." Atem responded by pushing his head gently into Yugi's rubbing fingers, eye falling shut again. Cautiously, Yugi unwrapped the arm he had around his stomach and placed that hand on the dragon too. He leaned over Atem, wincing at the pain that the move brought to his stomach. "Atem, I need you to concentrate for a moment, please. I know I died earlier tonight." The dragon gave a whimper, which Yugi thought he meant as a denial. He shushed the dragon, resting his forehead against Atem. "Hush. I'm still here. But you did something. What did you do?" "Heart." The word was faint and Yugi thought he had misheard at first. He glanced down at his shirt, noticing for the first time the blood that stained it and the charred edges. With a shaking hand, he traced the scar on his chest, eyes widening when he felt the steady beat. None of this was right, he was supposed to be dead. But Atem had saved him, had fixed his heart somehow. His hand dropped back to the dragon in the next second as Atem tried to move, keeping the dragon still. Atem hissed in displeasure but listened to Yugi's frantic whispers. "Share heart, share pain. Sorry." "Don't apologize." Yugi dropped to his knees, sighing as he rested against the dragon. "Don't ever apologize." "You!" Yugi spun around at the growl, shrinking back against Atem as the dragon stared down at him. This one was a deep purple, two fangs hanging down from the sides of its mouth. Yugi found himself staring up at the jewel-like structure on the forehead of the dragon before looking up at the three spikes that covered the top of the dragon's neck. Scales descended down the neck in an arrangement like plates of armor, leading to the tail that broke off into a pitchfork shape. Six dangerously sharp claws were one every hand and foot, two extra spikes on the knees of the hind legs. The dragon hissed at Yugi before turning his head and shouting into the human village. "Dartz!" A human came rushing out at the call, Yugi turning his head to look at the new comer. The dragon took the moment to pull him away from Atem, earning a yelp from Yugi and a strangled snarl from Atem as the red and black dragon tried to find the human again. Yugi twisted in the dragon's hold, the earth moving quickly under him before he was deposited on the ground again. The prince glared at the dragon before turning to look at the man that they had stopped in front of. The man crossed his arms, his long white robe easily concealing his hands with the movement. Cold amber eyes stared back at Yugi as the man looked him over. Finally, he shook his head, long aqua hair falling in disarray down his back. Yugi tried to scramble backwards, but the dragon wouldn't let him move, happily passing him over to Dartz before walking back over to where the two other dragons from before had congregated over by Atem. Yugi turned to follow the dragon, jumping when he felt the man pull on his arm. The prince shot a glare in his direction, but following the order to stand up. "Where are you taking me?" "Away while they work to help him." Dartz sighed as he answered Yugi's question, like the prince was below him. Yugi struggled against the hold for a moment, turning his head to look back at the group of dragons who were looming over Atem. His arm was subjected to another sharp pull as Dartz continued to lead him toward the tents. The man turned to face him abruptly, catching his chin and forcing Yugi to look at him. "I know you probably didn't hurt that dragon, but Timaeus overreacts to humans with injured dragons. He'll apologize for his rough behavior as soon as your dragon pulls through." He made to start pulling Yugi off again when the green dragon stood on his hind legs, looking around at the tents before bellowing. "Solomon!" Dartz halted in his tracks, looking between the three dragons and the tents, his hand falling away from Yugi. The prince took a step back, intending to make a run for it when he saw the look in Dartz's eyes. The man felt Yugi's gaze and looked down to meet it. "Apparently things are worse than we thought." "Worse…" Yugi hastily jumped to the side as an elderly man with messy grey hair rushed past, disappearing into the clump of three dragons. The prince turned back to stare at Dartz, watching as the man seemed to be thinking things over. "Who was that? And how are things worse?" "Solomon is the only human in our clan that retains the use of magic, specifically the kind of magic that helps in healing. He mostly works on our cattle but," Dartz wiped a sleeve over his forehead, "something must be really wrong with that dragon it they've called him over." Yugi was about to demand a better answer when red hot pain slashed across his stomach, making him cry out and fall to his knees. His vision wavered, snapping back into focus as he heard the last bellows of pain from Atem. Yugi trembled and laboriously got back to his feet, keeping one arm pressed over his stomach. He shook his head, clearing the ringing in his ears before stumbling forward a step, nearly falling before Dartz caught him. Yugi slumped in the hold, allowing the man to support him for a moment before trying to pull away as Dartz began to pull him towards the tents. "No! I have to-" Yugi gasped at another slash of pain across his stomach, looking up to see the green dragon backing away, blood on its claws. He stumbled a few steps away on his own before falling to his hands and knees, panting as he tried to breathe. He felt a hand on his back, tilting his head to look at Dartz. Yugi looked away, glancing down at his stomach, expecting blood to be leaking from him. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts before looking back up at Dartz. "Please, he has no idea what is going on. He only understands that I'm here somewhere." He nearly growled as Dartz pulled him into a sitting position, plucking at his shirt around the hole. Yugi jumped away from him as the man brushed his fingers over the scar on his chest, purple eyes darkening in anger. Dartz didn't seem to notice, the aqua haired man leaning back on his hands, still staring at the scar. "Where did you get that?" "Atem said something about sharing a heart and sharing pain." Yugi nearly whimpered out the next word, swaying on his feet. The man nodded to himself before standing up and wrapping and arm around Yugi's waist. The prince was about to struggle out of his grip again when the man began to guide him toward Atem. Yugi sighed with relief, the sound dying as he heard the conversation. "Was that really necessary, Solomon?" Yugi caught a glimpse of the old man from around the dragon's leg as Dartz maneuvered him closer. Solomon shook his head and ducked back down, peering at something that held his attention. "I know the inner workings of cattle, not dragons. I am to help this one, then I actually need to see what I am doing." There was the disgusting sound of flesh pulling away from flesh before Solomon sat up again, nodding to himself. "I thought so, his gut is twisted." The prince tried to get a look at what they were examining, but Dartz kept moving him before he could get a good look. Yugi's attention was distracted by a groan from Atem. From above him, one of the dragon's hissed, glaring at Solomon. "You said that you could keep him asleep." "That was before I had to do this with magic. Just hold him down and I will work as fast as I can." Solomon snapped the command at the dragon, who dropped down to hold onto Atem's neck and shoulders, the purple dragon doing the same to the hindquarters. Only Timaeus remained on guard, looking over what Solomon was doing. With the absence of the other dragons blocking his line of vision, Yugi could clearly see what was going on. And it took everything he had not to throw up. Atem's stomach was sliced open towards his hind end, the blood probably kept from spilling out of him by magic. Solomon had one arm stuck inside the incision, eyes closed as he searched for something, a faint smile coming across his lips when he discovered what he sought. The clean hand reached up and stroked the skin that was in his reach. "Almost done now, young one. Just hold on a few moments more." The black and red dragon hissed in pain, one leg weakly twitching in the hold that the other two dragons held on him. "Where is…" "Where is what?" Solomon encouraged Atem on, his smile growing wider as he twisted his arm inside Atem. "Yugi." His name was breathed out on a whisper, the action earning a slap from Solomon before the old man went back to working. Yugi flinched as the pain of the slap was transferred to him, staring at the old man in awe. "You stay with me now, young one. It's almost over. Keep talking." Atem twisted in the hold that the two dragons had on him, eyes shut tight. "Yugi." "That's it young one, keep talking to me. I'm almost done here." Solomon paused for a moment, shifting as he moved his hand again. "My daughter always wanted to name her child Yugi but…well she died before that could happen." Atem groaned, a shudder running through his body. Solomon pulled his hand out, the arm bloody up to his shoulder. He looked up and nodded to Timaeus, the two of them waiting until purple tendrils pulled the two sides of the incision together. Timaeus took a deep breath and cauterized the wound, the tendrils of magic disappearing when the flames touched them. Yugi screamed when he felt the action on his own stomach, nearly falling to his knees. He reeled as Dartz gave him the final push, sending him stumbling to Atem's head. Yugi grabbed onto Atem as he felt the dragon moan, the smell of burning flesh disappearing as Timaeus stepped back. The green dragon shook his head at he looked over Atem, eyes drifting down to gaze at Solomon. "He's in horrible condition. Between his weight and what you just did, he'll be using up more of his body's resources that he can spare. We need to take to the desert, where he doesn't have to worry about keeping a constant body temperature…" The dragon trailed off as his gaze fell on Yugi. He dropped down to all fours and snarled, teeth hovering above the prince. "What are you doing here human?" Atem opened his eyes and tried to snap at Timaeus, teeth falling short of their goal with the hold that was still on him. Yugi rested a hand on Atem's muzzle, silently telling him to lay still while he glared up at the green dragon. "He asked for me." "Yugi." The prince looked back down as Atem nudged him gently. He sat on the ground, guiding Atem so the dragon could rest his head on Yugi's lap. Atem sighed, leaning into the human and nearly knocking him over. "My stomach hurts." Yugi laughed and gave him a light tap on the muzzle, smiling as Atem slowly opened one eye to look at him, the haze that had once covered the crimson irises gone. "You just had your stomach ripped open. It should hurt for a while. But they fixed whatever was wrong. You'll be alright." The dragon purred, obviously enjoying the contact with the human. The sound stopped abruptly and Atem raised his head from Yugi's lap, looking over the human in concern before nuzzling the prince's stomach. Yugi quickly pulled Atem back down, giggling as the motion tickled him. Atem seemed comforted by the sound of his laughter, but there was still worry in his eyes. "Are you okay?" "Now I am." Atem nuzzled Yugi's leg, giving a soft purr as he did so. Yugi allowed Atem to rest like that for a while before gently tapping him, drawing his attention back to Yugi. "They're taking you to the desert so you can get better." Instead of relaxing like he expected, Atem whimpered and pressed closer to Yugi, struggling to get out of the hold that the other two dragons still had on him as Solomon continued to examine his patient. Yugi tried to calm him, mumbling nonsense until Atem stopped struggling, the trials of the day catching up to him. He let out a long sigh, looking up at Yugi. "I don't want to leave. Something might go wrong." "You'll be the first to know." Yugi tapped his heart with a smile, trying to let Atem know that he didn't mind the action that the dragon had taken. His smile faltered as Atem looked away with a long sigh. Yugi ran his hand down the dragon's muzzle, closing his eyes to savor the warmth and the feel of leather under his palm. "I'll be alright. I promise." Atem gave a weak grunt of agreement, trying to look fierce as he struggled to fight off exhaustion. "Don't go anywhere." "I'll stay right here and wait for you." Yugi pulled Atem into a hug, not letting go until the sound of someone clearing their throat made him look up. Atem gave a soft growl when Yugi shifted, looking up at the elderly man who had helped Atem. Yugi wiggled out from under the dragon, scrambling backwards as Timaeus walked over, the other dragons releasing their hold on Atem so the green dragon could pick him up. Atem snarled at the treatment, the threat carrying no weight as he could do nothing but twitch the tip of his tail. Timaeus glanced down at Dartz, giving the man a nod of his head. "We'll be back in time for mating season." Dartz waved them on, rolling his eyes and muttering something about 'dragons' before walking back into the group of tents. Yugi remained sitting on the ground, watching as Timaeus took off, the purple and red dragons following him. The prince leaned back onto his hands, titling his head back as far as it would go to track the dragon's progress across the sky. He finally sat back up when he could no longer see the dragons, eyes widening as he met Solomon's eyes. The two stared at each other for a long time before the elderly man began to tremble. Yugi was about to ask if he was alright when Solomon dropped to the ground in front of him, staring directly in his eyes. "Yugi, who was your mother?" "My mother?" Yugi was stunned by the seemingly random question before he gathered his wits, shaking his head. "Aislinn." "Where was she from?" "She never told me." Yugi shook his head, scooting backwards away from Solomon. "She never talked about her past. She only said that she was taken from her clan and that I had inherited my grandfather's hair." "My Aislinn…and you have her eyes…" Yugi quickly got to his feet, only to be pulled into a hug. The prince struggled to get away from Solomon, stopping when he felt tears falling in his shoulder. He glanced around, hoping that there was someone who could tell him what was going on, tensing when Solomon staring speaking. "I thought she was dead when that king slaughtered them all. I looked for days, but I couldn't find her." He pulled away, holding Yugi at arm's length, examining him before a soft smile stole across his face. The expression lasted for a while before Solomon took in the scared look on Yugi's face. His arms dropped back to his sides as he stepped away. "I'm sorry…it's just been so long…and…" Suddenly, Yugi couldn't bear to see the elderly man sinking into sorrow. He reached out to grab Solomon's arm, making sure that the elderly man was focused on him before he spoke. "My mother talks a lot about dragons, even has a whole room with dragon figures carved out of wood and stone." The old man brightened, suddenly swooping Yugi up into a hug. "That's my daughter. She survived." Yugi found himself laughing along with Solomon, the joy infectious. He stumbled a bit when he was placed back on the ground, Solomon pulling him into another hug. Yugi smiled and let the old man hold him, relishing the close contact with another human being. They both pulled away with identical smiles, Solomon reaching out to guide Yugi back into the group of tents. "Tell me everything. Ryou watched the flames of the fire lick at the wood, hearing the soft sounds of Bakura as the thief slept. The poet rubbed his bare arms, wishing that he had put on a shirt as well as his pants before crawling out to restart the fire. It was getting close to winter, the chill in the air telling him that. It was going to be hard to find food in this area without stealing from the peasants, which Bakura would refuse to do in the end. So the thief would go for the nobles, which would be dangerous with Gozaburo on the look out for them and Mahad. Their time of moving behind the scenes was over, ended easily in a single night. The poet scrubbed a hand across his face before resting his chin against his knee, eyes following the trail of yellow in the fire. While Bakura had told him only a few reasons for their continued stay in Gozaburo's kingdom, he knew that part of it was because the thief couldn't refuse Ryou anything. His hand clenched by his side, the crackle of paper reminding what he had also brought with him. He looked down, fingers automatically smoothing out the paper. Its yellow surface was littered with smudged, dark spots of ink, words and sketches; none of the latter ever matching what Yugi had done with his pictures of those dragons. He looked up to where the prince's palomino horse was tied, looking at the pack that was tied to the cantle of the saddle. He couldn't bring himself to touch any of that stuff, but Bakura would eventually. And only for their own survival. There was probably a law among thieves against stealing from dead friends unless the circumstances called for it. But he wanted to be sure that the drawings made it somewhere safe. There was probably good money to be made from them, if they were sold to some artist. But they wouldn't be the same. The dragons that Yugi had sketched from memories of their dead bodies held a sort of sorrow that wouldn't be duplicated by another artist. The dragons would be turned into vicious beasts instead of the tragic figures that they had become, fighting for survival in a world that no longer wanted them. It was almost better that they were forgotten, like the true identity of the one who had brought them to life. His fingers twitched on the paper again, the sound encouraging him to pick up the pages. Ryou stared at the neat lines of his writing, hand twitching to grab a quill to fix his mistakes. He had brought his great work out here to burn it, to condemn the memory to ashes and scatter them to the wind. It no longer mattered to him that no one would read if he had done that. To him, it had become like the dragon sketches, something that would be irreversibly changed. But, as he read it over to commit his great folly to memory, Ryou found that he couldn't throw it into the fire, his mouth dropping open as he realized what was appearing out of his words. It had stopped being a story about a brave a just knight struggling to free the kingdom from the threat of dragons, but the tale of a beaten down man struggling to free the kingdom from a tyrant; the only one willing to take a stand. And, leaping out from the pages, was the dragon, strong and powerful like Ryou remembered him. The dragon seemed to draw the darkness and despair, just as the prince counteracted that, becoming the brave knight of legend. But still fundamentally changed. There was no dragon without the prince and no prince without the dragon. They worked in balance. When one was missing, the rhythm was off, the poem too bright or too dark. And while that was alright for small portions, it would have been overwhelming if the other had not been there. Bakura had been right, this was a story like no other. A story that would get him remembered forever. But Ryou found that it no longer mattered if he was remembered forever. He just wanted the duo to be remembered, the dragon and the prince. He wanted them to live on even though both had disappeared from his life. Ryou carefully set the papers down, remembering to set a rock on them before rushing off to gather his quill and ink, hastily setting himself up close to the fire. He leafed through the papers, coming to a stop at the start of the poem as he began to scan his work. He wanted this to be perfect. He wanted the generations who would come after him to remember this one piece and not him. Because he didn't matter anymore. What was he to the world, the run away son of a minor nobleman? A mere runaway child too spoiled to see what his parents had offered him? He was no longer any of those things, he had left that Ryou behind to die in the courtyard of Gozaburo's castle. He was something entirely new, no longer bound by the laws of the society he had run away from. He was Ryou, the one who had dared to fall in love with a thief who had stolen his purse. The one who had dared to confront a knight and follow him until he found the one dragon that he couldn't defeat. The one who had charged into Gozaburo's stronghold with only three others and a dragon. He was simply a poet and proud of that fact. The desire to be something more had slipped away somewhere on the journey, the taint from his old world washed away. Ryou gave a fond smile to the sleeping Bakura, knowing that the thief couldn't see his thanks for changing him. The poet leaned over his work, frantically scribbling as he added and deleted words from the pages, sometimes stopping and running the worn feather of the quill under his chin before chuckling softly and jumping back into the work. The scratching continued for a long time until Ryou jumped up, placing another rock on top of his pages before running to the prince's pack, hastily rifling through it as he searched for the object of his desire. He gave a short exhale of success before making his way back to the fire, more carefully this time as he cradled his precious bundle. Sitting down on the ground, Ryou carefully peeling the pieces of bark from each other, eyes lingering over each lamenting dragon until he came to the last one in the pile. He brushed his fingers across one corner, smiling as he looked at Yugi's last drawing. It was a quick rendition of their dragon, only the head and neck of the creature. The dragon was staring off at something in the distance, defiance and life in his eyes, so different from the other dragons whose eyes held nothing. The shading over the scales slowly faded down the neck, finally quitting before the end of the lines that Yugi had drawn, the whole dragon fading into nothingness. But that only served to increase the power of the picture. This was a dragon alone, unhindered by anything else. Ryou nodded to himself, placing the drawing aside from the others and picking up his pages again, closing his eyes for a moment, his quill twitching in his hand before he finally stared to write. 'Untamed by man or beast it stood With eyes of crimson flame, Looking down on the mortal knight Who decreed it would be slain.' He was too involved with his writing to notice Bakura open one eye sleepily. The thief rolled over, staring at Ryou before rolling his eyes, but he didn't go back to sleep. Instead, he watched the poet through the tangle of the flames, smiling at the facial expressions that Ryou made as he worked his way through the story. So, I basically gave Atem colic, the closest real comparison would be the types that horses get where the intestines can twist which will kill the horse. Actually, you are supposed to keep the horse from rolling as it just twists the gut and/or makes it worse. Solomon just did the approximation of colic surgery, of course, Atem had it easier because he could throw up, which horses usually can't to get rid of whatever is hurting them. I feel sorry for the poor boy. Anyway, read and review please. Criticism, as always, is greatly appreciated.

Disclaimer: I do not own Yu-Gi-Oh or Dragonheart; they are both owned by their respective owners. I do own bits of the plot and Kysen. Chapter Fifteen: So It Begins With all his might Did the Morningstar smite the knights Gozaburo scowled at Lector as the knight entered the great hall, leaning forward. He had expected the man back before now, the fact that he was late doing nothing to improve the king's already foul mood. It was all the fault of that dragon that could turn human; as long as she was protecting Seto all his plans were worthless. She had even found a way to bind his son closer to her, giving him a child. Gozaburo gripped the edge of the table tighter, cursing his bad luck. Now, he wouldn't be able to move against them without turning his son from his cause. But that was ceasing to matter rapidly. Seto had shown no interest in helping him stabilize this kingdom, so Gozaburo was beginning to think that it was a waste of his time. He motioned Lector forward, glaring at the knight as he stumbled over himself in his haste. His right hand man was usually not this clumsy, although it could be the fault of the dragon. Rex was known for his slightly sadistic streak. Playing with the knight's fear of heights wouldn't be too far beneath the dragon. He tapped on the table as the waited for the knight to properly gather himself, Lector crossing the final space between them. He gave a bow, refusing to look up at his king. So the news was that bad. "My lord, Gansley and his dragon are dead. There are sights of an attack on the dragon by another…Rex says it was Atem." The king frowned; the name of the dragon meant nothing to him. Lector gave a minute twitch before clearing his throat. "There is substantial evidence that Crump and his dragon are also dead. Although there is news that the girl and Yugi's child are dead as well." Gozaburo smiled, not caring that two of his own were dead. If they had managed to get themselves killed, it was not his worry. At least one of them had accomplished their mission. The resistance would die as the news trickled down to his kingdom. And, with that demonstration to the king of the kingdom to the north, his messenger would be accepted without question. The king leaned on his hands, clasping them under his chin as he thought carefully. He had three more knights that he could send out. Everyone knew that there was nothing to the west but endless mountains to the sea. The people who made that their home would be easy to conquer if he ever needed that land. The next logical thing to do would to be send one dragon to the east to threaten the budding kingdom there. And that would leave him with two here. It would be prudent to keep one here with him to guard the castle and keep the rebellions of the peasants down. But where to send the other one? There was always the south, the land of the nomads. But they had been killed off during his father's reign. Gozaburo sat up, staring at Lector as the man awaited his next orders. It wouldn't hurt to have the second dragon scout out that area, making a sweep of the south and the west, just to be sure that there were no growing threats. The king nodded to himself, the motion drawing Lector out of his bow. He summoned the man closer, glancing at the shadows of the room, not trusting that he would not be overheard. "Send Johnson to the east and Nesbitt south. Tell Nesbitt to be ready to travel for a while, he is to scan for problems in the uncivilized lands, take account for resources that we can use later. You, Lector are to stay here." The man bowed out, rushing outside. Gozaburo sighed and stretched, following his knight at a more sedate pace. He pushed the doors open and took a deep breath of the spring air, a smirk crossing his face. Now was the perfect time to be attacking, while all the other kingdoms were recovering from the blows that winter had dealt them and supplies were still low enough that they could be easily manipulated. His hand went to the hilt of his sword as he passed the two dragons that were chained up in the courtyard, the smaller white one snarling and trying to snap at Gozaburo. His own dragon wasn't giving him problems, but this small one was. It just wouldn't break like the black dragon had; it refused to give up, mostly spouting nonsense about a Morningstar, Atem and Gozaburo's doom. The king shook his head, coming to a stop in front of the aged black dragon, watching as Johnson climbed onto his orange dragon. The knight saluted his king before pulling the dragon toward the proper launching spot. Gozaburo smiled and clasped his hands behind his back, rocking back onto his heels and enjoying a moment of a good mood, knowing that the black mood he had been in before would fall on him as soon as he entered the castle again. He stopped his motion as he caught a glimpse of white hair in one of the nearby windows. Some sixth sense told him that something was about to go horribly wrong. Gozaburo turned to look at Johnson, releasing a breath in a small sigh as he watched the knight lift off the ground, turning the dragon so it was heading east. He brushed off his odd feeling, putting it down to nervousness due to his plans going so well. And without a flaw. Something should have happened by now to set him back, and yet, nothing had. Gozaburo turned to head back into the castle, stepping aside as Nesbitt led his dragon to the launch point, ducking under the thin, insect-like wings of his dragon. He paused still hunched over, eyes widening as he watched Seto's whore run out into the courtyard. "Don't you dare?" Kisara hissed as Seto caught a hold of her arm. She pulled herself away, glaring at her mate in anger, the expression making Seto take a step back. He was used to more placid expressions or anger being directed and someone other than him. In response to his retreat, Kisara took a step away, continuing in the direction she had been going. "I'm tired of watching this happen, Seto. Don't tell me that you aren't. I want to stop this before Gozaburo kills more innocents. The sooner his is broken, the sooner we can be safe." She watched as Seto's shoulders slumped slightly, the only sight of defeat that he would give. Feeling pity, Kisara walked over to him, resting a hand on his cheek. "Please, I hear some of those dragons screaming to be freed. They don't want this anymore. I can't get to the two in the courtyard. I can only get to the others when they leave. This is my chance to help them. Please, Seto." "What about Mokuba?" She smiled at his token protest, knowing what he was really saying. "I won't let anything happen to me. Remember, I spent most of my life with Atem and you saw what he did to those soldiers all those months ago. I can take care of myself." He took her hand from his face, staring at her palm before placing a kiss on it. "Come back safe." His voice was barely a whisper. Kisara sighed, wrapping him in a hug before running towards the courtyard. She could hear him wait a moment before rushing after her, shaking her head at her mate. He wouldn't stop her, but she wouldn't stop him from watching. Not if he was going to allow her to do this. Kisara shoved the doors open, drawing her magic to her, smirking as she saw Gozaburo standing in shock, still bent over to avoid the wing of a dragon. She gave a short laugh, the sound turning into a rumble as her body shifted to her dragon form, wings spreading from her back as she let out a roar. It had been too long since she was like this. Part of her wondered why she had given this wondrous thing up, but she knew that Seto was worth it. She could survive as long as she revisited this form every once and a while, knowing that her magic wasn't strong enough to managed this change whenever she wanted. The white dragon stretched her wings even higher above her head before bring them down, the motion lifting her slightly from the ground. She continued to flap her wings, rising from the ground and watching as loose objects and some people went tumbling in the courtyard below. Seto was easily picked out from the rest, the tall brunette standing in the center of the maelstrom, watching her with a smile on his face. Kisara gave another roar before turning and heading after Johnson and his dragon at full speed. It didn't take long for her to catch up to the smaller dragon, easily moving through the cold air to reach the orange dragon who was struggling without the use of thermals to rise. Kisara dove below the small orange dragon, shoving her shoulders into the stomach of the dragon to send it off course. As she pulled up to face the dragon, she heard the knight yelling at the dragon to breathe fire. She got a glimpse of the dragon's blue eyes, confusion in them as he turned to look at her. A tremble ran through the smaller dragon as it stretched out its neck. For a moment, its blue eyes flickered to the ground before looking at her with resolve. "I don't want this anymore. If you don't do anything, then I'll just drop." Shocked, Kisara gave a nod, the smaller dragon smiling at the acceptance. It turned his head to snarl at the knight on his back. Before Kisara could react, the orange dragon flipped himself over, sending Johnson tumbling to the ground. The dragon looked back up at Kisara. "Free Paladin if you can, before he kills himself. And then bring Atem here. Make him destroy that human. I want to hear his screams from the stars." Kisara was about to nod when the dragon twisted in the air, screaming as its bonded human impacted with the ground, merely feeling the pain of the horrible injuries. The white dragon darted out to catch the other dragon, holding them both up in the air before plunging her claws into the orange dragon's heart. It gave a happy sigh before slumping. Kisara gave a soft coo, gently guiding the dragon back to the ground and arranging it there. Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes as she realized how desperate this dragon had been, willing to kill himself by a fall from the sky. She brushed her claws over his head, stopping when she saw the streaks of blood that she left behind. Kisara turned to look at her claws, staring in horror at the blood that still dripped from them. She had never killed for a reason other than food; there had been no reason for it. She had see Atem kill for seemingly no reason before, but always had grudgingly admired her friend for being able to shove it off and continue to live. But this was a shock to her. She had always been the weak one, the one who needed the protection of the others. The one who was always cringing behind Atem and pleading for mercy. What had happened to that dragon? Where was she hiding? Something had changed in the past few years and, while she no longer felt like she was weak, she was aware of her limits and no longer allowed them to be the idea that she dwelled on. She had changed without noticing it. Carefully, she wiped the blood from her claws, examining them in the sunlight before turning to look back at the white castle that was glowing in the sunlight. She snarled as she realized that another dragon had lifted off, heading for the south. She almost wanted to go after the dragon herself, but she wasn't sure that she could stand being the murderer of another of her kind. Besides, she had a promise to fulfill. Kisara launched herself into the air again, flying quickly for the castle. She circled over the structure once before coming in for a landing, the wind sweeping humans to the side. Kisara lowered his head and hissed, stalking over to the smaller white dragon. Keeping an eye on the rest of the humans, she found the bracket that secured the chains to the ground, grunting as she tore it from the stone. Working quickly, Kisara loosed the dragon on one side and backed away, hissing at the badly healed injuries that littered the dragon's body. On his part, Paladin merely gave himself a shake before smiling at her. He darted away, heading away from where the second dragon and knight had gone, probably trying to find a place where he could heal in safety. Kisara smiled after him, absently kicking chains out of her way before she walked over to Akhnamkanon, leaning over to claw at the brackets. She had to jump to the side as the black dragon moved his head, snapping at her feet. Kisara snarled at the dragon before returning to her station. "I'm trying to help you!" "Save yourself first!" Akhnamkanon jerked his head in the direction of the king, Kisara having ignored him this long. The white dragon swallowed nervously as Gozaburo pulled out his sword, advancing towards them. Kisara looked back down at Akhnamkanon, pleading with her eyes. The black dragon shook his head. "Save your family first." "Kisara!" She spun around at Seto's call, quickly hurrying over to her mate and crouching by him, head turned so that she could still see Gozaburo. Seto also had his sword out, glaring at his father as he pointed it at the king. "Go upstairs and get Mokuba. Get everything you two will need to survive for a while." She nodded, quickly shifting back to her human form before dashing back inside. She winced at the feel of cold stone under her feet, quickly scrambling up the stairs to the second level of the castle before she rushed to their chambers, slamming the door behind her as she darted in. Kisara leaned back against the door to catch her breath before rushing over to her closet, pulling a simple dress from it and slipping it on. She glanced down at shoes before forgoing them. Instead, she snatched up a pack from the closet and began to pile stuff in it, remembering to include clothes for Mokuba. Slinging the pack over her shoulder, Kisara scooped up the squalling baby and rushed from the rooms, taking the servant's entrance to the castle. As expected, Seto was waiting for her there, grabbing her arm and hauling her toward the stable. She barely had time to think before Mokuba was taken from her so she could mount the horse, the infant passed up to her before Seto swung astride the animal. He turned the horse for the exit, giving the animal a sharp kick in the sides. Kisara yelped, leaning back against her mate as the horse bolted from the stables, galloping for the front gates. She kept her tight hold on Seto as he urged the horse to greater speed once it was away from the castle, a screech from behind making Kisara peer around her mate. The woman gasped as she saw the brown and purple rising from the castle, the dragon screaming as it turned abruptly and swooped down toward them. She heard Seto curse before he leaned slightly more forward, protecting them with his own body. The attack that was expected never came. Instead, there was the sound of another pair of wings and a strong wind as something moved over them. Kisara tensed at the scent of fire, looking up to see Paladin execute a back flip in the air to take him away from the singed Rex, chortling to himself before he began to skim along the ground beside Seto. He nodded to the two before looking over his shoulder. "I'll keep him occupied, Kisara." Seto nodded for her, the horse bolting at the sight of a dragon so close. Kisara winced as the animal stumbled, trying not to fall off as the horse slipped over the slope. Her other arm wrapped more tightly around her son, wishing that she could calm his frightened screaming. The poor boy probably didn't know what had happened to him, just snatched up from his nap and carried off. Part of her wished that she had stayed as a dragon so that she could help defend her family instead of leaving it up to Paladin, who was still injured. But she didn't have the strength for another transformation, leaving her to cling to Seto. She let out a sigh of relief as the horse leapt the last foot to flat ground, tossing its head as Seto turned it around. He glanced back up the hill, shifting in the saddle before turning the horse in a certain direction, aiming for the pine woods that lined the boarder of the kingdom. Seto urged the animal back into a full gallop, Paladin skimming by to launch another attack before pushing off the ground with a grunt to slam his shoulders into Rex's belly. The purple and brown dragon let out a roar of anger, slashing at the smaller white dragon and missing as Paladin darted away. Kisara gave a slow shake of her head, watching the deadly dance above her head, almost not noticing the slowing of the horse's stride until she pitched forward with the change. Seto's hands on her hips encouraged her to slide back, sitting more comfortably in the saddle as he slid off the animal. Kisara reached out for him, catching his hand as Seto tried to pull away. "What are you doing?" "The horse can't carry us both long enough for us to get away. Now go, that dragon will protect you." "Seto!" "No arguments." Seto looked up at his son a brief smile crossing his face. "Keep him safe. I want to see you both when this all is over." He slapped the horse on the rump, the animal taking off despite Kisara's protests. She grimly gripped the reins with one hand, hating Seto's logic as the horse raced for the forest, Paladin following close as he continued to distract Rex from attacking directly. Of course Seto would be right, he would have to be right and then decide to protect them. She bit her lip to keep from screaming. Her mate could be so stubborn! Kisara looked over her shoulder, seriously contemplating turning back when she saw Rex swoop down, snatching up Seto in his claws before returning to the castle. Paladin stopped, giving a keen before flipping again and skimming next to Kisara, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. I couldn't stop him." "I know. And we will get him back." Kisara spoke the words through gritted teeth, tears falling from her eyes. They had taken him from her. They had stolen something precious to her. These humans, they would pay with their lives. Now she could understand how Atem could kill so easily. It was so clear when the only emotion left was rage, the cold anger that left the mind unencumbered and ready to plan. Now, she could do anything unhindered by her past prohibitions. They had stolen Seto from her, taken her mate away without her permission, leaving her alone with only their son. And that was a bad position to have left her in. Did Gozaburo not know what happened when a female of any species was left to defend their young? Anything could happen. Her grip on the reins tightened, glancing up at the sky towards the south. Her eyes narrowed as she saw the dragon and his knight still flying away. She should take care of that, since no one else would. Kisara growled, the sound dying in her throat as a roar shattered the silence. She pulled the horse up abruptly, Paladin landing beside her and crouching on the ground, trembling as the echoes came back on them. The echoes were not even allowed to stop before another roar came, this one even more chilling than the first. Kisara held Mokuba closer to her, trying to calm her son as the new roar echoed around the valley. She tried to turn her horse away, feeling the animal begin to tremble as it because too much for it. Before she could complete the move, something shot out of the nearby forest, easily gaining a high altitude before the thing had to open its wings, the edges of the membrane red in the sunlight. Kisara felt her own mouth fall open in shock as Atem tossed back his head and gave another roar. How dare he? How dare he move against his home? Better yet, how dare that dragon to obey the orders willingly? Atem narrowed his eyes as he pulled out of his hover, diving from his height to gain speed, smirking as he saw the dragon look over his shoulder nervously. He flapped his own wings faster, easily making better time than the dragon with the knight on its back. After all, he was barely larger than this dragon and better at flying, the thin membranes that this dragon had making him slow and cautious. Atem snarled as he caught up to the dragon, rolling under the nervously twitching claws before coming up in front of the dragon and grabbing its muzzle. Atem winced as he quickly shifted to a hover, his muscles protesting the move as he hauled the dragon's eyes up to meet his, blue clashing with red. Atem chuckled as he heard the human scramble to stay on the dragon's back, ignoring the human in the next moment as he closed his claws more securely around the dragon's muzzle. "What are you doing, Weevil?" "Following orders." Atem thought he saw resolve pass through the green dragon, Weevil trying to straighten himself up. "Like you should be." "Say that again." Atem snarled and leaned closer to the dragon, baring his teeth as he watched Weevil squirm. "We never would have done this if you had just listened to all of us and died!" Weevil dug his claws into Atem, ripping through scales and coming dangerously close to his heart. The black and red dragon released Weevil with a scream of pain, back winging as he tried to get away from the claws. He looked down at his chest and stomach, scowling at the blood that was running down it. Somewhere, Yugi would be feeling the same pain, all because of Weevil. Atem jerked his head back up with a growl, his smirk returning as Weevil backed away, looking around to find a way out. "Are you going to beg for mercy, Weevil?" Atem chuckled to himself, pulling himself nearly upright. His muscles complained against this move too, the hover harder now to hold up against the pull of gravity. But effect was worth it. Now, the sun could tint parts of his body and wings red, and it would make him look bigger than he actually was. Enough to make Weevil wish that he had never agreed to share his heart with a worthless human under Gozaburo. He stared at Weevil, waiting for any response from the dragon. There was none. Even the knight on his back was silent. Atem fought back the urge to laugh, instead just lashing his tail. "No? Fine then." He didn't want to kill Weevil now. No. He wanted to completely annihilate him. He wanted to show him what he thought about the betrayal that Weevil had participated in, wanted to get his revenge against the injury of his mate. Atem reached out with a snarl, claws sinking to Weevil's, muzzle and neck as he hauled the dragon closer. "I would have thought that you would think twice before attacking me." Weevil looked around frantically before his eyes settled on Atem's chest, looking over the bloodstained scales where his heart was. Atem snarled as Weevil made a sound of disgust, refraining from digging his claws deeper into the annoying green dragon. "I forgot. You actually enjoy being bonded to your human, Atem. It's too bad I couldn't-" The rest of the sentence was cut off as Atem snarled, shoving Weevil away as flames licked at the bad of his throat. He didn't want to hear the rest of what the dragon would say, knowing that it would do nothing to ease his temper. Instead, Atem opened his mouth and allowed the fire to come out, the flames licking at Weevil's hide. Both the dragon and the human screamed, Weevil trying to extract himself from the stream of fire. Atem scowled at the move before, shutting his mouth, wincing as the fire burned the roof of it. Fighting off the increasingly uncomfortable feeling, Atem forced Weevil closer to the ground, swooping over the green dragon to slash through his wing membrane and over his back. Weevil screamed in pain, scrambling to his feet as he landed on the ground. Atem touched down a mere second after him, watching in amusement as the dragon and human tried to escape their separate ways. Atem sent the human flying into a tree with a flick of his tail, ignoring the whimpers of pain as he strode over to Weevil, pressing the writhing dragon into the ground. Black tendrils of magic closed around the other dragon's neck, stomach and tail, keeping him pinned to the ground as Atem stepped back, tipping his head to the side. Weevil had only a moment to wait before Atem unleashed his fire again, the green dragon screaming as he was burned alive. The black and red dragon narrowed his eyes against the glow from the fire, the center already turning a deep blue from the heat he was putting out. And still Weevil hadn't been destroyed. He snapped the magical bindings easily through the dead dragon's body, breaking it up as it finally succumbed to the dark flames. Atem cut off the stream of fire, swaying for a moment before circling around the still burning body. He looked back at the human, knowing that the knight was dead by now, long dead since his dragon had perished. The black and red dragon sighed before giving his wings a feeble beat to put out the flames, watching pieces of ashes dance in the wind. Now that there was nothing left, Atem had the horrible feeling that he had gone too far, even though he had curbed his temper more than usual. Weakly, he walked away from the ashes, shouldering through the trees and out into the open, nearly collapsing. He winced, closing his eyes for a moment. Yes, he had done something incredibly stupid. The combination of magic and producing fire at a far higher temperature than he was used to had exhausted him completely. Atem opened his eyes, wincing as he moved and stretched the wounds on his chest. What he wanted right now was to curl up with Yugi and Kysen, both his anger and energy spent. He lifted his head, searching for the place that he had left them. Turning slightly, Atem began to trudge back to the place where his mate was waiting for him, head dropping as he forced himself to keep going. He managed to laugh at himself; his poor mate had to care for his child as well as Atem while Atem did almost nothing to help besides edging himself closer a useless state. Atem stopped at the sound of hoof beats, pausing with one foot still in the air as he turned to look at the source of the sound. His mouth dropped open as he saw Kisara and a small white dragon running towards him. He barely had time to put his foot down for balance before the white dragon barreled into him, knocking him flat on his back with his breath escaping in one long rush. He gave a weak cough before trying to shove Paladin off him, hissing at the pain that his wounds caused. The smaller white dragon got the hint, clambering away and looking at Kisara. The human woman smiled at him, pulling her horse to a stop beside him. Atem gave a nod to his friend before standing up slowly and beginning to walk back toward where he had left his mate. He was not surprised when Paladin and Kisara followed him, even ducking under the branches of the trees. Atem growled as Paladin tried to dash ahead, not in the mood for the dragon's bouncy behavior. He turned around as Paladin tensed, his head lifting to sniff the wind. "Atem, there are humans here." "Yes." Atem nodded at Kisara before looking back into the forest, mentally calculating how long it would be until he reached Yugi, wanting nothing more than to curl up and sleep for a while. "I brought my mate with me." "But…oh…" Paladin looked embarrassed, scuffing at the ground before running to catch up to Atem. "I thought they were all joking when they said that." "Who was joking, Atem?" The black and red dragon sighed, ready to answer her question when he heard a soft curse. His head whipped around in the direction of the sound, irritation forgotten as he recognized the voice. Cautiously, Atem moved towards the area the sound had come from, using his claws to pull apart the budding branches, a smile on his face as he spotted Yugi, struggling to untangle himself. He helped his mate free, backing away as Yugi stumbled back into the open, the smile on his face disappearing when Yugi motioned for him to come closer. He hissed as Yugi brushed a hand over one of his wounds, the prince wincing as well. Atem gave a little whine and lowered his head, nudging his mate as Yugi rubbed his chest. "Are you okay, love?" "Yeah, but I'm more worried about you. That one really hurt you." Yugi hugged him close, giving him a kiss before pulling away. He frowned, running his hand over Atem's check. "You're cold." The dragon nodded, nudging Yugi back in the direction of their temporary camp. "I'll be fine. Food and rest and I'll be back to normal." Atem gave a purr, smile twitching at the corner of his mouth as Yugi groaned at the vibrations. "I just overexerted myself." "Atem!" The dragon winced, looking back over his shoulder at Kisara, who had slid down from her horse. The animal gave a snort, dancing at the end of the reins. A growl from Kisara stopped the horse before the woman led the animal closer to Atem. The black and red dragon tensed at the glare that she was giving him, realizing that she had just realized how bad he looked. Atem sighed and pressed his head against Yugi, not wanting to face his friend at the moment. He knew how sickly he looked when compared to the others, still not able to gain the weight he had lost with the life he was leading. Constant movement and fights hadn't done anything to improve his diet. Not to mention the added worry of caring for his mate and son in enemy territory. While he wasn't exactly skeletal anymore, bones were still visible through his scales. At the thought, he partially opened his wings and pressed them against his sides, leaning into Yugi as he felt Kisara reach out to touch him with one hand. He shuddered as Kisara gasped, yanking her hand away like she had been burned. The black and red dragon shifted away from her, nudging Yugi to start walking. The prince gently pushed on his head, encouraging Atem to look up at him. He complied, blinking at Yugi as the prince smiled. "Let's get you back." He followed Yugi, readjusting his wings so he could fit through the tight spaces more easily, wincing when he heard the sound of Kisara and Paladin following them as well. As much as he was relieved that his friend was alright, he didn't need her worrying over him at the moment. And he didn't need the smaller white dragon tagging along. He just wanted an afternoon to himself without anyone begging for explanations. The sound of a baby crying drew his attention. He looked down at Yugi who didn't look as worried. "He's probably just woken up from his nap and is missing you. He won't be hungry for another few minutes. That demand sounds entirely different from this one." Atem chuckled and lurched into a jog, ducking to avoid a branch as he entered into the large clearing that they had found. He saw Yugi dash ahead of him, laughing as he saw Ryou looking confused and stressed as he held Kysen, eagerly passing the infant off to Yugi. Atem arrived a second behind Yugi, dropping his muzzle down as the sobs slowed to a stop, the baby sniffing at the presence of his parents. It gave a happy coo, reaching up for Atem. The black and red dragon sighed, laying down on the ground before shifting so Kysen could reach him. At first the baby seemed to calm, but it was only a moment before it stared up at him, tears forming again. Atem gave a rumble of confusion, pulling back and shooting a look at Yugi. The prince shrugged, "You feel colder than normal, and it is noticeable. It might scare or confuse him." Atem hung his head, looking up as Yugi rested a hand on him. "Marik will be back with food soon. Just relax until then. "But first," Yugi gave the dragon a playful shove, "onto your back." "Taking advantage of my vulnerability, my heart?" Atem laughed as he complied, watching as Yugi blushed. "No!" There was a spark of interest in the violet eyes at the hidden invitation, but it disappeared quickly. "I don't want those to get infected." Atem pressed his head back against the ground, watching as Kysen was passed back to Ryou, the poet looking frazzled. The distraught look on his face earned a bark of laughter from Bakura, who was reclining against a tree. The poet quickly walked over to his lover, glaring at him before sitting down and snuggling against him. Per usual, the show of affection quieted Bakura as the thief took the opportunity to give Ryou a hug before removing Kysen from the poet's nervous hold. The dragon blinked as Yugi snatched up his pack, digging a small jar out of it before rushing back to him. Atem lay still as Yugi clambered up onto him, staring at the wounds before shaking his head and opening the jar. Atem's nostrils wrinkled as he caught the scent of one of Solomon's salves, guaranteed to speed healing time. But he also remembered that it burned when applied. He groaned, readying himself for torture. Yugi laughed, stroking the scales nearest to him. "It's not that bad." Kisara and Paladin entered the clearing, Atem closing his eyes as they both immediately walked over to where he was, Kisara pausing to loop the reins of the horse over a tree. The sounds of a baby crying made Atem open his eyes again, resisting the urge to jump up and see to Kysen with Yugi still perched on him. The black and red dragon blinked slowly as the unfamiliarity of the sounds registered, craning his head back to see Kisara working on calming an infant in her arms, Paladin hovering nervously over her. Atem chuckled, the sound drawing her attention to him. "So I see that you and your mate had luck this year?" He yelped at the sensation of burning on his chest, glancing back up at Yugi who gave a pained shrug. "You were distracted." "You realize that I will have my revenge for this torture?" He smiled as Yugi laughed, the prince stretching out to rub the scales on his belly. Atem groaned, throwing his head back, claws twitching slightly. He heard Yugi burst out laughing again, opening one eye to glare at his mate. Instead of being intimidated, Yugi shook his head and moved to the next wound, beginning to spread the salve. Atem bared his teeth against the pain, tail lashing as he fought against making a keen of pain. He could feel Yugi leaning heavily on one hand as the other painted the salve over his wounds, the fingers digging into Atem's skin. He glanced up at Yugi, relaxing as the burning faded, both of them recovering from the pain. Together, the stared at the remaining wounds, already feeling that there were too many. "Atem?" The black and red dragon let his head fall back to the ground, looking at Kisara as she carefully walked up, giving Yugi a weak smile. "I guess I was right when I said that you would save him." He nodded, trying to get a good look at the baby that Kisara held. The woman chuckled, holding the infant out so they could see it. Atem heard Yugi gasp, the prince leaning over to see the child better. His red eyes moved back to his mate as Yugi spoke. "That looks a lot like…" Kisara nodded, smiling down at her child. "Seto thought so too." "Seto?" Yugi lost his balance, falling off the dragon. Atem grunted and moved quickly, rolling to his side and catching Yugi. The prince gaze a weak smile, holding onto Atem as the dragon lowered him back to the ground, snatching up the jar before going back to work. The black and red dragon turned his head to watch his mate, noticing how distracted he looked. "So, you and Seto?" "Yes." Kisara was blushing now, not even looking at Yugi. Atem felt her eyes running over him as a distraction from Yugi. "We've been helping each other survive…" She trailed off, eyebrows lowering as she frowned. Atem grunted as Yugi spread more of the salve on his wounds, digging his claws into the ground. With his back turned to the woman, Yugi didn't see her expression, continuing on. "I don't mind. It's just good that he has someone. Last one, Atem." The last part of the sentence was addressed to the dragon, who gave a stiff nod and shifted so that Yugi could reach the last wound, this one running down onto his stomach. "He doesn't really open up to anyone anymore. I was worried about him, it can't be good to keep everything all pent up." Atem looked back over at Kisara as she followed Yugi as the prince came to the end of the wound, petting Atem's stomach before backing away to search for the top to the jar which had been lost when Atem had caught Yugi. The red and black dragon gave a trill of thanks to his mate before a gasp from Kisara brought his attention back to Kisara, Yugi sticking close to him at the sound. Her touch on the lower half of his stomach surprised him, inhaling to draw his scales away from her touch before relaxing. He propped himself up, staring at where Kisara was tracing over the old scar. She pulled her hand back before backing away from him, looking up at his side, where the skin was pulled taught over bones. "What happened to you, Atem?" The black and red dragon jumped as she burst into tears, rushing back up to his head and running her hand over it. He could tell that Yugi and Paladin had no idea what to do as well, staying where they were and watching in confusion. He was also shocked that Kisara had reacted like this, bursting into tears instead of searching for a solution. Something must have happened before she came here, something that she was still trying to work herself over. And that was why she was so focused on him. Carefully, Atem nudged her back, rolling completely onto his stomach. He glanced up as Kysen began sobbing, demanding food. He gave Yugi a pleading look as the prince scurried off to retrieve his son. He wanted Yugi by him while he dealt with Kisara. The prince gave a nod, quickly retrieve their son and all the things that he would need as Kisara sat down by Atem's foreleg, leaning carefully back against him, shuddering at the temperature. He gave a soft trill as she wiped the tears off her cheeks, glancing up as Paladin settled down by them as well. "I'm sorry, Atem. It's just becoming too much." She finally got a hold of herself, the old resolve returning to her blue eyes, not elaborating on her last statement as she stared at him. "Tell me what happened Atem." The black and red dragon waited until Yugi was cuddled close to him, taking the time to greet his son before looking back at Kisara, noticing that the woman had leaned forward to peer at Kysen, confusion in her eyes. Atem rested his head on the ground, close to Yugi. "I hid in a cave, the one by the waterfall, for four years. I was the crazy dragon that all the knights talked about. It didn't lend itself to any kind of lifestyle." "But where did you get that scar, Atem?" "Timaeus." Atem looked away at her gasp, his tail flicking from side to side. "It wasn't the way you think. I was…sick and it was the only way to cure me." He didn't want to go into all of the details, already watching Yugi suppress shudders at the memory. He didn't want to think about that time at all, his memories of that time containing pain and hallucinations of Yugi. Atem shot a glare at Paladin to keep the smaller dragon silent, smirking as the white dragon yelped and ducked his head under his wing. "Oh," Kisara nodded, still seemingly distracted by something. Atem gave a trill, the sound making her look up. "You survived. If you can, then I can." He narrowed his eyes at the comment, tilting his head as he studied his friend. "Kisara, what happened?" She lowered her head, hair hanging in front of her face as she stared down at her son. Atem blinked slowly, returning his head back to its former position, hearing Yugi shift forward also. He tensed as he heard her sniff, finally looking up and brushing away stray tears that had fallen from her eyes. Atem was about to ask her again when she shook her head. "They took him away from me, Atem. They took my mate." Seto winced as his head hit the wall of the dungeon, rubbing it irritably while he stared at his father. Gozaburo simply smirked at him, striding into the cell without a care. After all, what did he have to worry about? Seto had no weapons and he was completely at the mercy of his father, he couldn't escape without that damn dragon catching him. And he couldn't run in case he led them right to Kisara and Mokuba. He pulled his hand away from the back of his head, staring at it to check for blood before sitting back and crossing his arms, waiting out his father. Fortunately for him, Gozaburo's patience was beaten down by his pride. "So, you thought you could get them all away safely." "It worked." "No, Seto. You are still here and they are out there, among the peasants who hate us. Do you honestly think that she will last long without you, the weak girl that she is?" Seto fought to keep the smirk off his face, knowing that his father had badly misjudged Kisara. She would be fine. He only worried that she would try and rescue him without a stable plan. He had seen her in anger, hot-headed and temperamental, dangerous to herself. Hopefully, the presence of the other dragon and their son would make her think things through clearly before acting. Better yet, Seto hoped that she found a place to raise Mokuba to adulthood and wait to save him. While he hated the idea of being held against his will, there was nothing else yet to do. It was now the peasants' move. Now was their chance to attack the castle, while Gozaburo had only one dragon and far too few soldiers to protect him. But that would mean that they would have to get over their fear of the king and be willing to work together long enough to accomplish this feat. If only it was safe enough for Mahad to bring Yugi's son down or Yugi himself showed up to boost the peasants' courage. Then things would finally get done. He jerked away as Gozaburo made to grab his shoulder, stumbling back from his father, his hand still going for the sword that wasn't there. The king glared, hand falling back to his side. "I had everything planned for you. You could have had the world, Seto, you were strong enough." "This kingdom is Yugi's, not yours, not mine." Seto rocked back onto his heels, the small motion keeping him away from Gozaburo's mad swipe. "I don't want what world you can give to me. I can take what I want all on my own. I have never needed your help, father, and I never will." "I am your king, Seto. You-" "No." Seto cut him off, blue eyes flashing dangerously. "You are not my king. I do not bow to you; I will only kneel to Yugi and no one else." "Your king is dead, Seto." Gozaburo was grinning, but there was a hint of insecurity in the gaze. Seto raised one eyebrow. "So says you." Gozaburo froze in his advance, a tremble running through his body before he backed out of the cell, slamming the door. Seto remained in place as he heard the grinding of metal as the door was locked. He only moved then, walking with long strides to the door and leaning against it. His father could be heard storming away, the echoes of his shouts still reverberating. "Only give him water, no food. I want him to be begging me for his life when this is all over." "So you think, father," Seto mumbled to himself as he pushed away from the door, his cold blue eyes scanning over the cell. It had four stone walls, the stone beginning to slow decline into the mildewed look that most dungeons possessed, one of the walls having the wooden door in it. Seto tapped once on the wooden door, humming at the solid sound that came back to him. A heavy wooden door that would open inward, forcing him to be the one who stepped back and acting as a barrier to those who entered. In the corner there was a torn blanket over a pile of straw, the former probably only there because some maid had heard that he would be spending the rest of his days down here and wanted to show some pity. Seto crossed the room, sitting on the straw and blanket before leaning back against the wall, staring at the ceiling above him. He didn't bother trying to figure out where his cell was in the castle and what room it was under. Even if he found a way to talk to the people above, they wouldn't do anything to help him out. They could only rebel in subtle ways, like the blanket, as that was all their fear allowed them to do. But he was grateful for the little rebellions. Eventually, even if he was long gone before then, the peasants would have the strength to throw Gozaburo and any of his heirs from the throne. Seto was a patient man. His only goal was to get out of this prison and find Kisara. He would gladly slip into hiding with them and wait out the end of Gozaburo as it was the only thing he could do now. He had moved too soon, showing that he would support Kisara, and therefore the peasants, over his father. And, this time, Gozaburo had believed that the decision was made by him and not a delusion fed by Kisara. Unfortunate, yes, but there were always worse things. The brunette shifted into a more comfortable position, letting his eyes close as he dozed. For now, he could only wait and plan, plotting for that one moment when a guard would slip up or a moment of rebellion would allow him to pass into the castle and escape. Until then, he would rest from the intrigues of the court. Mahad pulled his horse up, mouth dropping open as he saw what the peasants had set up. He paused before urging his horse forward, steering it around a bunch of peasants who were charging at trees with sharpened and fire-hardened stakes. His horse tossed its head, probably picking up on the atmosphere that they hadn't been in for years. Absently, he petted the horse's neck, looking up as a blonde stepped in front of him, crossing his arms. The knight signaled his horse to stop, looking over his shoulder to see the peasants with the sharpened stakes lining up behind him. Mahad shrugged and looked back at the blonde, surprised to see a badly burnt black haired man standing but him. He gave a respectful nod of his head, knowing that this arrangement was a subtle way of surrounding him, much more complex than he thought that peasants could accomplish. "What are you doing here?" The question came from the blonde, the black haired man taking a step forward to stand by his horse. Mahad had to pull his gaze away from the burn marks on the man's neck, not wanting to be caught staring and, possibly, insult the peasants. He looked up, eyes widening as he saw more peasants practicing with bows and arrows and some more awkwardly swinging farm implements. He blinked and shook his head, looking back down at the blonde. "I came to find the village where Tèa lived, but I found it burnt to the ground. So I sought out where the people would be hiding and found you here." "Tèa?" The blonde broke into a smile, the expression making Mahad wince. He didn't want to be the one to break the news to these people. He didn't want to watch as their spirits broke. He didn't want to be the one who watched them go back to their hopeless lives, all because he had been unable to do one thing. He hadn't been able to protect a young woman from Gozaburo. Mahad slumped in the saddle with a sigh. Why had he thought that he would be able to protect her in the first place? After all, he had been the one who had lost Yugi to the dragon. He had been unable to protect his charge, the one he had looked after since his birth in the most important of all situations. Why would have he been able to care for the safety of one young woman and her child? He flinched as the blonde bounded forward, all the peasants suddenly dropping their alert stances. "How is she?" Mahad swallowed harshly, forcing himself to stare at the blonde. "The baby was a boy." There was a cheer from the crowd, all except for the burned man. Mahad watched him frown, knowing that the man had noticed his avoidance of the question. The man tipped his head to the side, raising an eyebrow as he did so. Yes, Mahad would have to explain it all. Maybe here he would father enough allies to take Tèa's son away from the dragon and help the infant back to a normal life; his father would take more help. Mahad cleared his throat as the chaos died, leaving him nervously shifting on his horse. After a split second decision, Mahad dismounted, resting a hand on the blonde's shoulder in a compassionate gesture. "They died." "W…what?" The blonde took a step back, Mahad's right hand dropping to his side, twitching in readiness to reach for his sword. He turned as the black haired man took a step forward, scowling threateningly. The blonde recovered his powers of speech a mere moment later. "You were supposed to protect them!" "I did to the best of my abilities, but Gozaburo's knight got there before I could. He would have killed the child but…" Mahad gave a shrug, not really wanting to admit that a dragon had succeeded where he had failed. He sighed, running a hand through his short black hair. "The baby is safe. Unnamed, but safe, I promise you that." "Then where is he?" It was the black haired man that spoke this time, green eyes narrowed in anger. "Yugi has him." Mahad nearly growled as the peasants broke out into whispers. "Yugi was the one who saved his son. He was the one who killed the knight and the dragon!" "I heard that he commanded a dragon to save a village in the north!" After the first peasant cried out, there were nods, encouraging another to speak. "I saw that same dragon attack one of Gozaburo's dragons this afternoon!" "Our prince has come back to defend us! He seeks vengeance against the false king!" The blonde shot Mahad a sideways glance before raising his hands. "And he now protects our future king! Let's use this to our advantage and strike as he whittles down Gozaburo's strongest forces. We can still bring this tyrant down!" "Create a battle flag!" "Yes, something to strike fear in their hearts!" "Black and red, like the dragon!" "Yes, black and red!" The blonde looked away, watching the peasants return to their tasks, a few breaking off to produce the proposed banner. Their leader turned a steady glare to the knight, the burned man coming to stand next to him. Mahad returned their stares and waited for their judgment. It was what he deserved for betraying their trust like that. The blonde was, surprisingly, the first to look away. "You can find Yugi and bring him here. If we are working for the same goal, we could at least talk to each other." Mahad gave a nod and swung onto his horse. He sent the animal forward in a gallop, heading for the place that he had first seen that accursed dragon break through the trees. His hands clenched on the reins as he fought back a growl. The peasants would worship the dragon and the man they thought commanded the creature, but Mahad knew the truth. He just couldn't see why the creature would care about them. It was probably some twisted joke on the part of the dragon. And he would not allow the creature to use Yugi and the prince's son like that. Read and review please. Criticism is always welcome.

Disclaimer: I do not own Yu-Gi-Oh or Dragonheart; they belong to their respective owners. I only own bits of the plot. Chapter Nine: Returns and Departures And when the king rode to show off his might; The thief king stole in and helped them ride out of sight. Three Months Later Yugi leaned back on his hands, watching his grandfather move through the herd of cattle, chuckling at the comments that he could hear from the old man. He reached out to pet an inquisitive cow, jumping at the loud snort that the creature gave before wandering back to its herd. The prince sighed, glancing up at the sky. Clouds drifted through the blue expanse above him, uninterrupted in their path. He sat up a bit and rubbed his arms, the chill in the air growing slightly more pronounced, although never growing as cold as it did back in his home. "They'll return when they do. No sooner, no later." Yugi looked up as Solomon made his way out of the herd of cattle, waving at their caretaker before sitting down beside his grandson. He ruffled Yugi's hair, ignoring the token protest from the youth. Yugi laughed and pushed the hands away, flopping backwards onto his back to stare up at the sky again, one hand playing with the blades of grass. It had been three months since he had last seen Atem or any of the other dragons. In fact, all the dragons that usually congregated around the nomadic people had flown south, toward the desert. Of course, he hadn't really noticed the disappearance, having been put to work as soon as he was deemed capable. In an attempt to forget Atem's absence, the prince had thrown himself into the manual labor that was assigned to him, which was often following his grandfather around and assisting him when he needed it. He sighed and closed his eyes, taking the moment to relax. He would move only when his grandfather did. After weeks of running after the old man, he had learned to grab onto any chance to take a break, or he would be on his feet until the sun set. He heard his grandfather chuckle, reluctantly opening one eye to see what was causing the sound. Solomon was leaning back himself, seeming to enjoy the breeze that was washing over them, his eyes closed as he let out a long sigh. He looked down at his grandson with a smile. "The wind has shifted. Up north they are freezing in the snow. Down here, the dragons will be dancing." "What?" Yugi sat up as Solomon stood up, brushing off his pants before walking to tents. Yugi scrambled after him, only managing a few steps before he tripped and fell. The prince groaned and pushed up from the ground, resting on his hands and knees. He was about to stand up again when there was a shout. He turned his head quickly, staring at the lookout who was perched on a nearby rock. Usually, the lookouts were searching for the predators that would prey on the cattle and the humans that watched over them, if they were hungry enough. Instead of looking out over the yellowed grass, the lookout was staring up at the sky with one hand shading his eyes. The response to the shout made Yugi look back at the village, sitting back onto his legs as he watched the whole clan rush out of the tents, all of them squinting at the sky. Yugi saw his grandfather among the group, his attention immediately snatched away as the cows began moving toward him. The prince stood up, moving to the side as their caretakers herded the cattle back toward the pens that would hold them temporarily. He could hear the noise from the other herdsmen as they guided their animals back towards home, eager to join the crowd that had grown, now all of them staring at the sky and pointing. Yugi looked up again, scanning the clouds above him before looking toward the south, eyes widening at the sight that greeted him. He took an involuntary step backward at the mass of dragons that was bearing down on the shouting people before he shook himself, looking for Atem in the bunch of dragons. His search was abruptly cut off as the familiar green shape of Timaeus swooped low, toppling people over as he swept over the crowd. The dragon regained altitude, laughing as Dartz picked himself up and shouted at him. The green dragon gave a chuckle himself before landing. Yugi took the chance to run over to the group, catching what Timaeus was saying as the purple and red dragons circled calmly down to land beside him. "I'm getting too old for such things." Dartz gave an undignified snort, straightening his robes. "You say that every year, and yet you still do that." Timaeus chuckled, lowering his head to gently nudge Dartz, tipping the man over again. "I just like annoying you." The dragons walked off, leaving Dartz to stand up again and glare after them. Yugi placed a hand over his mouth to smother a laugh. There was a friendly rivalry going between the two leaders of the humans and the dragons, nothing more than driving each other to annoyance. But it was still interesting to watch. The interaction between dragon and human was forgotten as another blast of wind sent him tumbled to the ground. Yugi had a quick glimpse of an orange dragon with blue eyes before the dragon turned and raced back to the group, darting in and out of the rest of the dragons. To Yugi's relief, most of the other dragons went for a more sedate landing, touching down a good distance from the humans before walking over to converse with them. He noticed that most of these dragons were large and traveled in pairs, never straying far from what Yugi assumed was their mate. A few of them kept glancing worriedly up at the few dragons that were still wheeling in the air above them. Yugi followed their gaze, jumping as a hand landed on his shoulder. He sighed as his grandfather laughed, coming to stand by his side. "The younger ones will be a while before landing." Yugi didn't want to move away, even as his grandfather gave his shoulder a gently squeeze. No matter how hard he looked, he couldn't see Atem in the bunch of dragons. The black and red dragon had to be alive, or else Yugi would have died before now. Solomon had told him that much when he had pestered his grandfather about what the dragon had done to him before his grandfather had sternly told him to stop thinking about it. He shook his head as he realized that he was losing himself to his thoughts again, waving his grandfather on. "I'll be in a little while. I want to watch for a little longer." Solomon nodded and walked back toward the tents. Yugi smiled to himself, tipping his head back up to look at the dragons still in the air, eyes widening as there seemed to be a disturbance in the middle of the bunch. A smaller white dragon broke away from the rest, quickly gliding to the ground and trotting over to the other dragons. The red dragon broke away from Timaeus, tipping its head to look at dragons above them. "What's going on?" The white dragon shook its shield-like head. "I'm dropping out of the game, Hermos." Hermos tipped back his head and let out a laugh, stretching onto his hind legs to peer at the younger dragons that were darting above them. "He finally got it away from you guys? I thought that he would. We tried warning you that it was just a front." The small white dragon looked sheepish, following after Hermos as they left the flat area, other dragons quickly landing after them. All of them looked back up at the sky, sighing in defeat as they trudged away. Yugi glanced at them, tensing as a green dragon with jewel-like structures growing on its knees and head looked back up and let out a sharp laugh. "Get him, Rex!" Yugi looked up, watching as the purple and brown flapped his wings desperately to gain height, glaring at something that waited above him. The prince raised his eyes, having to shield his eyes from the sun as he looked up. His eyes widened as he saw the familiar shape of Atem hovering above Rex, the sunlight tinting the ends of his wing membrane red. Atem tossed his head, showing off the hide that he held in his mouth. The purple and brown dragon snarled, finally reaching the level that Atem hovered on. The black and red dragon gave a smile before shooting upward, riding a thermal to the top to taunt Rex from the new height. The two repeated the procedure until they both had to flap constantly to gain any height. Yugi tore his eyes away from the two dragons still in the sky as Timaeus walked up beside him, tipping his large head to the side as he peered up. By now, Atem and Rex were both faint dots among the clouds, too far away for Yugi to see, but Timaeus could see them fine. The green dragon snorted in annoyance, glaring at the two. "If that one twists his gut again, I would almost be tempted to let him suffer." "Why?" Yugi looked at the dragon, turning abruptly as the other dragons gasped, some standing up on their hind legs to see the two in the sky better. The prince craned his head up, listening to the excited mutters from the dragons around him and the cursing from Timaeus. His own stomach fluttered nervously as he realized that one of the dots was plummeting back towards earth quickly. Yugi pressed his hand over his mouth to keep from yelping as he realized it was Atem. The black and red dragon hurtled back toward the earth, hide still held in his teeth and wings pressed to his side. Rex was following him, mere seconds behind Atem. Yugi was aware that the other dragons were pulling away from the flat area, some waiting with their wings open and ready to take flight. A grumble from Timaeus drew his attention back to the green dragon who was looking at the other dragons with disgust on his face. "They should trust Atem more. He knows what he's doing." Timaeus gave one last roll of his eyes before storming off, snapping at a dragon who tried to pull his attention back to the diving dragons. Yugi quickly looked back up, swallowing harshly as he realized how close they were to the ground now. Rex seemed to be reconsidering the move, his eyes jumping from Atem to the ground that was rushing up to the both of them. He finally roared and opened his wings, gliding away. Yugi saw Atem briefly glance over his shoulder before looking back at the ground, snapping his wings open at what seemed like the last minute and gliding over the ground, dropping the hide from his mouth into his hand. He rose again, hovering a good distance above the ground as Rex finally landed, the purple and brown dragon glaring at Atem, who merely gave him a smile before rising higher into the air. Yugi sighed and placed a hand over his racing heart. He had thought that Atem wouldn't pull up soon enough, even if he knew what he was doing. The prince shook his head to rid his mind of the images of Atem's broken body lying on the ground, taking another deep breath to calm himself. While his eyes were closed, he felt a rush of wind over him, a smile lighting up his face as he turned around. He opened his eyes as Atem was folding his wings, the dragon tossing the hide away before walking over to Yugi and dropping his head. The prince threw his arms around the dragon's muzzle, enjoying the presence of the dragon. He had missed this, the feeling of soft warmth that Atem gave off and the feel of the dragon's scales beneath his hands. Yugi stood on his tip-toes to rub that one spot above Atem's eye, listening to the purr from the dragon. He found himself being nudged in a certain direction, letting go of Atem's muzzle and stepping back to stare at the dragon. Atem sighed and opened his wings, holding the appendages away from his body so that Yugi could look. Atem was no longer the almost skeletal dragon that Yugi had known. In fact, he looked like he had gained too much weight over his convalescence. Yugi looked back at some of the other young dragons, surprised to see that they still seemed to weigh more than Atem. Further investigation was stopped as Atem dragged Yugi closer to him, pressing his head against Yugi's front and sighing. "I missed you." The prince smiled and took a step back, clambering up onto Atem's foreleg and leaning back against the dragon's chest. Atem craned his head down, looking disappointed with Yugi's choice of perch. The prince sighed and moved until Atem could rest his head on Yugi's lap, giving another contented purr as Yugi began to rub the spot over his eye again. "You're very needy." Atem laughed, the sound turning into a soft moan as Yugi rubbed a little harder. "I said I would steal you away to do this for the rest of your life. And I have." "Things didn't go exactly as you planned." The dragon looked like he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. "Not exactly. But I still got you here." Yugi rolled his eyes, resisting the urge to hit the dragon. He caught a glance of Atem's smirk as it disappeared, the dragon shifting so he was more comfortably wrapped around Yugi. The prince stopped his petting for a moment to wrap his arms around Atem in a hug. "I missed you too." Gozaburo turned to glare at the knights who were still struggling to mount their horses, turning his gaze to the castle gates. There had been a rumor going around that was making the villagers hard to handle. They had been perfectly passive after the news of Yugi's death had been spread around, but they had suddenly erupted into this. He would ride through villages and see the glares that they now openly leveled at him. And, as he rode off, he could hear them whispering about how much better Yugi would have been as a king and perhaps this would be the time to act. At first, he had paid no attention to it, at least until now. Now they were saying that, while Yugi was dead, there was a girl out there carrying his child. Which was bad news for him. This unborn child was gaining the support that even its father couldn't get. The peasants were sure to rebel when it was old enough to take the throne, which Gozaburo was sure to be on. If all still went well. If Seto's whore died and took her brat with her. Gozaburo forced himself not to snap at his men as they finally assembled, none of them daring to meet his gaze. He gestured for them to get into formation, not wanting to leave anything to chance. He would be protected when he entered enemy territory. He held his horse still as the animal shifted impatiently under him, waiting until the soldiers had surrounded him before ordering them to move off, cursing at the small size of their party. Once, he would have galloped from the castle with almost forty men, but now he was down to seven because of that attack. He ground his teeth at the memory of the black and red dragon merrily slashing its way through his troops, all because of one little boy. Even dead Yugi was still causing him trouble. And that was just the start. That led him back to Seto's child, the one that he was still trying to hide from his father. But Gozaburo wasn't blind, he had noticed that the woman had stopped wearing dresses meant to seduce and tantalize and settled for some that were more modest and draped over her body. The abrupt change meant that she was hiding something, something that would not stay hidden for long. And he had caught them, standing at the ends of corridors as they cuddled together, thinking that he couldn't see them, Seto's hands resting protectively over her stomach. This brat would be as detrimental to his crown as Yugi's brat would be. Seto was sympathetic to the peasants, always fighting against everything that Gozaburo wanted to do. A child raised to think like that would leave him surrounded on all sides. He couldn't live forever, he wasn't stupid enough to think that the dragon would grant him eternal life. But he would eventually be deposed and replaced by someone who did not think like he did, leaving all his accomplishments in ruins. At least there was still time to deal with Seto's child, he could keep an eye on the mother easily since they both insisted on staying in the castle. But the peasant's hope had to be taken care of immediately. Gozaburo cursed as his horse slipped in the mud as they made their way down the hill. He glanced up at the sky, scowling as he saw the dark clouds gathering. It would snow tonight, he could feel it. Which would mean that he would be stuck in the castle while the peasants fed their rebellious minds. His original plan was quickly fading into uselessness. Damn this weather and damn the peasants. He forced his horse faster, the guards that surrounded him having to move faster to keep up with their king. Alternately holding his breath and cursing the clumsy horse, Gozaburo made it down the hill. He urged his horse across the muddy ground, ignoring the chunks that splattered against his legs. He only had eyes for the little village. He would find the girl and rip that child from her belly, making her watch as the brat died before he killed her. He had to smile at the image. That would teach the villagers to put their hope in such a meager thing. How easily it could be stolen away from them. A mere slice of a blade and everything was over, left to soak into the earth and disappear forever. Gozaburo chuckled darkly earning worried stares from his comrades. He shook their worry away, his smile refusing to disappear as they rode into the village. He pulled out his blade as he pulled his horse to a stop in the village square, his escort thundering ahead and surrounding the shacks. Gozaburo saw a flash of red hair as a young woman peeked out from the ragged cloth that covered the entrance to one of the shacks before gasping and pulling back. The king didn't worry about her, yanking his horse around to stare at the villagers who were cringing in his presence. But it wasn't enough anymore. He knew what they did when he was out of earshot, they wouldn't be as subservient then. He growled and leaned over to plunge his blade into the heart of the nearest villager, laughing as the villager collapsed back onto the ground. Gozaburo could almost imagine that it was Yugi lying there on the ground, but it lacked the elation that came with the death blow to the actual prince. Yugi had been unable to move, at his mercy. And it had been wonderful. Gozaburo smirked and glanced down at his blade, scowling at the stained surface. It almost made him wish that he had not allowed Seto to clean the blade. He wanted to be able to look down and know that he still carried the blood of that witch's son. But he would have to settle for this lowly commoner's blood and the blood of Yugi's brat, neither of which appealed to him as much. He gave a low curse before looking up to glare at the peasants, watching as they backed further away from the body and the horse, hoping to put themselves out of the reach of the sword. As the moved, Gozaburo delivered his ultimatum. "I will kill one of you every minute until that whore who is carrying the price's bastard comes out. Is one child's life really worth yours?" Before they had time to answer, a woman stepped out of the shack that Gozaburo had been studying earlier. The king carefully kept his mask in place, nearly laughing as he recognized the girl who had tried to kill him once. The one that he had spent an enjoyable night with afterward. And she was the one saying that she was carrying Yugi's child? It was more likely to be his own, which was more incentive to kill the woman before she could continue to spread these lies. After all, he had Seto, and he didn't have the time to raise an heir from scratch, especially one birthed by one of these horrid peasants. He smirked at her and gestured her forward, watching as she hesitated before fully stepping away from safety. "Tèa don't!" A blonde man rushed from the shack, grabbing her arm and pulling her back. He gave Gozaburo a look filled with contempt before looking back at the woman. "Don't you dare. Don't give in and take away our chance to stand on our own." She pulled away from him with a harsh glare before continuing to walk forward, her arms wrapped around her belly like it would protect the child within. She stopped a good distance away from Gozaburo, the villagers inching close to protect her should anything go wrong. "I'm here." Yes, it was the same girl, the same defiant look. Which meant that he hadn't broken her. The idea of taking her back with him emerged in his head for a moment before he shook it away. No, this had to be dealt with here to make an example to the people. Then they would finally settle down again and leave him to rule the kingdom in peace. Maybe then Seto would see the cause that he supported was hopeless, had been hopeless to begin with. The king raised his sword, smiling at her as she realized that the king could easily throw the blade at her. But she didn't back down; stubborn until the end. Gozaburo drew his arm back, the sword dropping from his hand as a knife embedded itself into his shoulder. He screamed in pain, clawing at the knife as he attempted to draw it out, the echoes of the dragon's bellow of pain echoing over the valley. He yanked the blade from his shoulder, glancing around to see who had thrown it. There was no one in sight, all the villagers huddled around the woman as she glared up at Gozaburo, her smile never fading. He hissed with pain, dropping the knife to the ground. She thought she had won this round. She couldn't be more wrong. "Move it, you!" Gozaburo jumped at the disrespectful address, his horse shying to the side and sending him tumbling from its back. He grunted as he landed face first in the mud, pressing himself closer to the ground as he heard the sound of the horse jumping over him. He pulled his face from the mud, glaring as the white haired man wheeled the palomino horse around, holding out his hand for the girl. She took it immediately, swinging on the animal in front of the man. He steadied her for a moment before leaping off, holding the reins as a brunette charged from the same shack, leaping onto the horse and holding the woman with one arm. The white haired man nodded, before whispering something up to the two of them and slapping the horse's rump. The palomino neighed its surprise and galloped out of the village, taking the woman out of his reach. He could chase after the horse, but there was sure to be other members of this little resistance waiting for him in ambush. Gozaburo stood up, retrieving his sword and glancing around. The white haired man had disappeared back into the crowd as quickly as he had appeared. The king snarled and wiped the mud from his face before mounting his flighty horse again as motioning for his guards to move in closer, cursing their uselessness. He leveled a glared at the villagers before speaking loudly enough so they all could hear. "I want at least two men patrolling the streets of every village and two going after those two. Bring them back to me. I think a public execution will clear these dolts of their silly dream of rebellion." He kicked his horse, turning it roughly in the direction of his castle. There were other matters that could wait until later. Right now, he needed all the men he had available searching for those two before they left the kingdom. He didn't want to risk sending men into the domain of another ruler with specific reasons for his actions. Chasing after the bastard of a dead, disinherited prince would not be one that would uphold his reputation. He looked over as the captain of what was left of his garrison rode up beside him. "My lord, I'm not sure that we will have enough men to do as you have ordered and protect you." "Then pull from those that have retired. The lay-abouts have nothing better to do. Now, you were given orders, follow them!" He rode on before the captain could finish dismissing himself. He was in no mood for the intricacies of politics at the moment, he just wanted to get to his castle and clean up. Then he would have to think of a way to deal with his son. It was better to get this all out of the way now before anyone worked up the stomach to rebel. He would have order in his kingdom. Ryou looked up as Bakura stumbled back to their campsite, wordlessly handing the thief his helping of stew that had been simmering over the fire. Bakura grimaced at the food, Ryou understanding his distaste for the same thing that they had been eating three months straight, but it was better than starving; which they were close to doing anyways. The worse part of winter was coming and it was getting harder to find food. Ryou knew that Bakura had been scouting out some of the minor nobles' houses, ready to start his campaign against them to keep them fed. But at least they had made it through the first part of the winter without being found, which was Ryou's biggest fear. A little longer and they would be safe as the knights were forced to keep to their lord's castle as the snows got too deep. He leaned back onto a rock and gave his lover a soft smile. "How is she doing?" The thief looked up abruptly from his food, hesitating for a moment before deciding that the question could wait until he was done eating as he turned back to his stew. Ryou was too used to this to be bothered by the lack of manners, instead closing his eyes and enjoying the warmth of the patch of sunlight he had found. They had been keeping track of the woman Tèa since they had heard the rumors that she was carrying Yugi's child, which Bakura laughed off all too easily. The idea intrigued Ryou from a poet's stance and because the simple news had brought the populace alive. Now there was some hope for their situation, a chance to strike back against the cruel man who kept them in poverty while he hoarded all their wealth and food to himself. What puzzled Ryou was why this child was acceptable while Yugi wasn't. Bakura had tried to explain to him one evening, saying that Yugi had the reputation of being the son of a witch. No sane person would want a potential warlock on the throne, especially after all the pain that Gozaburo was causing them. The appeal was in the fact that the child was coming from a commoner, one that would be raised to understand their point of view. Apparently, it was better that Yugi had died trying to kill Gozaburo, because it had improved his standing in the eyes of the people. Still, none of it made sense to Ryou. It was almost too fantastic for the poet to believe. "He tried to kill her." "Gozaburo tried to kill her." Ryou sat up with a gasp, staring at Bakura to see if the thief was playing with him. Bakura looked at his bowl, swiping one finger around the edge to catch the last drops of stew before placing it in his mouth and sucking on it. He let Ryou squirm for a while before taking his finger out and drying it on his pants. "But I got her out of there. Lost the horse though, but you could say it was for a good cause." "Where are they going?" "I told them to head north and look for Mahad." Ryou wanted to get up and smack Bakura. "We don't even know where he is. How are they supposed to find him?" "You forget, Ryou, that I have my methods." Bakura leaned back, looking quite smug with himself. Ryou glared at the thief before giving in and letting himself settle into the pose of an attentive audience. The thief smirked, closing his eyes as he spoke. "I'm guessing that since Mahad was from the northern country, there wouldn't be too many knights. It's a safe bet that if they ask for a Sir Mahad, that they will find him quickly. Most people up there don't aspire to much besides seeing the sun at least four times in their life." Bakura paused to laugh at his own joke, making Ryou shift with impatience. The thief calmed down with a long sigh, shifting to a more comfortable position. "You worry too much, Ryou." "It's my job, seeing as you worry too little." Ryou stood up and walked over to Bakura, slapping him on the shoulder as he walked past. He stopped as a hand reached out and grabbed a hold of his leg. Ryou glanced down and sighed, rubbing his forehead. "I'm really not in the mood, Bakura." "I wasn't going to ask for that. I was wondering if you wouldn't mind if I took Thoth away for a while." Ryou paused, the lack of motion making Bakura open his eyes. "Only scouting for information. I'm not leaving you to this miserable life. I've grown too attached to you for that." "I didn't know you cared." Ryou pulled his leg out of Bakura's grip, laughing at the snort that the thief gave. He pretended to think it over, knowing that Bakura would take the mule whether or not he gave his permission. This was Bakura's way of letting him know that he was leaving instead of just sneaking off in the middle of the night. The poet finally shrugged, giving an over exaggerated roll of his eyes. "I suppose you can. Just refrain from getting yourself killed." Bakura jumped to his feet and pulled Ryou into a kiss, running his tongue across the poet's lips to encourage Ryou to open them. He pushed back, not breaking free. "I already told you no." The thief managed to pout, taking all of Ryou's self control not to laugh. "But I'll be all alone for days. Just think, this time tomorrow, I could be freezing out in the wild without my poet to cuddle with." Ryou gave up on trying to shove him away, knowing that Bakura would win in the end. They had gone through this conversation so many times before. He sighed and allowed Bakura to hug him, turning his head away so he could at least get the last word. "Feels like we're a married couple." Bakura slipped his hands under Ryou's shirt, smirking at the poet gasped at the contact. He planted a chaste kiss on Ryou's lips before stealing the poet's small victory. "Might as well be, love." Tèa clung onto Tristan as the brunette steered the horse through the muddy fields, yelping as the palomino made an awkward leap over ditch. Immediately, Tristan glanced down at her. "Are you okay?" She rolled her eyes and tangled one of her hands in the mane, securing a hold since Tristan insisted she ride side saddle. "I'm not going to go into labor if that's what you mean. I'm fine. Just worry about steering." She heard him snort before refocusing on the road before them. She would apologize for her snappy attitude towards him later, but the boys were used to her mood swings. After all, they were the ones who treated her like she was royalty, even though she tried to do things on her own. She had been dreading the day she actually started looking pregnant instead of the small bump she was sporting now and how the boys would react to that. But she would never get to find out and she wasn't sure if she was lucky because of that. All Tèa knew was that she was on a galloping horse heading for the north, acting on the instruction of a man they didn't know. But at least it was Yugi's horse, she would recognize the palomino anywhere. She partially freed her hand from the whipping white mane to place a few fingers on its neck, sighing as she did so. It was stupid that she was still fawning over the prince like a teenager with a crush. She was nearly twenty-one, she should have gotten over this stage long ago. And the crush should have gone away since he was dead. She couldn't fantasize about seeing him again or hearing his voice around the corner and running into him. He was gone beyond her reach. But she had something of his to live for. Something that would help them all. Tèa threaded her fingers back into the palomino's mane, smiling as she looked down at her stomach. She would protect this child no matter what. Every night she prayed for the child to stay safe, for it to have its father's eyes and not her own. The world needed someone with violet eyes in it, someone to look at the world and wonder at its marvels instead of cursing it for the lot in life that it had given them. Their people needed a ruler who would be kind and just, two things that Tèa was sure Yugi would have been. If anything, she wished that this child would be more like his father and look nothing like her at all. "Heads." That was the only warning she got as Tristan sent the horse into a patch of trees and pulled it to a stop, wrapping his arm more securely around her. Tèa peered out through the branches, her heart beating faster as she saw the men on horseback go thundering by. She bit her lip to keep from whimpering, pressing back into her friend as she waited for the guards to disappear. Tèa breathed a sigh of relief while Tristan gave a low curse, turning the palomino and urging it deeper into the woods. Tèa looked up at her friend, demanding an explanation for the obscenity. "They're heading up to the village that I was planning to stop at for food and other supplies, unless that man was prepared for this event." She glanced back at the bulging packs that hung off the saddle. Tristan didn't seem inclined to check them at the moment and she knew that he would not allow her to move from her spot in front of him to check. Sighing, Tèa looked up at him. "So, what do we do now?" "We keep heading north and I'll slip into villages when I can. We can travel faster than the king's guards, we know the area better than they do." "Until we hit the boarder, then we're relying on finding this Mahad." Tèa didn't like the idea of trusting her child's existence to one person, if they found him at all. She didn't want to voice the question that they were both thinking, not wanting to let herself become weak with fear. She had to hold on for a while longer and then she could break down. Only when they were safe. "Until then, what do we do?" Tristan shrugged. "I'll hunt or something. But, we should try and travel until we can't go on." "Don't kill the horse!" Tèa shouted out the words on a whim, suddenly unable to bear the idea of hurting the beautiful palomino. Tristan gave her a strange look before finally nodding, probably counting the request as a product of her mood swings. Tèa didn't care. As long as the palomino was safe from harm, they would be alright. She could justify herself with thinking that they could easily sell the horse for a good price in the north or that having a healthy animal would be easier to escape on. But, in reality, it all came back to Yugi. Everything came back to Yugi. Atem gave a halfhearted snarl as Yugi reached out to steal a piece of meat from the carcass of the cow he had been devouring, giving the dragon a sweet smile before spearing the meat on a stick and holding it out expectantly. Atem rolled his eyes, trying not to sound amused. "You steal my food and expect me to cook it for you." Yugi laughed, dissolving into a cute giggle that Atem wished he could hear more often before nodding, waving the stick in the air. "Please." The dragon sighed and relented, spiting out a few flames to cook the meat before dropping his head back to his own meal. He gave a grumble as Yugi patted his side in thanks, settling into the bend that Atem's elbow made and chewing on the meat. Atem kept one eye on Yugi as he ate, wondering how the human could stand to be so close to him as he bolted down his meal, shooting glares at the dragons who came close. Four years had done its damage to him, making him extremely cautious of anything coming near his food, Yugi being the one exception to his rule. But then, Yugi was quickly becoming the exception to all his rules. He wouldn't have helped any human, except Yugi. He would have swallowed any other human, except Yugi. He would have let any other human die, except Yugi. He wouldn't have torn open his chest and split his heart for any other human, except Yugi. He wouldn't fall in love with any human, except Yugi. Atem gave a content sigh and pushed the bones of the cow away from and curled his head and tail around, tilting his head slightly so he could still see Yugi as the prince sat on his foreleg. Content with the arrangement, both human and dragon sighed and relaxed, Atem's eyes slowly closing. He smiled as he felt Yugi reach up and stroke his scales. Atem shifted slightly into the caress, the tip of his tail twitching as Yugi found a ticklish spot. He cracked open an eye to watch the human. He had missed closeness that he and Yugi shared when he was out in the desert and coherent enough to think. Equals instead of rivals, as the other male dragons treated him, or just an object to be captured like the females viewed him as. He lifted his head to nuzzle Yugi, neck protesting the cramped position. His human gave a faint squeak at the sign of affection before he allowed Atem to continue. "Atem," he guessed that the sound was supposed to be a whine but it came out as a moan, "I'm trying to eat." "It was mine first, Yugi." Atem let up, smiling as Yugi abandoned his post to sit on the ground by Atem's side. "And you stole it from this poor, starving dragon." Yugi reached out to give a dragon a light shove, but the motion came after a moment of hesitation. Atem sighed, opening a wing to cover the human and his head. Yugi smiled his thanks before crawling over to hold Atem close. The dragon a soft trill, Yugi holding him tighter with the sound. "Yugi, I'm alright. I promise." "But-" "I'm alright. I'm here and I'm alright." Atem felt Yugi shiver, mumbling the rest of his sentence as he pressed his forehead against the dragon, stopping when Atem started to speak again. "You haven't lost me." "It was close. My grandfather talked to me about it. He guessed that you had a few days before stuff started to die. And you would have starved to death and-" "Yugi." He pushed the human onto his back, effectively stopping Yugi's rambling. Atem gave him a fond smile to apologize for his action before resting his muzzle on Yugi's stomach, the contact seeming to calm him down. "Stop worrying over trivial matters. I'm not going anywhere. Why would I? Everything I want is here." "Atem-" "Stop." Yugi shuddered and gasped at the warm air that ran over him with the order. "Just focus on the present." The human reluctantly nodded before relaxing back onto the ground, content have Atem's head resting on him. Yugi reached up to stroke the scales he could reach, simply tracing around the edges. The two lapsed back into silence, Yugi taking the time to reassure himself that Atem wasn't leaving. Finally, Yugi spoke again, his fingers ceasing their movement for a moment. "So…mating season?" Atem laughed at the reluctance in Yugi's voice. "Yes. I believe it starts tomorrow." "Got your eye on anyone?" Atem gave Yugi a sideways glance, the truth on the tip of his tongue before he decided to confine his answer to his own species. He shook his head, listening to Yugi giggle as the action caused his shirt to ride up. Atem smiled at the sound, dropping his head to rest his muzzle on the exposed skin, eyes going wide in the next instant. Yugi arched his back with a gasp, hands clamping down onto his muzzle to keep Atem from moving. "Hot!" The prince dropped his head back to the ground with a moan. "Gods, you're hot!" Atem gave a startled rumble of his own, the vibrations making Yugi cry out again. He was too focused on the sensations that he was experiencing to notice Yugi writhing under him. The human's stomach was warm, much warmer than Yugi's hands, but still cooler than Atem's body temperature. Atem enjoyed the feeling of the soft skin and the contrast between their temperatures, nuzzling Yugi gently and listening to the soft mewl that Yugi gave. The dragon responded with a purr of contentment, wanting to hear more from the prince. Yugi obliged his unspoken plea by repeating the sound, the cry turning into a moan as Atem lifted his head, finding that the human was gazing at him through glazed violet eyes. "Atem…" He took a deep breath to resist the temptation to rest his muzzle back on Yugi. If things got out of hand, he didn't want to hurt the human. He settled for laying his head back on the ground, Yugi immediately curling up close to him. The prince reinstated contact by returning to his slow tracing of Atem's scales. Atem dug his claws into the ground, resisting the urge to turn and nuzzle the human again. He scrambled to remember the question that Yugi had asked him, his voice shaking as he finally answered it. "No. I have no intention of trying to attract a mate. But I will be flying with the rest." "Why?" The prince's voice was quiet, the human obviously still trying to collect his thoughts. "Some of the females are really shy or trying to stay single themselves. It would be embarrassing if they had no one to fly with." Atem moaned as Yugi's fingers found a sensitive spot near the bottom of his jaw, noticing the sleepy smile that the prince gave. "Everyone else knows not to bother with me. I've told been telling them that I'm not interested." "Really?" Atem nodded, the motion pushing him closer to Yugi's rubbing fingers. "I wouldn't even be considered if I wasn't important because I spent most three months lying on the sand in misery." "Important how?" "It doesn't matter." Atem shook his head, not wanting to think about the title that was forced on him. As usual, the thought made him want to growl, cursing the dragon who had decided to bestow the accursed thing on him. "It's an empty title and I refuse to be a martyr for a cause that has yet to be decided." His words seemed to soothe the human, but Yugi snapped into awareness at the last statement. He nudged the prince backwards, taking the chance to rub his muzzle across exposed skin to make the human moan again. Slowly, Yugi backed away, leaning against Atem's side as he drifted off to sleep, lulled by the warmth of the dragon. Atem looked down at the sleeping human, resting the tip of his muzzle on Yugi's shoulder and watching as the prince squirmed, a fond smile on his face. He dropped into a more comfortable position as close to Yugi as he could get, breathing in the scent of the human before allowing him to fall asleep. Atem knew that it had only been a few moments when a set of claws scratched over him. He bared his teeth and pulled his head out from under his wing, snarling at Rex. The purple and brown dragon pretended to be taken aback before calmly folding his wings. Atem growled at the slight that Rex was dealing him, remaining standing while Atem was on the ground and obviously not moving. The polite gesture would be to join Atem on the ground. Rex tilted his head at the growl, obviously deciding to misunderstand it. The purple and brown dragon looked at the carcass of the cow, giving the bones a disgusted kick before he looked back at Atem. "Didn't you learn from the last time? You should eat more or you'll be trying to tear out your stomach again." The black and red dragon snorted, not bothering to acknowledge the question with an answer. He lowered his head to rest on his forelegs, aware of Yugi's every movement by his side as the prince attempted to find a comfortable position. Atem grunted as Yugi accidentally elbowed his side, glancing back at his wing as Rex laughed, the purple and brown dragon standing up and flaring his wings for balance. "Oh, so you are going to pull out that act again to get out of flying tomorrow." "It was never an act, Rex." Atem was careful to keep his voice low, not wanting to wake Yugi up. When the purple and brown dragon came back down to all fours and rolled his eyes, Atem growled. "I would like to see you survive for four years being hunted down daily and your food reduced to human flesh. See how well your stomach would deal with that." "Oh, I would be fine great Morningstar." Rex smirked at the angry look the title drew from Atem. "I would be able to handle it better than you ever could, the weak dragon that you are. At least I would be able to deal with the pain without calling for my little lover." Atem stiffened at the insinuation, his growl now becoming constant as Rex laughed and began to pace in front of Atem. The red and black dragon raised his head, eyes following Rex as the purple and brown dragon paced. "It was very entertaining to watch you writhe on the sand and scream. Who thought our precious Morningstar could ever be brought so low?" The dragon stopped for a moment, leaning close and making Atem draw his head back in disgust. "Who's Yugi?" "What?" "That's the name you were screaming." Rex rocked back onto his hindquarters, smirking at the look on Atem's face. "My favorite was 'No, please, don't hurt him'. Who's 'him' Atem? Lost your interest in females? Is that why you have been telling them that you're not looking for a mate? Already have a lover?" Rex ignored the strangled snarl, walking around Atem. The black and red dragon relaxed as Rex moved from his line of sight, hoping that the dragon had decided to go torment someone else. He tensed as he felt a weight settle onto his back, biting back a whimper at the pain that the weight caused to the wing that he still had spread over Yugi. The sound managed to escape as claws dug into his shoulders, the laugh that follow the action making him turn his head around, eyes widening as he found himself staring into Rex's black eyes. The dragon smirked before pressing more of himself against Atem, the red and black dragon shuddering at the unwanted contact. He stiffened at the laugh that Rex gave. "Do you like that Atem? Do you make that sound for Yugi when he does this?" Atem's patience snapped. He roared and rolled over, the move upsetting Rex and sending him crashing onto the ground. The purple and brown dragon landed on his back, Atem taking the moment of confusion to plant one hand on Rex's chest, claws digging in around the beating heart. Rex glanced up at him before laughing, pressing his head back into the ground. "Good one, Atem." The black and red dragon snarled, shifting so he was also resting a back foot on Rex, casually digging the spur on the back of the foot into the other dragon's stomach. Rex whimpered at the pain, trying to claw at Atem. He merely laughed, pulling his head out of the range of the weak blows. "Who said I was joking, Rex? Four years of hiding in caves and fighting off humans might have driven me crazy." The purple and brown dragon sputtered for a moment before he tried to gather his defense. Rex turned his head to the side with a snort, still flinching from the pressure of the claws on his scales. "But I bet you liked it when I mounted you." Atem snarled, grabbing Rex's neck in his mouth and giving a weak shake. It wouldn't do to kill the dragon now, but he wanted to threaten him. His status among the dragons right now was only upheld by his title, and then only barely. To most of them, he was still weak and had to prove himself again. Atem was more than willing to do so. He released Rex's neck, keeping his teeth just above the scales so when he talked they dug into the scales. "Give me one good reason not to kill you." "Atem." The sound of Yugi's voice brought him out of his daze. He looked over to the human, watching Yugi absently rubbed one shoulder. Atem immediately felt guilty. The pain from Rex's body on his wing must have woken Yugi up and Yugi had no idea what was going on. Atem looked back at Rex before snorting in disgust and pushing the purple and brown dragon further into the ground before walking back over to the human. He dropped his head to look at Yugi's shoulder, nuzzling the area as Rex clambered back to his feet. "There's one thing that the humans made you, Atem, unnatural. Your job is to find a mate, produce chicks and then die nobly for our cause; not allow yourself to be distracted by your love for this Yugi." The purple and brown dragon spat a small flame before storming off into the night, Atem glaring after him before hanging his head with a sigh. The other dragons hadn't given him this much trouble, but Rex was young and had the heady advantage of being larger than Atem, like most of the younger dragons were. He growled to himself before lying back on the ground, looking at Yugi. The prince was staring off in the direction that Rex had stomped off in, violet eyes wide; Atem couldn't decide if it was fear or shock, although he hoped it was the latter. Hesitantly, Atem moved back to Yugi, stopping himself before he nuzzled the prince, feeling that he had lost that right. Or the right to any contact with the way he had avoided Yugi's questions to save himself from embarrassment. The black and red dragon sighed before stretching out on the ground, resting his head back on his forelegs. His eyes widened as Yugi walked over, rolling his shoulder in an attempt to rid it of residual pain. Atem gave him a sheepish glance, feeling responsible for the injury to the human. If he had chased Rex off sooner… "What did Rex do to make your wing hurt?" Atem looked back over at Yugi and wished he hadn't. The prince had taken off his shirt, the article of clothing dangling from one hand as Yugi reached up to rub the sore muscles with the other, hissing in pain. Without thinking, Atem motioned him over, watching in awe as Yugi obeyed. The moonlight caused the human's pale skin to glow, making it nearly impossible for Atem to resist touching Yugi. The dragon shook his head, pointing as his side with his muzzle. "Heat will help that." Yugi gave him a smile before settling back down by Atem's side, moaning as he leaned his bare back against the dragon. Atem gritted his teeth to keep any sound from escaping, closing his eyes as he felt Yugi squirm until the human had found a comfortable position. He had expected Yugi to put his shirt back on before doing this. He leaned into the colder body, a strangled moan escaping him, the sound causing Yugi to sit up and look at him. "Are you alright?" "Yes." He was lying through his teeth, but Yugi was making things very difficult for him right now. He dug his claws into the ground, looking away from the human until Yugi had moved back into his original position, one hand tugging gently at the edge of the wing he could reach, Atem automatically dropping it back over the human and tucking his head under the wing. The move was greeted by a brilliant smile from the prince, Yugi reaching out to run his hand down Atem's head. "So, what did Rex do to make you react like that?" Atem turned his head so it was pressed against Yugi, instinctually hiding from sight when he was embarrassed. He realized what he had just done when he felt the human shiver at the increased contact. Unconsciously, Atem leaned closer to Yugi, wanting to be able to feel as much skin as he could. His reply came out as a mumble. "He mounted me." "He did what?" Yugi pulled Atem's head away from his side only far enough to see if the dragon was joking. Atem just blinked miserably up at Yugi, his mortification turning quickly to surprise when the prince sighed and reached to rub the spot above Atem's eye. The dragon waited for Yugi to speak, the hope disappearing at the look in the prince's violet eyes. There was anger there and possessiveness, something that Yugi almost never showed. Atem lowered his eyes, staring at the ground as Yugi gave him one last stroke before snuggling back into the dragon, using his rolled up shirt as a pillow. "Night Atem." And just like that, the conversation was over. Atem stared at Yugi as the prince dropped off to sleep, his face relaxing. The dragon sighed and nuzzled the human, purring as he did so. Yugi gave a small moan, one hand moving from its place on the ground to rest on Atem's muzzle. The dragon smiled to himself and let the hand rest there, lowering his head so it rested partially on Yugi's lap and partially on the ground, letting himself be carried away by sleep. He would worry about the implications of the conversation with Rex later. Please read and review. Constructive criticism is always welcome.

Disclaimer: I do not own Yu-Gi-Oh or Dragonheart; they both belong to their respective owners. I do, however, own pieces of the plot Chapter Six: The Night Before The ladies 'round the campfire drew away their chosen men. The air alive with the fear that they would never be seen again. Seto twisted around in his saddle, earning a slap from Kisara before he had even completed the move. He turned back, staring glumly down the line of people that were heading for the new castle. He was supposed to be in charge of this whole venture, but he couldn't focus on any of it. He was too busy worrying about Kisara, despite all her protests. How where they going to survive this? Gozaburo would attempt to kill Kisara before the child was even born and Seto couldn't leave with them without his absence being noticed. He would be hunted down and forced back to the castle as Gozaburo had yet to sire another heir. Seto knew exactly how his father perceived him. He was a cold hearted man, one who cared little for anyone around him and was able to keep a cool mind when everyone else was in a panic. That was the image he tried to present to everyone, the image that nearly everyone had fallen for. Only four people, three now, had seen through it. He sighed, blinking as Crump rode up beside him, openly staring at Kisara. Seto carefully cleared his throat, drawing the knight's attention back to him. Crump seemed disappointed for a moment before he gave a smile, the expression looking forced. Seto looked away, allowing Crump to ride beside him for the time being. Eventually, the knight would speak and then ride on ahead. The three other knights closest to Gozaburo would follow the pattern, leaving him ready to strangle someone by the time they reached the new castle. There was a small mercy in the fact that Lector had stayed behind with Gozaburo and the dragon. "My prince, your father asked me to bring up the topic of marriage with you." Seto rolled his eyes, forcing himself not to look at Kisara. In public, he tired to act uninterested in her, often failing. She was supposed to be a maid he had picked out at random, but the ruse was ruined as he refused to allow her to change her appearance. He had grown too fond of her white hair to let that happen. He steeled himself for the lecture that the knight would give. "It is the best choice for the kingdom if you marry now, as we are in a year of plenty." Seto contemplated the irony of the statement as he looked to the side of the road, watching two skinny children scurry away. It was only a year of plenty for the nobles. He looked away, eye tracing the path to the village. Where was Yugi in all of this? He should have come back by now, or at least heard of his kingdom's plight. "I'll think about it." Seto cut Crump off before the knight could continue in his ramble, suddenly not wanting to hear more. Crump looked offended as he urged his horse forward, Seto glaring at his back until the squat knight had fallen back into the line of people. Seto looked up at the sun, estimating the time it would take them to reach the new castle. If all went well, the move into the castle would be painless, the wagons having been sent out earlier and the riders coming later in the day. Most of the servants and knights had gone with the first wagons, which meant that the castle should resemble some kind of home by the time they got there. And he could keep Kisara away from everyone, ready for when his father arrived with his dragon. He looked down as Kisara reached over to place a hand on his knee, breaking their rule of no signs of affection, but Seto couldn't bring himself to move from her touch. He gave her a small, shaky smile before turning his attention back to the column of riders. Atem spiraled up into the sky, riding a thermal to save energy. He turned his head slightly, eyes easily picking out the group riding through the forest. He adjusted his wings, steering out of the thermal and diving back toward the earth, timing his descent so that he was skimming close to the ground as the group emerged from the forest, riding along the edge. The horses and mule just snorted when they saw him, now used to his presence after spending most of the day with him. Atem pulled up, grunting as he came to a hover to let his hind legs touch the ground before letting himself fall back forward, folding his wings on his back and settling to a slow walk beside the group. Yugi smiled at him, eyes shining. Atem nodded at the prince, about to speak to him when Mahad motioned him forward. The red and black dragon rolled his eyes and walked up to the knight. He didn't appreciate being ordered around like a dumb creature, but at least it was better than being treated like vermin. "We're heading toward the next village over. Hopefully we can get some supplies before heading back toward the hills. You sweep the area; stay on the look out for anyone who would want to kill Yugi." Atem gave a sharp nod, his patience already wearing thin. He knew that if he left without saying a word Mahad would be after him again and he wasn't sure that Yugi would be able to convince the knight to hold his sword this time. "We'll rest there before heading closer to the new castle." "You plan to attack now?" Atem stared at the knight in shock, growling as the knight nodded. "The king will be distracted by the move and we can slip in easily with all the people running around. You just act as a distraction and we'll do the rest. Then, we can go our separate ways." Mahad glared at him, implying that Atem wouldn't be welcome back into this kingdom after this whole affair was over. The dragon snarled at the knight, watching as the horse shied in fear. Mahad scrambled for a better hold on the reins, one hand reaching for his sword. Atem noticed and fell back a step. "Your plan is suicidal." The black and red dragon kept his voice low, not wanting the others to hear. Mahad was clearly the leader of the group and all would fall apart if his authority was challenged. Yugi would be the only one willing to accept the dragon's advice. The others thought him just above a stupid animal. Atem glared at Mahad as the knight looked over at him, the fingers tapping against the pommel of the sword his warning to the dragon. Atem glared at the human's attempts to intimidate him before expanding on his earlier statement. "It's rushed. You only have three on your side that you know of, I don't think you are willing to trust the poet and the thief." "If they agree, I'll welcome their help. But I won't force them into this." Atem forced his voice to remain low, wanting to snap at the knight. "So we might have five on our side. Against the entire castle if one of us slips up? What are your plans for escape?" "Seto will help us and Aislinn. And there will be no need for escape after we take the castle. These people are loyal to Yugi, he is their hope for safety." Atem stopped in his tracks, letting the rest of the group ride past him. It didn't matter, he could catch up to them in a moment. He dropped his head, shaking it. Mahad was a good knight, he could see that, but he couldn't see past the need to get his charge back into power. And his information was woefully out of date. That was going to get them all killed. Atem sighed, staring down at his claws as he thought. Mahad he could care less about, his relationship with the knight already strained. But was he really ready to condemn the others to the same fate? He didn't know Ryou or Bakura well, but he and the thief had an understanding, the both of them having to make their living off others. Atem suspected that Bakura knew that he was more intelligent than the stories said dragons were, but didn't like to admit it, just because it was easier to justify his actions, somewhere along the line. And the poet was harmless to everyone. But he didn't want Yugi to get hurt. He looked up, eyes going immediately to the tri-colored hair. He stared at Yugi as the prince and Ryou talked, listening to their laughter as it floated back. No, he didn't want Yugi to be killed in this reckless plan. Yugi was the only one who had attempted to understand him or had even looked at him as something other than a creature. He was just fascinating to the dragon, the need to spend more time with the prince drawing him closer than he wanted to be. But, somehow, Yugi made it all worthwhile. And that would all end if Mahad went forward with his plan. The dragon growled to himself and walked back toward the head of the group, his long strides easily catching him up. Mahad glanced over like he was surprised to see the dragon. Atem gave the knight a serious look before opening his mouth to speak, intending to tell Mahad about the gaping wholes in his plan. He snapped his jaws shut as Mahad gave a careless wave of his hand, dismissing him without a second thought. "I don't want to hear it. Just do your job and we can see the end of each other." Atem snorted, stopping and turning his head away. He relaxed when he felt a soft touch on his shoulder. Atem looked down at the prince, falling into step beside Yugi's horse as they walked along. The prince kept one hand on Atem, his fingers moving over the scales. The dragon sighed, looking at Yugi out of the corner of one eye. Yugi just gave him a soft smile, patting his shoulder. "Ignore Mahad. I feel like I don't know him anymore." "Yugi…this-" "Dragon!" Atem looked up with a snarl as Mahad shouted, pointing up at the sky in a clear indication of what he wanted. Yugi winced at the order, hand clenching to a fist where it rested on Atem's shoulder. Atem looked down at Yugi, gently nudging his shoulder to draw his attention again. "I'll go. But, please, try to keep them safe. I don't trust this knight of yours." "I trust Mahad with my life." Yugi was staring at him with wide eyes, Atem feeling horror seeping through him at the simple statement. If Yugi would follow Mahad, even when the knight was doing things that Yugi didn't agree with, then his life was in danger. Atem looked away, unable to stand the shocked gaze of the young man. "Please." The word was whispered before Atem moved away from the contact, walking off and good distance before shoving himself off the ground. He snapped his wings open at the top of his jump, hissing as they trembled under the sudden weight. It wasn't his favorite way of taking off, but it was the quickest. And he had to get away from the knight now before he did something he regretted. Like snatch Yugi away before Mahad could lead them into a potentially deadly situation. He circled the group, watching as Yugi gave him a sad wave before he found a thermal to carry him up. Atem let the warm air lift him higher into the air; turning is head as he scanned the countryside around him. He understood why Mahad was doing this. The knight was simply trying to piece back together the world that he had seen shatter, it was a natural reaction. Atem had done it himself when his father had been captured, fighting the humans without any real plan. And he had paid for it. He was still paying for it. It was the reason he had offered the deal to the knight, because he had known that he wouldn't be able to survive a long battle. He needed what little reserves he had for the winter, because he wouldn't be able to make the long flight to somewhere else, not without having the cold weather catch up to him in the end. Which would mean another winter of taking from those who had less than him. But desperation was no reason to lead others to their deaths. Atem caught a long line of humans moving across the plains, moving straight for the pristine white castle. The dragon snorted before letting himself rise into the clouds, using them for cover as he peered down at the humans. They looked harmless enough, save for the few men who rode with swords, but none of them looked like they were trouble. Atem snarled at the glint of armor in the sunlight, the sound dying in his throat as he caught a familiar scent. He hesitated for a moment before ducking below the cloud line, red eyes easily picking out the one human in the group that had attracted his attention. He would have recognized that white hair anywhere. Kisara was with this group of humans, which meant that she was still with her human. At least, he hoped she was. Part of him longed to swoop down and greet her, but he restrained himself, forcing himself to turn around and head for the old castle, flying above the line of people. He absently searched for the king as he flew, while his mind remained on Kisara. There was another one who would fight for them without question, but there was also danger in that. She could get killed in the battle or killed if they lost, and the king had seen her desertion. Atem would never let that happen to his childhood friend. He snarled, sending a glare in Mahad's direction. If only the knight wasn't so hard-headed and allowed some sense to be talked into him, they could avoid most trouble! He shook his head, finding himself circling above the castle on a thermal. Sprawled out in the courtyard was his father, still chained to the ground. Atem gained more altitude, bringing himself into a hover as he looked down. He wanted to dive down there and free his father, tear the chains from the ground and set the stones of that human place of torture on fire. Atem pulled out of the hover, turning so he could easily go into a dive, easily plunging a few feet. Before he got far, the image of Yugi's face flashed in his mind. It was all too easy to hear Yugi begging him to wait, wait for a more opportune time. Atem gave an aggravated growl before pulling up, hissing at the pain in his muscles as he stopped his free fall. The black and red dragon quickly turned around, heading back for his group, flying as fast as he could. He kept his eyes narrowed, the temptation to turn back around increasing. But, if he didn't go back, then the one person he cared about would be thrown into danger. He spotted the little group, not bothering to check his speed as he came low to the ground, ending up running until he ran out of momentum near the back of the group. Atem glared at the humans, turning so he was standing in front of them and not allowing them to move on. Mahad looked up at him, obviously impatient for his report. Atem shook his head, his words coming out as more of a growl. "They are moving, but the king stayed behind with my…the dragon." "Then he means to move the dragon later. So we'll catch him late at night, when the dragon is still being transported." "No, you will wait!" Atem lowered his head, snapping at Mahad's horse, causing the animal to shy away. The knight quickly calmed his animal. Atem saw the knight's sword come out of the scabbard, watching the sunlight dance along the sharp edge. And he found that he didn't care. This was stupid and he would not allow it to happen. He crouched close to the ground, blocking their path. Mahad raised his sword, the action earning a snarl from Atem. "I will not let you pass." "You have no choice, dragon." Mahad charged forward, Atem moving his head out of the way at the last minute. The sword's point raked across his chest, making him roar in pain. Mahad kept galloping on, turning his steed a short distance and staring at the blood that was on his blade. Atem shook his head, turning to stare at Mahad. The two remained in a staring contest until Atem was distracted as Ryou nudged Thoth after Mahad, Bakura following after with an almost apologetic shrug at the dragon. Only Yugi remained behind, torn between trusting Atem and going with Mahad. Atem pleaded with is eyes, not wanting to beg aloud. The prince's usually bright eyes darkened, Yugi's mouth opening to speak. But the knight quickly cut him off. "Yugi!" The prince shook his head, reached out to touch the dragon, looking relieved that he did not pull away. He couldn't bring himself to pull away from Yugi, some part of his mind torturing him with the fact that this might be the last time they were together. Atem blinked quickly, banishing the thought with the motion. He would make sure that nothing ever happened to Yugi, he would try his best to prevent it. He wanted to preserve this one human who saw him as something other than a monster. Yugi gave him a sympathetic smile, the expression showing that Atem had lost his argument with the knight, Yugi would follow the one he owed loyalty to, and Atem was powerless to stop him for now. He relaxed as Yugi whispered, "I'll talk to you tonight, I promise." Yugi urged his horse forward, trailing his hand across Atem's chest before bringing it to rest on his saddle. Atem resolutely clamped down on a whimper, leaning after the contact. He was not willing to show such weakness in front of the knight, but he craved the touch of this one human. It was too easy to forget the rest of the world and his own troubles when Yugi was there, the calm haven in the midst of the storm. Atem grumbled and jumped into the air, a snarl of pain escaping before he clamped down on the sound, shoulders trembling as they protested the rough treatment. He rode a thermal, circling so he could pinpoint the village that they were heading to before turning toward the forest to hunt for himself. Gozaburo glanced up at the sinking sun before motioning for Lector to follow, cursing as his horse jigged nervously in the presence of the dragon. He looked up at the black monstrosity, wondering what was so frightening about the creature. The dragon was mostly flesh and bones, what fat and muscle that it had once possessed gone, along with the sheen to its scales. Now they were just a dull grey, having faded from nonstop direct sunlight. The proud attitude of the dragon had been damaged by the death of its witch friend and broken completely when it realized that no one was going to save it. The dying screams of its own kind had dulled the brown eyes and cowed the dragon, making it nothing more than a large dog. There was nothing to suggest that the dragon had ever been wild. The creature walked calmly on the end of the leash, like the tame pet it had become. Lector held the chain that went up to the metal collar around the dragon's neck. The knight scrambled up onto his horse, quickly catching up to his kin. Gozaburo glanced once more at the dragon before looking toward his new castle. "No attempts at flying." The dragon looked calmly down at him, a shrug making the chains that it still wore rattle. "What is the point of that? I have counted the screams, there is no one left here." Gozaburo chuckled and nodded, a swift glare thrown to Lector to keep the knight quiet. The dragon would know of the situation with his own kind; the thought that it was the only one left kept it silent, and Gozaburo was happy with that. The three of them left through the gate, the dragon having to crawl through the small arch, growling at it scraped scales off. With little other trouble, the three set off in the direction of the white castle, following the trail that the nobles and wagons had taken earlier in the day. While they traveled, Gozaburo let his mind turn to what one of the nobles had said before their group had departed, probably hoping to gain favor with the king. The noble spoke of another dragon slayer, one by a knight who refused to acknowledge Gozaburo as king, which could only mean that it was Mahad. The knight must have returned, but there was no sign of Yugi. Two ideas sprung immediately to mind, that Mahad had abandoned the small prince or Yugi had died, neither which seemed likely. Mahad would have never left Yugi behind, since the small prince was the focus of all his hopes for the kingdom. And Mahad never would have returned if Yugi had died. Fortunately, Yugi was a mere annoyance in the scheme of things. The peasants didn't see him as their king and everyone was convinced that the stress would kill him. He looked over as the chains on the dragon rattled. The creature was staring up at the sky, a little bit more life in its brown eyes. Lector jerked on the chains, forcing the dragon's attention back to him. "What's so important, beast?" Gozaburo didn't expect the knowing nod from the dragon and what looked like the start of a smile. The king shifted in worry over the expression before easily shoving the worry aside. There were ways to control this dragon. The beast was like the population, easily forced into silence. "It doesn't matter." "No, it doesn't." The dragon rumbled out its reply, the chain clattering as it settled into an easy walk. Gozaburo's suspicions were roused again, the king deciding to bring the dragon back to it's silent state. He didn't like the way it was acting now. He tapped his saddle for a moment before looking over at Lector. "What color is that one dragon that's left? The one that's been giving all our knights the trouble?" Lector shivered; probably remembering his own experience with the dragon that had become the bane of all the knights. The king glanced up at the dragon as he waited impatiently for the answer, watching as the dragon turned, suddenly paying more attention to the two humans. Finally, the knight collected himself. "Oh, the man-eater. It is black, but some say its red too. I think that's just because of all the blood. It looks like this one too but," Lector shuddered, "those red eyes are enough to drive you crazy." The dragon gave a quiet gasp, quickly looking away from the two humans. Gozaburo smirked, they had gotten it. He leaned back a bit, stretching one arm out as he purposely used an innocent tone. "Well, there was a dragon that was dragged into a village yesterday. Dead, thankfully. It was black." "Gods be praised." Lector muttered the phrase was Gozaburo watched the dragon, disappointed that he couldn't shout his victory to the sky. The dragon had broken again, the once bouncing stride becoming a shuffle against as it lowered its head, lower jaw nearly brushing against the ground. The king turned his attention back to their destination, calculating that they should arrive there sometime after midnight. Both Gozaburo and Lector were too busy in their own thoughts to hear the dragon mutter to itself. "Atem." Mahad smiled at the fire, watching the villagers. He was relaxed for the first time since he had met the dragon. He leaned back to look at the stars that were coming out in the early evening. The smile widened on his face as he recognized the calm that had taken over him as the usual emotion he felt before a battle. While others panicked or sat solemnly around, Mahad was able to stay calm. The sound of moans drew his attention to the poet and the thief, wincing as he watched them before turning his gaze away. He caught a glimpse of Bakura as the thief pulled his lover up and moved them to a more private location, not understanding the attraction between the two men…or any two men. Mahad shook his head and stared at Yugi, finding the prince sitting close by and drawing something on the ground with a stick. He was about to attempt to see what Yugi was drawing when the village girls took the cue from Bakura, pulling their chosen men from the ground and urging them away into the shadows of the shacks. Mahad sighed and let his eyes almost fall closed. It was good to have found a place that was not quivering in fear because of Gozaburo, at least not visibly. And it was good that he had found a place away from the dragon. He looked up as a pretty brunette girl hesitantly reached out to take Yugi's hand, her face showing revulsion for a second before it was replaced by a smile, the change too fast for Mahad to comprehend what was going on. The prince sat quietly on the spot, looking almost frantically between the dark plains surrounding the village and Mahad, like he was begging the knight to give him a reason to stay. The knight waved him on. "I'll get everything ready and retrieve you when it's time to go. Enjoy yourself Yugi, you deserve it." "But…" Yugi looked very flustered as the girl knelt, still holding his hand, while her other ran over his shoulder. Mahad chuckled at the blush that spread across Yugi's cheeks as the girl whispered something to him. The prince gave a small yelp and shifted closer to the knight, whispering urgently. "I promised Atem that I would talk to him tonight." "Another night with the dragon?" Mahad made sure his tone was suggestive; he wanted to make sure that he got his point across to the prince. Yugi blushed deeper, but there was anger in his eyes. "It's not like that." Yugi rocked back, allowing the girl to lead him away in his moment of no resistance, a hurt expression on his face. Mahad shrugged and pretended not to care. He knew that Yugi knew better than to fraternize with the dragon. It was bad enough with the reputation that these superstitious people had given him and his small size, there was not need to add that idea to the list. Yugi had to start getting rid of these preconceived notions on his own if they were to succeed in helping the people as Yugi insisted. Mahad sighed and pushed off the ground, walking over to where their horses were picketed, patting his own horse before checking over the animals. An annoyed snort from the thief's mule brought his attention out of planning for their assault on the castle. The knight looked up, surprised to see the dragon walking calmly over. Mahad stood up straight and leaned against his horse, watching as the dragon came to a confused stop, looking at the knight before glancing over at the village. A confused rumble came from the dragon, the sound making Yugi's palomino horse start and Thoth give the dragon a loud snort and a glare before the mule returned to his grazing. The dragon seemed to snap out of its daze at the sound, glancing down at the knight with confused and worried red eyes. "Where's Yugi?" "Among his people, where he belongs." Mahad absently checked a strap on his saddle, pausing at the soft whimper. He looked up at the dragon, because it had to have been the beast that made the sound. He started at the hurt and betrayed look in the crimson eyes before following its gaze, smirking at the sight of Yugi and the village girl locked in a passionate kiss. Mahad chuckled, retying his pack onto the cantle of his saddle before moving over to repeat the process on Yugi's horse. He heard another whimper from the dragon, this one dragged out into a whine, the creature moving forward a step. The knight looked up, prepared to stop the dragon from interfering, but the dragon hadn't move since the initial step. It had its shoulders hunched, wings pressed close to its back. And it was staring after Yugi in longing, an expression that Mahad recognized from his younger years. He had often seen it on the faces of his friends when they had passed through the horse markets or a pretty girl had strolled past, oblivious to the boys who were watching her. Mahad glared at the dragon, feeling no sympathy for the creature. Yugi was theirs; he did not belong with this dragon, no matter what the creature thought. The dragon winced at his gaze before slipping away into the night, still staring after Yugi. Mahad growled to himself and pulled one of the straps, probably putting a bit more force that necessary. The dragon had no right to look at Yugi like that. The prince wasn't its property, nor was he at the beck and call of the dragon. Yugi had felt sorry for the creature once and saved its life. It was the dragon who owed Yugi everything and not the other way around. Mahad let one hand fall to the hilt of his sword, peering out in the darkness as he tried to spot the dragon. If the creature came back, the knight wouldn't hesitate in killing it. Never mind that it would ruin all the plans for their attack on the castle until now, Yugi's safety was more important. Yugi deserved this one chance to just be human instead of running and hiding from the rest of the world. Tonight, Yugi's whole world was going to change. He deserved this one freedom. Yugi's horse nudged Mahad's side, obviously looking for a treat. The knight smiled and stroked the palomino before turning back to his work. He glanced up at the sky, smiling as he spotted the constellation of the hunter, tracing through the stars until the saw the dragon constellation, his smile disappearing. How were the two able to coexist up there? Shouldn't the dragon have been wiped from the stars if the hunter was doing his job? Mahad shook the thoughts out of his head, patting the horse's shoulder before moving onto the mule, glaring down the creature so it wouldn't attempt to kick him. Thoth gave the knight a sideways look before flicking his tail in an obvious dismissal. Mahad took that as permission to approach, quickly checking the animal over for any broken leather. He would let Bakura handle the actual check of their gear. Was it supposed to hurt this much? Atem stopped, rocking back so he could rest a hand over his heart, wincing at its steady beat. It shouldn't feel like that. It should feel like it was breaking. He let himself drop back to all fours, dragging himself further before finally allowing himself to collapse to the ground, not really wanting to walk any further. He bared his teeth against the whimper was threatened to escape, unable to defeat the sound. This was foolishness. He shouldn't be feeling like this, it didn't make sense. Yugi was just his friend, and that was all. That was all he would allow it to be. He couldn't do what Kisara had done and leave the world. He had a job. He was the Morningstar. It was his destiny to give his life up for his kind eventually. Atem shuddered at the thought, closing his eyes. He didn't want to suffer as his father was. He didn't want to die for creatures that had no idea that he existed. Had no idea that he had once lived, breathed and felt. He wanted to live out his life, escape from the horrible cycle of fending off knights and living in agony for days afterward as he tried to calm himself down. He lived for the calm moments with Yugi, when he really felt like he could survive. The bile rose in his throat, Atem pressing harder against the ground in an attempt to keep the contents of his stomach in place. He needed all the food he had consumed to even think about making it through the winter. But he couldn't get the image of Yugi and that girl out of his head. He didn't know why it affected him so much. He shouldn't feel this way. But that girl had her hands over his friend, his companion. His love. Atem's eyes snapped open at the thought, groaning as his body shook in misery. This had all gone wrong so fast. Yugi was a human prince, who obviously didn't care much for the dragon. Yugi had said it himself. Atem fascinated him. Yugi didn't want more out of the relationship. "Kisara, what have you let me do?" Atem snarled out the words, flipping over to his back and clutching at his stomach as it rolled again. He winced, curling around himself with a moan. He couldn't think straight, his stomach and heart hurt so much. The dragon clawed at the ground, managing to flip himself over with a sigh, wincing at the next bout of pain. This shouldn't be happening. He closed his eyes again, flinching at each lance of pain that went through his sides. He tried not to panic, knowing that it would make everything worse. He had to calm down and think rationally for a moment. Atem let his eyes open partially, breathing heavily as he fought to control the panic that was rising in him. This was the worst he had ever felt. Instinct was telling him to find a way to get rid of the pain, to claw and dig at the source until it disappeared. Atem growled; he didn't fell like disemboweling himself at the moment. Instead, he dug his claws into the ground, gritting his teeth against the pain and breathing heavily. He could sit this out, wait for whatever was causing his stomach to react to calm down. Atem's eyes shot open with the next round of pain, a whine escaping from him. The only good thing about this was that it had driven all thoughts of Yugi and the girl far from his mind. Atem whimpered, letting his eyes close again as the next round of pain came through. But what he really wanted right now was Yugi. He wanted the prince to help him through this, because he couldn't handle it on his own. Yugi hopped on one foot, biting his lip to keep from making a sound as he nearly fell. He succeeded in pulling his pants back on, grabbing his shirt before fleeing the house, leaving the girl to sleep. Part of him scolded that he should have stayed with her, it was the least he could do. But, for the first time in his life, he didn't listen to what his mind was telling him. He just had to get out of there. The girl had been nice, but there had been no talking between them, Yugi just lost in his own haze of pleasure. Which was one of the reasons he was leaving early. He hadn't wanted to have sex with the girl in the first place, just letting her do what she wanted because he was too angry at Mahad. How dare the knight speak to him in that manner? Just because he preferred the intelligent company of Atem over sex didn't say anything about him. Did it? Yugi shook his head, running and pulling on his shirt at the same time. He stuck to the shadows, trying to keep out of Mahad's line of sight. He didn't want to be sent back to that girl and have to face her after running away. It's not that he didn't like her. It was just that he'd rather get to know a person before bedding them. He groaned and hit himself on the forehead, realizing that he had done exactly that. He had basically let the girl be an outlet for his frustrations. He had seen her flinch a couple of times, noticed that she was very bruised, but this was all coming after the fact. He should had noticed it first and stopped before it had gone too far. Yugi stumbled to a stop, leaning against a nearby post, burying his head into his hands. He needed to talk to Atem to get his sanity back, just to hear the other's opinion of the events. Because Yugi was sure that he had just messed everything up. The prince pushed away from the post, walking glumly to the edge of the village. Atem would be somewhere outside the village, waiting for Yugi to keep his appointment. The dragon would find Yugi as soon as the prince stepped away from the village. He smiled at the thought of the dragon, his one true friend beyond his cousin. The thought was nearly enough to make him trip over Bakura and Ryou, the two sleeping tangled together. Yugi stepped around them, staring at the two males for a moment before walking out of the village, blushing lightly and shaking his head. He wasn't sure why Mahad looked at them like he was disgusted with their very existence. They were happy with each other. Wasn't that what everyone was searching for, the one they really loved? Why should it matter if they were the same gender? Yugi shrugged at the thought, hoping that the motion would make the unease go away. It was what he wanted anyway. He wanted to find the one person who would always stand by him no matter what. Yugi sighed, ducking his head so his blonde bangs hung in front of his eyes, noticing that he was walking past the dead fire from earlier in the evening. He began to walk faster, breaking out into a run as the pressure became too much. He had to talk to Atem quickly. He had jogged out into the open, slowing when he realized that the dragon wasn't materializing out of the darkness. Yugi stopped and turned in a slow circle, worry beginning to invade his mind. Had Mahad done something to the dragon while he was gone? But the knight knew that their best chance to take back the kingdom would be with the dragon. So where was Atem? Yugi closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around himself, suddenly feeling alone. Then he heard it, sounding like it came from close by. The soft sound of a whimper. Yugi began to jog toward the sound, straining to see through the darkness. He nearly tripped over the tail on the ground. The prince broke into a smile and caught himself before he could fall, dodging around the rest of the tail toward Atem's head. "Atem!" The smile on his face vanished as Atem didn't respond immediately, lying still for a moment before opening one eye slowly. Yugi looked at the eye in shock, not liking the haze that covered it. He walked forward, eyes sweeping over the dragon for any sign of injury. Yugi reached out to touch Atem, eyes falling on the dragon's sides, watching them rise and fall faster than normal. His hand brushed over Atem's scales, Yugi leaned against the dragon and pressing his body against him as he ran his hands over Atem's neck and cheek. The dragon shifted, looking at Yugi with a forced smile on his face. "Yugi." "What's wrong, Atem? What happened to you?" The dragon shook his head, encouraging Yugi to rub the spot above his eye. The prince complied, listening to the long sigh that the motion drew out of the dragon. Atem leaned into the touch, eye fluttering shut again. "I'm fine, Yugi. Just fine." Yugi jumped backwards as Atem whimpered out the last word, his whole body shuddering. The price saw Atem bare his teeth, claws digging into the ground before he finally went limp, breathing coming in quick pants. Yugi ran back to Atem's side, pulling the dragon's head close to him and running his hands over Atem, holding the dragon close. "No you're not. What's wrong?" "Stomach hurts." "How long?" "Since you went off with the girl." Atem gasped, pressing close to Yugi as he trembled again. "It's not as bad now." Yugi glanced up at the sky, quickly calculating how long it had been. It was past midnight now, a long time since he had allowed himself to be led away. And Atem had admitted that it had been worse earlier. Yugi shook his head, pressing his forehead against the warm skin of the dragon. "I'm sorry." He muttered, hearing the confused grunt of the dragon. "I should have been here." Atem lifted his head a bit so he could look Yugi in the eyes. He blinked slowly before nudging Yugi backwards, lifting a wing to cover both Yugi and his head. The prince smiled at the gesture, hugging Atem's muzzle while he felt tears leak out of his eyes. "I thought you were dying." "No. I'm just…not alright." Atem hesitated, glancing as his side before looking back at Yugi. "I didn't expect something like this for hundreds of years. Some older dragons suffer from this, but never younger ones." "We've broken you." Yugi clung to Atem's head, hugging the dragon with all his strength. "Yugi…" "We broke you." Yugi felt tears begin to fall from his eyes, but he didn't want to reach up and wipe them away. It was his fault that Atem was like this. If he had been stronger in the beginning, the dragon could have been safe, living a life that he deserved. Instead, Yugi had been weak and ran away from the problem. And Atem was paying the price. Yugi shook his head when he felt Atem shift, the dragon getting ready to speak. "You wouldn't have this if…" "Yugi." The name was slightly muffled with the hold that Yugi had on him. The prince reluctantly let go, sitting on the ground. Atem raised his head, resting it lightly on Yugi's lap so the human could still pet him. Yugi cuddled Atem close, not wanting to let the dragon go, partially afraid that he would disappear. Atem gave a soft trill, the sound so different from his usual deep voice that Yugi looked up to meet his eyes. "Yugi, we can't change the past. I'm fine now. I promise you." "But-" "No. I am fine, Yugi. Just think on that." Yugi nodded reluctantly, resting his forehead against the dragon again. Atem gave a small nod, enough to jostle Yugi. "Now, what did you want to talk to me about?" Reluctantly, Yugi allowed himself to be dragged away from the topic of Atem's health and onto his reason for panicking. He watched his fingers as they traced around the scales on the dragon's head, preferring to stay in silence a little longer. Atem let him, shifting until he was in a more comfortable position, one that allowed him more contact with the human. Yugi smiled at the gesture, reaching behind with one hand to pat the dragon's side before his smile disappeared. "I think I did something horrible." Atem tipped his head to the side, one of his horns brushing against Yugi's shoulder. "The girl?" "Yes. I was mad at Mahad for…" Yugi found that he couldn't say the reason, blushing instead before looking away from Atem. "It doesn't matter. But I used her to prove that what Mahad thought was wrong. And she was hurt, I saw that but I still didn't stop. I was just…" He pushed his hands through his hair, Atem lifting his head from Yugi's lap to look at the boy. Yugi shook his head, lowering his hands so that he could stare at his fingers. "I don't know, but I feel like I took advantage of her. I don't even know her name! And I still did that. I thought…I thought that I was better than that, better than most of the other nobles. But, I'm not in the end." Atem lowered his head again, pushing his muzzle into Yugi's stomach with a soft trill. Yugi looked back down at the sound, finding himself under the scrutiny of a crimson eye, the expression stern. "You are better than most of those nobles and this proves it. Do you think that any of them ever worry this much after the fact? Yes, you made a mistake, but you want to fix it." "Can I fix it?" The dragon shrugged, looking slightly uncomfortable. "I'm not familiar with human courtship. I can only guess." "It's probably too late then." "Probably." Yugi smiled as Atem agreed with him, relaxing from his panic of before. Of course the dragon understood, Atem would always understand him. Yugi cuddled Atem's head close to his chest with a happy sigh. As simple as that, the problem was solved, at least partially. They would work out something together and, tomorrow, Yugi would speak to the girl and apologize for his behavior. The prince sighed, letting his eyes fall shut, cocooned in warmth from the dragon. It seemed that he had just closed his eyes when he felt the comfortable weight on his lap being removed, Yugi opening his eyes as Atem moved his wing. The prince sat up, blinking at Mahad as the knight glared at him. He turned away from the glare, standing up and using Atem to help keep his balance, absently stroking the dragon's muzzle as Atem turned to look at him. The sound of Mahad clearing his throat, alerted Yugi to how the knight saw the interaction between the two. Yugi glanced up, pointedly keeping his hand on Atem. "It's time." Mahad delivered the message before storming back to the horses. Yugi sighed, getting ready to stand when Atem pushed him back down. Yugi shoved the dragon's head away, standing up and turning to face Atem. He offered the dragon a smile, surprised when Atem whimpered and pressed his head against Yugi. "Are you okay?" Yugi glanced over at Atem's side, remembering what had drawn the sound out of the dragon before. Atem shook his head, the motion moving Yugi as the dragon got to his feet. "Don't go, please." "Atem…" "Please. It might kill us all." "That's why you'll be there, to protect me." Yugi offered Atem a smile, the expression fading when the dragon refused to meet his gaze. The prince sighed, shifting so he could look into the dragon's eyes. "If we do this, then you can go back to life as it was meant to be, and I can help all these people who are struggling. Please, just let me do that. It's my duty. His might upholds the weak, remember." Atem flinched at the reminder before reluctantly nodding. Yugi gave him a last pat before jogging after Mahad, heading for the waiting horses. *hides in bomb shelter to keep fellow Puzzleshippers from finding her* Read and review please. Criticism, as always, is appreciated.

Disclaimer: I do not own Yu-Gi-Oh or Dragonheart; they both belong to their respective owners. I own bits of the plot and the OC that is introduced here. Warning: Lemon. Chapter Twelve: Going Back The Prince did bid his paradise good-bye And left with the dragon fated to die. Sixth Months Later Gozaburo stood on the battlements of his castle, watching the fog rise from the valley. He tapped his fingers against the stone, surveying the narrow valley that held his kingdom, suddenly feeling cramped. There had to be expansion for them to survive. The peasants were too lazy, so there would have to be more willing to serve him, if they wanted to survive. The taxes would have to be raised to take care of this expenditure and treaties with other kingdoms made quickly. It would be a waste to have his forces throw themselves against the armies of other kingdoms when things could be settled in a calm manner. Although, he would have liked to have more children to cement these treaties. As of now, he only had Seto, who was against his every idea. The king sighed, looking to his right as the familiar purple and orange dragon placed his head on the walkway of the battlements. Gozaburo smiled and gestured out toward the valley. "Get a dragon ready. We're attacking a town today. We need to show the peasants that we are still in charge." Rex nodded and stood up, slipping easily out of the way as the gates opened to allow a panting messenger in. Gozaburo scowled at the man before motioning for him to climb the stairs to the battlements. The messenger groaned, but followed his king's orders, bounding up the stairs before kneeling at Gozaburo's feet. He glanced up after a moment, taking a deep breath before delivering his message. "I did as you asked, my lord, and went north to see if the girl had gone there. I found her, but Mahad is watching over her, as you guessed." His blue eyes narrowed. Of course the girl would go to Mahad, especially if she was carrying Yugi's child. Sadly, it was a predictable move, something that Gozaburo should have countered instead of trying to persuade his son to see eye to eye with him. "Go on." "The child sir, it was delivered days ago. I left the village as soon as I was sure that it would live." "And you are sure the child is Yugi's." The messenger nodded quickly. "Yes, my lord. I saw the boy myself. And it is a son, one with a legitimate claim to the throne." Gozaburo waved the messenger away, turning to look out over his kingdom again, his only reaction to the news a clenching of his hand. There was another problem now, but thankfully one easily solved. He would run a test with his dragon knights on the troublesome village close to his castle, the one that had sheltered the girl in the first place. Then, if all went well, he would send one to destroy the village that held both the girl and Mahad, effectively killing two birds with one stone. Of course, the death of the boy could have been avoided if the girl had managed to carry his child. Gozaburo would have allowed both the girl and the baby to live if the boy had been his. It was a blow to his ego that he had managed to fail where Yugi had succeeded. He let go of his anger and stared at the village below. One step at a time. That was the way that he would win dominion over this world. Tèa happily held her son, sitting outside the small shack that she shared with Tristan. Normally, she would stay inside and hide the baby from sight. She didn't want rumors starting up about who the child resembled. But there was an important reason for her to be outside today. Mahad was coming and she wanted to meet him. And she still couldn't bring herself to let the baby go, not yet. She looked down at the sleeping infant in her arms, cuddling him close in another hug before reaching out to trace his small features. She had gotten her wish; he resembled his father more than her with his almost unnaturally pale skin and small size. The midwife had been worried that the baby wouldn't survive his first night because of his size, which had kept Tèa up for the next few nights as she watched over her child, praying to the gods that he would be alright. Happily, he was still alive and healthy, if still tiny. The baby even had a small dusting of fuzz over his head, most of it black although, in the right light, it turned reddish. The baby gave a gurgle as it woke up, blinking up at its mother with wide eyes before snuggling closer. His eyes were the only disappointment to Tèa, but it was nothing that she couldn't get over. After all, her prayers had been answered, for the most part. Who was she to demand more of the gods when her child was alive and healthy? Instead of the purple eyes that his father had, the child had eyes that looked more blue than purple, but his father's coloration could still be seen in the depths. But they still held the same spark that Yugi's had held. The sound of hooves made Tèa look up, shifting the baby so he couldn't be seen easily. She relaxed as she saw Mahad slip down from his horse, greeting another villager who walked by before jogging over to Tèa. She smiled and gave a quick bow before motioning for him to enter the shack first, following afterward. In the safety of the home, Mahad quickly turned around, his brown eyes showing life for the first time in months. The knight had refrained from coming to see the baby too soon, and Tèa had understood. This was the one chance for both of them, Tèa to have something of her beloved and Mahad to gain his second chance; it would have broken them if the baby had died. Now, they were sure that the infant boy would live, and Mahad had come down at the first free moment he had. Tèa held out the child for him to hold, smiling as the knight gently cradled the bundle to his chest, peering down at the infant's features. He cautiously reached out, a smile crossing his face as the infant grasped the offered finger in his tiny fist, eyes brightening as he looked upon the new human. Mahad chuckled, the sound odd to Tèa's ears as she had never heard the knight laugh before, never seen a smile light up the somber features of the man. A smile suited him much more than his customary frown did. "He's his father's son." Mahad carefully removed his finger from the infant's grasp, holding him up to the dim light. "I can see that already. Unfortunately, I never saw Yugi when he was this young. And his eyes…" "He has my eyes." Tèa shook her head, looking at her child as he wiggled happily in the knight's hold. Mahad glanced at her before lowering the boy and handing him back to her, gently putting two fingers under her chin to raise her eyes to meet his. "I can see you in him and I can see Yugi. That is enough." The knight pulled away, walking back to the opening of the shack and pausing as he looked around the place. "I almost want to take you two back to my father's house to keep him safe, but you wouldn't let me do that. You want him to grow up like the common people so that he won't turn out like Gozaburo. But, don't hesitate to come to me if you need help." "Thank you." Tèa gave him a smile and walked to the door, waving as he mounted his horse and rode off to continue on his rounds. She leaned against the wooden shelter, looking at her child before walking back inside. She sat down on the ground, relishing the few more days of freedom she had before she went back to work, both Tristan and Mahad wanting to be sure that her child was in top condition because of his size. The son of the prince would not have an easy life like his father. She placed her child on the ground, fixing the patchy blanket around him as he yawned, large eyes blinking as he fought sleep. Tèa chuckled and ticked under his chin, earning a surprised look from the child that soon turned to a pout. She laughed and lay down beside him, pulling him close and kissing his forehead. "Sweet dreams, darling." Seto paced outside the door to his chambers, having been kicked out about an hour before. He would have protested the move had the order not come from the midwife and if the baby already hadn't been a week late. He was too worried about Kisara to bother about the slight to his position. He paused by the door, waiting for barely a second for any noise before he had to start pacing again. What if Kisara had been wrong? What if her change into a dragon all those months ago had affected her and the baby? The only sign of his increased agitation was an increase of speed, his head turning to keep a constant eye on the door. He was so lost in the same cycle of worry that he missed the door opening and the midwife peeking out. "My lord?" He dropped all pretenses of his social status and ran into the room, making immediately for the bed and kneeling beside it. He peered at the small bundle that Kisara held in her arms, ignoring the bloodied sheets. Carefully, he reached out to touch her arm, earning a weak smile from Kisara. For a moment, he was afraid that he would lose her, not used to seeing her so weak. His fears were alleviated as Kisara rolled her eyes and shifting so she was sitting more upright. "I'm stronger than you think, Seto. Now, say hello to your son. It was hard enough work just getting him out here, the little troublemaker." Seto found himself holding the bundle, cradling it close to him as he stood up. The baby in his arms squirmed a bit, seeking warmth. He tensed at the movement, only relaxing when the baby settled. A glance at Kisara and he was sitting at the edge of the bed, barely noticing the midwife bustling around and calling in servants to help clean up. He turned his son so the light fell on the boy, observing his features before passing him back to Kisara. "He looks like my brother." "Oh." Kisara paused and adjusted the blanket around her child, biting her lip for a moment before looking up at Seto. "We could name him after your brother, in his memory." There was a smothered gasp from the midwife, Kisara turning her head to look at the woman in confusion. Seto rested a hand on her arm, drawing her attention back to him. "Children aren't usually named until they have lived through a few weeks. If he is named before then, people will think that he is cursed." He raised an eyebrow to show that he didn't believe what he was telling her. His reward was a quiet laugh and a shake of her head. "Silly human superstitions. There's nothing wrong with naming a child after they are born." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Your father is a curse enough for this one." Seto gave a curt nod, not wanting to acknowledge anything that his father could use against him. Already, relations were more strained than before. He had often felt like he was being watched as he went about his business and he was never left alone in any room barring his own. Usually, he would just ignore the obvious breech of his privacy, but it was quickly getting to a point where he held almost no power anymore. All because he had refused to mutilate himself for his father's grand plan. He was about to remind Kisara to watch what she said when a roar made him jump. He rushed over to the small window, glancing back to see Kisara calming their crying son. Assured that his family was alright, Seto peered out of the window, hands clenching by his side in rage. While the stone of the castle blocked most of the sight, he could still see smoke billowing past them, carried by the breeze. It wasn't hard to guess what his father had done. A whole village burning because he wanted to test out his new force. Seto nearly snarled as he spun back around, storming over to his desk to snatch up his cloak and pull it quickly into place. He looked over at the midwife, his glare silencing any protest that she would have had. "You keep watch over them. If I come back and they are harmed in any way, you will pay the price." Before the stunned woman could answer or Kisara could reprimand him for his treatment of the woman, he was striding off down the hall, nearly jogging as he rushed toward the courtyard. He would not allow the slaughter of innocent people to go without a fight. While he couldn't save them all, he could try and find places for them to evacuate to. If his father wasn't careful, he would have a rebellion on his hands soon. Seto shoved open the doors that led to the courtyard, noticing that Crump quickly scrambled up from his seat by the fire and attempted to keep up with his long strides. Seto snorted and headed for the stables, barely pausing as he snatched a bridle from its place and walked into a stall. He quickly threw the piece of tack onto the horse, not bothering with a saddle as he led the animal out into the courtyard. Crump was just catching up to him when Seto vaulted onto the horse's back and sent it racing for the gates. He heard the knight give a cry of shock before he left the castle behind him, slowing the horse so it wouldn't break any limbs. Now he could see what was on fire and this time he did growl as he saw the village. His eyes traced the flames that danced in the cool spring air, watching as the pale green dragon swooped through them, the knight on its back barely visible. The two circled around the village once before the dragon dove close to the ground, breathing out a stream of fire in a seemingly random direction, but Seto knew differently. There were people in those flames now, burning and dying all because Gozaburo needed to gather more power. He scrambled for a better hold on the horse's mane as the animal stumbled, nearly rearing as it tried to avoid a slick patch on the hill. Seto dug his heels into the horse's sides, pitching forward as the horse leapt over the mud, nearly falling as it landed on the other side. Seto swung the horse's head around, aiming for the village that was now only a few feet away and sending the horse off at a gallop again. He pressed himself close to the animal's back when the dragon swooped over, another stream of flame burning the people who had started to run to him for help. Seto narrowed his eyes and pushed his horse faster, there would be others that he could save, or at least call the dragon's attack off. The horse was suddenly pulled to a halt, the motion nearly tumbling Seto from its back. He pushed himself back upright and glared at the man who was holding his horse. The man shook his head and rushed for the woods, Seto hesitating before looking back at the village, his mouth dropping open. He had been seconds too late. From where he sat on the horse, he could see the peasants running for the woods and the village burning merrily. There was nothing else he could do. With a curse, Seto turned his horse towards the woods. This had gone on too long. Peasants leapt for the shadows as Seto ducked under the hanging branches, pulling his horse to a stop and looking around him. The man who had stopped him from going into the village walked forward, obviously the spokesperson for the group. Seto noticed the burns on the man's arms before they were folding across his chest, hiding the marks from view. "What do you want?" "A chance for you to live." Seto slid off the horse, handing the reins to the surprised man. He spun the man around, giving him a shove towards the south. Kisara had told him that most dragons would fly down there to spend the cold months before heading back north. There was a good chance that the dragon that they were looking for was down there. If not, then they could convince other dragons to help them. "Ride south until you find the nomads and ask them for help. Say you are searching for Atem and that your people need their help." "And if they don't believe me?" "Tell them that Kisara sent you." Seto boosted the man onto the horse, nearly throwing him over the opposite side in his haste. "The sooner you get help, the sooner we can fight against whatever Gozaburo plans. I, for one, am tired of waiting for the lower class to rebel against him. There are nobles willing to help if you make the first move." "So you can watch us die?" "We are stuck under his gaze." Seto took the reins of the horse and pulled the animal forward, ignoring all the stares from the peasants. "If we move first, then we die. I promise, if you begin to fight, we will help you. Now go!" The man hesitated before giving the horse an awkward kick, nearly falling off the animal as it galloped into the depths of the woods. Seto looked at the other peasants before turning on his heel, cloak whipping out behind him as he strode out of the trees and back toward the castle. His eyes widened as he saw Crump waiting at the bottom of the hill, forcing his mask into place as he walked toward the knight. His actions today would not go without punishment, but there was little Gozaburo could do anymore. Word would spread among the peasants, and they would start setting up places where the dragons couldn't get to them. Soon, Gozaburo wouldn't have much of a kingdom to rule over. One Week Later Atem sat up with a smirk, licking his lips as Yugi came back to earth after his orgasm. The former dragon propped himself up over his mate, giving him a caste kiss before pulling back. The prince blinked up at him, the thought process obvious on his face. "Pretty satisfied with yourself?" Atem gave a predatory smile as he let himself rest on top of Yugi, the warmth from his body making the human moan. "I should be. After all, you seemed to be. Especially with all that begging and screaming." Yugi blushed for a moment before wrapping his arms around Atem and pulling him into a kiss. The former dragon smiled at the action, opening his mouth to allow Yugi to explore it with his tongue. This was what he imagined his life to be like when he was younger. Just living for the moment and enjoying the company of his mate. Together, they had managed to dodge those who had wanted them to return for half a year, not wanting to come back to reality. Atem knew he was deluding himself if he thought that the problem would simply go away if he ignored it long enough. He was the Morningstar and would have to put up with the dragons' pleas for his blood. So, for once, he had thought about himself alone and taken the first chance he had to get away. And he had showed Yugi the boundaries of his world, albeit most of it involved Yugi viewing the world from his back. Atem pulled away from his mate when the need to breathe became too much, settling for nuzzling Yugi's neck until the human tipped it to one side, allowing him more access. He looked up as Yugi blindly reached for something, hand closing around a small jar of oil and pulling it towards them. He chuckled and gave Yugi's neck a nip, soothing the spot with his tongue a moment later. "Already so eager, love?" "You've been teasing me all day." Yugi tried to pout, the expression wiped off his face as Atem's hand found a ticklish spot on his side, making him arch away from the touch. He hummed in response, taking the jar of oil from Yugi and sliding down so he was kneeling between the prince's spread legs. He stroked the inside of one of his thighs, watching as Yugi squirmed at the touch. Atem chuckled before leaning up and kissing his mate's chest in apology for the tease. "I have my reasons." This was the last chance that he would have Yugi all to himself without any more distractions. His instincts were telling him to begin to head up to his usual hunting grounds and to get away from the other dragons since mating season was officially over. Unlike other years, he wouldn't be heading back up to Gozaburo's kingdom, instead remaining behind with the people to keep Yugi happy. Honestly, he didn't mind staying away from the northern kingdoms, the memories of what he had done up there sometimes causing nightmares. But, as long as he had Yugi, he was fine. He slicked up his fingers, gently pushing one into Yugi and watching as the prince arched, breathing out his name softly. Atem smiled, reaching up with his other hand to push Yugi's bangs out of his eyes. Yugi turned his head and kissed Atem's palm, looking at him out of the corner of one violet eye. "Please. I need you." Atem swallowed and nodded, inserting another finger and brushing them against Yugi's prostate. His mate gave a strangled scream, both hands gripping Atem's shoulders as he pushed back against the fingers. Words emerged from the gibberish that Yugi was emitting, but nothing that Atem could actually pick out. He scissored his fingers, stretching Yugi before pulling them out and reaching for the jar of oil. He poured more onto his hand, looking up as Yugi as the prince whimpered, glancing up at Atem. The former dragon quickly prepared himself, plunging into Yugi as soon as he was ready. The prince gave a cry of pleasure and scrambled at Atem's back, trying to keep him close as he began to move. They settled into a rhythm, the fast pace promising release too soon for either of their tastes, but the feeling of skin brushing against skin was just too delicious to slow down. Slowly, a sound was heard by the former dragon, attracting his attention despite the moans and partial screams that Yugi was making. Atem stopped moving at the rustle of something in the foliage around them, fingers digging into the ground as he lowered himself closer to Yugi, protecting his mate. Slowly, the human struggled out of the euphoric haze he had been entering, looking up at Atem before moving his hands so they rested on the former dragon's biceps. "Atem?" He answered with a growl, his red eyes narrowing as he stared at one place right above Yugi's head. He felt Yugi shiver under him, reluctant to move incase motion incited whatever was watching them to attack. They were left in suspense for a moment before a pale gold dragon stumbled out of the undergrowth, twisting awkwardly to rid a hind foot of a clinging vine. Marik smirked at the defeated vegetation before turning around, his mouth dropping open at the sight before him. "Am I…interrupting something?" "Yes." Atem closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath before opening them again. "And, if you value your life, you will leave us be." Marik nodded, shifting back toward the cover of the trees. "There's someone asking after you. I'll…I'll tell them you're busy." The dragon disappeared back into the trees, the two entwined on the ground able to hear Marik as he stumbled away. Atem sighed and shook his head, mentally cursing his friend for his bad timing. He looked down abruptly as he felt Yugi shift, pulling away from him. Atem gave a warning growl before pulling Yugi back, moaning at the feel of being inside the human. He didn't want to be torn away from this paradise yet. He wanted to bask in the feeling of being with his mate for a few moments more. Yugi shifted, stifling a moan himself when the move made Atem brush against his prostate. "Shouldn't you be going? There's someone waiting for you." "They can wait." Atem leaned down and kissed Yugi passionately, waiting until the prince was moaning into the kiss again before moving, gasping at the feeling of muscles massaging his length. Yugi quickly returned to his hold of Atem's shoulders, now pleading with the former dragon. "Please...faster…Atem. So close." Atem smirked and reached down to stroke Yugi's penis, moving from the kiss to nip at Yugi's neck. It only took a moment of this treatment before Yugi came, screaming his release to the sky. Atem followed after him, collapsing on top of Yugi as his arms gave out. The two lay on the ground, panting for air before Atem pulled out, remaining braced over Yugi as he called up magic to transform him back into a dragon, making sure that the black tendrils brushed over his mate's skin. Yugi shuddered at the touch, jumping when Atem ran his tongue over his body, cleaning the prince up. Yugi tried to remain still waiting until Atem had finished before he stood up and gathered his clothes. The black and red dragon admired the view that his mate gave him before sighing and walking towards where Marik disappeared, hating that the real world had intruded upon his time with his mate. He looked over his shoulder, smiling as Yugi rushed after him, holding what little belongings the human had ended up with from their little excursion. Atem lowered his head to nuzzle Yugi's side before following him out of the forest. Ryou watched Joey and Serenity race over to hug their friend, feeling awkward around the man he had left for dead the day he had save the two. Shyly, he offered a hand to the green eyed man, hoping that a smile would push away any anger that he still felt toward the poet. To his surprise, the man enthusiastically shook his head before staring at Serenity. "I can never thank you enough for saving her. And you managed to find the one place in the world that could help her. Thank you." The poet smiled as Joey scowled and herded his sister behind him, glaring at the man. "Just because she can see, Duke doesn't mean that I'll let my guard down." Ryou laughed as Duke stared at his friend in mock shock, turning around as Marik rushed from the trees. The pale gold dragon looked behind him with an expression akin to embarrassment before flopping onto the ground and covering his eyes with a foreleg. When he felt the enquiring glanced, he lifted the limb a fraction to look at them. "Atem will be out in a bit." The limb was lowered back over his eyes as the dragon shuddered. He was about to question the dragon further when a shout from the nearest trees drew his attention. They were too far away to hear the content of the shout, but Joey still covered his sister's ears, glaring at the trees. Ryou blushed and dropped his head into his hands with a sigh, jumping when someone brushed his shoulder. He peeked out of his hands to see Bakura smirking as he leaned against him. The thief actually laughed to himself. "Sounds like someone is enjoying themselves." The poet swatted at his lover, Duke and Joey giving the thief incredulous stares for his comment. The blonde cautiously removed his hands from over his sister's ears, looking over at Marik as the dragon gave a groan and pressed the limb closer to his face. Bakura laughed at the dragon's expression, leaning over to whisper in Ryou's ear. "I bet I know what's keeping Atem." Ryou shoved Bakura away with a snort of disgust, walking over to stand by Marik as the pale gold dragon peeked out from under his foreleg again, blinking before looking over his shoulder and sitting up. The dragon looked at all of them before sighing. "He should be coming out any minute now." They passed through the next couple of minutes in silence before a black and red dragon shoved his way out of the trees, glaring at Marik before striding forward and stretching out on the ground. Atem paused and looked over his shoulder, shifting to allow a human to clamber up next to him, sleepily curling up in the bend of his forearm. Atem gave the human a brief nuzzle before focusing on the other dragon with a fierce glare. "What was so important that you had to interrupt me?" Ryou didn't hear Marik's response, instead staring at the human that was cuddled up to the dragon and trying to fight off sleep. He would recognize the tri-colored hair and strange purple eyes anywhere. But the problem was that he had never expected to see them again. He had watched as the prince had been run through with a sword. He had been there in the aftermath when neither the dragon nor the body could be found, leaving Bakura and himself to try and sweep up the pieces. And yet, the prince still lived and looked healthier than before. The others seemed to be staring at Yugi with the same mixture of horror and surprise, the three peasants throwing themselves onto the ground in a bow as they recognized the man. Ryou shuffled closer, not stopping when Bakura rested a cautionary hand on his shoulder. He had to find out who this was; if this was just a cruel trick of his eyes. Ryou jerked his shoulder out of Bakura's grip, rushing up to Atem. He shivered under the dragon's gaze, eyes going wide as Atem shifted his attention to the poet. The dragon relaxed on when Yugi straightened up, suddenly looking more alert. "Ryou?" "Yugi?" Ryou raced up to the dragon's leg, leaning on the dragon as he stared up at the prince. "What are you doing here? We watched you die." "I was saved." Yugi grimaced, rubbing at his chest with one hand before shrugging. "Atem saved me." "And you've been here the entire time." They both tensed as Bakura wandered over, crossing his arms in over his chest. "You never once thought about going back and helping the people you are responsible for? You just decided to stay here because it was easier. Here I bet you are treated like royalty." "That's not it." Yugi spoke softly, looking down at his hands. "So, what is your excuse, my prince?" Bakura gave a mocking bow. "You thought because one rebellion failed that there would be no other? That the people would just give up and let Gozaburo lead them?" "That's not it!" Yugi was standing up now, purple eyes narrowed in anger. Ryou looked over at Atem, shocked to find the dragon staring at Bakura as well, flickers of flame seen in his mouth. The prince jumped off of Atem's foreleg and strode up to the thief. "They never wanted me in the first place! They would have rather had Seto or Gozaburo over me because of what I look like and what they thought of my mother. They would have begged for someone stronger to take the throne in the end because I was useless. Believe me when I say that I want to help them, but they don't want my help. I'm just the son of the witch who ruled over them for too long." "My prince." Yugi turned abruptly, Serenity flinching back at the motion. She held out a hand for Joey to stop, calming her brother with a smile before taking another step forward. "Maybe we once thought that, but I can see that you would be better than our current king. Please, we need your help now. Will you let us die because of an old grudge?" Yugi sighed, all the anger draining out of him as he slumped. Ryou jumped out of the way as Atem moved to catch the prince, allowing the human to lean against him. The poet circled around the dragon, surprised to see Yugi's chin resting against his chest as he seemed to think over something. The prince gave a slow shake of his head, looking up to meet Serenity's gaze before shutting his eyes. At the sign of surrender, Duke turned to the small group and began talking. "Gozaburo has done something to his knights. One attacked our village just about a week ago." Duke glanced over at Yugi as the prince stood straighter. "He's gotten an immortal man on his team and a dragon too." Ryou jumped as Yugi gasped, pushing away from Atem. The dragon gave a surprised growl, his red eyes suddenly narrowing. The two stared at Duke until the peasant flinched, looking down at the ground rather than meeting the eyes of the dragon and the prince. Everyone but Yugi jumped as Atem gave a short snarl, the sound cut off as he snapped his jaw shut. The dragon seemed to debate over something before speaking. "So that's where Rex ran off to. He dragged innocents into this because he wants me to…" He scoffed, turning his gaze north for a moment. "It gets worse." Duke was looking over at Joey, walking over to grip the blonde's shoulders. "If Gozaburo is sure that he can get away with such attacks, he'll go after Tèa next. Everything will fall apart if he kills her and the baby." "Baby?" Yugi swayed on his feet, staring at Duke in awe. Ryou saw the prince's fingers twitch as he seemed to count something off before stumbling backwards. Atem quickly lowered his head and caught Yugi, giving a soft rumble of confusion as the prince clung to the dragon's head, eyes staring at Duke in fear. The prince licked his lips before taking a shaky breath. "What do you mean?" "Tèa was pregnant when he had to send her away so Gozaburo wouldn't kill her child. It is-" "Mine." Yugi nodded, cutting Duke off before he could finish. A dazed look crossed his as he sank to the ground, Atem giving a worried whine and curling around him, frantically nudging the prince to get any response. "It should be born right now. A couple of weeks old if everything went well." The poet stared at Duke as he continued talking, the black haired man now pacing. Joey and Serenity were listening intently as they began to come up with a plan. "The rest of the kingdom won't stand for any more dragon attacks, and they'll be abandoning the villages. Now would be the time to strike. We'll return home and send a few to find Tèa and protect her. As soon as the rebellion is over, we'll bring her and her child down and install them on the throne." The three began to walk off to where Duke had left his horse, too embroiled in their own plans to notice the effect that their words had on Yugi. Ryou was about to pull away and kneel by the prince when Bakura caught him around the waist, pulling the poet into a hug as he addressed Marik. "They've got the right idea." "Then why don't you go after them." Atem turned to glare at the thief, stopping his attempts to shake Yugi from his thoughts. "Because their plan also has one major flaw. They'll aim for the knights when they need to aim for the dragons." Bakura calmly rested his head on Ryou's shoulder. "They would never trust a dragon enough to help them, considering that they barely acknowledged either of your presences. Joey only tolerates them because they helped heal his sister." "Then we'll go after the dragons." They all turned to stare at Yugi, watching as the prince stood up. Atem dropped his head to rest it against Yugi's back, the prince resting a hand on the dragon before taking a step forward. "Yugi…" The prince held up a hand, silencing the dragon for a moment. "We're their only hope. We can attack those dragons and slay the one that keep Gozaburo alive and they can do whatever they want in the end. They never wanted me as a king and I am fine with that." Yugi crossed his arms, glaring at Bakura like he expected the thief to argue. Ryou noticed that his lover was opening his mouth to talk when Atem gave a slow nod, lowering his head so it hovered above Yugi's shoulder. The prince reached for the dragon now, absently rubbing up and down Atem's muzzle as they both stared resolutely at the thief. Finally, under the combination of the two of them, Bakura backed down with a simple shrug. "I'll help anyway I can." Marik quickly gave his support, excusing himself to go hunt. Bakura watched the dragon fly off with an annoyed click of his tongue before looking back at Yugi. "I suppose this means that we're going back north." "Yes." Bakura stomped off at the answer, leaving Ryou behind. The poet quickly scampered away, unable to stand the combined glare of Yugi and Atem. While it would be a good visualization for his epic, the look was hard to stand up to in real life. There was no question in Ryou's mind that Yugi would be able to accomplish what he had promised. He was beginning to think that the prince was invincible. His hand twitched by his side at the urge to write before that determined look faded in his memory, but the poet shook his head. He would help Bakura pack before he immortalized the two forever. It would be more important that they were ready to go in the end. And, it gave him some leeway to play with rhymes before he wasted his precious supply of paper. Yugi pushed the flap of the tent aside, setting down his armload outside before ducking back in. His hand hovered over his empty scabbard, pulling back from the object at the last minute. With a sigh, he simply took the hunting knife that he had acquired before walking back outside, staring at the small pile of stuff he had managed to accumulate during his time among his mother's people. A quiet whimper made him look up as Atem stepped out from the darkness, the dragon lying down on the ground to watch him. Yugi tried to offer him a smile, but failed at the hurt that was in the dragon's eyes. "I have no choice, Atem." "I know." "Then why are you looking at me like that?" The dragon looked startled at his outburst, almost as surprised as Yugi himself. The prince ran a hand through his hair and sighed, dropping to the ground and viciously folding his blanket and violently shoving his clothes into his pack. His packing slowed as he heard Atem sigh, looking up at the dragon as he winced. Atem was staring at him intently, like he was trying to memorize everything about him. Worried, Yugi stood up and walked over to Atem, resting at hand on the end of his muzzle. The dragon gave a soft chuckle before shaking his head. "I'm afraid that I'll lose you." Yugi smiled and gently tapped the dragon's muzzle. "You won't lose me. We're aiming for the dragons, remember? They won't be able to touch you." He turned away to continue packing, the motion stopping as Atem whispered, "Not like that." Yugi looked up at Atem, tipping his head to the side as he waited for the dragon to explain. The black and red dragon looked away, his voice still a low whisper. "I know you, Yugi. You're often too kind for your own good. And you feel guilty for that girl, I know you do. It's what I admire about you, lo-Yugi." "Then-" "Because she's right. She's a human. A woman." Atem turned his head so one crimson eye flashed in the dim light. "I'm a dragon. There's nothing right about us." "But…your heart…" "I still feel the same way about you, Yugi. But, I know you. You'll want to raise your child, as you should, and that girl probably won't let you keep a dragon around." "I…" Yugi pulled the hand that had started to reach out back to his chest, staring at his palm. What Atem had said was true, it was part of the reason he was so jumpy now. He was seriously considering marrying the girl, not because he loved her, but because she was the mother of his child. It was something that was expected of him as a prince. But he didn't want to give up Atem. The dragon was his best friend and his lover. The girl wasn't worth giving up the perfection that he had found here. Then again, wasn't that another thing that was bothering him? The simple fact that he had allowed himself to get caught up in the miniature paradise that he had discovered here instead of returning to his kingdom? Mahad was right when he had said that the peasants needed Yugi, if only for a figurehead. It was his duty, the duty that he had been trained for his entire life. And he had once been resigned to the fact that he would have to give up all he loved for the good of the kingdom. It's what a king did. But, he wasn't going to let that happen. Not in this case. "I'm not going to let you go, Atem." The dragon stared at him in awe as he walked over, wrapping his arms around Atem's muzzle and pulling him close. "I don't want to let you go. You're my friend, my heart. Please, don't make me choose." Atem nodded, waiting until Yugi had pulled away before speaking. "Alright, Yugi." The dragon pressed his head against Yugi's side in his version of a hug, allowing Yugi to continue packing. The prince turned around, walking backwards to keep watching Atem. There was something else, something he wasn't telling Yugi. He sat down, resting his arms on his knees. He tipped his head to the side. "There's something else." He got a sad nod from Atem, the dragon closing his eyes as he rested his chin on his forelegs. Not wanting to push for any more information, Yugi went back to his packing, fingers twitching when he reached the end of his task. He pushed the pack to the side, going back to staring at Atem. The dragon quickly noticed and attempted to smile, the expression faltering as he drifted back into his thoughts. Yugi let the dragon stew for a moment longer before returning to Atem's side, running his fingers over the dragon's scales. "You can tell me." Atem glanced at him before sighing, stretching out the wing closest to Yugi. The prince walked into the offered shelter, settling down by Atem's side. He watched as Atem tucked his head under the wing, eyes roving everywhere but to Yugi. This was a bad sign. Atem only talked to him like this when it was very important, or the dragon didn't want to chance someone else hearing them. Yugi shook his head and patted his lap, inviting Atem closer. The dragon hesitated for a moment before resting his muzzle in Yugi's lap. Atem sighed, eyes falling closed as Yugi reached for the spot over his eye. "I'm scared, Yugi." "You're not going to lose me." "Not that." Atem opened one eye, meeting Yugi's gaze. "If we go up there and fight, I might…we might…" He shuddered, pressing close to Yugi. "I've been running from it for so long, Yugi, even before I knew what it meant. But…I don't want to..." "Atem?" Yugi gasped as he felt the brush of magic against him, eyes widening as Atem pulled him from the ground before the change was even complete. He was pulled into his grandfather's tent, barely having time to protest before Atem was kissing him, holding him close. Yugi struggled briefly, gasping for breath when Atem pulled back. "Please," Atem rested his forehead against Yugi's, "please, just let me…" Yugi rested a hand on Atem's cheek, the former dragon leaning into the caress. The prince bit his bottom lip, pulling Atem into a hug as the man began to tremble. He pulled them both to the ground, kissing Atem's face as he struggled to control himself. Yugi had never seen Atem this close to breaking; usually he was in perfect control of his emotions at all times. The prince sighed and buried his face in Atem's hair, taking a deep breath as he began to rub the former dragon's back. "It will be alright. You and me, we can do anything." Atem looked up at him, slowly shaking his head as he allowed Yugi to keep holding him close. The prince watched as Atem curled up in his arms, the former dragon looking very vulnerable. "What do you need me to do, Atem?" "Hold me." Atem nuzzled Yugi chest, the whimpered words surprising the prince. "Hold me and never let go. Please." Shocked, Yugi complied with Atem's request, watching as the former dragon slipped into a restless sleep. The prince kept running his hands over Atem's back, stopping when he heard him whimper and felt the former dragon curl closer to him. Yugi sighed, shifting so they were both lying on the ground, Atem wiggling until there was no space left between them, one hand grabbing onto Yugi's shirt above his heart. Yugi frowned at the former dragon, wishing that Atem could just tell him what he feared so much. He closed his eyes, moving one hand to rest over the one Atem had on his shirt. "I'm not going anywhere, Atem. I'll be right here forever." Yugi thought that Atem was asleep. He was about to follow his lover into the land of dreams when he felt Atem shift. The prince remained still as he felt the former dragon place a careful kiss on his forehead, like he was afraid that Yugi would disappear. Yugi sucked in a deep breath as Atem whispered, "It's not you that I'm worried about." The prince was shoving Atem to the ground the next minute, staring down into the surprised crimson eyes. "Don't you dare." "Yugi…" The prince wasn't sure what he saw in Atem's eyes as the former dragon stared at him. Finally, Atem gave a nod, reaching up to pull Yugi against him, muttering against his lips, "Never. I'm yours forever." Read and review please. Criticism is always welcome.

Disclaimer: I do not own Yu-Gi-Oh or Dragonheart; they belong to their respective owners. I do, however, own parts of the plot and Kysen. Warnings: Blood, character death Chapter Seventeen: The End And, to allow peace to start, The dragon was stabbed through the heart. Yugi crouched in the undergrowth, a hand resting on his borrowed sword, staring at the soldiers that ran forward under the cover that Lector and Rex gave them. He held out a hand to keep Ryou from rushing out with the rest of the group, his exuberance getting the better of him. Behind him there was a brief struggle as Bakura hauled his lover back into the shadows, his attention distracted as Kisara pushed through the undergrowth. She stopped beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder. He gave his cousin's lover an encouraging smile, sighing when Kisara returned the smile, but hers was somewhat shakier. She leaned over to whisper in his ear, "Can Paladin join me, or have you two figured something out together?" "No." Yugi glanced back to where the small dragon was, waving the white dragon forward. Paladin grunted and complied, Yugi turning back to Kisara. "Please, take care of him." "Don't worry, Yugi, we'll keep each other safe." Kisara gave his shoulder a squeeze before slipping back into the undergrowth, Paladin following her. Yugi kept an eye on the small group until a familiar roar shattered the air. His heart skipped a beat as he turned his head to see Atem take to the sky, stretching his black and red wings out wide, blocking the stars as he rose. He smiled as he watched the dragon soar over the trees before abruptly turning upwards so his shoulders slammed into Rex's stomach, making the dragon's flight wobble. Atem clawed over Rex as he continued to rise, tail slapping across the purple and brown dragon's face as he turned around. There was a short roar from Rex before Atem let out a quick burst of flames before darting off, drawing the dragon away from the soldiers it was guarding. Yugi glanced at the castle before looking back at Atem. They couldn't start their attack until Atem had disabled the last dragon. Kisara would be working her way around the castle at this point, seeking a way in. Hopefully her group would take care of the few soldiers that were left with Gozaburo, but their main purpose was to get Seto out of his father's hold, securing another ally. He yelped as pain erupted from his side, clutching the area as Ryou called out to him. Yugi waved the concern off, searching for Atem. His breath caught in his throat as he saw Atem plummeting away from Rex, the black and red dragon catching himself before he hit the ground. The prince winced as he saw the livid wound that ran along the dragon's side and close to the base of his wing. Atem bared his teeth against the pain, the motion of his wings pulling the wound wider with each beat. The dragon gaze a fleeting glance to where Yugi was before turning back to the gloating dragon above him, finally touching down on the ground as the pain became too much. The prince shuddered at the flash of anger in Atem's crimson eyes. Now that Rex had hurt Atem and, indirectly, him it would be harder to stop the dragon. Atem was protective when it came to him, hating that he caused Yugi harm even when it wasn't his fault. Yugi rocked back at the growl that Atem let out, the black and red dragon tensing for a moment. Atem pushed off the ground, using the momentum from the jump to lessen the stress of take off on his wings. The two collided in midair, Yugi gasping as the air was forced out of his lungs by the impact. The prince leaned over, coughing as he struggled to draw air into his lungs. Yugi shook his head and looked up, relaxing as he realized that Atem had gained the upper hand, the black and red dragon now holding Rex still in his grasp. The next moment Yugi was clutching his chest as Lector stood up and stabbed Atem. The black and red dragon snarled and batted the human from Rex's back, holding the purple and brown dragon still as they waited for Lector to hit the ground. Yugi turned away, still hearing Rex's scream of pain as Lector hit the ground. He took the chance to move out hiding and waved to gain Atem's attention. The dragon blinked down at him, eyes widening as the prince shook his head. Yugi was sure that Atem understood what he meant by the motion; they didn't have time to play with Rex and make him scream for his own death. Yugi wanted to get Atem out of the situation before it came to that, it was easier when the dragons fought in the end, then the regret didn't register. Besides, Rex was already in pain, but the sobbing dragon was probably crying more for himself than the knight that he had allowed to ride on his back. Atem tipped his head, pleading with Yugi to let him do was he wanted, but Yugi simply shook his head. The dragon looked down at Rex, heaving a sigh and tearing into Rex's throat. Yugi turned around, wincing at the screams from the dragon, one hand straying back to his side as the wound throbbed. And then, it all stopped. He jumped as Atem landed, turning around to face the dragon. The black and red dragon looked at Yugi before carelessly throwing the body to one side. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence before he spoke. "I'm sorry." Yugi smiled and reached out to touch the dragon, surprised when Atem pulled away a fraction. He shook his head and rushed forward to hug the dragon, the suddenness of the movement making Atem tense. Yugi made a soothing sound, running his hands over the dragon. "I understand and I forgive you." He placed a kiss on the warm scales before pulling away. "Come on." Atem gave Yugi a little nudge before taking off, both of them wincing as the wound throbbed. The prince motioned for his small group to follow him. Bakura was the first out, the thief pausing to haul Ryou out into the open. Marik extracted himself, still panting after his flight back to the group leading Rex and the soldiers into their trap. The pale gold dragon groaned as he launched himself into the air, his appearance to the peasants showing that Yugi was running for the castle. The prince gave a wave of thanks to Marik, which was returned with a lazy flip before jogging off after Bakura and Ryou. Atem swooped low over them, holding out a hand. Yugi smiled and shoved Ryou toward the offered limb, Bakura already taking advantage of the free ride. Between the two of them they managed to help the poet onto the dragon before Yugi jumped up himself, holding tight to a bloodied claw as Atem flapped to gain altitude. The dragon circled lazily back to the battle, swooping lower over the scared soldiers before letting out a stream of dark flame, cutting off their escape before he turned and headed back to the castle. Mahad glanced up as Atem made his pass, a reluctant smirk cross his face. He couldn't fault the dragon for that move. With the death of Gozaburo's knight and dragon the soldiers had begun to look for a way out. They probably saw that the odds had tipped in the peasant's favor and wanted to get the scale to tip back their way. Their first thought would have been to return to Gozaburo to act as reinforcements, which meant that Yugi would have had a harder time getting to the dragon. Satisfied, Mahad settled back into the battle. Skillfully, the knight caught a blade, side-stepping to avoid a pike that came his way. Mahad disengaged with the man with the sword, stabbing him before swinging and cutting off the tip of the pike. The solider stared at his useless weapon in awe for a moment before Mahad sliced his stomach open, the soldier falling to the ground with a soft groan. He stepped away from the bodies, allowing a peasant to snatch up the sword and shaft of the pike. He could see other peasants quickly picking up better weapons as the soldiers as they tried to get away. To flee from the peasants some were even throwing themselves into the dark flames that Atem had left behind. The soldiers had lost their edge when their leader had been thrown from his dragon, now struggling as individuals to get away from the enraged peasants. Mahad raised a hand to signal the dragon, ignoring the snort from the dragon as it swooped low, breathing fire onto the soldiers that remained. He shielded his eyes from the bright light, wincing at the sound of screams, but still not looking away. They had chosen their fates by siding with Gozaburo. Mahad looked up as the pale gold dragon flew off into the night, circling back to continue to stay by the battle. He raised an eyebrow at the roll that the dragon gave, not impressed by the little show of joy. The dragon seemed to notice his look because it snarled and rose higher into the air, leaving the knight to supervise the rest of the peasants. He sighed and looked at the small number of soldiers left, all of them surrendering quickly as they realized that their comrades were no longer with them. The blonde leader quickly made his rounds of the peasant army before bounding up to Mahad, looking overjoyed over their victory. The knight gave a smile while searching for a place to wipe his blade off, groaning as he finally slid it into his scabbard. It would just be bloodied again, so there was no use for cleaning it yet, it was just an ingrained habit for him. Mahad gave his scabbard a disgusted look before returning his attention to the blonde. The young man had calmed himself, but was now looking at the castle with eagerness. "We're done with the few down here. Now, do we go up there?" Mahad nodded. It would take Yugi and his group time to get to the dragon, but they could still go up to the castle to act as reinforcements for the prince, and for Kisara when she freed Seto. Better yet, he could be sure that Yugi didn't spend so much time with that dragon. He glanced at the peasants, mentally dividing them up. First, they would have to take the few wounded and dead back into the camp, leaving them to the care of those too young or old to fight before approaching the castle or just split the group in two from the start; then the second group could rush to help Kisara since the woman was unlikely to be discovered with the main attack coming from the front. "What about these men?" The knight looked back at the group of soldiers, shaking his head. He looked back up, not surprised that the burned man had joined the blonde. "Kill them all. They'll just betray us in the end." Mahad ignored the sneer from the burned man as he pointed to the peasants, dividing them up into two groups. "You," he motioned to the blonde, "will come with me and lead them up to the castle. You," he pointed to the burned man, "will stay behind and take care of the injured and dead as well as our prisoners before joining us." "Is it really necessary to kill them?" The burned man cast a compassionate look back at the soldiers. Mahad resisted the urge to yell, knowing that he didn't have the time to get in an argument with this man. But he still couldn't understand why this man would show compassion to the ones who had set fire to him, intending to kill him for helping Tèa. They hadn't even tried to pull him out, but the others in his village had, beating back the men until they could pull him from the fire. Why would one wish to let those men live? The knight waved the burned man on. "Do as I say. They will cause trouble. They are loyal to Gozaburo and would endanger your new king." Mahad turned and began to walk away, stopping when the blonde did not summon the chosen peasants or follow him. He looked back over his shoulder, jerking his head to show that they were leaving now. Reluctantly, the blonde called his group together, resting a hand on the burned man's shoulder briefly before jogging after Mahad. The knight stayed in place as the group ran past him, remaining long enough to see the burned man shake his head before striding back to the peasants. Mahad bit his tongue before turning abruptly and walking after his group. He knew that the burned man wouldn't obey his orders in the end, which wasn't his problem. He was just here to help win this rebellion and take back everything from Gozaburo. And then he could set everything right, putting the right king on the throne and watch everything fall back into place. Perhaps he would even get the chance to train Yugi's son as he grew up, giving his knowledge to the next generation, passing on the oldest code of knights so that it wouldn't be lost forever. He brushed a hand over the pommel of his sword, wincing as he did so. He couldn't afford to think about that future now and be distracted by its brilliance, right now he had to concentrate on ending this before Yugi was hurt again. Kisara snarled as she jumped backwards, one hand pulling hair away from her eyes. Surprisingly, there had only been a few men waiting for them when they tried to get in the smallest gate on the side of the castle, and they had been easily taken care of. The woman glanced up to where Paladin was carefully scaling the wall, the white dragon dropping into the courtyard soundlessly and hunkering down, nearly blending into the white stone. Satisfied that their look out was posted, Kisara gave Paladin's shoulder a pat in thanks before motioning for her group to follow her. They reached a small door in the side of the castle, a useless piece since no one ever came to this side of the courtyard, but a show of Gozaburo's power. The king could put as many entrances to his castle as he wanted because there was no way that anyone could possibly get in. Kisara bit back a scoff at the thought of the king. His arrogance was quickly turning into his downfall. She held the door open, ushering the group in before following after them, blinking in the dim corridor before jogging off. The peasants were on her heels immediately, nervously trusting her to lead them to the right place. Kisara held back her temper as they moved through the corridors, always heading down. Did they honestly think that she would hand them over to Gozaburo? Just because she had lived in the castle in the past didn't mean that she would automatically side with him. It didn't mean that anyone would side with the king. Only those that stood to gain anything could ally themselves with Gozaburo. She jerked to a stop, flinging an arm out to stop the peasants. Kisara's eyes widened in fear as maids nervously darted across their path, one stopping as the other hurried on. Kisara felt her mouth dry suddenly, they had been caught. The alarm would be sounded and they would be taken to Gozaburo. Hopefully, someone would get out of here to take care of Mokuba, since they would be held to prevent Yugi from killing the dragon. To her surprise, the maid just smiled and placed a finger on her lips before hurrying after her friend. Kisara leaned out to watch her go, stiffening as the other maid looked back, eyes lighting up before they both returned to their nervous conversation. Kisara pulled back, blinking rapidly in confusion. So the denizens of the castle were actually going to help them in this, keeping the information that there were intruders in the castle from Gozaburo. All at the risk of their own safety. She shrugged, a gentle smile cross her face in thanks before she ran ahead. She followed the twists and turns to the dungeons, slowing long enough to fling back a door before rushing down the last set of stairs. Kisara bit back a curse as she nearly fell, freezing when she felt hands on her arms. She was about to struggle, not knowing who had gotten her in the dim light of the staircase, when she felt the person helping down the rest of the way; their hold on her diminishing to merely resting their palm against hers. Kisara turned to face her helper, eyes widening at the gentle stare of the dungeon guard. He gave a little bow to her, taking the keys off his belt before placing them in her grasp. "You be careful, Lady Kisara. How's young Mokuba doing?" "F-fine." Kisara controlled the tremble in her voice, turning her head slightly to look at the amazed group of peasants that were waiting for her, still spread out over the stairs. The guard chuckled. "That's good. Everyone has been missing the little guy lately. Doesn't seem as lively without him here." He gave her a wave, climbing up a few of the steps with peasants nearly jumping off the stairs as he passed. The guard snapped his fingers before turning around. "He's the last cell on the left." Kisara nearly dropped the keys as the guard walked up into the upper levels of the castle, nervously licking her suddenly dry lips. She had not been expecting this when she had come to free Seto from prison. She had be expecting difficulties but not to be welcomed with open arms and wished well in overthrowing the king. She shook her head before fumbling with the keys and beginning to run down the small corridor, the peasants cautiously guarding the rear. He must have heard the jingling of keys and her footsteps because she heard him stand up and the door creak as he leaned against it. "Have you come back to torment me some more, father, or have you sent that idiotic knight again?" Kisara held back a giggle and fumbled with the keys, biting her lip as she searched for the right key. She let out a sigh of relief as she found the right one, fitting it in the lock and resting her hand on it, ready to turn. As she began to open the door some sixth sense told her to step to the side and she was glad that she had. Seto rushed past her, his hands managing to catch around her waist before he let go, propelled forward by his momentum. When he realized that he had not captured the person who had opened his cell, Seto turned. In a mere moment, the determination left his face, his expression getting the closest he would ever allow himself to get to amazement before he rushed to pull her into a hug. Kisara yelped as he held her close, burying his face into her hair. She let out a laugh as she just relaxed into his hold, loving the feeling of her mate holding her again. "So, do I get a reward for rescuing you?" Abruptly, he let her go, straightening out his clothes and striding for the stairs. "Who says I needed rescuing? I was just waiting for you to show up." "Really?" Kisara rolled her eyes, following after him with a smile crossing her face. Seto turned his head, raising one eyebrow. "Yes. Although I…appreciate your efforts, I was fine." She laughed and rushed to her mate's side, her laughter turning into a glare as he pulled her sword from her, staring at the blade before shaking his head. "Poor quality steel, but it will work." "Excuse me." Kisara gently pulled the sword from his grasp, enjoying the bemused look on his face. "But I will need this to back up your cousin." Seto's eyes narrowed dangerously and he caught her arm. Kisara felt the light mood between them drop away. She turned to face her lover, titling her head to the side in a silent question, forgetting about the others who had followed her here. Seto demanded her attention now and he would get it. But Seto had not forgotten them, leaning in closer to whisper into her ear. "Have you thought about Mokuba? What would it be like for him to grow up without a mother?" Kisara gave a weak chuckle and pulled him away far enough to place a kiss on his cheek. "I have enough reinforcements, Seto and I'll be fine. Besides, Yugi is just going after Akhnamkanon. Once he is dead than your father is dead and all resistance stops. The last of Gozaburo's knights have been killed so there is no one else to lead, Seto. We'll have peace." Reluctantly, Seto stepped away from her, giving a stiff nod. Kisara glanced down at the blade that she still held in her hand, staring at it before passing it over to Seto. "But, if it will make you feel better…" "It would." The reply was in a low voice, too low for the peasants to hear. Kisara nodded, sighing when Seto slipped into his usual cold indifference before walking with her to where the rest of the group waited. Kisara smiled in thanks at all who had followed her before scooting up the stairs and jogging back through the corridors, overjoyed to have her mate back at her side. They slipped back in the way they had come, Seto grumbling about his father's arrogance as Kisara rushed over to where Paladin crouched. The small white dragon gave her a short nod before rising from his crouch and gesturing towards the sky with his muzzle. "Atem is coming. It's starting." "No." Kisara reached out to touch Paladin's side, listening with half an ear to the orders that her mate was giving the peasants. "It's ending." Yugi dropped easily to the ground, withholding a laugh as Ryou tumbled clumsily after him, fouling up Bakura's landing. The poet and the thief tumbled together for a while before coming to a rest in a tangled pile of limbs. The prince shook his head as he ran past, Atem landing behind them with a rush of wind. Unerringly, the dragon made for where they kept his father, turning to look at Yugi as the human rushed the final feet over, hands clenching into fists. What Gozaburo had done to this dragon was unforgivable. It's scales were a light grey, white in places where the chain had rubbed, and had lost all of their luster. The dragon was very thin, bones easily seen through skin. Yugi took a stepped closer, shuddering at it took a while to find where the ambient warmth from the dragon began, too close to its body. Yugi bit his lip and looked up at Atem. The black and red dragon had his head bowed, eyes moving quickly over his father and occasionally flickering up to glance at the castle. Yugi saw sorrow, rage, confusion and regret all running through the crimson eyes as Atem gazed at his father. Yugi swallowed nervously, turning his eyes away to let Atem have his moment. He looked over the stones in the courtyard before looking back at the dragon, surprised to see that it was awake now, staring at him with sorrowful brown eyes. "So, you came back." The voice was weak and strained. Yugi flinched at it, too used to the strong voices of the other dragons. "Yes." He finally managed to get the word out of his dry mouth, taking a step forward to rest his hand on the dragon's head. He managed not to jump backward as the feel of the dragon, holding back a shudder at the cold sensation under his hand. Yugi lowered his eyes, searching for something to stare at; anything but the dragon. "I'm sorry I could do it before." "I have forgiven you, little prince." Yugi blushed at the nickname, the old dragon chuckling as he did so. "But I do have some questions before I die, but," the dragon nodded as Yugi opened his mouth to speak, "I will make them brief. Now, how is my son?" Yugi glanced up at Atem, expecting the black and red dragon to answer for himself, but he shook his head. The prince tipped his head to the side, hand coming off the other dragon's head as he took a step towards Atem. His lover stared at him for a moment before nodding, finally looking back at his father. "I'm fine." "Have you found a mate yet, or are you still allowing that Marik to influence your thoughts?" Yugi saw a sparkle of mirth in the dragon's eyes, the creature seeming to gain more life with the question. Atem came closer with that question, carefully arranging himself so that he was standing close to Yugi. The prince smiled up at him and rested a hand on Atem, silently supporting him. "Yes." Akhnamkanon's eyes flickered from Atem to Yugi before he finally nodded, skipping over the question that they had both been dreading. "Good." Yugi watched the dragon's eyes close as the dragon heaved a sigh. The prince glanced at the chains that had the dragon down, suddenly wanting to get them off. He rushed over to one bracket, kneeling down to stare at it before be began to fumble with the metal. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Atem walk past, easily grabbing the next bracket down and pulling it from the stone. Akhnamkanon opened one eye and watched them work, taking in deeper breaths as the chains were taken from him. As the last chain was thrown from the dragon, Akhnamkanon pulled his head from the ground, shifting to lift up a scale and expose the scar, the easiest way to get to his heart. Swallowing harshly, Yugi pulled out his sword, stepping around so he would have a clean shot at the heart. "I'm sorry." "I did it to protect my son." Akhnamkanon looked over at Atem, who had taken a few steps back. At the mention of him, Atem looked up abruptly, a shiver running through him before he turned away again. "He was saved from my fate or the fate of the other dragons who were once here, may the gods save their souls. I have already lived a good life on this earth, it is time to join my mate." Yugi nodded, shifting his grip on the hilt of the sword as his palms became sweaty. "I'll take care of Atem. I promise I won't let anything happen to him." Akhnamkanon blinked before giving a short nod. "Thank you, little prince." Yugi looked down at his hands, taking a deep breath before preparing to lunge. He was leaning forward when he heard the doors to the castle burst open. He spun back around, hearing a growl from both the dragons as Gozaburo rushed out, sword in hand. The king and Yugi stared at each other, Yugi freezing in fear. He could still remember that night…and the same sword. One hand reached up to clutch his shirt over his heart, shrinking back towards Atem as the black and red dragon stepped forward. "I thought I killed you, brat. I stabbed you right through the heart and watched you bleed out." Gozaburo kept walking forward, ignoring the snarls that were coming from Atem. "So how can you be here? Unless…" His cold gaze strayed to Atem, who spread a wing out over Yugi, still glaring at the king. Gozaburo nodded to himself and flashed Yugi a smile. "So that's it. You are just like me, Yugi." The king tapped his heart with a serious nod. "We were both chosen by destiny." "Do it, Yugi!" Atem darted forward, lashing out with his claws before he took off into the air. Yugi ducked his head to avoid his tail, getting a glimpse of Ryou and Bakura as they rushed toward Gozaburo. He motioned them back, not wanting them to get hurt as Atem tried to defend him. The thief glared at him before pulling Ryou back, shoving the poet behind him. Yugi relaxed, quickly turning back to the dragon. He was about to strike again when pain seared across his shoulder, making him scream and drop down to one knee. Panting through clenched teeth, he turned to see Atem limping away from Gozaburo, hissing as blood dripped from a large wound in his shoulder. Yugi whimpered, rolling his shoulder before using the sword to help him stand up. It was now or never. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath before opening them again. He found that Akhnamkanon was staring at him, a small nod exchanged between the two before Yugi jumped forward and shoved his sword into the dragon's heart. He expected a roar of pain or some sort of sound, but all that accompanied the action was a smile and a thankful look in Akhnamkanon's brown eyes as the dragon settled itself into a comfortable position, dying a moment later. Yugi turned at the scream from Gozaburo, finding the man clutching his heart before tumbling over, Atem hovering over the man until he was sure that he was dead. Then, the black and red dragon limped back over to Yugi, glancing at his father before shaking his head. "I wish it could have turned out differently. I'm sorry I couldn't save you." The prince bowed his head, glancing up at the sounds of people running over. He caught a glimpse of Seto and Kisara before the gates to the castle burst open, Mahad leading the charge in. The peasants immediately gathered around the fallen body of Gozaburo, laughing as they realized that they had won. Yugi saw Seto pull Kisara close to him as she tried to walk over to Atem, a slight shake of his head discouraging arguments. He was grateful to his cousin for that, which left Atem with a few moments more with his father. Yugi moved over to his lover, resting a hand on his hide as he waited for Atem to respond. The black and red dragon finally sighed, lowering his head to look at Yugi. For a moment, it looked like he was going to speak before Atem just shook his head. Yugi gently rubbed the scales beneath his hand, staring up into Atem's red eyes. There were no words of comfort exchanged between the two, each lost in their own world. He let Atem move away from him, turning to stare at his hands. He had turned into a dragon-slayer, it didn't matter that the dragon had asked for it in the end, it had still happened. It was worse that this dragon was special to Atem. Yugi looked up from his hands, watching Atem folding his wings around himself and tremble. This would tear them apart. Atem wouldn't be able to look at him after this, always seeing his father's killer instead of the one he loved. And Yugi couldn't blame him for that. He would always see himself as a dragon-slayer because of this. Only then did Yugi realize that he had tears falling from his eyes, wincing as the sounds of celebration began, led by Mahad. He turned to glare at them all, hands clenched in fists by his side. Did they not care that an innocent life had been lost to gain their freedom? Probably not, after all, they could just convince themselves that it was just a dragon. Dragon's couldn't think, couldn't feel. Couldn't be loved. They wouldn't see beyond the appearance of a fierce creature; they couldn't. It's how they justified their actions, created the little world that they lived in with humans at the top. And Yugi couldn't blame them for seeking a sense of security in a world filled with chaos, but he just couldn't think like them anymore. He couldn't understand his own people. He had been gone for so long, separated from them to keep himself alive that he could no longer connect with them, if he had any connection with them from the start. There was no way they would accept him as their king. Yugi jumped as Atem let out a keen, the sound rising in the still night air. He looked back at the others, surprised to see most of them cowering at the sound. Couldn't they tell that Atem was mourning? He saw Ryou, Bakura, Paladin and Kisara bow their heads in respect, Seto following a moment after as he took in the situation. But no one else seemed to care. Mahad was even motioning for him to step away from the dragon. Yugi shook his head in a firm no, running forward to throw his arms around Atem's leg. The sound stopped for a moment before Atem dropped his head, allowing Yugi to hold him as tears rolled down his face. Aknadin woke slowly, something pulling him from his long sleep. The black dragon pried himself from the ground with a groan, shaking himself and wincing at how weak he was. Carefully, he dragged himself to the entrance of his cave, collapsing half in and half out of the moonlight. He chuckled to himself, the sound raspy to his ears as the looked out over the land. He had escaped them again, dodged the humans that were always trying to kill him for the honor and glory or for food. He was the last one alive, that he knew of. But that was from his last count about two years ago, the lack of adequate food having sent him into a long hibernation, which resulted in him waking up when his body had nothing left to feed on. The downside to this was that he was ravenously hungry and doubted that there was easy enough prey within a few miles, let alone a few feet. Aknadin sighed impatiently, tapping a claw against stone as he turned to look at the hills, surprised to see the white castle rising from one of them, completed; which meant that Gozaburo had moved there by now, probably dragging his chained brother with him. He shook his head; that was his brother's folly, and not his to worry about. Still, he stretched and stood on weak legs, hissing as they wobbled, he could still visit him and see what he could do. He hated the decision and not the dragon. They were still brothers after all. They supported each other through hardships. Akundin had only gone away when Akhnamkanon had ordered him to, taking the prudent advice that the younger brother had offered him. There was no point in rushing something that took careful work to undo. Content with his decision, Akundin opened his wings, flexing them and glaring at the muscles as they didn't respond instantly. It was one of the things he hated about hibernating instead of traveling south. His mind remembered how his muscles had worked and expected them to be in the same condition. Annoyingly enough, they never were. He grumbled to himself as he flapped experimentally a few times before taking to the sky, growling at his stomach as it made itself known again. He would worry about food later. Just a quick fly over to check on his brother before he would hunt. His nostrils flared at the scent of smoke in the air, eyes widening as he recognized the scent of fire produced by a dragon rather than natural fire, the former almost having a spicy scent to it. Aknadin gave a low grumble, looking down. He tipped his head to the side as he saw strips of burnt land below him, some bodies still left behind from where humans fought. But why would there be dragons helping humans? From what he knew there were no more left. He circled over the area once, some part of his mind not accepting that this was true. There had to be a trick to it, or his senses were fooling him after being shut down for so long. Aknadin pulled away when he realized that it was true, there had been dragons here alongside of humans not that long ago. He landed in a clear spot, tail twitching as he looked around, glimpsing movement through the trees. Deciding it was unimportant, he looked up at the sky, snorting when he recognized one of Atem's friends flying towards the castle. Aknadin took to the air again, grumbling under his breath as he did so. Did they not understand that it was too dangerous to be around humans now? Or did they all think that this was a huge joke. Aknadin's steady wing beat faltered for a second. Or what if that dragon was delivering news to Akhnamkanon, news that Atem couldn't deliver himself. While he didn't adore his nephew for his stubbornness, that didn't mean that Aknadin didn't love him either. It was just jealousy that Atem got to live while none of his own chicks had; and Atem seemed to have little to no care about life. He flew faster, cursing his weak muscles. If something had happened to either of them…both of them…he didn't know what he would do. He was still reeling from the loss of his mate, and that had been years ago. Aknadin drew in a deep breath, trying to calm his pounding heart. He couldn't lose them, not the only family that he had left. He turned his head curiously as the pale gold dragon that he had been following landed and started talking to the humans on the ground. Aknadin gave a snarl before turning to land on the opposite side of the hill. He didn't want anything to do with humans, not after what they had done to his brother. The black dragon snarled as he heard more humans inside the yard, curiosity finally winning over and he peeked over the wall. A human with strange spiked hair was struggling to get up from the ground. Aknadin snarled and looked over, mouth dropping open as he saw Atem limping away from a second human, bleeding profusely from one shoulder. He was about to scramble over the wall to help his nephew when he saw the human lunge forward, striking his brother in the heart and killing him. Shocked, Aknadin dropped to the ground, breath coming in fast pants. He wasn't going to try and trick himself into believing that Akhnamkanon wasn't dead, he had seen death too many times before. If he tried to trick himself, then it would hurt even more. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the horrible image. Akhnamkanon had been free, the chains gone from him. And Atem had been clearing his path to escape. Unfortunately some backstabbing human had been there to ruin the whole scheme. Aknadin shook his head as he felt tears begin to run down his face. If only he had moved sooner. His claws dug into the ground as he heard Atem keening, the sound breaking his heart and forcing him to his feet. He had to go comfort his nephew, tell him that it would be okay and they could get through this together. Atem was too young to be totally on his own. Still fighting back sobs, Aknadin rose to his feet, craning his head over the wall. He tensed as he watched the human assassin walk over to Atem, Aknadin standing on his hind legs to get a better view as the human threw its arms around Atem's leg, holding on until Atem lowered his head. His mouth dropped open as Atem allowed the human to hug his muzzle close, holding the dragon as Atem continued to tremble. Seconds passed with Atem still allowing the human to comfort him. And then the nagging at the back of his mind started, disturbing Aknadin. What if Atem hadn't been defending his father, but distracting the human that was coming to save him? What if Atem had been corrupted by this human, offered the chance to get out of his hated title by offering up another as a sacrifice? Aknadin had never seen the human that had held his brother captive, so he couldn't be sure that the man with the sword that Atem was fighting actually was the one responsible for his brother's condition. He didn't know too many things, which made him uneasy. Holding back a trill, Aknadin looked at Atem, tensing as he heard his nephew speak. "He was my father and…What am I going to do without him, love?" Aknadin felt fire tickling the back of his throat at his nephew's words. He had called the assassin love. He was going to a human for comfort, the same human that had just killed Akhnamkanon. Aknadin pulled himself the rest of the way onto the wall, feeling it shake even under his slight weight. He nearly laughed, the things that humans built were never made to keep out dragons. He opened his wings for balance, eyes focused only on his traitor of a nephew. Atem had allowed for one of his own family to be killed, and that was unforgivable. Atem was the Morningstar. It was his duty to die for the dragons, to bring them into a new era with his sacrifice. Aknadin was just helping the process along. He let out a screech as he launched himself from the wall, reaching out for Atem as the saw his nephew's head jerk up in surprise, the black and red dragon shoving the human away as he realized what was coming for him. Please read and review. Criticism is always welcome.

Author's Note: I am aware this is about a day early, but I'm going to be busy all of the day I would usually update. So, instead of making you all wait for Saturday, I'm just updating now. Sorry for the short notice, but I didn't realize how busy I was until I tried to think of a time I could update. Other than that, Happy New Year everyone. Disclaimer: I do not own Yu-Gi-Oh or Dragonheart; they belong to their respective owners. I also do not own the lines of poetry that Ryou thinks up here, they are actually from the movie and novelization of Dragonheart. I do, however, own bits of the plot. Warnings: Blood, violence Chapter Seven: Bonded Thus the fatal stoke did fall; And, with it, undid all. Ryou held the bow tightly to him, looking over at Bakura as the two slunk through the shadows. It was the only weapon he had, the only one that he was remotely good at handling. But it still didn't make him feel confident. The poet shifted, earning a glare from Bakura. The thief rolled his eyes and walked back to his lover, placing his hand on Ryou's shoulder. The poet leaned into the contact, looking distractedly at the castle that loomed above them. It was intimidating up close, well built even though the work had been rushed towards the end. But it served its purpose. Once everything was settled, it would be impossible to get in. The four of them had a difficult enough time climbing to the summit without being seen, even though two of them had made the journey plenty of times before. And now all they had to do was wait for the king to arrive, and then kill him. It was treason. Ryou shivered at the thought. Death for all of them if they were caught. This was the kind of story he would be interesting in reading or writing, never participating. Now he just wanted to go somewhere, run away from this mad scheme and take Bakura with him. While he wasn't ready to face the truth behind his relationship with the male, he wasn't quite ready to leave Bakura behind him to die. There was a part of him that was ready to admit that he was in love with the thief, no matter how much he was annoyed by his mercurial mood swings. But he wasn't ready to admit that; his one fear that he was a quick fling for the thief, even if he wasn't sure if he was using Bakura for a quick fling himself. It was a confusing situation when he sat back to think about it but, in everyday life, it wasn't that complicated. Bakura made him happy, happier than he had ever been before. And he was sure that Bakura felt the same way, if the soft smiles that were given to him were anything to go by. If only life was simply the both of them being happy. But it wasn't. Ryou had to work up to a respectable career, which he couldn't do with a thief dogging his heels. And Bakura had to steal to survive, to protect the reputation that he boasted about when not around the knight. There was no way that they could stay together. If that were true, then why were they both trying their hardest to make this work? He was pulled out of his thoughts as Bakura tensed, the thief turning to look down the trail with a look of surprise. Ryou followed his gaze, his own mouth dropping open as he watched the black bulk of the dragon emerge, the creature walking dejectedly behind the king and a knight. The poet was pulled abruptly back by his lover, only then realizing that he had been leaning forward to get a better glimpse of the dragon as they walked by. He felt Bakura's hand clamp down over his mouth, the action not necessary. He had no intention of screaming, his mind was too busy rushing over the information. The king had a dragon that he kept by him, a tame dragon. What did that mean for any rebellions or their small attack? Would the dragon obey the orders of the king like theirs did? A shift in the shadows from beside him brought Mahad out into the open, the knight crouching on the ground as he watched Gozaburo and his escort calmly walk to the castle without a care in the world. The knight inched closer to Bakura and Ryou, motioning for Yugi to join them. The prince scurried over, glancing up at the sky once before kneeling on Ryou's other side. Mahad nodded at the move, making sure to keep his voice low. "When we go inside, aim for killing that dragon. It's the only way to get a sure victory. Don't bother trying to kill the king." "What kind of rebellion is this if we don't kill the king?" Bakura snapped at the knight, the hand that he kept on Ryou tightening for a moment before relaxing abruptly. "It is the only way, thief. Unless you are willing to risk your own life?" Bakura turned away at the comment, staring angrily at the gate to the castle. Mahad nodded, shifted a bit. "The dragon will keep most of the reinforcements away from us the best it can. But we can only depend on it for so long." Ryou grimaced at the orders, reaching back into his quiver of arrows to make reassure himself that they were still there. The bow had only been used for hunting before he met Bakura, happily passing the job off to the thief who enjoyed the sight of blood. It had never been used to kill a person, let alone a dragon. Ryou stared at his weapon, catching sight of Bakura as the thief crossed his arms across his chest. "Can we trust the dragon?" "We can trust, Atem." All eyes turned to the prince who had is head tipped back to look at the sky, probably tracking the dragon's progress. Ryou glanced up himself, squinting through the dark to try and see the dragon, but only saw the stars. He scowled and looked back down, wishing that he was only watching the battle. From a safe distance he could observe and take notes so he could remember this event forever. Instead, he was being thrown into battle, possibly to death. Then his great work would never be seen to read. Maybe he should have listened to Bakura and let them travel on. But his urge to get this story still remained, because the tale was getting more interesting. Bakura was right, there had never been a story like this. And he wouldn't have missed this for the world. Well…the battle he could live without. Ryou was jolted out of his thoughts as he was suddenly pulled into a hug by the thief. He was about to question the actions when Bakura gave him a quick kiss before pulling away. Ryou remained crouched on the ground, blinking as he watched Bakura slink after Mahad and Yugi before shrugging his shoulders and following them. He moved quickly to Bakura's side, sticking by his lover as they moved toward the gate. He glanced up at the battlements, startled to find that there were no guards. He supposed that they were busy with all the workings of the inner castle or slacking off because they would not get scolded for their negligence this time. The reason, he quickly decided, didn't matter. At least they were able to sneak in. Ryou adjusted his grip on his bow, placing an arrow on the string and letting his fingers fall into their much practiced places. A smile appeared on is face as they stepped through the open gates, his mind already composing poetry about this event. 'Into the mouth of death we strode, Into the gringy gloom, Into the pit of fear unknown, Perhaps to court our doom. 'In the darkness stygian befell, The fate of warriors bold, With our hearts in fearful accord And left them lifeless cold.' He tensed as he stepped from the shadow of the gate, looking to one side and the clanking of chains. The poet raised his bow, pulling the string back at a nod from Mahad. Surprisingly, his hand remained steady as he took aim at the dragon's heart. Ryou slowly exhaled, releasing the string with the motion, and cursing as Gozaburo moved, placing himself in the way. The king looked up at the sound of the arrow's release, but didn't turn around in time, the arrowhead finding its mark in his shoulder. Man and dragon screamed in pain, the sound bringing reinforcements from the castle. Yugi brought his sword up in a sloppy block, wincing at the vibration that the impact caused. He shoved the man away, stumbling back to Mahad. The two knights had rushed forward to cover the thief and the poet as the men had come rushing out of the castle at the screams of pain, hoping that Ryou could get off another shot. If all went well, they would slay the dragon at a distance and run before they could be boxed in. Bakura would protect Ryou as best as he could, a second line of defense if the knights fell. Which wouldn't happen. Yugi hoped that simple fact would be true with his whole heart and soul. He yelped and pivoted away from the next attack, realizing that he had allowed himself to get lost in his thoughts. His move also brought him out of the way of the dark flames that poured from the sky as Atem dove. Yugi reached up to touch the dragon's scales as Atem moved past, angling his wings to climb back up into the sky. The prince took a quick look at the fire barrier before running to stand beside Ryou as the poet fumbled for another arrow. Atem's attack had split Gozaburo's forces, meaning that there were fewer men to worry about. The thought brought a smile to the prince's face, there was a better chance of them getting out of this alive now. Yugi moved through the motions of fighting, his eyes flicking up every once and a while to see if Atem was going to swoop down again. A touch on his shoulder spun him around, sword at the ready. The look on Ryou's face made him lower his sword, stepping out of the way so Bakura could lunge forward with one of his daggers, the thief smirking as another fell. The poet steered them away from the falling body, brown eyes wide in fear. "I'm out of arrows." Bakura cursed before backing toward them, nervously flipping a dagger in one hand. Yugi looked frantically around, spotting Atem plunging down again, the dragon gathering up men in his claws before taking off and dropping them from the sky. The prince turned away from the sight, his eyes falling on the dragon who was chained down. He pushed away from Ryou, easily shaking off the poet's hands as he ran for the creature. It was the only way to end this thing, at least according to Mahad. It was the only way to save all of them. Yugi ducked a blow to his head, focusing more on running than fighting. He was the only one who could do this, Mahad was too busy somewhere else and Bakura wouldn't leave Ryou. He could depend on Atem to help him in any horrible situation. He sprinted past the confused men, looking up with a smile as he saw Atem swooping down to skim over the ground close by him. Breathlessly, Yugi pointed in the direction he was going, the dragon giving a curt nod before turning, Yugi having to duck to avoid the down beat of the wings. The prince looked at the dragon, watching as Atem landed, throwing back his head and roaring, the sound scattering the men. He got a clear view of Mahad and Lector locked in combat on the other side of Atem, neither of the two men looking up at the sound of the dragon. Yugi shook his head, the motion flinging his bangs from his eyes and plunged ahead. He skidded to an awkward stop, ducking under a swinging blade. Yugi flinched as he felt liquid fall on him, grunting as something hit his back. The prince stumbled forward, turning around to watch in horror as an arm rolled down his back, the body of the man who attempted to attack him scattered across the courtyard. Yugi looked up at Atem, watching as the dragon drew back his hand, part of the man's torso still stuck to a claw. The dragon hissed in displeasure and shook the body off, turning to glare at the other humans. Yugi took advantage of their distraction and covered the short distance to the dragon, kneeling down by the dragon's head and running a hand over its muzzle. The prince stumbled backwards, nearly dropping his sword as the dragon opened its eyes, the deep brown irises staring back accusingly at him. The dragon slowly lifted its head, the chains that held it to the ground not fixed in place. Yugi took a step back as the dragon loomed over him, eyes travelling over the dragon and getting wider as he did so. This dragon was almost identical to Atem, lacking red tint to the scales and slightly bigger than Atem. And, with the flames flickering over the courtyard, Yugi sometimes glimpsed a hint of red in the dark brown eyes. The dragon hissed at him, displaying long teeth. Yugi almost cowered, but puffed his chest up and glared right back, daring the creature to attack. When the dragon hesitated, Yugi dropped the point of his sword, making sure he was no longer a threat. "We want to help you." The dragon scoffed, lowering its head to stare at Yugi. "What could you do to help me, human? You came here to kill me because it would kill the man you call king." "Yes." Yugi glanced over at Atem, biting his lip as the black and red dragon curled around Ryou and Bakura to protect them, earning a long cut on his foreleg for his actions. Yugi clenched one hand into a fist at the pained bellow that Atem gave, the other dragon turning to look in the direction the sound came from, eyes widening as it noticed Atem for the first time. Yugi turned away, reaching out for the dragon, wincing as his hand came in contact with the dragon's hide. It wasn't as soft or warm as Atem's was, the sensation not pleasant to Yugi. He was almost tempted to draw his hand away, but the confused look of the dragon made him keep his hand there. Yugi gave the creature a smile, "But I don't want to kill you if I don't have to. I've seen enough dragons die." The dragon sighed, shifting slightly to expose his chest to Yugi. The prince looked at the dragon in confusion, not understanding what the dragon meant by the motion. The dragon sighed, eyes roving until they landed on Atem again. "How is my son?" "Your son…" Yugi glanced over at the red and black dragon, comprehension slowly dawning. "Atem is…alright." "Alright?" Yugi struggled to find words to explain. "He would be better if the knights stopped coming after him. I think it drives him a little crazy, and he's afraid because he doesn't know what he will do." "His temper always did get the better of him sometimes." The dragon let out a wry chuckle, his gaze finally leaving Atem and turning to Yugi. "Thank you, little prince. I'm sure your mother would have been proud." "Would have-" "Now," the dragon interrupted him before Yugi could complete his question, "I am ready to die." It raised one claw against the beginning of Yugi's protest. "This is the only way out for many of us. Your people will be free from their horrid king and I will be free of these chains. So long as I live, that man lives. And, Atem will be safe. That's all I want." Yugi brought up his sword, staring at the point in horror. The dragon was asking for death, and he was the only one closest enough to grant its wishes, but he had never seen himself as a dragon-slayer. He had hated Mahad for what the knight was doing, and now he was about to do the same thing. And what would Atem think of him? Atem hadn't been told of their plan before, just sent away with his orders. Could Atem ever forgive him if Yugi killed his father? The point of his sword started trembling as Yugi thought it over, his resolve disappearing swiftly. He couldn't do this. "Please, little prince." Yugi turned his head away, letting his sword point fall again. He heard the dragon whimper, the chains rattling as it moved closer. He tensed as the dragon spoke again, all the pleading gone from it's voice. "If you don't strike now, prince, I will make you." "I can't." "You must!" Yugi scrambled backwards as the dragon snapped at him, yelping when he hit the ground, his sword clattering away. He scrambled to his feet, watching as the dragon pulled its head up. He lunged for his sword as the dragon struck again, rolling across the ground and yelping again as he cut his palm on the edge of his blade. Yugi snatched up the sword, glancing down at his cut hand before looking back up at the dragon. The creature hissed, straining against his chains as Yugi brought the sword up to guard. He could hear the sound of the dragon's teeth scraping over the iron, his knees shaking as the force that the creature was exerting became too much. Yugi fell to his knees, looking up at the dragon from the cover of his bangs. He saw something move through the smoke that was rising from the flames, a smile breaking out on his face as he recognized Atem. Yugi didn't get the chance to call out as the dragon forced him onto his back, the sword still up to protect him. "Yugi!" The dragon turned, moving away from Yugi so it could stare at its son, brown eyes widening. Atem looked between his father and Yugi before growling, wings moving slightly from his sides as he advanced. The dragons didn't get a chance to exchange words before Atem suddenly bellowed in pain, quickly lifting off the ground and circling above the battle. Yugi sat up, searching for the thing that had injured Atem, but was forced back onto his back as Gozaburo ran over, the king's sword held at Yugi's throat. "Didn't you hear my warning before, brat?" Yugi panicked, kicking Gozaburo's legs out from underneath him before scrambling to his feet, backing around the dragon. The king slowly got to his feet, following Yugi with a predatory slink. The prince found himself trembling as he became the focus of the icy blue eyes. He jumped as Gozaburo lunged forward, swinging his blade across his body to stop the attack. The swords clanged together, a few sparks flying from the force of the blow. Yugi stumbled back a few steps under the impact, hurriedly bringing his sword up to parry again. Yugi was forced closer to the walls, finding himself only able to defend. His violet eyes were wide with fear, breath coming in quick pants as Gozaburo came at him again, the prince barely getting his blade up in time to block the attack. Frantic to escape from being pinned, Yugi lunged forward, the tip of his blade breaking the skin, on the king's arm. Gozaburo stumbled back, screaming in pain. Yugi took the moment to breathe, his relief short lived as Lector jumped over the dragon's thrashing tail to charge at Yugi. The prince yelped and turned around to parry the new attack. From over the sounds of men screaming and the crackle of flames, he could barely heard Mahad shouting his name as the knight circled around the dragon, rushing from the front of the creature. Yugi took Lector's moment of distraction to attack, changing the motion halfway through to hold the sword awkwardly above his head to block the strike that Lector cobbled together at the last minute. He gasped as Lector suddenly grabbed his wrists, the action making Yugi's drop his sword. Lector leered at him as he stretched Yugi's wrists above his head, making the prince stand on his tip-toes to avoid pain. Lector laughed at the horrified look on Yugi's face, his eyes darting to someone that was behind Yugi. The prince never got a chance to turn his head. Yugi jerked forward in the hold, coughing and gasping for air at the same time, the metallic tang of blood invading his mouth. Dazedly, Yugi looked down, staring at the sword that stuck out of his chest. From behind him, he could hear Gozaburo laughing, Lector dropping his wrists and allowing him to slump forward. Yugi felt himself tip forward, his fall stopped by an arm around his stomach. Slowly, Yugi turned his head to look at Gozaburo, his vision fading in and out as pain made it impossible to think. The king smirked at him, leaning on the sword so that it slid further into Yugi, laughing as the prince gave a gasp, the only sound he was capable of making. "I warned you." His eyes widened as Gozaburo roughly yanked the sword from his body, falling onto his knees without anything to support him. His hand went up to the left side of his chest, pulling it away to stare numbly at the blood that coated his palm. Yugi swayed before falling forward onto all fours, gasping for air. Slowly, the world around him began to fade away, the sense of touch going first. Then smell, the iron tang of blood disappearing from the air and leaving complete nothingness. He turned his head at the faint call of someone, his brain working for the name of the voice before sound disappeared altogether. Yugi's vision began to blacken around the edges, lasting long enough to see a large black shape appear beside him before he slipped into unconsciousness. Atem pulled his injured foot up, licking the wound and glaring down at the ground as he circled above the fight. He should have known better than to be distracted, Gozaburo wouldn't have gotten him. He hissed at himself before flapping to gain more altitude, scanning the running people below him as he determined where he was needed the most. Bakura and Ryou were struggling away from the gate for reasons that Atem couldn't fathom. Why wouldn't they be taking this chance to escape? Mahad was sure to kill the dragon below. Atem winced at the thought, not liking the idea that he helped in the slaying of his father. But he hadn't been told about the plan, assuming that Mahad would not know about the dragon that Gozaburo kept. He had been wrong. And now his father was trying to kill Yugi. He turned in the air, scanning the ground below. He spotted Mahad, running around his father and heading for the back wall. The move made no sense to Atem. Mahad could only get himself cornered back there, which was against the whole point of their plan. They all wanted to get out alive so they could install Yugi as the king to this small kingdom, effectively stealing away the human that Atem was starting to feel affection toward. Atem turned his head, spotting the prince as one of the knights under Gozaburo yanked his wrists above his head. Atem had a second to ponder this before Gozaburo moved behind Yugi, plunging his sword into the prince's chest. He couldn't move as the two pulled away from Yugi letting the prince fall to his hands and knees, blood staining his shirt. Then the ear splitting bellow came, Atem too far gone to realize that it was his own. The dragon plummeted to the ground, landing hard on the cobblestones and immediately shifting to stand over Yugi. He snarled at the men who were beginning to move closer. He didn't care why they were approaching them, all he knew was that they all deserved to die. Every last human that was in this castle. Atem snarled, pulling up his head and calling flames up into the back of his throat, taking a single step forward before letting them lose. Men screamed as the dark fire tumbled to the ground, eagerly licking at clothes and flesh. Atem turned his head, tail whipping angrily as he saw one man still running up toward them. He lowered his head, snarling as the knight didn't stop in his advance, trying to get past Atem and to Yugi. The dragon roared, shifting his weight so he could use one hand to flick the knight away, smirking as the man tumbled back into the wall and went limp. He snarled at the man, scanning the area around him before letting out another stream of fire, enclosing him in a circle of flames, protecting him for the moment. Atem snorted and turned, curling his tail around Yugi as he leaned down, gently nudging the prince with his muzzle. He got a dull cough, the sound coming with a slow wheeze as Yugi exhaled. Atem's eyes widened at the sickening scent of blood that surrounded the prince, his mind refusing to believe that Yugi was close to death. Yugi couldn't die, he wasn't going to let that happen! Gently, Atem nudged Yugi into one of his hands, standing up onto his hind legs and taking to the air. He needed to take them to a safe place, somewhere they would not be easily found. He flapped as fast as he could, feeling his heart beating frantically against his chest as he carried Yugi away. The dragon whimpered as he looked down at the human that he carried, realizing how fragile Yugi was. It didn't take a lot to break him, a simple action that Atem could replicate the force of easily. And it scared him. He didn't have the best control over his temper, he could have easily been the reason that Yugi was broken. He ducked his head, vision blurring as tears came to his eyes. Atem quickly found an open space to land, not wanting to endanger his precious load further. He nudged Yugi back onto the ground, rolling the prince over to his back to stare at the wound. It was fatal, he knew that much. The sword had gone all the way through Yugi's body, probably through the heart. And yet Yugi was still hanging on, just barely. The dragon whimpered at the pitiful sight of the human struggling to breathe as he bled out. Yugi's eyes opened slowly, Atem quickly curling around the human as Yugi's hand twitched to reach him. He lowered his head, resting it against Yugi's side. Atem could feel Yugi's fingers brushing against the side of his face as the human struggled to stay alive, holding his own breath as the movement stopped. Atem looked up, whimpering as he saw that Yugi wasn't moving, a vacant look in the usually bright violet eyes. "Yugi?" Atem nuzzled the human's side, breath catching in his throat as there was no movement. He moved his muzzle, manipulating the hand closest to him until it was resting on him, waiting for Yugi to acknowledge his presence. But there was nothing. Atem sat up, feeling tears forming in his eyes as he looked down on the prince, tilting his head to the side as he waiting for movement. It was a moment later that he was finally able to comprehend what had happened. Yugi was dead, he didn't save him. Atem gave a keen of sorrow, lowering his head until it resting against his chest. "No, Yugi. Please don't leave me. Please." He winced as his stomach rolled, reacting to his highly emotional state. Atem stumbled away from Yugi, growling as he dug his claws into the ground, physically bracing himself against the pain. He trembled through the first few pangs before relaxing, turning to look at Yugi. If only the human had killed his father, then they wouldn't be in this situation. Atem was ready to lose his father, knowing that the elder dragon would eventually pass away. He would have left his father's cave eventually, seeking his own home and a mate; and never turning back. But he wasn't ready to lose Yugi. Atem shuddered as the next bout of pain rushed through him, leaving him gasping for air as he stared at Yugi. Slowly, an idea moved through his fogged mind. His father had saved Gozaburo when the man had a similar injury. He had given Gozaburo half of his heart. Maybe it would work. And if not… "Wait." Atem dragged himself back to Yugi's side, a whimper dragged out of him as his stomach protested the move. "Just wait for me, Yugi. You said you trusted me, believed in me. Please." He flared his wings out for balance and reached up one hand to rest over his heart, closing his eye to listen to it's beat. His claws gently pried up the scale, revealing skin. Atem took a deep breath and plunged two claws into his skin, easily ripping a hole over his beating heart. Blood trickled over his claws as he rocked forward, gasping for breath around the double assault of pain from his stomach and chest. He shook his head, moving his hand until a third claw slid into the slit, hissing with the motion before the claws closed around his heart. Atem paused there, taking a few deep breaths before clamping the claws around his heart and splitting the organ in half. He quickly closed his claws around the half as he pitched forward, incapable of anything as he rode out the wave of pain. Almost instinctually, he called on magic to heal the severed heart, black tendrils slipping through the wound in his chest as he pulled the other half out, staring at the pulsing red light that he held in his claws. Groaning, Atem took an awkward step so he was hovering over the prince, carefully lowering the heart into Yugi's chest. Black tendrils rose from the ground, wrapping around the bright light and combining the dragon's heart with the damaged heart still in Yugi's chest. Atem set his hand down, ignoring the blood that was drying on his claws as he panted for breath. The heart in Yugi's chest gave a faint beat as the tendrils released their hold, slowly beginning to beat as the magic pulled away from him. Atem drew in a deep breath, quickly cauterizing the wound on Yugi's chest before flipping the human onto his side and sealing the wound on Yugi's back. Atem let the prince fall back to the ground, the slight jar making Yugi blink weakly, the prince's body still trying to start functioning again. The dragon sighed, smoothing the scale on his chest back over the scar, closing his eyes as he was finally able to breath properly, a smile flitting across his muzzle. "Half my heart to make you whole. My strength to purify your weakness. Your light to chase away my darkness." "Atem?" Yugi's weak voice reached his ears, making the dragon open his eyes and lower his head so Yugi could reach up and touch his muzzle. He grunted as the pain in his stomach made itself known, the sound causing concern to appear in Yugi's eyes. "What's wrong?" "Nothing." Atem flipped over a hand, letting Yugi use his head to stand up and lean against as he stumbled over to the outstretched hand. The prince collapsed again, holding onto a claw as Atem stood up, flapping his wings experimentally before looking down at Yugi. "We have to get out of here." "Did we fail?" Atem nodded, leaping from the ground as he flapped, the usual jolt minimized by this method of takeoff. Yugi was still rocked forward by the motion, clinging onto the claw to stay upright. The dragon flapped to gain altitude, wishing for the thermals that would allow easier travel. He had to get Yugi out of the kingdom for a while, long enough for them both to recover and spend the winter before they came back. Atem turned his head, automatically heading for the grounds where his family had spent the first winters of his life. If his memory was correct, there would be humans and dragons there; and the winter wouldn't be as harsh, which is what both Yugi and he needed. Considering how he was feeling and their rate of flight, Atem could probably reach the middle of the territory in a few days. But he didn't feel like leaving their lives up to chance. Gozaburo might send knights out to get them. And he had just gotten Yugi back. The dragon pulled out of the hover he had put himself in, turning toward their destination, breathing a sigh of relief at the tailwind that they had. This would help if his plan worked. If he pull at his energy into flying and didn't stop all night, they could probably get there sometime in the next day, which was better. Atem nodded to himself, glancing down at the now sleeping Yugi before beginning to speed forward. The wind at his back assisted, but he could already feel the strain. He wasn't in any condition to make this kind of flight, he would have just spent the winter in abject misery in his cave and only flown when he had to catch prey. He had already been flying around too much, using what little energy he had managed to gather in producing flame and fighting against humans. Not to mention whatever was happening with his stomach. He hoped that it didn't get worse in flight, he didn't want to drop Yugi. He glanced down at the countryside speeding along below him, the trees blurs in the darkness. He slowly raised his eyes, focusing them on the horizon as he pushed himself to greater speed, knowing that he would be sore when they landed. He only remembered going this fast when he was young and racing Kisara around the old ruins that scattered the hills. He winced at the thought of his old friend, knowing that he was leaving her behind, even after he promised to watch over her. But there was nothing else that he could do. The knights were always coming after him and Gozaburo knew that he had fallen in with Yugi and Mahad, which meant that he would be hunted until the end of his days. Kisara was much better protected by her human than him. She could probably lay low long enough for someone to kill Gozaburo. Then he could find her and apologize for running off when she probably needed him the most. But he had his own human to take care of. Kisara would understand. The miles and hours passed, all counted down to the beat of his wings. The sun was beginning to rise when Atem had to adjust his course, now pulling away from the helpful wind to begin to make his way across the forests that boarded on the plains. He saw the flicker of faint sunlight on the river that wove lazily through the last of the forest, knowing that its path led through the plains, passing through the scrubland and making a dark track through the desert before reaching the ocean. Somewhere out on the plains, there would be people willing to take care of Yugi. And there would be dragons willing to help them both. And if things got too bad, Atem could always drag himself out to the desert and spend a few days soaking up heat so his body wouldn't be forced to produce heat by making fire. And they would be left in peace by Gozaburo, the nomadic people hard to capture on their own lands with dragons as allies. Sunlight poured over them, allowing Atem the use of thermals as he drove himself on, now panting for air as he continued at his breakneck pace, wanting to fly until he spotted the human clans before thinking of landing. The light as well as the cool air must have woken Yugi, because the prince blinked blearily up at him, a smile slowly making its way across his face. Atem gave a weak smile back, forcing himself to keep flying even though his muscles were protesting and his wing beats were becoming increasingly shaky. To make it worse, the stomach pain was back, even worse than before. Atem gritted his teeth against the pain, his eyes closing for a moment as he tried not to make a noise, his altitude dropping as a result. Yugi jolted forward, wrapping his arms around a claw. Atem felt the prince stiffen, glancing back down to see Yugi staring at his claws in horror. "Atem…is that blood?" "Yes." Atem clamped his mouth shut immediately after the word, holding back the whimper that he felt coming. He opened his eyes, not realizing that he had shut them. They were almost there, he could see the smoke from fires. Distantly on the horizon, he could see dragons as they rode the morning thermals, probably hunting before going out to the desert. There were more than he expected, although the exact reason escaped him at the moment. He glanced down again, judging the distance. Just a few more minutes, if he could hold out that long. His head dropped forward, resting against his chest as he panted for air. "Atem?" He felt Yugi's hand against his foreleg before his muscles gave out, quavering before cramping and sending him plummeting to the ground. He heard Yugi squeak in fear as he closed his claws gently around the human, keeping his wings spread in the hopes that he would have a gently glide to the ground. But they wouldn't stay out, the wings starting to fold inward as the muscles refused to work. Atem snarled, flipping himself over at the last minute so he would bear the brunt of the fall instead of Yugi. The breath was knocked out of him as he hit the ground, landing awkwardly on one wing. He felt pain lance through his shoulder at the move, thankful that the wing hadn't broken on the impact. His relief was short lived as his momentum caused him to bounce once before sliding across the ground, throwing him onto his side and spilling Yugi out of his hand. Dust puffed up around him as he finally slid to a stop, groaning at the various pains that made themselves known. From somewhere behind him, Atem heard Yugi cry out in pain, worry getting the best of him. Had the fall undone everything? Was Yugi dying again? Atem tried to get up, falling back to the ground as his legs refused to support him. He crashed back to earth, breathing heavily. Everything hurt, he whimpered at the thought as well as the pain, closing his eyes as his stomach began to act up again. He clawed at the ground, finding a good hold as the pain began to race through him, this time not letting up. He thrashed on the ground, trying to ease the pain as it slowly took over his mind. His world was fading in and out of focus, sounds strangely distorted as his stomach tried to rip itself apart. Atem lost the fight to keep silently and keened in pain, one hind leg twitching as he fought the urge to rip at his stomach. "Atem!" His eyes shot open, only now realizing that Yugi had been calling his name. The human was standing in front of him, rubbing the spot above his eye with one hand while the other was held over his own stomach. The pain stopped long enough for Atem to have one moment of clear thought. If his father felt the pain for when Gozaburo was injured, then the opposite would be the same. Which meant that his stomach pain was hurting Yugi although, apparently, the human wasn't getting the full amount. As quickly as it had come, his moment of clear thought was gone and he was thrashing again, whimpering and pleading for the pain to go away. Even Yugi's touch was fading away. He wasn't sure whether it lasted hours or minutes, but finally his body quit on him, unable to move as the pain rolled through. Atem whimpered, pushing his head closer to Yugi. He was barely hanging onto his sanity at the moment, clinging to the comfort that was offered to him by the human. The pain let up again, allowing him time to think. He glanced up at Yugi, watching as the prince cautiously wrapped his arms around Atem's muzzle, hugging the dragon as he fought back tears. Atem gave a soft trill, hoping to comfort his human. Yugi was probably scared and confused. He had woken up in a strange place and was in pain for no reason. And Atem could do nothing about it but thrash around on the ground with the dim hope that it would all end soon. He rolled so his was leaning against his elbow, the motion allowing him to meet Yugi's gaze, although the prince didn't let go of his hold. The dragon sighed, and leaned into the hug. "Yugi…" At the sound of his name, Yugi pressed closer to Atem, the sobs trailing off. The dragon let him have his moment, making the soft rumble that seemed to comfort the human, convincing him to let go of Atem and sit on the ground. Exhausted, Atem allowed himself to collapse again, shifting his head so that he could look at Yugi. The prince gave him a wavering smile, eyes drifting along the dragon's body until they landed on his front claws, eyes going wide as the human spotted the dried blood. Atem wasn't sure how much Yugi remembered from the battle, or if he even remembered the fight. He gave a trill to call Yugi's attention back to him, ready to find out what the human was thinking. He didn't get a chance to speak as the pain returned. He whimpered and curled up, digging one set of claws into the ground in a futile attempt to keep himself from tearing at his stomach. He opened one eye at the light touch on his neck, rolling it so he could see Yugi. The human placed another hand on the dragon, looking frantic. Atem tried to speak, the words lost in a roar of pain, the sound echoing easily over the open country as he finally went limp. Now he could only flinch as the pain rolled through, each wave allowing more darkness to eat away at his vision. Soon, Yugi was lost to the darkness that was consuming him. Atem moaned, listening to Yugi scramble around to find a better place to stand. He felt the human clamber over his neck, Yugi pulling his muzzle back into a tight hug and holding him there. Atem felt tears splash onto his face as Yugi stroked the scales he could reach. "What's wrong? What can I do for you?" Atem had no energy to respond, just concentrating on trying to slow his breathing. He gave a weak cough and shifted his head, feeling Yugi follow the motion. Atem gritted his teeth, his throat sore from his screams of pain. He just wanted it all to end, just wanted to give into the unconsciousness that beckoned to him. But he kept being dragged back into consciousness by the pain. He resigned himself to this fate, eyes finally closing. He whimpered as Yugi suddenly pulled away, feeling the cold air that rushed over him as something large flew over them. Atem forced his eyes open, his vision clearing enough for him to get a quick glance at the dragon that had landed beside him, two others circling for their chance to land. His vision wavered again, sending him back into darkness. Atem whimpered, the sound calling Yugi back to his side, the human reaching out to pet Atem's cheek. He heard the other dragons approaching, eyes widening as he realized that they were much larger than him. If they weren't friendly, then they were both doomed. But if they suspected that Yugi had done this to him… Atem lifted his head from the ground, finding the other dragons by the sound of their movement and growled as they approached, trying to get his body to curl around Yugi. The prince seemed to sense his intentions and huddled close to Atem's side, wrapping his arms around Atem's foreleg and holding on as the dragons approached. The show of force lasted for a depressingly short time as Atem ran out of energy and just let his head fall back to the ground with a groan. Then, Yugi was pulling away from his side and rushing over to stand in front of him. Atem whimpered, trying to bring the human back to safety, but Yugi ignored him. "Stay away from him!" "Why, little human? Can you not see that he's in pain?" Atem almost recognized the voice of the dragon, unable to place it with his pain fogged mind. Atem heard Yugi shift, stepping back so he could rest a hand on the dragon's head. He rolled his eyes to where he thought Yugi was, cursing the pain that kept him unable to see properly. He was granted a moment of blissful contact with his human before Yugi was shoved away, the yelp from him causing Atem to snap his head up with a growl, the sound dying almost immediately. He whimpered, the sound cut off by a soft croon from the dragon that was looming over him. "Don't worry, little one. We'll help you." He felt himself being lifted from the ground, his claws scrambling to hold on. It was worse being unable to see what was going on, the dragon's hold on him putting pressure on his stomach. Atem keened in pain, the sound drawing the dragon's attention back to him. There was a growl from the dragon before another voice intruded on the sound. "You can't take him!" "And why not, human?" "You'll have to take me too!" Atem would have smiled at the strength that Yugi was showing. The dragon who was holding him apparently thought the human's protests over before turning its head to motion one of the other dragons over. "Take this human back to camp with us, since he refuses to leave this dragon." There was anger in the dragon's voice, the tone making Atem fear for Yugi's life. "Maybe then you can see the harm you have done to him." Atem heard a snarl as one of the dragons moved toward Yugi, putting out his own weak protest as he heard Yugi scream and the brush of cold air over him as the dragon took off. Frantic, Atem tried to follow the sound of the retreating dragon, jerking back to a limp state as the dragon who was holding him took off. He closed his eyes, whimpering and wishing that all of this would just go away. He flinched as the dragon that was carrying him looked down at him, offering what it thought was comfort. "Don't worry, little one, he won't hurt you anymore." Tèa led the horse back to her own village, limping slightly. She gave the run down houses a furtive look, wondering how she was going to explain the presence of a horse of obvious well breeding to her friends. Better yet, how was she going to explain how she had gathered her impressive collection of bruises. She rubbed her arms at the thought, glancing at the black and blue marks in the dim hope that they would just disappear. But it was only wishful thinking. She sighed and looked back up, stopping in her tracks as her eyes fell upon three familiar animals. Picketed in the shadows of one of the shacks were the mule, palomino and brown horse from the village before, too distinctive to be forgotten. Tèa led her own horse over and tied it nearby the others, hoping that the plan would work. She gave the animal a fond pat on the muzzle, wishing that she had some tidbit to spare to thank it for its help. After all, the horse had carried her from the castle to the other village and then back again when the sun had risen. She walked away from the horse and through the village, wrapping her arms around herself as she remembered the night before. It wasn't that bad, she knew that much. It probably would have been smarter if she had waited before forcing herself into another sexual encounter. But the perfect situation had come up, and she had taken advantage of it. Who knew when the prince would ride back through the same village she was in. When his mentor had pushed him onward, it had been too perfect to pass up, no matter how much her body protested. And the prince had turned out to be a good lover. Tèa blushed at the memory of violet eyes looking down at her in the midst of passion. Cautiously, she raised one hand to rest on her cheek, like the motion could wipe the color away from her face. She shouldn't be blushing, it meant that she was starting to care. And she couldn't afford to care about him. She was just using him to help bring all those she loved out from under the thumb of Gozaburo. Tèa dropped her hand to her side with a muttered curse, staring at her bare feet as she walked into the deserted village square. She was not supposed to be falling for the prince. It would hinder her plan. She could not develop any feelings for any sovereign who would continue to hurt them. The prince was the son of a witch, and could not be trusted. If that was the case, then why did she want to trust him? Why did she want to stay by his side and get to know him better? Why did she still want him? It was too confusing to think about right now, her primary focus being to alert her friends that she was alright and what Gozaburo had done to her, hopefully leaving her rape out of it. If they heard about that, then it would be hard to trust her on the lineage of her child…if there even was a child. Tèa glanced down at her flat stomach, chewing on her lower lip. Well, the prince was in her village now. There could be a second chance no matter how much her body protested. After all, how much was she worth now? She could never get a good husband, not with her conscious nagging at her about her spoiled status. This was the only chance she had at gaining a bit of that life that she still craved. "Tèa!" She looked up quickly at the sound of Serenity's shout. The brunette smiled, even though the teenage girl couldn't see it, and knelt down on the ground to hug Serenity close. She winced a bit at the impact, keeping a hold of Serenity's arm as the girl pulled back. "You're hurt." "It's nothing-" "Serenity!" Joey came running after his sister, relaxing when he saw who she was with. The blond knelt down next to them, gathering up his sister in his arms and walking quickly away. Tèa hesitated before falling into step beside her friend, resting a hand on his arm. "What's going on, Joey? Where is everyone?" The blonde looked around cautiously before leaning close to Tèa, keeping his voice low. "There was an attack on the castle last night, a bad one. We could see the flames from down here. Some people even say that they saw a dragon flying above the castle." Tèa stiffened, her hand rubbing her arm. She felt Joey's gaze land on her as they paused at the entrance to Joey's shack. He mutely pulled aside the ratty cloth that served as a door and let her duck into the darkness first, following after with Serenity. Tèa blinked to adjust her eyes, quickly stepping out of the way to allow Joey to return to his seat on the ground. She raised a hand to wave at Tristan and Duke before joining them on the ground, staring numbly at her hands. "My assassination attempt failed." "I'm not surprised." Tristan scoffed at her before his expression softened. "What happened?" Realizing that that was the extent of the scolding that she would receive, Tèa glanced down at her arms with a wince. "I had some problems getting out of the castle. They nearly caught me." "Were you involved in," Joey pointed in the direction of the white castle. She shook her head, noticing that all three of the young men relaxed. "No, I was in and out of the old castle in a night. I ran for the next village over. I was," Tèa bit her lip and looked at the ground, "kind of embarrassed that I didn't succeed after all that talk, so I found a place to hide for a bit." "It's good that you did, or else you would have been here when we all panicked." Tristan shook his head and looked over at Duke, the two of them sharing a shiver. "It was madness. People thought the world was ending and five were killed." "Which ones?" Tèa leaned forward, her eyes wide in shock. She hadn't seen any of the bodies, which would have been the usual attitude toward deaths in panic. They must have worked quickly, which meant they thought that a noble would ride through the next day. "One complete family, one of the newer ones and Joey's father." They all looked at Joey, who shrugged and cuddled Serenity closer, the only sign that he was disturbed by the news. "He wanted it. His life was miserable and he kept saying that, so maybe it's better that he's gone." Joey looked to the door before looking back at the rest of the group, the motion giving him time to remove any trace of remorse in his eyes. They were all used to death, but it still never stopped hurting. "But, I'm glad that you were safe, Tèa. So, what kept you in that village for a whole day, meet a man?" Tèa blushed at the implications behind Joey's question, letting the blonde push the conversation back to her to remove the weight from him. His father had become a sore point for him after that first failed rebellion. It was better to let the blonde get over the death in his own way instead of forcing him to face it. She smiled to herself before wrapping her hands around her knees. "Yes." "Really?" All three men leaned forward, eyes wide as they looked at her. They all knew about her romantic notions of finding true love from the many afternoons they spent teasing her about such ideas. They had never thought that she would actually settle for one guy. She nodded, moving a strand of hair that had fallen in front of her eyes with the motion away. "I met the prince." "And he kept you there…all day and night." Duke raised his eyebrows at the last part of the statement, his smile turning into a smirk. They expected her to back down now, throw out her usual line about them all being perverts. But she wasn't going to. "Yes." Her voice was quiet, but she glared at the boys as they tried to hold back laughter. "He was wonderful. He has these beautiful purple eyes that are so expressive and his voice…and his laugh…" Tèa sighed, unwrapping her arms from around her knees and leaning back on her hands, staring dreamily up at the ceiling of the shack. Even now she could imagine him there, leaning over her with his blonde bangs brushing gently against her face as he reached out to stroke her cheek before sealing his lips over hers in a deep and passionate kiss; his arm wrapping around her waist to hold her up. Tèa sighed at the mental image, tipping her head back a bit further to keep her little fantasy going longer and so she could avoid the stares of the boys. "Did you and he…" Duke trailed off as Joey sent him a glare, the expression easy to predict. Joey would do anything to protect Serenity's innocence. Tèa rocked her head back up, a dreamy smile on her face. "Yes. And it was fantastic." "But I thought that…" "I found him." Tèa shrugged, one hand draping casually across her stomach as she continued to imagine the prince sitting by her, now holding her close against his chest. She closed her eyes, trying to bring back the memory of his voice, so soft and sweet. Her smile widened as she finally accepted the fact that she had fallen in love with the prince. And, to be perfectly honest, she had ceased to care. Now she only wanted to spend the rest of her life being held by the prince. Being loved by him. "Tèa." She sat up abruptly at the tone of Joey's voice, knowing that all the men's eyes were staring at the ground. She shifted so she was kneeling with her hand by her knees. Joey avoided her gaze, choosing to stare at the nearest wall. "Lector rode through this morning with the news that the prince was dead." She swayed at the news, the fragile bubble of joy shattered at the news. Her mouth dropped open as she shook her head. It wasn't true. It couldn't be true. Joey glanced over at her out of the corner of his eye. "He told us that he had watched the king kill the prince himself. Stabbed right through the heart." "No." Tèa covered her mouth with one hand, barely noticing that Tristan had moved over so that she could lean against him. Tristan held her close, letting her sob into his shoulder. "But…I love him." "I'm sorry, Tèa." She pulled away at the sympathy, wrapped her arms around her stomach as she stared at the floor. Her whole world was falling apart quickly, leaving her clinging to the only thing she was sure of. She looked up as Joey made a surprised noise, shifting Serenity from his lap to lean closer to her. "Tèa, what are you hiding from us?" "I think I might have made a mistake." She bit her lip as she said those words, shaking her head. What had happened between her and the prince would never be a mistake. It would always be the best moment of her life. But, by the sharp drawn in breath from Joey, he guessed what she meant. "We'll take care of you. We'll protect you." Tèa looked up, keeping her arms wrapped around her stomach, tears still falling from her eyes. "Please, don't let them get us." *is still hiding from puzzleshippers* Read and review please. Criticism is always welcome.

By the end of the day in which Jack came back through the wormhole from the Ida galaxy, the general was ninety percent reassured that he really was, finally, all right again. The determining factor was not Jack's repeated assertions, nor his report about the Asgard with their healing ET hands, but Dr. Fraiser's PET scan. It showed Jack's brain function was apparently back to normal ("That's just what I've been telling you, sir," Jack expostulated, and Daniel, hovering in the infirmary when Janet called up the new film on her monitor to explain what she'd seen, couldn't hide his smile). When Jack was cleared, Daniel, on whom the fact of his own exhaustion was just beginning to dawn, offered to see the colonel home and keep an eye on him over the weekend, Hammond agreed. As the two of them left the mountain, Daniel found it quite hilarious that he was riding passively in the passenger seat of Jack's truck while Jack drove, considering the state Jack had recently been in, but Jack had insisted he wanted to drive and Daniel hadn't had the energy to argue. He realized he was maybe a little punchy. He watched Jack carelessly, expertly steer the big truck around the switchbacks that led down from the SGC entrance, thinking about how Jack had found his tortuous way, at speeds beyond light, to another galaxy and back, and, scant hours later, was driving his same familiar two-year-old American truck at highway speed down their familiar Colorado hillside. Normal had apparently resumed, and Daniel hadn't quite caught up to it yet. He kept expecting Jack to say something in Ancient, or to stare at him, silently yearning, as he'd been doing for the last handful of days. Despite the lingering dark circles, and the slightly madcap enthusiasm he was displaying, so unlike his normal laid-back, slightly sarcastic humor, Jack did really seem to be pretty much back to his old self. And that was proving difficult for Daniel to believe. Though SG-1 had all been released to down time, Sam had stayed with Lt. Simmons to run yet another diagnostic on the mainframe and to further analyze the DHD plans Jack had drawn. She'd also wanted to match notes with Sgt. Siler on the impact of Jack's boosting of the power to the gate. Daniel had left the three of them bent over Jack's now-silent and inert device, muttering about reverse engineering this and superconducting alloys that. Daniel wondered if Teal'c had heard yet that Jack had permanently depleted the power supply of his favorite staff weapon. Daniel, for his part, was noting just how depleted his own mental energy was, resulting in thoughts that were rambling even more than usual. As Jack drove down the hill, Daniel realized belatedly, he had been complaining about sports -- something about the Denver MLB team. But, perhaps because of a lack of feedback from Daniel, Jack had fallen silent. Now he was fiddling with the radio controls, his eyes never leaving the road. After a minute or two he sighed and snapped the dial to "off." He replaced his right hand on the wheel, wiggling a little in his seat. Daniel groped for an appropriate banal comment, but came up with nothing. He watched Jack's profile. Jack glanced over, as if feeling him staring, and Daniel was helpless to look away. They were at the bottom of the swooping NORAD road now, and as Jack waited for the light to change, he tapped nervous fingers on the wheel. "Thanks," he said. "For what?" Daniel replied. Jack's eyes were so dark. He looked serious now, all his normal banter gone. Jack returned his attention to the road, and they pulled away from the now-green light. "For listening. For translating. For believing I wasn't crazy. I mean, I was crazy, actually. But. You know." "I know," Daniel said, and folded his arms. His worry, held at arm's length for a week by sheer determination, and obscured by the electric thrill of discovering a new language, an honest to God, never before seen on Earth new language, was flooding his gut. Delayed reaction. It made him shaky as it clashed with the enormous relief for Jack that was his dominant emotion. If he'd been standing up, he would have been fumbling for a chair. Jack was all right. His mind, that supple, sarcastic, quicksilver mind, had not been overwritten. He was not catatonic, not in a coma. Not dead. He was all right. Daniel closed his eyes. His eyelids were quivering, and so were his hands, which he'd somehow stuffed in his armpits. He tried to remember the last square meal he'd eaten. He'd been living on coffee and Teal'c's stash of power bars and instant oatmeal, he concluded, and that wasn't going to sustain him much longer. Daniel said, "You still have a habit of keeping a frozen lasagna for emergencies?" "Yeah; why? Does this count as one?" "Maybe." Daniel forced in a breath and met Jack's eyes. Jack looked worried. "Really; I feel great. The nice little grey men sucked the headsucker stuff out of me and I'm back to normal. Nothing to worry about." "I know." "How about you -- you okay? You look ... tense. Just a little." Daniel uncrossed his arms with an effort and flattened his hands on his thighs. His palms were damp and thus his jeans were soon damp, too. He made himself answer calmly. "Yeah. I'm okay. I was just... I was just really scared for you," he finished in a rush. It always worried him a little, embarrassed him, struck him as inappropriate, how much he was concerned about Jack. And how bizarre it was to be worried about Jack in the first place -- what made his react that way? Jack was the leader, the protector, the fearless "I can take care of myself" kind of tough guy. Daniel, The Geek, worrying about Jack, The Badass. That was rich. Jack studied him, intermittent glances stolen from watching the traffic. "You're crashing," Jack concluded, with a note of satisfaction, a strange smugness, perhaps at his ability to still read Daniel correctly despite the weird week they'd had. He drove on toward home, a faint smile playing on his lips. There was lasagna, which they heated. There was no coffee. Daniel declined a beer and made tea while Jack wrestled the lasagna into the microwave. Doing the domestic kitchen dance with Jack was so familiar and so easy. Daniel felt his own punchy mood soothed as he snacked on a fresh can of mixed nuts he found in the back of the pantry, and drank plain water while he waited for the kettle. Jack rummaged in the sparsely populated cupboards and freezer. Daniel was able to study his friend, to soak in the fact of his return, with no fear that he'd be called on his inappropriate focus. His relief was bolstered, moment upon moment, by the mundanity of it all. It was so good to watch Jack in his own home, pulling together a simple meal like they'd done, the two of them, dozens of times, and dozens of times more with the whole team, right here. In this kitchen. So good. So comfortable. Also, the restocking of his blood sugar didn't hurt his mood, either. Daniel realized he was watching Jack with a intensity that was almost obsessive, and though the circumstances of this particular post-mission downtime made it very understandable, he was struck once again by Jack's preeminent place in his life since his departure from Abydos. It was exactly as he had told General Hammond earlier in the week -- Jack needed him. He wouldn't, couldn't leave Jack, not when Jack was speaking only Ancient, certainly, and perhaps... ever? Any time? His feelings of concern for Jack were heightened, certainly, because of what Jack had suffered because of this mission, but if Daniel were honest? He would admit that he thought about Jack a lot. Lived in his shadow, in his beneficent shade, most of the time. Most of the time? Really honestly? All the time. These last few days, he had had a good reason to state the fact of his felt connection out loud, to Sam, Teal'c, to the general, to everyone. But it was always there. Sometimes he was afraid his connection to Jack actually competed with the driving urgency that was his motivation in life: His worry and concern for Sha're, and his bone-deep determination to find her. But that made no sense. Competition? The two feelings -- emotions? bonds? -- had nothing to do with each other. He cared for his team, especially Jack -- cared for them and even loved them. Well. He wasn't sure he loved Teal'c, even yet. He wasn't sure he could. Respect? Yes. Grudging admiration? Perhaps. But he could say without hesitation that he'd come to love Sam Carter. And Jack. Jack he definitely loved. Daniel let himself look, again -- let himself study the chiseled profile, now bent over the stovetop as Jack carefully peeled the plastic cover from their unfrozen dinner, and, on a released breath, Daniel let himself feel. Yeah, he loved Jack. He'd loved Jack for almost precisely the same amount of time he'd loved Sha're, and he'd told himself, for months, that the difference between those loves was not in degree but in kind. But since the aftermath of his adventure in the sarcophagus with Princess Shyla, he hadn't been all that sure of the difference. Like the boundary between his worry and his relief, the boundaries that helped him understand why he was fighting, to whom he was committed, seemed to be blurring these days. Which was bad. He looked down, realized his glasses were smudged, and pulled them off to clean them on his shirt tail. He shouldn't think about it, shouldn't think about things that were blurry. Jack was safe; returned to them restored, his mind scrubbed clear of the Ancient data. That was what was important here. He sighed and picked up his teacup. Jack looked up. "I think it's done," he said. "You want to grab the silverware? We'll eat in the dining room." ^^^^ An embarrassing amount of frozen lasagna and frozen stir-fry vegetable mix later, Daniel was lying on the sofa in Jack's living room, his forearm across his eyes, drifting pleasantly and quickly toward sleep. He registered that water was running in the kitchen, registered that it shut off, and then he heard Jack open the fridge, say, "Naw," to himself under his breath, shut it again, and thump down the stairs into the living room. Then Jack, huffing his relief loudly and repeatedly, lowered himself to the floor. Daniel, feeling vaguely guilty over taking the couch, fumbled beside his hip and tossed Jack a pillow. Jack grunted something that meant 'thank you.' "I should give you the sofa," Daniel said, "but I probably can't move." "Floor's fine," Jack said. "I should go to bed in a minute anyway. Ahh. The very idea is relaxing all by itself. Bed. My own bed. Yes." Eyes closed, Daniel grinned. He'd known only a few people who seemed to enjoy the simple creature comforts as much as Jack did. He was sure it was a function of having had to live without them in various obscure postings, down the years. He had observed something similar in himself, first on archaeological digs Earthside and then on Abydos. He never felt the rough conditions as a deprivation or as a pretext for complaint. Like Jack, he rather saw the return from such places to what was commonly known as civilized comfort as an occasion of gratitude. He realized, without looking, that Jack had in fact not dozed off, but was lying there thinking hard. Daniel opened his eyes and moved his arm a bit. He could see the blurry ceiling, with its overlay of elongated, soft shadows from the tall windows. He didn't look to the side, but he swore he could hear wheels turning in Jack's head. Daniel waited, counting his breaths. "Why did you stay?" Jack said. "When?" Daniel replied. Although he knew perfectly well what Jack was asking. After the week he'd just been through, it was another species of luxury, just as gratefully experienced as the hot food and the sofa, to hear Jack speak English, to draw out their normal semi-telepathic exchanges in order to relish every step, every line in this proof that they were indeed communicating, still perfectly in sync, despite Jack's jaunt among the Asgard. He felt Jack's smile, and knew that Jack knew exactly what Daniel was doing by asking, by making Jack confirm what Daniel already knew. Jack patiently explained: "When Teal'c and Carter went to check out that planet with the two suns. When I was going all Ancient and I couldn't talk." "You actually could still understand us then, couldn't you." "Yup." "I was wrong about that, then," Daniel said. Jack didn't speak, and Daniel turned his head to look at him. He was looking at Daniel. Waiting for him to answer. Daniel drew breath and got an elbow under his side. Jack was flat on his back, the pillow Daniel had given him stuffed under his head, arms asprawl. Daniel said, "I told the general that translating the language you were speaking was the most important job I could do, and that since no one could communicate with you but me, I wouldn't leave you in order to go to the planet they found." Jack nodded, holding his gaze, and Daniel felt it again -- the crazy, illicit zing that had burned between them when Jack had insisted, in Daniel's lab, speaking Ancient, that he needed a new location, that he needed to go. And Daniel had understood him. What meaning was he missing now? Daniel thought. What was there to understand here, conveyed through Jack's question? Hiding behind Jack's steady gaze? What was there to understand in Daniel's answer? "So. Thanks," Jack said. And he turned his head away, so that he was facing the ceiling again, and closed his eyes. ^^^^ Sometime in the night, Daniel was awakened by Jack's snoring. He found himself on his side, trying to curl forward into the back of the sofa, his glasses askew, his hair in his mouth, and he heaved himself up. Stopping by the main bathroom to piss, he made it down the hall and managed to remove his shoes before he flopped onto the bed in the guest room, and fell asleep again like falling down a well. When he woke again it seemed he'd only been dreaming for half a moment, but his neck was stiff from lying on his stomach with his head turned to the side, and he wondered what had disturbed him. Judging by the light, it wasn't anywhere near morning. Then he heard it, and realized he was actually hearing it for the second time -- a sound from the living room. A sound his sleeping brain had logged as important. Jack was moaning. Loudly. Not as if in pain, but with a frantic note. Daniel got up and went to him. Jack was still on the living room floor, but he was lying on his side, eyes tightly shut, one arm extended, grabbing at nothing. "Asodo!" Jack pleaded, and the fear in his voice made Daniel frown, made as shiver run up his spine. Daniel crouched on the carpet. Jack said, "Comdo asodo!" Daniel winced and reached to grip Jack's shoulder. "Jack. Jack, it's me. Wake up." He considered saying "Vegere", but discarded the term. Better to stick with English? To keep Jack here-and-now? Jack, eyes still closed, bent his elbow to grab Daniel's hand. Then his eyes flew open, but they had the far-away deadness of the sleepwalker. "Asodo," he begged again, and grabbed Daniel's other arm with his free hand. "Come on, Jack. Come to bed," Daniel said, and Jack, muttering garbled snatches of Ancient, allowed himself to be pulled to his feet and steered down the hall. In his room, he stood by the bed, staring at it vacantly, and Daniel wondered if he were really sleepwalking. Maybe if he could just get Jack to lie down in a familiar, safe place -- his bed, where he usually slept, and not the floor -- the grip of the dream would loosen. "Lie down, Jack. Come on," Daniel urged gently, pushing him. Jack did as he was told, but he still wouldn't let go of Daniel's arms. He put a knee on the bed, then collapsed slowly to his side, pulling Daniel down with him. "Domi," he muttered. "Daniel." Ah -- that was the word, then. A different root. "Yes, it's me. And yes: You're home, Jack. You're home." Jack sighed, long and easy, and his eyes closed again, but his grip on Daniel's arm remained. Daniel shook his head ruefully, and decided he was apparently settled for the night as well. He realized he'd left his glasses somewhere, either by the guest bed or back at the sofa. Probably better not to disturb Jack by forcing him to let go. "Amacus," Jack muttered, and something else Daniel couldn't catch, and then his face relaxed into peace. Daniel fell asleep like that, eventually -- facing Jack, in Jack's bed, Jack holding tight. And woke, to the silvery light of early morning, which filtered through the blinds into the dark, warm room. To find Jack still holding on. But now they were spooned together like old lovers -- Jack behind him, his arms around Daniel's waist, Daniel's arms around his arms. Stabbed by a hopeless pang of yearning, Daniel shut his eyes tightly. He should get up; it would upset Jack to find the two of them like this He probably wouldn't remember his nightmare at all, and he would wonder what the hell Daniel was doing, crawling into bed with him like this. Daniel knew he ought to move, but he couldn't. He was stunned to discover how good this felt. How natural, how easy. How impossibly familiar. He sighed and was about to make himself gently unwrap Jack's arms from his middle and then do his best to sneak away, when Jack said, carefully, at normal volume, "Daniel?" Daniel started. He had thought Jack was asleep. "I can explain," he said, gripping Jack's wrists, but once again Jack wouldn't let go of him. He gave Daniel a quick squeeze with his arms, and then opened one hand and patted Daniel's chest. "Kinda comfy, aren't we," he said, and he sounded more amused than anything else. "Um," Daniel said, and he tried to ease his body away a little, still embarrassed and feeling somehow like he'd been caught out. "Do you remember that you woke up in the night?" "No. But apparently I got to bed somehow." "I had gone on to the guest room, but you woke me up because you were out in the living room, calling for help. Speaking in Ancient." God, Jack's warmth felt so good against his back. Too good. He really should move; should at least roll away so he could face Jack while he explained. "No I wasn't." "Were so." "Were not." Daniel bit back a 'Were so' and said instead: "Jack. You say the Asgard wiped the, the database from your mind, but I'm not making this up. Last night you spoke to me in Ancient." Jack's arms tightened around Daniel's middle. "I had ... a nightmare?" "Yes. I think so. Lying on the living room floor, where you fell asleep. And when I came to check on you, you were still speaking Ancient. Calling for help. And then I convinced you to come in to bed, here. You were upset. You didn't want to let go of me." Jack patted Daniel's chest again, but now he was easing away as he spoke, easing back. His voice acquired a specific, carefully calm quality that Daniel had learned to mistrust, because it always, in Jack, masked some other emotion. "So, I was hanging on to you. In bed here." "Yes," Daniel acknowledged, his mind running along several tracks at once, trying to parse what was happening. He found that his body wanted earnestly to cling to the beautiful surreal comfort of lying curled up in Jack's bed, cradled against Jack's body, surrounded by his comforting warmth and scent. His body wanted to keep what it had found, right here, in the bed where Jack lay every night. His body was very aware of Jack subtly starting to pull away, and most emphatically did not want that. Daniel noticed that he also urgently did want, despite an accompanying stain of guilt, to trace the thread of arousal twining through his torso, and that he also desired to fully grasp his dawning awareness that one of the reasons Jack was pulling away was so that Daniel might not feel that Jack himself was hardening, pressed as he was against Daniel's back. Daniel also wanted, even needed, to plumb the strange depths of that last sentence Jack had spoken -- its message lying not in its words but in its cadence, its hidden emotions, its note of regret. What did Jack mean? Had Jack, given the circumstances of their awakening, been hoping it was Daniel who had been the one to hang on in the night? That it was Daniel who had voluntarily come to bed with Jack? Taken the first step to this physical closeness? Had it embarrassed Jack to learn that it was he who had pulled Daniel into bed? Did Jack imagine Daniel was embarrassed now, or, God forbid, reluctant? All these conflicting trains of thought and tendrils of sensation were overwhelming. "Sorry," Jack was offering, and he was still patting, still easing back. Easing away. Daniel, under intense emotional pressure, performed a nearly instantaneous integration that would have made Sam Carter proud had it been a feat of mathematics. He threw away caution, abandoned in one stroke every one of his half-examined assumptions about Jack (straight, married to the Only One, hardass, career military to his core), and fully and immediately embraced the inchoate feeling of intense happiness that had welled up inside him when he'd realized where he'd awakened, and how, and with whom. And he recklessly reached for the promise he'd felt in Jack's body. Daniel said, softly, encouragingly: "I didn't mind, actually." He put his hands on Jack's wrists again, and sagged back, as if the skin of his back and thighs could act as a magnet to draw Jack toward him again. He held his breath. Jack had gotten hard, lying there with him. Jack had assumed Daniel was reluctant. But until that mistaken idea took shape? Jack had wanted him. Wanted this closeness. Wanted Daniel, sexually. Physically. Jack wanted this too. "You didn't mind," Jack confirmed. Daniel's breathing resumed, and began to speed up. "No. I didn't mind. I don't mind." "You want to do ... something. Now that we're here," Jack cautiously said, and -- God -- he was easing in again, allowing his body to relax into that curve against Daniel's again. Daniel closed his eyes. Boundaries, boundaries. There were boundaries here. Weren't there? Jack felt so, so good. "You want my honest answer?" Daniel said, knowing he was suddenly playing for time, and that meant playing with fire. But spearing through his happiness, through this latest awareness that he and Jack were sharing, was the inescapable fact that regardless of how sublimely arousing and comforting this felt, how right, how clearly and neatly and beautifully he fit with Jack, it wasn't simple. It was complicated. Perhaps complicated to the point of impossibility. But one toyed with Jack, fenced with him, at one's peril. "No, Daniel. That's why I asked." Sarcasm, the words so simple, but the tone bitter. Daniel knew this change-up. Jack could say anything now. He was capable of demanding that Daniel leave, even of offering to throw him out. Or he could finish withdrawing -- say nothing at all and let his actions speak. Actions of shoving, of leaping up, actions that would amount to rejection, of assumptions about Daniel's motives, Daniel's inner conflicts. Daniel opened his eyes. The sunlight through the blinds striped the paneling, touched tiny points of brilliance among the velvet and ribbon of framed medals. Sadness was there, suddenly, inside him. Sadness and regret and guilt, and yet, also gratitude, at having felt that fleeting comfort. That evanescent peace. "Yes. I want to. You can feel that, I'm sure." Daniel took a deep breath. He was only saying this out loud to Jack, to himself, because it was the stark truth: "But I shouldn't. You shouldn't." Jack was still behind him, not moving away now, and yet not pulling closer. Still touching. Bodies still in contact. "Because you're married," Jack said, brutally direct and to the point, as always, "and because I'm married to the Air Force." Daniel chuckled in spite of himself. His body was yearning instinctively, like an animal would, to press back, to find the fit for Jack's almost-felt erection against Daniel's backside. Daniel's body was yearning to feel his warmth, his strength, to wrap him close. Further, Daniel's traitorous body wanted so much more -- desired to roll against Jack, to put them face to face, and kiss him, touch him, crawl inside him. But Daniel focused tightly on the bitter tingle of ironic humor that was making his chest contract. "Elegantly put," he said. "So," Jack said, and -- miracle -- he still wasn't moving. "So," Daniel said, a finality, and his voice had picked up that inner, inescapable sadness he was feeling. And he had to bow to reality, to all of it, past and present. He knew that the right thing to do, the honorable thing to do, was to make it his turn to try to end this. To move, to roll away, while thinking vaguely of coffee and toast and the bitter ashes of regret and missed opportunities and duty, of vows and promises and love that couldn't be predicted or controlled. But Jack's arms were still gentle and firm around his middle. Still there. Not letting Daniel go. Daniel was caught, poised as on a knife edge. And so he let himself wait. He watched the sunbeams and wondered what in the world Jack would say. Could say, now. Definitely, Jack was hard against the curve of Daniel's ass. Hard, and... getting harder. And his arms were... pulling closer. Molding his body to Daniel's. Impossible. True. Daniel closed his eyes again. He felt Jack's breath on his nape. Daniel wanted this, needed it. And yet he should not, could not want. This couldn't happen. His hands tightened of their own accord on Jack's muscled forearms. Jack said, hesitantly but clearly, "If it were just us, here. Like a dream. A fantasy. Would you want to." Images swept across Daniel's inner eye -- twining beautiful unbearable images of skin and heat and ecstasy. They surprised him and called to him. He jerked in Jack's arms and made a final serious effort to pull away. Jack held on. Daniel burst out, "God, is there a point to this? You just said we can't." "That's not exactly what I said," Jack returned, and his voice had dropped several notes and acquired a velvety, seductive rumble that Daniel had never heard before. Daniel sucked in a disbelieving breath, and then he gave in to impulse and rolled, inside the circle of Jack's arms. He had to. He had to see Jack's face. This was too important to trust to their telepathy. He dug an elbow into the mattress and rolled without moving away, to see this unbelievable unthinkable thing. Jack's eyes were fully awake and aware, and he was totally himself, not sleepwalking, not brain-dumped. Chocolate-brown eyes were deep and open and well-rested and yet somehow full of that same kind of yearning Daniel had seen at the SGC, when Jack had needed his help, needed him to provide the only understanding Jack would get this side of Orilla. Daniel, inwardly, gasped. He wasn't sure what his face expressed. He felt -- slack. Lightning-struck. Stunned. Jack, with that wide-open expression, put his hand to Daniel's cheek and said, "I thought for sure you understood by now: Leaving you behind on Abydos was a bitch for me. It was goddamn hard. Why else do you think I moved down here? Built the house here?" Daniel couldn't believe what he was hearing. Late, so late, to catch up to reality. "Jack," he forced out. "My God..." Jack's thumb was stroking gently along his jaw, almost touching his bottom lip, and Jack was looking at his mouth. His voice was low and soft and urgent. "After I went back home, after Sara had left the house -- I couldn't get you off my mind. The whole time you were gone. I know you found a new home there, on Abydos. And I know you found-- Maybe I'm just being opportunistic here, being a heel, but Daniel... If we do this, believe me: I'll never forget who has the prior claim on you." Daniel tried to arrange his features into something other than open mouthed surprise. Jack kept stroking his cheek, searching his eyes, watching his mouth. This felt like absolution, permission, and betrayal, all at once. Where the hell had this intense desire come from? When had he begun to love Jack like this, to need him? What he felt was so coherent and so strong, it had to be of long standing. How in the hell had he missed all this, in himself and in this amazing man? He knew the answer: Because he'd had to. He'd made himself miss it. He'd ignored it, denial being, as they said, the soul's shock absorber. But not any more. "God, Jack...." He should be able to string together a sentence! Shit! But Daniel found that all he could do was lean in even farther, hold on even tighter, and put his face in Jack's shoulder And then Jack gathered him in with both arms, and held him tight. They were both hard now, Daniel distantly realized, as they pressed full length, body to body. It was real, all right. Jack cared just as much as Daniel did, and in the same way. Jack had been holding back. All this time. Jesus. Jack was stroking a hand along his spine, breathing long and slow, maybe trying to absorb the impossible moment, just as Daniel was. Jack said, "Uh, so.... it seems like something we shouldn't let go to waste, here, a morning like this. But. Maybe I'm getting it all wrong. Maybe you're not--" "Oh, Sha're," Daniel thought, fleetingly, guiltily, despairingly, and then Daniel put his two hands against Jack's face, and pulled him in and kissed him. Jack made a confused, surprised sound, but he caught up extremely quickly. His hands covered Daniel's, and he kissed Daniel back. His tongue was hot and eager at first, but Daniel felt his breathing slow, felt him, perhaps consciously, slow it all down, make a decision not to rush what they were doing. His kiss turned thoughtful, languid, exploratory. Why do people think kissing is a prelude to sex? Daniel thought vaguely, his mouth full, his spine melting. This was just like sex -- penetrating and being penetrated, taking turns. Hot and wet and deep; soft, then strong. Jack's kisses, Jack's mouth, made him dizzy. Made him so hard he was leaking. He realized one of Jack's arms had moved to wrap his waist, and Jack's other hand was in his hair. He continued to cup Jack's jaw, continued to kiss him, to dive into his mouth. The kissing was eventually interrupted by ... Jack laughing. "God, Danny," Jack said, and Daniel opened his eyes to take this in, Jack with eyes closed, gleeful, murmuring to him, telling him crazy impossible things between short sweet kisses. "Oh, shit -- so -- does rescue from certain death by brain blooey -- mean I can really get all demanding -- and get you to do the things I want you to do, to me?" "Jack," Daniel began, feeling he was blurting, feeling nothing he would say would make any sense. Incredible: Jack's hard lean body, pressed full length against his. Jack, finding their way through embarrassment, through a thicket of words, to... this. "Jack," Daniel said again, feeling there was more to say, yet having no words. Jack had both hands in his hair now, tugging, then digging in with his fingertips, cradling Daniel's skull. Still kissing. Daniel's incoherent tone somehow must have conveyed agreement, because Jack kept going. Daniel's body must have conveyed it too. Jack went on, " 'Cause, I mean, we might just be doing this the one time, you know? I get that." "Oh my god," Daniel managed. Jack's kisses reformed, turning long and urgent and demanding again. And his voice became strained. Rough. "Do you top, Daniel? Have you ever? Because I want it all today. I want us to do everything and I want something I can remember forever. If this is it, you understand. Just because we ended up in bed together. Just this once." Daniel gathered his wits and managed to say, still kissing: "I can't... I can't believe you. I had no idea you wanted... I never--" Daniel broke off, distracted by sensation. He realized he was pushing steadily against Jack's lower body, the warmth and friction and pressure of their erections an overwhelming counterpoint to the kissing and the impossible invitation. "Look. I'll start," Jack was saying, and before Daniel could answer, Jack was pushing himself down, finding the zipper of Daniel's jeans, finding his erection, and God, that was Jack's mouth, that same mouth that had kissed his so intently, said those impossible glorious things -- this was Jack. Sucking him. Licking him. Sheer wonder made Daniel's eyes fly open. Lost in pleasure and amazement, he caressed Jack's hair. And looked down and watched. Watched his team leader, his Air Force colonel, his badass, hardass of a Special Ops assassin.... suck his dick. Enthusiastically. Skillfully. Like he knew and loved what he was doing. Like he'd done this before. Just when Daniel felt he couldn't take any more without coming, with a vague understanding that Jack had asked for something specific, and if Daniel climaxed now, it would be too soon, too soon -- just when these vague thoughts fought their way through the intense sensations, Jack slowly, lingering as if reluctant, pulled away. He looked up at Daniel, his mouth red and stung and wet, his short hair disheveled, his eyes wild. "Will you," he whispered. "Will you fuck me. Is that okay." "Yes. Yes," Daniel gasped. He was supposed to have words; he was supposed to be the articulate one. Jack pushed away and got up and opened his nightstand drawer one- handed, and fumbled with his clothes with the other. Daniel couldn't take his eyes off him. Still lying there half stunned, he hastily pushed his jeans the rest of the way off, and yanked his shirt over his head. Jack tossed the tube he found on the pillow and stood at the side of the bed to strip. Then Jack pushed the covers away and crawled to Daniel to kneel over him, the tube in one hand. But then he dropped it to run careful admiring hands up Daniel's stomach and over his chest, down his arms, and then, gently, as if he knew how close to the edge he'd already pushed him, he put both hands on Daniel's cock. For his part, Daniel, his breath catching in his throat, watched Jack balance over him, felt the gentle scratch of his hair, and he set his palms on the corded muscle of Jack's thighs, slid his hands up to grip the narrow hips, to touch and caress as far and as much as he could. It was like their hands couldn't touch enough, couldn't get enough skin. He soon moved to caressing Jack's erection, first with one hand, then the other, learning its shape, its heft, the way Jack's balls settled in his cupped palm. Jack murmured at him, and met his eyes, and he was smiling. Daniel was lost in wonder. This was really happening. They kept touching each other, touching where they'd only looked, before. Finally Jack found the tube again, and, still with that small, intimate smile, seeming to relish each step, he squeezed the gel into his hand, meeting Daniel's eyes as he reached for him. Daniel clutched Jack's thighs reflexively as the cool thick stuff smoothed over his hot skin in a cascade of delicate pleasure. As Daniel tried to form words that would ask about condoms, convey a query that would span Janet's blood tests and his own sense of loyalty to Sha're, Jack met his eyes again. As he applied the lube, slowly, making it so much more than a necessary task, he looked at Daniel's erection with an open lust that Daniel found extremely flattering and extremely arousing. Jack said softly, "I think we're good, unless you know something Doc Fraiser doesn't." Jack would be the one at risk here, and Daniel's attempt to form those questions vanished like morning mist. He nodded. Jack used the remaining lube on himself, as Daniel tightened his grip on Jack's thighs. He should move, he should help -- but he was, for the moment, transfixed by the sight of Jack with his hands on his own dick, his eyes falling shut as he stroked the remaining wet from his hands to his shaft. Then Jack opened his eyes and shifted his weight, and Daniel had the presence of mind to grip his own cock at the base, and wait. So impossible, to fit what was about to happen into his construct of Jack. But Daniel was pretty good at adapting his theories to new data, however improbable it had seemed. Jack smiled when he felt and saw where Daniel moved his hand, saw that Daniel was helping. And still holding his own dick gently, Jack moved forward on his knees and straightened his spine, and then unerringly, gently, slowly, he pushed himself by millimeters onto Daniel's hard cock. Daniel had to remind himself to breathe. The pleasure was overwhelming; the tight slick pressure, the hot, excruciatingly slow slide into Jack's body. But the astonishment of what was happening formed a thrumming backdrop, and his heartstopping sense of love and wonder and connection was as engulfing as the physical bliss. He watched the pleasure bloom on Jack's face, swept his gaze over Jack's body. Jack wanted this -- with him. Jack loved him. Jack desired him. Incredible. Miraculous. When Jack had seated himself, his spine curved, his eyes dreamy and distant, one hand on his own dick and one hand roaming, groping, now brushing fingertips against Daniel's ribs, now bracing against his own thigh, he met Daniel's eyes. His expression turned serious, and he leaned forward carefully, cupping Daniel's cheek. Daniel licked his lips and carefully, carefully rolled his hips. It had been so long, so long.... Jack groaned and closed his eyes, both his hands falling limp and bumping Daniel's skin. So Daniel gripped Jack's thighs with both hands and did it again, pressing in a wave, upward, sliding into the tight engulfing pressure, pushing against the blissful weight on his thighs, loving how Jack's body anchored his groin, grounded him. Jack was heavy, even with much of his weight on his own knees. Daniel moved one hand to Jack's erection, which was just as stiff and interested as it had been when Jack first sat over him, and when he felt Daniel's touch Jack opened his eyes again, and he smiled even wider, and he changed his balance again -- and began to move. Daniel lost all capacity for coherent thought after that. He retained, forever after, a confused impression of Jack's night-dark eyes, of the sweat collecting in his chest hair, of the definition of his perfect six-pack abs, of his quads, as he moved, atop Daniel, taking and getting what he wanted. But mostly Daniel was struck by lightning, engulfed, consumed, and as he cried out and came, shooting up and up, into Jack's body, curling up toward him, he felt Jack's warm hands on his face once again. Soon, blinking, Daniel was aware that Jack was gazing down at him fondly, but also he was biting his lower lip and exuding a definite air of leashed arousal. He had a hand on his erection again, but he was just sitting there, holding Daniel inside him, and Jack was obviously waiting. And not very patiently. Daniel smiled and put his hand over Jack's on Jack's dick, and once again the rhythm they found was shared, immediate and intense. Jack only closed his eyes at the last second, and Daniel thought about watching as he felt the hot rush of come pool on his belly, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from Jack's face, from the twist of strange ecstasy that washed over his familiar features. After his climax peaked, Jack opened his eyes again very soon, and the love in them made Daniel's chest contract with a stab of answering amazement. Jack leaned over, cupped Daniel's face, breathed his name, and then let himself lean all the way over, so that he was putting his face in Daniel's neck. Daniel reached his arms around Jack's broad back, and closed his eyes. Whatever he had failed to dream, if he had ever let himself speculate about Jack's ready affection, his protection, his care? He could never, in his wildest dreams, have imagined this. Never. ^^^^ When Daniel woke, Jack was lying beside him again in the bed, his hand on Daniel's chest, his gaze intent and patient. "Sorry," Daniel said, feeling a crash of emotion along with returning consciousness. He had dozed off. He had missed some of this. Unacceptable. The emotions roiling in him as he tried to wake up were several and varied and perhaps it would be a good idea not to try to name them right now. Perhaps it would be better to stay in the moment as long as possible. "I'm glad you could sleep," Jack said. "I bet you didn't, much, while I was all head blooey." "I believe the correct technical term is headsucked," Daniel said, deadpan, while the river of emotion running through his heart threatened to drown him, or make him cry. How could he contain it? How could he feel this way? "Sha're," he thought again, but he said nothing, and only absorbed, with delight, Jack's smile at his ridiculous comeback, absorbed the feeling of Jack's hands on his skin. "So," Jack said, as if he knew there were decisions to be made, things to be said, important things. But he didn't say them, and he didn't move. "So," Daniel offered in return, but he meant, 'Yeah, but we don't have to discuss it.' The expression in Jack's eyes, the relief, the gratitude and affection, was all the answer he needed. "So, uh, welcome back," Daniel added. Jack smiled -- the real smile, the big easy grin that Daniel had seen only twice before -- once for Ska'ara, and once for himself, thought left for dead. "Thanks," Jack said, and leaned in to kiss him. "I'm thinking breakfast," he added, his lips still close enough to brush Daniel's, and Daniel reached up and put an elbow around his neck. They had plenty of time for breakfast later. They had all the time in the world.

Jim’s first thought upon waking is that everything has gone completely, mysteriously, and catastrophically pink. His second thought, though, brings the realization that his eyes are so crusty that he hasn’t actually opened them, and it’s the light filtered through his eyelids that’s this strange color. He brings his hands up to wipe his face and decides that eye boogers are a really, really bad sign. He’s woken up in his own bed, which is good, and the lights have come on as usually programmed, which is another promising sign of normality, but everything else is a complete blur. Jim pushes himself up on his elbows only to watch his surroundings spin sharply to the right – the welcome sign to hangover country. There is something oddly comforting about it. Jim takes his time assessing the usually post-debauchery scenario – his head’s at the foot of the bed, his mouth tastes like something crawled in there to die, and he’s wearing nothing but his uniform pants. Literally nothing but his pants. Huh, Jim thinks as he propels himself toward the shower, listing gently to port, I could’ve sworn I was wearing underwear yesterday. The underwear thing isn’t even the most bizarre part. Jim is a bit of a connoisseur of hangovers, despite having had very few in the year since he was promoted to captain. He knows the sharp, sour feel of a wine hangover, the grinding headache after a night with the engineering crew on shore leave, and the please-kill-me-now combination of agony and shame that follows too much Andorian ale and too many Andorians. Usually, though he can remember at least some of the night before. He’s not too worried yet; a quick removal of his trousers – and, sadly, a chunk of accompanying pubic hair – reveals the fact that at some point he had come rather spectacularly in his pants, which means that at least he had some fun. And he’s pretty sure even Bones can’t think up an STD you can catch through Starfleet regulation cotton-poly blend, so all is safe on that front. The shower does wonders for his head, if not his memory, and he gets out feeling much more humanoid and much less like one of those horrible blob creatures from Omicron Perseii 7. He does remember that he’s got the whole day off today, which at least makes him feel a bit better about the brain cells he killed last night. Despite feeling better, he’s still not back to his usual grace – Jim nearly trips over the bottle lying beside his desk. Only one? The label has been torn off, so he picks up the bottle and sniffs it. Another flash of color darts through his brain. He still has no idea what he drank last night, but whatever it was, it was a violent shade of pink. After about a dozen glasses of water, Jim feels ready to face the day. Unfortunately, the day begins with facing Bones, since Bones is not only the possessor of a lovely pharmaceutical cocktail that will put Jim’s head back on his shoulders, but also the most likely person on the ship to know what the hell went on last night, as he was probably involved. Jim is trying to remember, he really is, but every time he pushes too hard at his memory, the room starts to spin again. He finds the good doctor checking off the new inventory in sickbay. “Hell of a party last night, huh?” Jim ventures. Bones rolls his eyes. “Keep rubbing it in. The next time I have a night off and you have to spend it actually doing your job, I’m gonna spend the whole next day being a douchebag about it.” This is unexpected – there was drunken debauchery and Bones wasn’t involved? This is the Enterprise, right? From the look on McCoy’s face, Jim knows he just said the last part out loud. “You okay, Jim?” “Aw, you getting concerned about me now?” “No, but if you die on me, the pointy-eared hobgoblin takes over.” “You’re a space racist, Bones,” Jim says, suddenly and inexplicably crabby. McCoy is really looking at him strangely now, like he’s an impostor in his own skin. “Seriously, Jim.” Kirk shifts his weight uneasily. “It’s just a hangover, really. It’s just— I can’t really remember much of anything after lunch yesterday.” Bones sighs. “Well, I can’t say I blame you much after the thing with Pike.” “There was a thing with Pike? What kind of thing?” “You really don’t remember? Well… I think that’s the result you were looking for last night. Don’t try to remember.” “That bad, huh?” “I didn’t see it, but I sure as hell heard about it. I’m still putting away supplies, so I don’t know where anything is. Come back in about half an hour and I’ll give you something for the hangover.” “A back rub and a Cardassian Sunrise?” “A hypospray in the neck. You deserve it.” Still confused, Jim starts to go, then turns back to Bones. “Hey, just out of curiosity, what kind of drink is pink and sweet and causes eye boogers and hopefully temporary retrograde amnesia?” “I can try to find out for you. I guess this means you stayed away from the Andorian ale this time. Good for you.” Stardate: Yesterday, 2100 hours. Location: Recreation Room… “This isn’t Andorian ale,” said Jim. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s not Andorian ale.” Spock frowned. “I apologize for the error, Captain. I am not familiar with many intoxicating beverages, and the ensigns seemed to be under the mistaken impression that this bottle was Andorian in origin.” Jim laughed, sniffing the bright pink liquid in his cup. “Probably paid out the ass for it, too. Black market types will stick anything in a blue bottle and sell it for jacked-up prices to kids who are pretending to be badasses.” “You speak about such people with a great deal of certainty. I am unconvinced that consuming this beverage is wise.” Spock’s eyes narrowed as Jim took a careful sip of the pink stuff. “It’s Talaxian wine, kind of mango-y. Sweet as hell, but strong enough to get me drunk.” Spock blinked at Jim. Twice. “Look, I realize everyone thinks I’m a high-functioning alcoholic, but I’ve never been drunk on shift. Hell, I haven’t even been hung over on shift since the day after the first time I was wounded on an away mission. What was that, a year ago?” “One year, two months, twenty-six days. And I feel compelled to remind you that your ‘wound’ was a mild skin abrasion incurred when you tripped over your own ceremonial robes.” “Bastard things, those robes. But alcohol is sometimes a medically necessary anesthetic.” “I imagine your ego sustained the worst of your injuries.” “Bingo. See, this is just a little Band-aid for my dignity. What there is left of it, anyway.” “I understand that one of the primary symptoms of alcohol addiction is the inability to admit to the problem.” “Oh, hush.” &&& Jim heads for the bridge, hoping to find Spock. The Vulcan should be able to at least point Jim on the right track. Only problem is that Spock’s not there. Well, that’s not the only problem. The other one is that everyone on the bridge is sort of studiously not-looking at him. He pulls together his perceptive powers – the ones nobody else thinks he actually has – and puts them to work. If this awkwardness were the result of drunken revelry, Uhura would be glaring at him, which she isn’t, and Chekov would be gazing at him with poorly-veiled admiration, which he definitely isn’t. In fact, when Kirk finally manages to make eye contact with Chekov, the young Russian makes a noise that could only be classified as a squeak and darts off the bridge. If Sulu didn’t have the conn, he’d be reprimanded for that. But as it is, Sulu just nods stiffly at Jim. “Mr. Sulu, have you seen Commander Spock recently?” “Uh, no sir. I believe he also has the day off.” Kirk hopes he managed to hide the small spark of surprise he feels. Something in his memory is trying to poke through. He briefly considers asking Sulu, who would probably provide the highest useful-information-to-outright-mocking ratio, but decides it would probably Not Do to let on to the bridge crew that he does not remember large chunks of yesterday. “Thank you, lieutenant. Carry on.” Jim goes to leave, but is stopped by a hissed “Jim!” when he passes Uhura’s station. Kirk is faintly surprised, as he and Uhura haven’t talked much since she broke up with Spock. He still doesn’t know what happened – not that he wants to know – but remembers thinking she was, in a strange sort of way, good for Spock. Now, however, her voice brings up a whisper of irritation that he can’t quite place. Uhura follows him out to the corridor. “Look, it’s not that I don’t agree with what Admiral Pike said, or that it’s something I haven’t told you a million times, but—” She glances around briefly. “Between you and me, I think he’s having some troubles at home and his spinal rehab isn’t going well – at least that’s what Nina in Medical tells me – and that’s why he was so harsh with you.” The look on Uhura’s face is real sympathy, and Jim opens his mouth to ask the question. Then he thinks: does he really want Uhura to know that he got so wasted out of shame that he doesn’t remember it? He does not. It could still be ammunition at a time when she’s feeling… less sympathetic. Fortunately, Jim is rescued by the chirrup of his communicator. “Kirk here.” “Jim, get your ass back to sickbay post haste.” He rolls his eyes and, as though he isn’t still holding the channel open on the communicator, says to Uhura, “He just can’t get enough of me.” Uhura snorts in a somewhat less-than-ladylike fashion and Kirk can’t remember why he’d ever been irritated at her. Perversely, the more she pretends to hate him, the more he likes her. The universe just makes more sense that way. “Coming, dear!” he all but sings into the comm as he turns to go. Before he gets to the turbolift, he hears Uhura mutter “Give the doctor my sympathies, sir.” Stardate: Yesterday, 1700 hours. Location: Bridge… “Patch him through, Lieutenant Uhura.” “Yes, sir.” At least the eyeroll inherent in the “sir” was more implied than explicit these days. Jim turned to face the viewscreen. “Captain Kirk!” Wow, Jim thought, Admiral Pike looked pissed. “Sir?” “Would you care to explain your actions during your most recent mission to Omicron Perseii Seven?” “It’s all in my report, sir,” Jim replied with a grin that he hoped would hide the unpleasant sensation of his heart dropping into his gut. “That ‘report’ is less than 500 words long and sounds as though it was written by a twelve-year-old child.” Everyone else on the bridge suddenly became extremely interested in whatever was right in front of them. Why the hell was Pike airing all this here and now, instead of on a private channel? Jim barely bit back his gut response – did you check the medical reports and see that I was too doped up on pain meds to write that fucking report? But he managed to speak in a somewhat level voice. “Sir, I was confined to sickbay during the time that—“ “Oh, yes, your visit to sickbay,” Pike snapped. “Seems that wouldn’t have even been necessary if you’d read the cultural briefing prepared by Lieutenant Uhura before you gravely insulted a member of the royal family.” “That was an honest—“ “Kirk, these ‘mistakes’ are cropping up far too frequently and frankly I’m sick of them. We have had this conversation before, but I am repeating it now in front of your bridge crew in the hope that perhaps one of them will keep you accountable. You are far more intelligent than your recent record would suggest. You best display that intelligence more often if you wish to have a future here at Starfleet. Pike out.” In the dead silence that followed the end of the transmission, Jim was certain he could hear the quiet hiss of his ego slowly deflating. &&& Before Jim can make it all the way through the door, a pair of underwear hits him in the face. At least it’s his underwear. The waistband says so. “Dammit, mom,” he mutters. Then: “Bones, have you been going through my lingerie drawer again.” Bones looks singularly unamused. “Do you know who brought those to me? Chekov.” “Chekov’s been going through my lingerie drawer?” “No, you prize dumbass, Chekov’s been in the rec room. On the couch. Where he found those wedged between the cushions.” “Huh,” muses Jim, “That would explain a few things. And make other things a lot more confusing. Bones, what the hell did I do last night? Or whom?" “How is it that you can remember when to use ‘who’ and ‘whom’ but you can’t remember to keep it in your damn pants?” “But I did! Or I put it back in my pants, at least…” “Do not explain,” says Bones, clapping his hand over his eyes. “Alright, the last time I saw you was at dinner, at about 1930. We know that at some point after that, you were in the rec room. This is what will happen: I will pull up the security tapes for you. I will then leave the room. You will watch the tapes, erase them, and never speak of them again. Is this clear?” “Yes,” Jim sighs. Thing is, he’s pretty sure Bones wants to know what went on just as much as he does. Which is why he will fill him in later, in great detail. Bones is already leaning over the computer. “What the hell?” “What is it?” Jim asks. “Someone’s already erased the footage. Command code Victor Alpha seven seven two Delta. Which is…” Somehow, Jim knows the answer before he hears it. “Spock.” For several long seconds, Jim and Bones just stare helplessly at each other as they try desperately to avoid mentally connecting the concepts of “Spock” and “rec room” and “no pants.” Neither is entirely successful. Jim breaks the stare first and clears his throat. “Bones. Did you ever find out what I might have ingested last night?” “Um, yes. From what you described, it was probably Talaxian wine.” “What? No. No way I got that fucked up from one bottle of Talaxian wine.” “You didn’t. Apparently, certain vintages were treated with a particular chemical that, in humans, can cause increased conjuctival discharge and temporary memory loss.” “A chemical?” “An… aphrodisiac.” Jim is no longer looking at Bones. Jim cannot look at Bones. Jim may never be able to look at Bones again. “So. About this ‘never speaking of it again’? How ‘bout we go with that plan. Especially to anyone else.” Stardate: Yesterday, 2300 hours. Location: Recreation Room… “See,” Jim began, “if it was anyone else. I mean anyone else, even my mom, it wouldn’t be so bad.” “I agree with your assessment,” said Spock, leaning further across the table. “Your mother would have communicated her disapproval in a more nurturing manner. And given your absent relationship with your father, it is logical that you would look to Admiral Pike as a paternal figure. And despite the fact that, as your superior officer, he has every right to address you as he sees fit, you feel as though your own father has – what is the peculiar phrase? – ‘chewed you out’ in front of your crew. Your friends, as it were.” And then he hiccupped. Jim had been on the edge of something deep and black and melancholy, but that hiccup yanked him right back. “Thought you said alcohol didn’t affect Vulcans.” “It does not. That was merely a spasm of my respiratory tract, albeit a poorly-timed one.” Jim blew Spock a raspberry, nice and wet, but followed it up with a grin. “This is some good shit,” he said, raising his half-empty glass of obscenely pink liquid. To his surprise, Spock raised his glass as well, clinking them together. “Indeed.” “Is it hot in here?” Jim asked, squirming a bit in his seat. “It feels… I dunno… hot.” “I am not bothered by the ambient air temperature.” “That’s because you’re, like, a stove to begin with. A kiln. A blast furnace. God, it’s really hot. I’m gonna take off my pants.” Spock looked downright scandalized, which is to say his lip may have twitched a little. “Captain, I am not certain that is the wisest course of action. In fact, I am certain it is not the wisest course of action.” “But my legs are hot,” Jim whined, ridding himself of the offending garment. Regrettably, he had neglected to remove his shoes first, and was thus forced to engage in some awkward hopping to remain upright. Well, mostly upright. “And my ass is… well, my ass is always hot, but now it’s hot hot.” He looked up to see Spock’s gaze focused very intently on something on the wall to his left, something most definitely not in Jim’s direction. And Spock’s cheeks, were they a little… green? “Captain—“ began Spock. “How many times do I have to tell you? When we’re not on duty, call me Jim.” “Very well, Jim,” he said, voice strangely calm and toneless even for Spock. “It would appear that you have removed your undergarments along with your trousers.” Jim looked down. “Affirmative, Spock.” Funny, Spock was acting like this was a bad thing. Why was this a bad thing? Oh, right – public place, nudity, the whole being-a-captain thing. Shit. A third-rate captain promoted only because there were so few other candidates, failing miserably at his job and now with no pants. And now that he thought about it, the room might be a bit drafty instead. This thought depressed him a great deal, and Jim began to slide back down into gloominess. He must have been tipsier than he’d originally thought, because before he could stop himself he asked, “Spock, am I a good captain?” The Vulcan looked even greener than before. “I will answer that question to the best of my ability when you are once again properly dressed.” “Fine,” Jim spat, and grabbed his pants up off the floor, forgetting entirely about the pair of briefs that had landed on the couch. Once he was sure Jim was clothed, Spock eyed him warily. “You have shown yourself to be adequate in a leadership position.” Jim groaned and dropped back into his chair. “Adequate. Fantastic. I’ll have that engraved on my tombstone. James T. ‘Adequate’ Kirk: He Was Alright, I Guess.” “You misunderstand me, Captain. To be judged adequate is high praise for a Vulcan. I am more concerned with your sudden display of insecurity. I have never known you to place much importance on the opinions of others.” “Not ‘others,’ Spock. You.” For a split second, Jim thought he saw the tiniest break in Spock’s impassivity. But then, nothing. “Aw, fuck. Never mind.” “Jim, you were placed in this position with no real experience to speak of, and yet you have learned immensely from each task you are given. While I often disagree with your strategies, they have saved many lives and greatly aided the cause of interplanetary peace. Despite the unpleasant circumstances of our initial acquaintance, you have earned my respect and indeed my admiration.” It was eloquent. It was beautiful. It was the most effusive praise Jim had ever heard Spock give anyone – colleagues and ex-girlfriends included – and Jim wanted to repay the favor with powerful words of his own. Instead he said, “Well, shit.” Spock placed his hand atop Jim’s on the table. Everything went completely still. “I find myself agreeing with you in regard to the elevated temperature.” &&& He has to find Spock. Now. He goes over the facts: sometime after dinner yesterday, he consumed somewhere between one cup and one bottle of Talaxian wine. Which was spiked with aphrodisiac. At some point after that, he had been in the rec room. Pantsless. With Spock. Then he had put his pants back on and… No. Stop there. No use in trying to draw conclusions before all the facts are in. Dammit, Jim curses at himself, that was far too logical. Spock must be rubbing off on me. Spock… rubbing off… Fuck! And he runs smack into his first officer just as the Vulcan is exiting his quarters. “Spock, we gotta talk.” “Regrettably, my presence is needed—“ “Do you remember what happened last night?” Spock wants to say no – Jim can see it in his eyes, the lie trying to form and failing miserably. “Perhaps we should speak privately,” Spock admits, keying open his door again. Jim goes in first but then doesn’t know what to do with himself. There is only one chair at the desk, and he doesn’t want to sit and leave Spock standing. But the only other sitting option is the… bed. Balls. “So that shit we drank was Talaxian wine,” Jim starts. “How much did you have?” “I believe we each consumed approximately equal portions.” “Didn’t get you drunk, though, did it?” Spock’s face remains neutral, but his gaze is resting somewhere around Jim’s forehead instead of his eyes. “I remained unaffected by the… alcohol.” The pause makes Jim suspicious. “You knew about the aphrodisiac?” “At the time, no,” Spock hastily replies. “Only after some intensive research this morning did I isolate the additional substance present.” “So you…?” Jim finds he has no good way to finish that sentence. “Vulcans are not immune to the effects of the chemical, if that is what you are asking.” “How much do you remember about yesterday?” “I can recall many events that occurred in the past 24 hours.” “Dammit, Spock, quit evading!” Even Jim is a little surprised at his own outburst. “We were in the rec room. We were… flirting, kind of. We left, and then…” Spock looks as uncomfortable as Jim has ever seen him, and Jim has seen him on the receiving end of several invasive medical procedures courtesy of Bones. “Perhaps if you do not remember, it would be best to leave the subject alone.” “But I want to remember!” “I cannot supply that memory for you.” “Cannot or will not?” “I apologize, but I am needed in Engineering.” As Spock turns to go, the door slides open. Stardate: Early this morning, 0ass00 hours. Location: Captain’s quarters… As soon as the door slid shut, Spock was on him – as Bones would say – like ugly on an ape. He’d barely even gotten his shirt off. It was nearly unbearable, the hot, hard Vulcan body pinning him to the wall making it difficult to move or think or breathe. Jim was not a stranger to such situations. Nay, Jim was practically an expert on such situations. It was just that Spock – supposedly emotionless half-Vulcan, all-bastard – was kissing him passionately, extravagantly, like the fate of several populated star systems depended on it. Jim’s brain, unlike his ego, knew when to admit defeat. Hot, so fucking hot, heat everywhere, tongue in his mouth like a brand. Jim fisted his hand in Spock’s hair, yanked his head back just so he could fucking breathe, then dove back in, dragging his tongue wetly across Spock’s lower lip before plunging it into the furnace of the Vulcan’s mouth. Even if there had been time for finesse, there was no space, not with Spock’s hand on the small of his back and Spock’s leg pressed hard between his own. Before he knew it, Jim was rutting against Spock’s thigh, the friction from the firm muscle and his own pants just shy of perfect. This wasn’t going to last long. He could feel Spock’s erection but couldn’t touch – one hand was still buried in that obnoxiously perfect but luxuriously soft hair, and the other was being stroked, clutched, and generally molested by Spock’s hand. In an uncharacteristic display of rationality, Jim figured he could spare the latter hand without being accidentally smothered by a ridiculously, blissfully horny Vulcan, and yanked it away from Spock’s. This had the unintended effect of snapping some sense into Spock, who tried to pull back. “Wait, Jim, I think we should—“ But Jim was too far gone. When Spock shifted his weight, the pressure on Jim’s cock went from just shy to full-on perfect and he was coming, helplessly and embarrassingly in his pants like a teenager. As he shuddered against Spock’s body, he made another attempt to reach for the Vulcan’s erection, but whatever high had come from that obnoxiously pink wine was ebbing fast. Much, much too fast. Jim was vaguely aware of Spock moving him towards the bed and muttering in an apologetic tone before everything went black. &&& Jim manages to catch Spock’s wrist before he can make it out the door. A thousand thoughts shoot through his mind, but the only thing he can seem to regret is the fact that the pleasure went unreciprocated. Thus, what comes out of his mouth is, “Spock, you didn’t—“ The tips of Spock’s ears start to flush green and Jim remembers what he’s been reminded of a thousand times but which he always manages to forget – Spock’s a touch telepath, and Jim apparently has a built-in mental megaphone. “That is true, though inconsequential, and hardly the proper detail upon which to focus,” Spock mutters a little too quietly. “Oh, I think it’s plenty consequential,” says Jim, tugging gently on Spock’s captive wrist. And despite the fact that Spock could not only shake him off but also probably put him through the nearest wall, he turns back around to face Jim. “Explain,” says Spock, looking almost possibly maybe a little surprised that the word came out of his mouth. “The relationship of a captain and a first officer is built on give and take, right? You maroon me on Delta Vega; I goad you into choking me. I save you from attacking alien enemy hordes; you bandage me up a little when I’m injured. These things sort of even out.” “As I recall, the ‘alien hordes’ were less than a meter tall and armed with fragile wooden staves. And the last time I offered you emergency medical assistance, you had lost close to two pints of blood and were losing consciousness.” “Okay, so maybe the balance is a little more on your side.” Spock remains unmoved but, amazingly, he still has not pulled his wrist from Jim’s grip. Jim sighs, giving it another go. “Here we are, two modern 23rd century men who find ourselves otherwise unattached and attracted to one another. We trust each other. We work well together. I would go as far as to say that we like each other. You know how badly I want you, and I’m pretty damn sure you want me. Am I saying anything untrue?” “Negative.” “Look, there could be a lot of pointless waffling about how much was the aphrodisiac and how much was us, what this means, and just how far Pike will shove his boot up my ass if he ever finds out. Or. Or – pay attention here – I could even up the score right here, right now.” Spock shifts his weight ever so slightly, but his eyes are steady. “While your terminology is vague, the latter option seems to be the more… expedient.” “Fuck yeah it does. Come here and I’ll un-vague my terminology for you.” He lets go of Spock’s wrist and though Jim is still half-expecting the Vulcan to spin on his heels and leave, Spock steps forward, definitively invading his captain’s personal space. Spock’s face is too close for Jim to take in all at once, so he examines one feature at a time – the elegantly pointed ears, the coal-black eyelashes nearly obscuring dark, searching eyes. The strong jawline, practically begging to be nipped, flawless white skin marred by the indentation of teeth. The tip of a tongue peeking out to wet – oh yes – full pink lips. They come together in slow motion, as if each is daring the other to back out. The first brush of lips is not hesitant – Jim doubts Spock has ever done anything hesitantly – but deliberate. After all, Spock is a scientist at heart, prone to detailed, methodical exploration, and Jim… well, Jim just sort of wants whatever galaxy they’re currently in to stop rotating in honor of this momentous occasion. His first officer – half-Vulcan and all-sober this time – is sliding his hot, perfect tongue along Jim’s lower lip, an unbelievably arousing reversal of last night’s oral assault. That softrough tongue catches for mere hundredths of a second on Jim’s overheated, oversensitized lip and he realizes with very little remorse that the score (orgasm-wise) is definitely not going to be tied at the end of this particular round. Once Jim finally manages to capture Spock’s lips with his own and get a hand clenched in that infuriating, amazing hair, things speed up rapidly. His shirt is off, then he’s tripping over Spock’s empty boots, then he’s trying very hard not to ruin a second pair of pants as Spock pushes him to the bed with one hand while smoothly removing his own shirt with the other. When they’re both naked and sprawled together on the bunk, Spock pulls back, lips swollen and eyes nearly black with lust. Confused by the loss of contact, Jim leans back in, but Spock stops him, catches one of his hands, and brings it up to eye level. Jim watches as Spock runs the pads of his fingers slowly, delicately over Jim’s own fingers, hears his breath catch as the Vulcan brushes over the slightly rougher skin at the knuckles, and something clicks into place in Jim’s head. When the captain reciprocates the finger-kiss with a little more pressure, a little more need, Spock’s eyelashes flutter closed and the barely audible “Jim” that escapes unbidden from his lips is the only thing that James T. Kirk wants to hear ever again. He knows he’s not playing fair when he guides Spock’s fingers to his face, teasing them just a little with the dry slide of his lips before engulfing them in his mouth, but playing fair has never resulted in a naked, debauched Vulcan in his bed. Spock’s erection is throbbing against Jim’s leg, and Jim reaches his other hand down to wrap around it, squeezing gently but not stroking. Spock gasps, “Jim—Jim, you must stop—I cannot…” but seems to lack the resolve to pull his hand from Jim’s grasp. The captain shows mercy on his first officer and relents, pressing a final kiss to the Vulcan’s fingertips before rolling over to reach the bedside table. Jim rolls back over, lube in hand, and begins, “Spock, do you want—“ but is cut off abruptly by Spock’s mouth over his. The Vulcan seems to have collected his wits remarkably quickly, because he swiftly has Jim’s wrists pinned over his head. If the kiss leaves Jim gloriously breathless, his heart nearly stops beating altogether when Spock all but purrs in his ear, “Unless my deductions are mistaken, I believe you would prefer a… firm hand in the events to follow.” And before Jim can moan out a yesholyfuckSpockyes, he’s being flipped roughly onto his stomach and having his thighs spread wide by clever Vulcan hands. And if he doesn’t object too strenuously to the teeth that sink into the muscle at his shoulder while a long, slick finger works it way into him, well, he figures he does owe Spock quite a bit in the larger, cosmic sense. When he’s open and ready, writhing on three of Spock’s fingers, the Vulcan hauls Jim up to his knees. Here Spock pauses, using the hand not currently driving his captain to distraction to tilt Jim’s face toward him. And maybe Spock does hesitate just a little bit, because Jim has time to twist back a bit awkwardly and steal another quick, messy kiss while thinking YES at Spock through every spot where their skins touch. Spock hears him, or feels him, or something, because without further delay Spock is pushing his thick, heavy, unbelievably hot length into Jim’s body. The stretch is painful and wonderful and new and familiar and just keeps going on and on until Spock is finally buried to the hilt. The voice coming from behind Jim is so wonderfully broken that he thinks he might be hearing things. “Are you—“ A quick intake of breath. “…adequately—“ “Fuck me, Spock,” Jim cries, adding a quiet “please” because, really, Vulcans do seem to like their manners. But then Spock pulls back and slams into him in a very unmannerly way that drives the breath right out of Jim’s lungs and the thoughts from his head. He’s getting the barest fragments of Spock’s mind through the telepathic connection and what he’s getting is jumbled and hot and wild. “It was not. The intoxicant,” Spock murmurs between thrusts. “It was. You.” Jim gives himself over to it, pushing back against Spock’s thrusts and encouraging him with wall-shaking shouts. Not that the Vulcan needs the encouragement – Spock’s hips piston into Jim with a controlled strength like he could do this for hours and a greedy little sob escapes Jim’s lips when he realizes maybe he can. But Jim’s not one to take such things lying down – or, as the case may be, on all fours – so he reaches back to pry one of Spock’s hands from his hips and guides it to his mouth. When he pushes his tongue between Spock’s knuckles, the Vulcan lets loose with a soft but undeniable moan as his hips stutter, then speed up. Jim sucks at the fingers in his mouth in time with Spock’s thrusts, and lets out a whine when the hand is pulled away. But it goes beneath him to wrap hard and searing around his cock, and, hey, that’s good too. So good, in fact, that Jim’s climax hits him out of nowhere like a fist to the solar plexus and he has to fist his hands in the sheets to keep from flying away. Spock fucks him through it and keeps going, and it’s just this side of too much but Jim wants to hear, wants to feel every last detail that he didn’t get to experience last time. “C’mon Spock, come in me, I wanna—“ And like always, Spock interrupts his babbling with a well-timed word, or in this case, growl with just enough possessiveness in it to make Jim’s arms quiver. He’s flooded with heat like he’s never felt before and then they’re both falling to the bed. Spock pulls out before it does become too much and falls to the side, his breath ragged and his eyes closed. Jim’s not sure what the Vulcan policy on cuddling is, but figures it’s probably negative, so he stays where he is – close enough to feel the heat radiating from Spock’s body, but not close enough to touch. His blood rushes deafeningly in his ears and he tries in vain to sort out what’s just happened. Things are going to change – he knows that. And there’s a good chance he’ll get another tongue-lashing from Pike, and not in a fun, dirty way either. But right now, consequences mean approximately dick, since he’s currently lying in Spock’s bed and trying to think up ways to prolong and possibly repeat the situation. Spock’s eyes open slowly and his voice is quiet but rough in a wonderful, devious way. “Perhaps it violates human standards of politeness to mention at such a time, but the ‘score,’ as you put it, is not yet even.” He threads his fingers between Jim’s and lays their joined hands between them. Jim laughs, happy for this and happy in a perverse sort of way for the ache he’s going to feel in the morning. “You’re gonna have to give me some time to recover or we’ll both end up in sickbay, and Bones will make us finish inventory before he treats us.” Stardate: Yesterday, 2000 hours. Location: Sickbay… Spock found him in the sickbay supply closet doing inventory. “Captain.” Jim sprang up straight, flinging half a dozen sterile packages of blessedly needle-free hyposprays in the air. “For God’s sake, Spock, we’ve talked about this! Either you make more noise on your way in or I stick a cat bell on your uniform.” “I hardly think that would be an appropriate alteration to Starfleet’s dress code, despite your insistence upon flouting it.” “Not my fault the pants they keep giving me are too big. Besides, it would reflect poorly on Starfleet if it looked like their youngest, most dashing starship captain had kind of a saggy ass,” said Jim, straightening up in what he hoped was a dignified way. “Did you need something? Or are you here to rub it in?” “I have been attempting to locate you for twenty-three point eight minutes, since my shift ended. It appears this supply closet is not included in the main search grid. This oversight should be remedied immediately.” “Aw, let Bones have his make-out spot.” “Captain,” Spock said with a blink that was clearly a heavy sigh, “despite the fact that you have 24 hours of unscheduled time, you have sequestered yourself in a closet performing a task that you have repeatedly said that you, and I quote, ‘have people to do that.’ I can only conclude one of two things. Either Doctor McCoy has found some novel way of coercing you into doing actual work, or you are hiding.” “Well, Bones is pretty creative like that.” Jim tried for a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Spock, of course, would have none of it, and let the silence continue until Jim couldn’t help but fill it. “Alright, fine, I’m hiding. But I did just get bitched out by Admiral Pike in front of my entire crew. You’d hide, too – you’d just find a better excuse for it.” Remarkably, Spock chose not to contradict him. “Today’s incident was but a brief anomaly considering your usual charisma in the face of overwhelming opposition.” “Why do I never have a voice recorder on me when you actually admit I’m charming?” “I prefer to remain unpredictable in that manner.” Jim let out a sigh and plopped down on a box of medical supplies, which sagged ominously under his weight. “I know. It’s a stupid little thing, right?” He shook his head fiercely then went to lean back against the shelves, smacking his head on a stack of bedpans resting there. “Gah! Fuck! All I want to do is get nicely hammered, sleep for a few hours, and forget this ever happened. But naturally my supply of Andorian ale ran out two days ago because I owed Sulu – he went on a bender after Chekov told him he needed space – and if Bones is hiding any he’s found a new place for it because I sure as hell can’t find it and the only thing vaguely inebriating on this entire ship is Scotty’s radiator whisky and I can’t think of anything – other than impending death or possibly my grandmother walking in on me jerking off in the shower – that would convince me to drink it.” Jim gasped for air and scanned Spock’s face for the morbidly amused little lip quirk that he usually got when Jim talked until he ran out of breath, but instead Spock just looked… shifty? “If I could locate the aforementioned beverage, you must promise not to overindulge.” Jim’s jaw dropped open. “Spock, you have a stash? Have you been holding out on me all this time?” “Negative. I observed two ensigns engaging in physical conflict over a bottle and duly confiscated it, as Andorian ale is, in fact, illegal. Thus I recommend we dispose of it as quickly as possible.” Jim actually started to tear up. “I… I think I might be in love with you.” “If I had known your affections were contingent upon the provision of intoxicants, I would have been much stricter in my inspections of the junior officers’ belongings.” Jim laughs until tears leak from his eyes and his face turns pink.

Red Mountain, located almost in the center of the isle of Vvardenfell, erupted every thousand or so years, covering the land surrounding the mountain with lava and ash. Over the years since the last eruption, wind and rain had worn down the lava revealing oddly shaped boulders and sharp spires of harder rock. The entire landscape was one of steep slopes and ravines, and the occasional area where sluggishly flowing lava could still be found. Frequent cold winds howled down from the mountain, whipping up ash from the black volcanic soil and creating blinding ash laden storms. Inhabited by blight infected wild animals, ash zombies, and the occasional wandering and frequently starving vampire, it was not a place anyone frequented unless they were certain of their ability to survive it’s various challenges and even then one often found oneself rather rudely surprised. On this night, dimly though the grey colored winds two figures could be seen struggling both through the driving, stinging wind and with one another. The taller of the two, a male, drug the much smaller, slighter figure along by bound arms. As the wind cleared, allowing the two figures to show more clearly for a moment, they revealed that the male was a tall Nord, thick of body, armored in chain, blond-haired and bearded. The smaller figure was that of a woman, dark haired and pale skinned, and fine featured in the manner of the Breton race. A dark bruise along one cheek and about the opposite eye marred her otherwise beautiful features. The fashionable, expensive dress she wore marked her as a member of the upper class, though the dress was now torn and soiled along its length. The woman stumbled and fell, and the cause of the state of her dress became clear as the man simply pulled her along the rocky ground for a moment before brutally wrenching her into a standing position. The wind slowed for a moment, long enough for her pain filled cry to be heard before the wind picked up again and carried it away. Finally the male stopped, shoved the woman to the ground, and from the bag he carried slung over his shoulder he pulled out a mallet and stake. The woman struggled to her feet and attempted to run, but the man dropped his tools and caught up with her after on a short while, dragging her back and then slapping her hard across her already bruised face face. The woman fell to the ground and huddled there, holding her bound hands up to her face where the man’s blow had split the already bruised skin of her cheek and it now bled freely. The man hammered the stake into the hard ground and tied a length of braided cord to it, then roughly pulled the woman’s bound hands away from her face and tied the other end of the cord around her bonds, fastening her to the stake. Neither saw the dark, silent figure hidden in the shadow between two boulders up the steep, broken slope to the north watching them, nor did they notice when the figure moved, slipping quietly from shadow to shadow until it drew within hearing distance. “No, please don’t do this Magnus, please don’t leave me here. I promise I’ll never return home if you let me go, my father will never know,” the watcher heard the woman beg, tears streaking through the ash dust that coated her face. The man responded with an ugly smile, “Unnatural whore,” he spat, “I wouldn’t risk your father’s wrath for you.” “Please, please don’t leave me here to die,” the woman pleaded, but her eyes showed her hopelessness, her knowledge that her pleas were falling upon deaf ears. He growled angrily, “Always walking around with your nose stuck up in the air too good to pay attention to the likes of us, and then your father finds you with Henrick’s daughter doing things no woman should do with another.” The woman buried her face in her bound hands with a sob, “He killed her, he just drew his dagger and killed her.” The blond man stared at her coldly, unmoved by her tears, “Agna was a good girl until you started hanging around her you slut. You talked her into doing those things with you, you’re the reason she’s dead now.” He fell silent for a moment, staring at her, “Your father said to leave you out here for the animals or one of the wandering vampires to find. After a few days’ there won’t be anything left of you for anyone to stumble upon and your father can declare you lost. You can’t be allowed to humiliate and embarrass your father and family with your ways.” He stared at the huddled, now quietly sobbing figure for a moment longer, “Your father meant for some animal or vampire to rip out your throat, but there’s too much of a chance that you might escape. I can tell him that some bandits found you.” The harsh scrapping sound of steel being pulled out of a scabbard caused the bound woman to look up at the man. A look of horror crossed her face as she realized that he meant to kill her right now, “No!” she cried, and frantically scrambled away from the blonde man, tugging hysterically at the cord that bound her to the stake in the ground when she reached the limit of the rope. A gurgling cry and the thud of a sword upon the dry ground caused the woman to pause in her struggles with the cord, staring in shock at the man who had brought her here. The Nord was clawing madly at his throat where a dark arrow had pierced his neck through and through. As the woman watched another arrow struck him in the chest. The man’s blue eyes widened for a moment before he fell to his knees and then face forward onto the ground. The woman stared wildly around searching for the source of the attack, not knowing whether it meant good or ill for her. A dark figure, a bow held in one hand stepped out from the deep shadows between the rocks some fifteen feet away from her. “You seem to be in somewhat of a bind,” the figure commented in a low toned feminine voice as she came nearer. The bound woman gaped, the jest catching her by surprise. As the figure drew near enough for her to see the woman’s face she let out a short scream of renewed fear and started scrambling away again from the snarling, fang-faced form. “It’s a helm silly girl,” exclaimed the woman exasperatedly, pausing to take off the offending armor piece and revealing the face of a dark haired, red eyed, Dunmer woman. The most recent fright upon everything else that had happened recently was too much for the bound woman; she slumped to the ground and began crying. The Dunmer woman knelt beside her and pulled out a knife. “Your hands girl, hold them out so I can cut your bonds,” she ordered. Trembling, the bound woman finally obeyed her sobs decreasing in intensity to the occasional gulping breath. With a quick movement the Dunmer woman drew a dagger and sliced through them before the battered woman could do more than take an in startled breath. The wind rose again, causing both of them to turn their faces away from it and the stinging ash that it carried. “Thank you,” the Breton raised her voice so she could be heard over the howling of the wind as she gingerly rubbed her bruised wrists where the leather cord had cut into them. The Dunmer woman rose to her feet and held out one gauntleted hand to the other woman to help her. “There’s a place nearby where both of us can take shelter from the storm and I can see to your injuries,” she shouted. Hesitantly the woman accepted the assistance and allowed the Dunmer to help her rise to her feet. Curiously she looked into the dark skinned woman’s face. Her father had only recently been assigned to the Imperial Garrison that protected the Ebony mine at Caldera, and she had never met any Dunmer before she and her father had moved to Vvardenfell. She had become used to the red eyes and bluish-grey coloration of the dark skinned elven race, but this woman’s intensely red eyes seemed to almost glow with an inner light, making them very noticeable and compelling. “Thank you,” she said to the woman, not having to shout as they were standing close together. The Dunmer nodded, squinting against the stinging wind and quickly replaced the frightening mask like helm upon her head. “What’s your name girl?” the Dunmer woman asked. The comment stung enough for the woman to momentarily forget her current situation. She absolutely hated being called a girl, she was short even for a Breton woman, but she was definitely no longer a girl. “Elisa Jurard, and I’m not a girl, I’m nineteen years old.” She made an effort at the usual imperious tone she used to make up for her lack of height, but after the words were out Elisa realized that she only sounded petulant instead of assured and blushed. A low laugh from the Dunmer woman confirmed her suspicions and she blushed harder as the two of them struggled through the wind. “I’m Llathala U’mara, Elisa Jurard,” the Dunmer offered her name and then reached out to steady the younger woman as she stumbled over a patch of particularly rough ground. “Poor thing, you’ve had a rather rough day today haven’t you.” The unexpected turn from almost mocking to kind, disrupted the tenuous control Elisa had on her emotions and she was embarrassed to feel tears rise up in her eyes as she remembered the events of the day, and the situation she now found herself. She and Agna hadn’t been in love with one another; their relationship had been one of mutual lust that had begun almost as soon as they recognized their interest in one another, and had evolved into friendship after a few weeks of sharing one another’s bed. Elisa had suspected her father would not approve of her lifestyle, but never had she expected what had happened this afternoon. Unbidden her mind recalled the moment when her father had burst into her bedroom and found her and Agna together. He had shouted in anger and pulled her roughly by the hair from where she had been between Agna’s thighs, then struck her twice across the face before finally releasing her. The hard blows stunned her and she had fallen to the floor where she had watched disbelievingly as he pulled his dagger from his belt and struck the defenseless Agna killing her. It had happened so quickly and unexpectedly that she hadn’t the time to argue, protect or even warn the other woman. Her vision obscured by the tears in her eyes, she stumbled again and would have fell had not Llathala caught her. Elisa heard the Dunmer woman sigh at her clumsiness, and the next thing she knew she was in the dark skinned woman’s arms being carried along. Instinctively she began struggling. “Quit it, or I’ll drop you,” Llathala snapped, “you’re not dressed for walking in the Ashlands, and I’d like to make it to the cave sometime before morning.” Elisa stilled, suddenly afraid that the woman would not only drop her, but leave her alone out here in the cold, dark, windswept wilderness. Instead, she buried her bruised face into the hollow formed by the pauldron and helm of the Dunmer woman’s armor. The dark skinned woman strode along steadily, showing no sigh that she was distressed by the Breton’s weight. As time passed, and the woman continued carrying her without any sign of fatigue, Elisa wondered at the Dunmer’s apparent strength and endurance. She was shorter and slighter than Llathala, but she would have thought the woman would have grown tired of carrying her by now. Suddenly the howling, stinging wind was left behind and Elisa looked up to see rough grey walls surrounding them and realized they had reached the cavern. Llathala stopped after walking a short way into the cave and let Elisa stand on her own feet. “This cave housed some bandits a few hours ago, stay here while I move their bodies,” the Dunmer woman gruffly ordered her. Before the full meaning of her words had sunk in the Dunmer woman moved away and disappeared into the gloomy depths leaving Elisa gaping after her. The Breton woman huddled uneasily against the cavern wall, starting and staring at every little sound. Bitterly Elisa cursed her father and the belated paternal impulse that had made him decide she needed to live with him instead of her Aunt. She had lived on the mainland, in the Imperial City Marketplace District, ever since her mother had died some eleven years ago. Had friends there, lovers there, until her father had decided that her Aunt was no longer capable of taking care of her and insisted that she move to this backwater province. Then he had found out about her and...her mind shied away from remembering once again what had happened...and now he wanted to kill her. “There’s a place,” Llathala’s voice caused Elisa to start violently as the woman appeared out of the gloom. The Dunmer paused for a moment, taking in the renewed tears, and then continued, “a place where we can bathe and I can see how badly damaged your face is.” She motioned for Elisa to follow her, “This way, it isn’t far.” Pushing herself away from the wall, Elisa followed her rescuer deeper into the cave, looking around curiously. The Breton knew very little about caves and rocks, but even she could tell the walls surrounding her were limestone and wondered whether water or some other force had carved through the hard rock. They crossed a crude wooden bridge over a rapidly flowing underground stream with stacks of open crates and barrels pilled at the end. Elisa paused a moment to look down into the clear water of the stream, then glanced at the relatively smooth walls of the cavern, she could see how such a stream given enough time could have carved out these tunnels. As they descended deeper into the caverns Elisa noted with surprise that the air seemed to be getting warmer instead of cooler as she would have thought should happen. Finally they entered a larger cavern partially flooded with water and picked their way along a dry ledge to a small grotto where a fire crackled merrily beside some bedrolls and a pile of crates and barrels. A slight unpleasant odor pervaded the air of this cavern, but Elisa could not identify the source. “This room and the water there,” the Dunmer indicated the submerged end of the cavern with a jerk of her head, “is warmed by a lava flow, it smells and tastes slightly of sulfur but its safe to bathe and even drink from,” Llathala commented and started taking off her armor and piling it tidily beside one of the bedrolls. Elisa commented, “That explains the smell and the warmer temperature.” Llathala merely grunted in reply and then sighed in relief as she removed her cuirass, taking in a deep breath and stretching. “I wish I could find some daedric armor made for women, but I’ve never seen a female daedra except for golden saints and everything except for their weapon and shield disappears after you kill them.” The Dunmer commented as she laid the chest piece aside. The Breton woman had not really noticed the armor before it had been dark and difficult to see anything in the ash-laden wind. Once they had arrived at the cave Llathala had disappeared before she noticed much about the armor she was wearing except that it was dark with red markings. Now she looked at the other woman’s armor curiously. Even she had heard of the rare armor, it was even rarer than armor made from ebony resin, and it was said that each piece had the soul of a daedra trapped within it. Looking closer at the strange twisted scarlet markings upon the dark grey pieces, Elisa shivered. There was something about those markings that made her believe that it was true. “Here start washing up and I’ll join you in a moment. I’ll see to your face after you’ve cleaned up,” Llathala commented. Belatedly, tearing her eyes away from the armor, Elisa realized that the dark skinned woman was holding out a rough piece of cloth and a bar of grayish looking soap. She accepted them and stared at the soap dubiously. The Dunmer woman briefly smiled, “I wasn’t expecting to stay out the night so I didn’t bring much with me. I had to raid the bandit’s supplies for the soap and cloths. It’s not the best, but it will do to get us clean.” Embarrassed at her seeming ingratitude, Elisa murmured, “Thank you,” as she took the soap. The fire light was bright enough for Elisa to see the woman’s features clearly for the first time and as Elisa looked into Llathala’s face as she accepted the soap she realized how attractive the Dunmer woman was, especially with the slight smile currently playing around her dark, wine-colored lips. An arched eyebrow eventually informed Elisa that she had been staring at her rescuer for longer than was considered polite. The Breton woman flushed, “I’ll go wash up now,” she said hurriedly and turned away walking toward the water covered lower end of the cavern. Stopping by a handy boulder she stripped off her torn and ash-soiled clothing laid it upon the stone and then tested the water with one tentative foot. To her surprise, even though Llathala had mentioned it was heated by a lava flow, the water was pleasantly warm. She moved into deeper water and knelt, sighing in enjoyment at the feel of warm water. Lathering up the rough cloth, she began washing away the grimy ash that coated her skin. “Here, let me get your back.” Llathala’s voice behind her startled Elisa, as she hadn’t heard or noticed the woman enter the water. An outstretched dark skinned hand appeared in her vision from over her shoulder. Hesitantly she surrendered the cloth. Tense at first, Elisa gradually relaxed as the cloth moved in soothing strokes over her back washing the last of the grime from her body. “Are you done with this?” the Dunmer woman asked as Elisa rinsed her now clean back. “What?” Elisa turned inquiringly toward Llathala’s voice, her breath caught in her throat and the Breton woman had to struggle not to stare at the dark skinned woman’s lithe, athletic body. The small, but perfectly shaped, globes of her breasts, the taunt muscled slimness of her waist, the way the water gently lapped at the barest hit of a dark triangle at the apex of her legs. Finally she noticed the cloth in the woman’s hand and realized that Llathala was asking if she was done bathing. “Oh, yes. Sorry. I guess you’ll want the soap," Elisa handed over the brownish bar and turned away quickly, hoping that the other woman hadn’t noticed her staring or noticed her body’s reaction to what she had been staring at. Somehow though, she suspected that if she glanced at the Dunmer woman she would see that slight, amused smile once again, the one that would let her know that her stare and arousal had been noticed just as it had been noticed before over the fire. ‘What is wrong with me?’ Elias questioned herself despairingly, wondering how she could react lustfully to anyone after what had happened just hours ago. True, she had not loved Agna, but she had been her friend, and seeing her father murder the woman right in front of her had been a tremendous shock. Events had happened so rapidly after Agna’s death that there had been no time to even shed a tear for the other woman; she had gone from the shock of her father’s action to being terrified for her own life. Closing her eyes Elisa huddled deeper into the warm water grateful for the darkness that hid her from the other woman. It was difficult to think about Agna, she felt as if she wanted to cry for the blonde woman, but concerns about her own future whirled at a frenetic pace in her mind tearing and ripping at the peace needed to properly mourn. Where could she go to escape her father? She couldn’t go back to her aunt and try to explain what had happened. Her aunt would never believe that her beloved brother had killed someone, much less believe that he had ordered his only child killed. The woman would horrified that Elisa had been with another woman intimately, and would insist that she immediately get married and forget about such shameful things. How would she live? She hadn’t any suitable skills with which to earn a wage, she had been taught only what was needed to marry well and keep her husband’s household. The last thought brought Elisa’s mind back to her savior, Llathala dressed and acted like a rich, powerful woman. The mere fact that she wore a full suit of the rarest armor known instead of keeping it displayed under lock and key indicated that she was incredibly wealthy. If she had been a man, Elisa’s father would probably have overlooked the fact she was a Dunmer, and considered her a suitable match for his daughter. The Breton listened to the quiet sounds of the other woman washing behind her and thought about how the Dunmer woman’s every move and comment revealed her surety, power, and confidence in herself. Elisa envied her that. She had once been as confident and secure in her life and the future, but that had been before her father took her away from the Imperial City and brought her to Vvardenfell. Since then her life had taken a decided turn for the worse, and today what had remained of that secure life had been completely shattered, leaving her with nothing except the clothes on her back and an uncertain future. Elisa desperately wanted to feel secure and confident once again, she hated the overwhelming feelings of fear and hopelessness that currently gripped her leaving her feeling weak and helpless. Elisa’s thoughts came around full circle as her mind brought up the image of Llathala standing in front of her waiting patiently for Elisa to hand her the soap and cloth. Just the memory of her beauty made Elisa’s breath hitch and certain parts of her awaken with desire. Why she was reacting this way to her rescuer? The young woman, even though she frequently acted frivolous and self-absorbed, had a very down to earth practical side, and that now helped her admit that part of her interest in Llathala was the purely practical hope that the woman would offer her a place to stay if they became lovers. The other part of her interest…well that part definitely had nothing to do with anything practical at all. Something about the Dunmer woman stirred Elisa, maybe it was the intensity in her red eyes and the beauty of her face and figure, or maybe it was just shock and her need for comfort, she didn’t quite know, all she knew for certain was that she desired Llathala. Her blood pounded through her veins at the thought of the Dunmer woman touching her, holding her captive with the intensity of her eyes as she thrust into Elisa, filling her completely. Elisa took in a shaky breath, it wasn’t as if she hadn’t desired a woman before, she certainly had, but the intensity with which she wanted to touch and be touched by Llathala was unusual. She wanted to slide her hands down the woman’s body, explore the sleek muscularity of her. She wanted to find out what Llathala tasted like, what she sounded and felt like as she climaxed, and then she wanted the woman take her until she almost passed out from the pleasure. Unsettled and slightly overwhelmed by the admission, Elisa forced herself to concentrate on more practical matters. Llathala hadn’t mentioned anything past checking on her injuries, so she didn’t know if the woman planned on providing someplace for her to stay already or not. As for the possibility of them becoming lovers, the woman had barely reacted to the information that she liked women instead of men, and had not reacted badly to Elisa’s staring. Didn’t that indicate something? ‘Oh what am I thinking?’ Elisa questioned herself frantically, ‘I’m not seriously considering how to lure Llathala into seducing me am I?’ “Lets see how your face looks now that it’s clean,” Llathala’s voice interrupting her thoughts caused Elisa to start, and whirl around guiltily, only to be blinded by the immediate area suddenly lighting up. Reflexively she turned her head away and covered her eyes. Llathala remarked after a second, her voice apologetic, “I guess I should have warned you I was about to cast an illuminate spell.” “Oh, I didn’t know you were a mage,” Elisa remarked squinting her eyes against the light. The mage light wasn’t that bright, it was just the suddenness of it after her eyes had adjusted to the darkness of the cavern. She felt more than saw Llathala move closer to her right before the Dunmer woman placed her hands on either side of her jaw and lifted her face toward the light. “Close your eyes and let me examine your face,” Llathala instructed her. Elisa mutely obeyed, acutely aware of how close the other woman’s nude body was to hers and the heat of the Dunmer woman’s hands on her face. In other circumstances she might have quarreled with Llathala’s right to order her around, but at the moment her thoughts were completely occupied with her reaction to the Dunmer woman’s touch, and with hoping Llathala wouldn’t notice how fast her heart was suddenly pounding. In the next instant she sucked in her breath in pain as Llathala prodded at her bruised cheek. Elisa tried to jerk away, but the woman’s hold on her face was more firm than she had guessed for she was unable to escape the other woman’s grasp. “I’m sorry it hurts, but I need to make sure the bones in your face haven’t been damaged before healing the flesh,” Llathala gently explained before Elisa could protest. The angry words died unspoken on Elisa’s lips; suddenly she was as concerned about her physical condition as the dark-skinned woman’s physical closeness. “Oh,” she murmured, steeling herself against the pain. After a few more painful probing touches Llathala announced in a relieved tone, “You’re lucky, there doesn’t appear to be any damage to your cheekbones, just the flesh bruising and the cut.” Her hands moved from Elisa’s jaw to cover the damaged areas and the Breton woman felt the sensation of heat and tingling that indicated Llathala was healing her injuries. Elisa stood quietly, her face tilted upward, eyes still closed, enjoying the feel of Llathala’s gentle hands upon her bruised face. The healing sensation faded after a few seconds, and the persistent pain that Elisa had become somewhat used to since her father had struck her, faded with it. “Thank you,” Elisa whispered as she opened her eyes and met the red ones of the Dunmer woman. Llathala’s hands left her face, and Elisa was surprised at how bereft she felt without them there, how chilled her skin felt without their warmth. “A mage and a healer, isn’t that somewhat unusual?” she asked curiously, trying to distract herself. “Yes,” Llathala replied, “Several years ago I found myself severely wounded, so much so that I was unable to seek help until I healed. For those three days I sorely rued the fact that I had not learned more of the healing arts.” She gave Elisa a twisted smile, “I since learned what I needed to know, even if the learning was somewhat late to help me.” The odd smile faded and Llathala continued speaking in a lighter tone, “I’ve become rather a talented healer, if I may say so myself, as well as picking up some useful skills as an illusionist.” Llathala fell silent, and an intent expression appeared upon her face as she looked down at the shorter woman, making no effort to hide the fact that she was staring appreciatively at Elisa’s body. In a husky voice Llathala commented, “You’re a very beautiful woman Elisa Jurard.” Elisa’s breath caught in her throat at the comment, and the look in the Dunmer woman’s red eyes. She felt the tell tale tingling in her nipples and knew that they had just hardened in reaction. She wasn’t surprised to see Llathala’s red eyes drift downward and remained there for a moment before returning to meet her own, the woman was too observant. The Dunmer woman leaned toward her slowly. Elisa did not protest or make an effort to move away, and when their lips met, she leaned into the kiss. Lips moved against one another, tongues met and dueled. When Llathala wrapped her arms around Elisa back and waist and pulled the Breton woman’s softer form tightly against her more muscular, toned body Elisa gave a soft moan of appreciation. Long moments later, Llathala pulled back long enough to murmur, “Bedrolls.” “Yes,” Elisa whispered her agreement, many more kisses and touches like the ones they had just exchanged and her legs wouldn’t want to support her anyway. She made a noise of surprise and indignation as Llathala picked her up in her arms, but the Dunmer woman ignored it and the protest Elisa intended to make was forgotten as Llathala began kissing her once again. The next thing, besides the lips covering her own, that Elisa was fully cognizant of was being laid down upon one of the bedrolls and the press of Llathala’s body on top of her own. Llathala’s bare thigh fell between Elisa’s own and pressed into her gently, causing the Breton to shudder and arch needfully against it, coating it unmistakably with the sign of her arousal. The dark skinned woman made a sound in between a moan and a growl and pressed against her more urgently in response. Elisa moaned in frustration, she wanted Llathala to continue, but she also wanted to touch the other woman. She appreciated being with a woman, she liked being inside them when they came, liked feeling and hearing them. She needed, wanted, to show Llathala that she was a desirable lover, give the woman a reason to invite her to live with her. Determinedly she pushed against Llathala’s shoulders until the Dunmer woman pulled away from her lips with a confused look. “I want to touch you, taste you,” Elisa said in a voice so husky and thick with desire that it surprised even herself. Llathala’s eyes widened for a moment upon hearing those words, then with a quick roll Elisa found herself on top of the Dunmer woman. “I’m certainly not going to object,” she replied. Llathala’s eyes, which Elisa had already noted seemed unusually intense and compelling, were darker, the pupils dilated. They drew in the Breton woman, capturing and binding her with their intensity. Just as suddenly she came back to herself, her heart pounding, feeling weak, almost frightened. What had just happened, she asked herself. “Elisa?” Llathala inquired. “Nothing, sorry,” Elisa mentally shook herself, throwing off the odd moment, reminding herself that she was supposed to be impressing the Dunmer woman, giving her a reason to ask Elisa to move into her home. Not giving the woman cause to believe she was prone to odd fits. Leaning down the younger woman covered Llathala’s wine dark lips with her own and gave herself over to the moment, willing herself to loose herself in the feel of the other woman’s body. Lips opening beneath her own, the feel and taste of the Dunmer’s skin as she drug her teeth down the arch of a neck, the feel of the other woman’s hard small nipple in her mouth as she flicked it rapidly with her tongue. Llathala’s body writhing beneath her as she slowly crossed the toned expanse of her stomach, then her first taste of the other woman. Oddly different from any other woman she had ever tasted, Elisa noted, but not unpleasant. Probably just a racial difference, the Breton woman decided, in a quick moment before she slipped her fingers inside Llathala, feeling rewarded by obvious evidence of her arousal. Llathala groaned and arched against her, thrusting herself against Elisa’s mouth in demanding need. The Breton was pleased to comply, speeding up the thrusting of her fingers, suckling and flicking her tongue rapidly against the woman’s clitoris. A short while later Elisa closed her eyes in pleasure as she felt Llathala stiffen and cry out as she bucked against her mouth in release, her fingers gripped tightly by the smooth slick walls surrounding them. Elisa was still placing soft kisses upon dark wine colored tender flesh when Llathala sat up and gripped her shoulders, pulled her upward and then rather abruptly reversed their positions so the Dunmer woman was on top. The Breton woman gasped in surprise at the sudden repositioning, and then her mouth was covered by Llathala’s in a possessive, demanding kiss. Minutes later, when Llathala released her lips, Elisa scarcely had time to catch her breath before the Dunmer woman attacked her breasts with the same passionate intensity. Lips, teeth and tongue alternately nipped, raked and soothed the tender skin and nipples. As she groaned in reaction to the sensations Llathala was eliciting, Elisa wondered if something in the water had made her flesh ultra sensitive for Llathala’s mouth and tongue seemed almost like brands upon her flesh, trailing heat and white-hot arousal wherever they went. As the Dunmer woman left her breasts and trailed her mouth and tongue across her stomach Elisa could not help but moan in anticipation of Llathala’s mouth upon her, if she was as sensitive down there as her breasts had been... At the first touch of Llathala’s mouth, she cried out and arched into the touch, her hands reaching and gripping the edges of the bedroll for something to hold onto. It was everything and more than she had anticipated, again the unusual sensitivity making every stroke of the woman’s tongue against her flesh intensely pleasurable. “No,” Elisa protested when the Dunmer woman abruptly stopped and levered her body back above the Breton’s. Llathala smiled, “Don’t worry I’m not stopping,” she reassured Elisa as she replaced her mouth with her hand, smoothly thrusting into the woman beneath her with two and then three fingers and beginning a light circular motion with her thumb over the younger woman’s clitoris. “See.” “Yes,” hissed Elisa, arching into the thrusting fingers, driving them deeper inside her. Llathala’s nostrils flared on a deeply indrawn breath as she stared down at the aroused woman beneath her, “You are so beautiful, and so passionate. I think I’ll have to keep you,” she whispered. “Good,” Elisa managed in between gasping breaths, she felt a moment of relief at the securing of her immediate future, but it was less important to her at this particular moment than the sensations Llathala was building inside her with every thrust of her fingers and stroke of her thumb. Llathala stared into Elisa’s dark eyes intently as she touched her as if searching for something there, then apparently seeing what she had been seeking she lowered her head and began kissing and nibbling at her neck. The Breton woman turned her head to bare the side of her neck for the other woman to have greater access; enjoying the sensation of lips and teeth against the sensitive skin of her neck. A sudden intense pain from where Llathala’s mouth was upon her neck took Elisa by surprise, and instinctively she tried to pull away, only to find that she could not, Llathala restrained her easily, pressing her into the bedroll beneath her and holding her tightly. As suddenly as it had flared the pain faded and was replaced by a much different sensation. Elisa whimpered, and as desperately as she had been trying to get away, now she strived to get closer, as another erogenous zone seemed to have blossomed at her neck where Llathala’s mouth pressed against it. The Dunmer woman’s fingers, which had stilled while Elisa fought against Llathala’s hold, now began moving once again thrusting and twisting into her while the woman’s thumb resumed its circular motion around and over her clitoris. The two sensations, the one at her neck and the one between her legs, merged and built upon one another until Elisa was writhing in helpless need beneath the other woman. Her orgasm when it came overwhelmed her, slamming into her consciousness and body like storm driven surf. Elisa cried out wordlessly as she arched and bucked underneath Llathala as the climaxes seized and shook her one after another only releasing her when she felt the world fade away as she slipped toward unconsciousness. She never quite lost consciousness, but she was unable to move for long moments afterward, exhausted and shaken by the intensity of her reaction. She was aware of Llathala removing her mouth from her neck and the feel of the woman’s tongue flicking against her skin a few times. Then the woman gently withdrew her fingers from inside Elisa, wrapped both arms around the tired Breton and cradled her against her. It took Elisa several minutes to gather up her scattered wits and wonder what had just happened. What had Llathala done to her that hurt so, then why after that moment of pain had it felt so very good? Uneasily she opened her eyes and raised them to meet Llathala’s. Dunmer woman looked relaxed, sated, but her eyes were intent as she watched Elisa. The two of them stared at one another, Llathala looking increasingly amused as the silence went on. “So have you come to a conclusion as to what just happened?” the Dunmer woman finally asked in a lazy tone. Elisa’s eyes widened, and she frowned slightly in confusion. When Llathala spoke she could have swore she saw... She swallowed, suddenly the pain she had felt when the Dunmer woman had held her so tightly with her mouth at her throat made only too much sense. “But...” she blurted out in confusion. “I use illusions to hide them,” Llathala responded, and now Elisa could see the long white eyeteeth only too clearly. In numb disbelief, Elisa suddenly remembered what the Dunmer had told her earlier. Stricken with a disease for three days, so hurt that she couldn’t seek the help she needed, and the healing knowledge she gained later unable to help her with the disease she had caught. If she had been thinking more clearly earlier she would have realized that Llathala was telling her she was a vampire, it was common knowledge that the vampire disease took three days to fully take hold of a person and change them. Hysterical giggles fought to escape as Elisa realized her father had sort of succeeded in his plan after all; a wandering vampire had indeed found her and bitten her. The vampire just hadn’t torn out her throat--yet--she shivered in sudden fear. “Worried that I’m going to tear out your throat?” Llathala asked. Elisa froze, dismayed that her thoughts had been so obvious. “Don’t be,” the Dunmer responded. Her red eyes wandered possessively over the Breton woman’s nude body lying along side her own then returned to Elisa’s, “I did say earlier that I planned on keeping you. I’ve got much more entertaining and satisfying things to do with your lovely and so very responsive body. You needn’t fear that I will hurt you or take too much of your blood.” Llathala noticed the renewed look of fear in young Breton woman’s dark eyes, “It won’t hurt as much next time, and each time I bite you it will hurt less and less until it doesn’t hurt at all,” she reassured her. Elisa closed her eyes and fought against the thread of arousal that those words evoked, trying to focus on the reality of what Llathala had been doing to her. The woman had driven her teeth into her throat and been feeding off her blood. The dark skinned woman shifted suddenly, pinning Elisa’s body beneath hers. Elisa squeaked in startled surprise then moaned in helpless arousal as the Dunmer woman ran her tongue over the place on Elisa’s neck where she had bitten her. She breathed on the spot, sending another surge of arousal though the Breton woman. Llathala whispered, “Trying to persuade yourself that you don’t want me to bite you again, that you don’t want my mouth on your breasts, between your legs. How I enjoyed tasting you, thrusting my tongue inside you, exploring your soft tender flesh, filling you and feeling you come around my fingers.” The words sent fresh surges of arousal through Elisa and she couldn’t stop the tiny whimper that escaped. Llathala breathed in deeply, “I can smell your response, Elisa.” Elisa bit her lip hard, trying desperately to stop responding to the vampire’s words, to drive from her mind the memories of just how wonderful Llathala’s mouth had felt when she had tasted her earlier. Llathala chuckled, “Such resistance, but your smell is getting stronger Elisa, your body isn’t agreeing with you.” The dark skinned woman continued after a second, “I think after you recover some more I’ll be kind and satisfy you. And this time I won’t leave you until I feel you come against my mouth,” by the time she finished these the woman’s lips were just brushing against Elisa’s ear. The younger woman couldn’t prevent the groan that escaped, or the reflexive bucking of her hips in response to Llathala’s words. The dark skinned woman pulled away slightly and her red intense eyes captured the Breton’s dark ones. “Surrender to me Elisa Jurard, and I will make you mine, and I am very possessive and protective of what is mine.” The dark wine-colored lips covered hers, demanded entrance, and with a tiny whimper of surrender Elisa let her. Later, as Elisa crawled her way back from the edge of unconsciousness for the second time in Llathala’s arms, she felt a light touch on her cheek where it had been bruised earlier. “I’ll have to pay your father a visit sometime,” Llathala commented, “and thank him for sending me such a thoughtful gift.”

Entry tags: fandom: cw rps, fic: miss(ter) congeniality, genre: au, genre: crack, genre: humor, genre: prompt/challenge response, genre: romance, pairing: jared/jensen, rating: nc-17 Title: Miss(ter) Congeniality Author: Ras Elased Rating: NC-17 Pairing: Jared/Jensen Word count: ~23,000 Author's notes: This was written for the abouttwoboys J2/SPN fic challenge. The prompt I chose was to remix the movie Miss Congeniality. (obviously *g*) I reworked it a little bit, but the general plot and any lines you recognize are taken from the film. You can also download the song mentioned in the fic. (MegaUpload link, but I can upload it somewhere else by request.) Warnings: Boykissing, RPS, mild crack, non-CW guest stars, some damn lucky gummy bears, shameless bathroom porn, filk, and unbeta'd. Summary: So they're not called pageants, they're called "scholarship programs." After a coalition of fraternities sued the government for equal rights, stating it wasn't fair that pretty girls got to go to college based on their looks without the same benefit for boys, the pageant company was forced to open an 'equal opportunity' all-male pageant. But the backlash was fierce, and now the pageant is receiving threatening letters. They call in the FBI for help, and after assessing the situation, they assign Agent Ackles to go undercover as a pageant contestant. He is less than thrilled with his assignment. Former male model Jared gets hired as the pageant consultant charged with the difficult task of transforming Jensen from rough-around-the-edges FBI agent to GQ coverboy. Between the pampering and strutting and arguing and trying to find a place to conceal his weapon during the swimsuit competition, Jensen starts to realize that they make a good team, and maybe more. Miss(ter) Congeniality, (1/3) ____spacer____ ____spacer____ NETWORK FINALLY EARNS THE CROWN San Antonio, TX – After a firestorm of legal battles and bidding wars, a network has emerged victorious from the slew of contenders vying for the legal rights to broadcast the first ever Mr. United States pageant. The CW will be airing the final night of the week-long competition live from the Alamo in San Antonio. The station known for such shows as "America's Next Top Model" and "Crowned" seems like the most obvious choice to air the world's first all male beauty pageant, but the decision wasn't easy. The owner of the pageant's parent company, Miss United States, Incorporated, reportedly chose to accept the network's bid only after it offered to front the rather large security costs. The pageant was initially conceived as part of a settlement when a coalition of college fraternities sued the pageant company, claiming there was no similar scholarship program for males. But what was meant to be a bid for equal rights has created what some might term a cultural backlash. The pageant has received dozens of threatening letters in the last several weeks, most of which have been identified as being from a single suspect who remains anonymous. Concerned for the safety of the contestants, the pageant director has called in the federal government for added protection. When questioned about what the FBI was doing to help, Assistant Director Jeffrey Dean Morgan commented, "While I think most of the country is proud that America takes freedom and equality so seriously, it's clear that there is a small contingent who would make this pageant a target. I've got my best people working on it, but I'm afraid that's all I can say." Jensen snapped the case file shut with a disgusted sigh. "I can't believe I let you talk me into this." "You didn't," Sandy said sweetly, blandly turning a page in her magazine. "I kicked your ass and made you do it." Agent Sandy McCoy was Jensen's partner and perpetual pain in his ass. Tiny and perky, she wasn't exactly your typical FBI agent, but then again, neither was Jensen. There weren't a whole lot of other gay field agents in Dallas. He clenched his jaw and sighed. "Yeah, well, you only won because you fight dirty. And you have sharp teeth." She flashed him a bright smile, displaying the weapons in question, before turning back to her fashion mag. Jensen slid his reading glasses from his nose and tossed them onto the airplane seat across from him, followed by the case file. The last twenty four hours had been something of a whirlwind for Jensen. He'd been given the worst undercover assignment of his life, bludgeoned into accepting it by his partner, then hastily shoved on a private federal jet bound for San Antonio before he could change his mind. Once they'd arrived he'd been stuck on the plane, just sitting in the runway outside some government warehouse, apparently waiting for their contact to grace them with his presence. Jensen huffily grabbed his glasses and the file again, then flipped it open, reading off of the name of the man who'd kept them waiting for the past hour. Jared Pada…Pada-something-unpronouncable. "Who is this Jared guy, anyway?" Sandy looked at him, wide-eyed and scandalized. "You're joking, right?" Met only with Jensen's blank, irritated glare, she thrust her magazine inches away from Jensen's face, pointing emphatically at a man on the cover. "It's Jared Padalecki," she said, like he was the second coming. Jensen raised a skeptical eyebrow and nearly went cross-eyed trying to look at the picture. The guy was gorgeous, he had to admit that. Long limbs, bright smile, hair that looked so soft Jensen's fingers itched to run through it. Too bad he looked just like every other guy who'd ever given Jensen the brush off since high school. "Doesn't ring any bells," he said. Sandy rolled her eyes. "You are the most fashion unconscious gay man I've ever met," she grumbled, blindly opening the magazine in front of Jensen's face and expertly flipping to a double-page spread of Jared smiling at the camera. "He used to be a male model, but now he owns his own cosmetics company, designer fragrances and stuff. There's even been talk about him getting his own reality show on the CW, something about makeovers or male runway models or something, I think." She turned the magazine back around and looked at it herself, uttering a dreamy sigh. "My god, that man is pretty." Jensen let his face fall into his hands and groaned. His day really couldn't get any worse. At least now he understood why Sandy had pushed so hard for him to take this assignment. "You mean I'm stuck going undercover in a male beauty pageant just so you can get your hands on some shameless pretty boy?" "Ah, you must be talking about me." Jensen's head whipped around at the unfamiliar voice to find Jared had arrived and was sauntering casually towards them down the aisle. Jensen's reflex desire to make a thinly veiled comment about professionalism and punctuality got caught in his throat. Jared looked like some kind of greek god, backlit by the sunlight streaming in through the open door behind the cockpit, dressed in shades, a pink button down shirt rolled up to the elbows, and white pants that made his legs look impossibly long. He flashed Jensen a smile fit for a toothpaste commercial, and Jensen kind of wanted to smack those ridiculous dimples right off his face. "Oh my god," Sandy whispered a little breathlessly, and Jensen shot her a sidelong glance, involuntarily curling his lip in a sneer. As he watched with increasing horror, she seemed to physically shake herself out of her daze and stood to greet the man. Jensen reluctantly followed suit, and Sandy held out her hand with an embarrassingly enthusiastic smile. "Mr. Padalecki, sir, this is such an honor." Jared deftly removed the shades and flashed another blinding grin. "If we're gonna be working together, you should just call me Jared," he said warmly, shaking Sandy's hand with a wink. "Well then, you can call me Sandy," she giggled—honest to god giggled—and Jensen didn't even bother to hide his eyeroll. He cleared his throat. Loudly. "And, um, this is my partner, Jensen," she recovered. Jensen shook Jared's hand with a curt nod, feeling that somebody needed to be the consummate professional in this situation, and also showing that there was at least one person on this assignment immune to Jared's instant charm. If Jensen let the handshake continue for a fraction longer than was strictly professional, it was only because he'd been surprised by the way Jared's hand nearly dwarfed his own. As soon as the introductions were completed, Jensen and Sandy took their seats and Jared collapsed back into the spot facing them. He sprawled across both seats, kicking his feet over the armrests and dangling them into the aisle. Government jets were spacious, but apparently they weren't spacious enough for all seventeen feet of Jared's lanky frame. "So, one of your agents already briefed me on the assignment. When do I get to meet the undercover pageant guy?" Jensen blinked, and Sandy cleared her throat. "Yeah, that'd be me," Jensen grumbled. Jared's grin widened and he let out a sharp bark of laughter, then just as suddenly the grin fell for the first time since Jared had entered the plane. He shot an incredulous look at Sandy, then said, "Wait, you're serious?" Jensen felt a sudden, oppressive urge to melt into his seat. He had never really paid much attention to his appearance, mostly because he felt it was a waste of time. So, maybe Jensen didn't always shave every morning, or get his hair cut on a regular basis, or always remember to find matching socks, but those seemed like pretty trivial things when he was busy chasing down bad guys day and night. Jared sat up straight and looked at Jensen, his expression grim. Jensen knew what Jared was seeing, he saw the same thing in the mirror every morning, and he didn't think it was really cause for Jared to look like he was witnessing a train wreck in slow motion. Jensen's suit was rumpled and untucked, and there were mustard stains on his tie from when he'd grabbed a burger before boarding the plane. He hadn't shaved in three days, his hair was smashed down on one side of his head from the last time he'd slept, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Jared cleared his throat awkwardly. "Look, no offense man, but you look like you just came off of a three day stake out." Jensen glared. "That's because I did." He didn't mention the fact that this look was pretty much the standard for him anyway, minus the mustard stains on his tie. Okay, so maybe the mustard stains weren't exactly an exception to his standard ensemble. Jared leaned forward towards Jensen, examining him with way too much interest. Jensen might have enjoyed the close up view of Jared if he hadn't felt like an amoeba under a microscope. "Hmm," Jared said, tapping his chin. After a few seconds, Jared reached out and plucked the glasses off of Jensen's face. "Gorgeous eyes," he said, and Jensen felt heat creep up his face despite his best efforts. "The glasses have to go," he continued. "The freckles work for me, but it's hard to tell them apart from your giant pores. And you're way too pale. Your hair looks like it hasn't been cut in ages, and the shaggy look just doesn't do it for me. Your teeth need whitening, you could use a shave and some serious exfoliation, and we'll definitely have to do something about those potato sacks you call clothes." Hopping up from his place in front of Jensen, Jared smiled and offered Jensen a hand up. "Looks like we've got some work to do. It's a good thing I brought my team." Jensen scowled and grudgingly followed Jared out of the airplane, Sandy following close behind. "Wait, you have a team?" Jensen's question was answered as soon as he stepped out of the plane. The doors to the government warehouse slid open, but instead of a team of secret government agents, a pink-clad swarm flowed from the doors with a noisy, excited chatter. Jensen couldn't help but gawk. "Where did you find all these people?" Jared quirked a smile. "Uh, hello? Owner of my own cosmetics company?" "Oh, right." Jensen frowned as the army of beauticians drew nearer. He could go undercover on a mob sting without blinking an eye, but a petite blonde armed with a nose hair trimmer had him taking a hasty step back. Jensen swallowed, hard. He was going to kill Sandy. *** Around the fourth hour of Jensen's torture, he was sure he was about to crack. He had been poked and prodded, highlighted and cut, spray tanned and exfoliated to within an inch of his life. He'd had people in his face all day, stylists and dentists and optometrists, and the tailor got a little too friendly when taking his measurements. And the entire time, Jared was there, inescapable as he hovered in the background, towering at least a head over everyone and calling out instructions to anyone in a pink uniform. Jensen finally came up for air around lunch time, wearing a cotton bathrobe and a moisturizing mask that felt oddly like he'd just shoved his face in a vat of quick drying cement. He spied the catering table they'd set up to feed the small army and quickly made his way there. "Oh, thank god," he groaned over the rumbling of his stomach. He grabbed a donut in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He was so hungry he had almost eaten the cucumbers they put on his eyes. Jensen didn't even have time to bring the donut towards his mouth before Jared was suddenly there, inescapable, deftly swapping out the donut in Jensen's hand with a celery stick. Jensen glared at the offending vegetable, then turned his glare on the man who was steadily earning the title of Most Annoying Person Ever. "What the hell is this?" Jensen asked. "Lunch," Jared answered, taking a bite of Jensen's donut. "You need to start eating right. No more junk food." "Look who's talking!" Jensen scoffed. "Don't think I haven't seen you stuffing your face with enough candy to put a normal person in a diabetic coma!" "That's different," Jared said with a grin. "I'm a growing boy, but you don't need to be growing anymore." He poked Jensen in his very slightly fleshy stomach for emphasis. Jensen felt his lips purse and his eyebrows shoot upwards. "Are you calling me fat?" Jared grinned amiably around another mouthful of donut and said, "If the cellulite fits…" "I'll have you know I'm in excellent physical condition!" Jensen retaliated, pointing his celery stalk at Jared like a weapon. "I run five miles every morning! I lift weights! I eat right! I eat plenty of healthy stuff!" Without a word, Jared let his assessing gaze travel down the length of Jensen's body. Jensen didn't exactly have the cut physique of a body builder, but something about the way Jared was looking at him had him resisting the urge to puff out his chest, just a little. Jared's eyes wandered back up to lock with Jensen's, a smug expression on his face like he'd just figured out a secret. He took a single step forward into Jensen's personal space, and Jensen's brain nearly stuttered to a halt. Jared was so close Jensen could feel the heat radiating off his skin and smell his aftershave, like spice and mint. Jared's eyes never wavered as Jensen felt one of Jared's hands slide into the pocket of Jensen's bathrobe, and Jensen's breath hitched. Jared smiled and…withdrew a bag of gummy bears from Jensen's pocket. "Healthy," Jared deadpanned. "Right." Jensen's mutinous brain took a few extra seconds to catch up, and he realized with an embarrassed little start that he was staring at Jared's mouth. Scowling, Jensen crossed his arms over in chest and took a defensive step back. "Okay," he reluctantly admitted, "So maybe I indulge occasionally." "Admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery," Jared replied solemnly, then stuffed the bag into his own pocket. "Hey!" Jensen objected. "That's my emergency stash!" "Not anymore," Jared said, then plucked the cup from Jensen's fingers. "And no more coffee for you, either. You're kinda high strung. Now hurry up and finish your lunch." Jared spared a pointed glance for the celery stalk as he started to make his exit. "Then we can start picking out your new wardrobe." Jensen looked around at the milling crowd fit for a Pepto Bismol commercial, and was suddenly very certain he didn't want Jared picking out his clothes. "I'm not wearing pink!" he shouted at Jared's retreating back. He watched Jared saunter off with Jensen's gummy bears, and Jensen was so incensed he almost missed the rather ominous announcement over the loudspeakers. "All hair removal units, please report to sector one." By the time Jensen was finished getting his chest waxed, he decided they needed to update the Geneva conventions. Getting all of your hair ripped out of your skin was definitely a crime against humanity. As if that wasn't bad enough, Jared sat Jensen down in a dentist's chair, turned a spotlight on his face, and pulled out a messenger bag covered with pockets and rather complicated-looking zippers. Jensen got a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Dude, I draw the line at wearing makeup." Jared rolled his eyes and began rifling through the pockets. "If you go onstage without makeup, people are going to mistake you for an albino. You might as well get used to wearing it. Now shut up and suck in your cheeks." Jensen sullenly and reluctantly made a fish face. "Not like that," Jared corrected. "Like you're giving a blowjob." Jensen nearly fell out of the chair. "Excuse me?" he sputtered, turning so red he felt like his face was on fire. "I didn't—How did you—?" "Relax," Jared sounded amused. "I'm guessing my gaydar is apparently a bit more functional than yours." It took Jensen's shell-shocked brain a moment to digest that comment. When it registered, Jensen decided that all the pink and the makeup and stuff probably should have tipped him off, but Jensen wasn't looking for any kind of relationship right now, so it had kind of slipped past him. And it's not like Jared would be interested even if Jensen was, so it didn't really make any difference. "I've never met a gay FBI agent before," Jared continued absently, still rifling through his supplies. "Well, not that I've ever met any FBI agents before at all, but you know what I mean. Hey, would you consider yourself more of a 'warm ivory' or a 'cool linen'?" He held up two seemingly identical bottles of flesh-colored makeup, and Jensen couldn't help but boggle at him. "I'm gonna pretend you didn't seriously just ask me that." "Fine," Jared huffed, but the hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Using the tips of his fingers, Jared started smearing the cool makeup over his cheekbones. "Just make a blowjob face and we can get this over with." Cringing inwardly, Jensen formed his mouth into a perfect O, stretching his cheeks taught. And out of everything Jensen had been forced to endure all day, nothing quite compared to the torment of lying there, feeling Jared touch his face and thinking about blowjobs. Finally, it was over. Jensen had been pampered, preened, scrubbed, whitened, polished, tinted, and groped for the last time. He'd been stuffed into a pair of designer jeans that sat low on his hips and a long sleeved forest green shirt that was way tighter than anything he would normally wear. The outer doors slid open and Jensen stepped into the bright Texas sunshine. It was too warm for the jacket Jared had given him, so he tossed it over his shoulder. The sea of pink parted, revealing the waiting caravan of black SUVs and Sandy gaping at him with her jaw hanging open. "Whoa. Jensen, is…is that you?" Jensen didn't even look at her as he stomped right past her towards the SUV. "I'm exhausted, starving, I have gel in my hair, my contacts itch, and I just spent the last seven hours with the Joseph Stalin of the fashion world. Next time you volunteer me for an undercover assignment, remind me to just shoot myself and avoid the pain." "Aha! It is you. I'd recognize that bitchiness anywhere. Nice work, Jared!" Jensen huffed and opened the car door as he heard Jared respond, "Thanks, but a painter's only as good as his canvas, and Jensen gave me a lot to work with." That made Jensen pause, then hazard a glance back over his shoulder. He caught and held Jared's gaze for a moment, feeling a little off balance. A slow grin spread over Jared's face, and he continued, "Though I am just that damn good, if I do say so myself." Jensen groaned and turned away, the moment gone. Still, as he settled into the backseat of the SUV and resigned himself to his fate, he couldn't shake the odd, tingly sensation that had taken hold of his gut. *** Jensen fiddled with his sash, feeling ridiculous at the thought of having 'Mr. Texas' emblazoned across his chest every day for the next week. But Sandy had assured him that everyone else at the orientation was going to be wearing them too, so he felt marginally less stupid. Jensen entered the ballroom and felt his eyes nearly bug out of his head. Everywhere he looked were men. Lots and lots of really, really attractive men. Jensen got nervous enough around one hot guy, how the hell was he supposed to manage fifty of them? It was practically pavlovian the way his palms started sweating, his mouth went dry, his heart started hammering in his chest louder and louder and louder… "Jensen!" Sandy's tinny voice rang through his concealed earpiece. "Stop gawking at all the pretty boys." Jensen scowled, but stayed frozen in his spot in the doorway. "I'm not gawking," he whispered, knowing that the tiny microphone and camera were transmitting everything back to Sandy in the surveillance van. "I'm surveying the layout of the room to assess potential threats and escape routes." Sandy snorted. "Liar. Oh, hey, try to get seated next to Mr. California. Rowr." Jensen rolled his eyes. "Speaking of gawking, behave yourself or the camera might accidentally malfunction." Jensen casually brushed some invisible lint from his clothes, resting a finger over the American flag pin camera on his lapel and blocking her view. Sandy's gasp transmitted loud and clear over the radio. "You wouldn't dare!" He smiled reluctantly and dropped his hand. "You're right, bad idea. Without the man buffet as a distraction you'd probably just run off into the arms of the gummy bear Nazi. Maybe you could exchange makeup tips late into the night." "Hmm, that's not a bad idea," Sandy replied, thoughtful. Jensen sighed. "Listen, Sandy, I hate to break it to you but…let's just say Jared is more likely to date me than you." "Especially now that you're a hottie," she replied distractedly, and then said, "Wait, you think I want to date him?" Sandy let out an explosive burst of laughter that made Jensen flinch and his eardrum ring. A waiter gave him a strange look, and Jensen moved closer to the corner of the room. Jensen spoke over her raucous laughter. "Well, don't you?" "Jensen," she managed once she had finally pulled herself together enough to speak, "I may enjoy ogling that man's many, many fine qualities, but I knew he was gay before we even met him!" Jensen blinked. "You did?" "Uh, yeah," Sandy answered in a tone like it should be absurdly obvious, and that clearly Jensen had been dropped on his head as a child. And okay, Jensen was an FBI agent, his job was to profile people, so he really should have seen it, but he was man enough to admit that he was maybe a little distracted when he'd first met Jared. Suddenly, Sandy's rushed voice interrupted his thoughts. "Look out, Dragon Lady, three o'clock." At Sandy's warning Jensen looked sharply to the right and noticed the two hosts of the pageant striding towards him. From an objective standpoint, Jensen could see why the network had hired Fabio as a cohost, but Shannon Doherty was just scary. He knew they'd been briefed about his undercover status along with the network and pageant directors, but Shannon had a very pinched look on her face, so he drew himself to his full height and offered up his friendliest 'calm the civilians' grin. Before he could even utter so much as a hello, she was leaning into his space with a tight, thin-lipped smile. "You're the FBI agent they sent to protect us?" she said sharply, giving him a dismissive once-over. "Uh," Jensen raised an eyebrow at her tone. "Yes, ma'am?" It came out sounding like a question rather than an answer. "Mmm," she wrinkled her nose in distaste. "Well, unless your plan is to draw the freaks to you, maybe you should be doing something besides standing in the corner and talking to yourself like a deranged psycho." Jensen's eyebrows shot up, and Sandy was mysteriously quiet in his ear. "This is a very important event, so try not to screw it up." With that, Shannon spun on her very expensive heels and snapped her fingers like a command. "Come on, Fabio," she said, not even looking back as she strode away. "It was very nice meeting you," Fabio said with a bright, if somewhat vacant smile. He gave a little fist-pump into the air and said, "Go America!" "FABIO!" They both flinched at her impatient screech, but then Fabio shrugged, smiling a little less brightly as he followed after her. Jensen watched them go in stunned silence. After a moment, he heard Sandy mutter a quiet, "Wow. What a bitch." A waiter passed by and Jensen instantly grabbed a glass of champagne, downing it quickly. He deserved hazard pay for this. Jensen nearly jumped out of his skin when an unfamiliar voice spoke from behind him. "You're gonna need something a lot stronger than champagne if you plan to make it through this week." Jensen turned towards the speaker and came face to face with a man nearly as tall as Jared, wearing a sash that read "Kansas" over his broad shoulders. He had black hair, bright blue eyes and a square jaw that sported dimples and a wry grin. Jensen might have found him attractive, if he hadn't been so focused on the silver hip flask the guy was offering. Jensen didn't care that he was technically 'on duty.' There was no way he could put up with a bunch of stuck-up, brainless, nauseatingly pretty guys without a serious buzz going. He gladly accepted the flask and downed a healthy swallow. Of course, it was at that point that Sandy decided to remind him of her presence with a low wolf whistle and a sultry, "Hel-loooo, Kansas." Jensen choked on the whiskey. It went spraying everywhere and dribbling down his chin. He was already wiping it off with his shirtsleeve when he heard Sandy groan in his ear, "Smooth, Ackles," and he realized that it probably made him look like even more of an uncouth yokel. He hastily handed the flask back to the guy with a muttered, "Um, thanks." "No problem. You looked like you could use it after your run in with the Devil Who Wears Knock-off Prada." The guy motioned to the stage, where Shannon was yelling at the sound guys. "Name's Tom. Tom Welling," he said, offering his hand for Jensen to shake. "But you can call me Kansas. And you'd better get used to everyone calling you Texas." He draped one arm over Jensen's shoulders and guided him towards the tables. "C'mon, I'll introduce you around." As Jensen allowed himself to be led, he felt some of his tension ease. Tom seemed like a normal guy, so maybe this wouldn't be so bad. He could at least attempt some small talk, try to blend in a little better. "So," he began, "what's your talent?" "Batons," Tom replied with a disturbingly manic grin. "Flaming batons." Jensen groaned inwardly. He needed another drink. *** Jensen was tired. And hungry. And annoyed. And thank god he wasn't armed right now, because he would seriously kill for a cheeseburger and a nap. "No, no, no. You're doing it all wrong! Try it again." Jensen growled and refused to budge. "I've been walking my entire life, Jared. I'm pretty sure I'm doing it right." "You're not walking, Quasimodo, you're schlumping," Jared replied, digging through his man purse. "That's not even a real word," Jensen grumbled, but Jared ignored him as he withdrew a handful of ties for Jensen's suit. "You can't walk with your shoulders hunched over like that, like you're afraid somebody's gonna see you. You need to walk like you want people to see you. Now try it again. Stand up straight. Relax your shoulders. Lift your chin. Okay, not that much. Take lighter steps; you sound like Godzilla trampling Tokyo." "I think I'm beginning to understand why those runway models look so pissed off all the time," Jensen muttered under his breath. Jared sighed and beckoned Jensen over with a wave of his hand. "Nevermind, we'll work on it later. Let me take a look at your outfit." Jared held up several ties to test them against the charcoal grey of Jensen's suit jacket, and Jensen eyed the multicolored lot dubiously. "Dude, I thought I made myself clear. No pink." Jared just raised an eyebrow, dropped all the other ties and started looping the pink tie around Jensen's neck. Jensen narrowed his eyes and tried not to feel the way Jared's fingers brushed against the skin above his collar. "So," Jared said as he tied a perfect Windsor, "what were you planning for your talent? Sharpshooting? Hand to hand combat? Maybe a striptease?" Jensen rolled his eyes. "I'll do whatever you want me to do, Yoda." Jared froze. "Oh my god," he groaned, then turned and started stalking away. "Sandy!" he called, making a beeline for the catering table, where Sandy was undoubtedly stuffing her face just to spite Jensen. "Sandy, Jensen has no talent!" Sandy paused in the midst of downing a cup of chocolate pudding. "Geez, Jared, you don't need to shout that out right in front of him." Jensen decided to let that one slide. "He means I don't have a performance lined up for the talent competition," he explained pointedly. "Oh. Right. I, uh, may have forgotten to mention that Jensen kind of has horrible stagefright," Sandy cringed. "He gets all pale and whiny just from having to speak in front of the department. I figured we could just skip the whole talent thing." Jensen was totally on board with that plan. "What? No, you can't skip it!" Jared protested. "Why not?" Jensen shot back. "I mean, the competition's fixed, right? I've been guaranteed complete stage access, so I'm automatically in the top five. Congratulations to me. What does it matter if I just hang out backstage that day and claim technical difficulties screwed with my performance?" "The talent competition accounts for thirty percent of your overall score, Jensen. People are gonna notice if you call in sick that day, then miraculously show up in the winner's circle!" "Okay," Sandy said, holding up her hands in a calming gesture. "So, we'll just have to come up with something, then. Preferably something that won't involve Jensen passing out as soon as he sets foot onstage." Jensen glared at Sandy. "Y'know, that hand-to-hand combat idea is starting to look appealing. Wanna volunteer?" "Sure, if you want to have your ass handed to you in front of the judges," Sandy countered sweetly. "There must be something you can do," Jared said. "Can you juggle? Do card tricks? Make balloon animals?" "I'm a federal agent, not an entertainer at four-year-old birthday parties," Jensen scowled. "You can tie cherry stems with your tongue," Sandy supplied helpfully. "I once knew a girl back home who could milk a cow in under thirty seconds," Jared added. "Dude?!" Jensen finally shouted, somewhere between appalled and impressed. Jared shrugged helplessly. "You have to have a talent, Jensen. You can't get up there and eat your own weight in gummy bears if you expect to be taken seriously." "Oh, and the cow thing is so much more dignified," Jensen deadpanned. "Look, there is one thing that I can do pretty well, but I just…I've never really done it in public." There was a beat of silence, then Jared's eyes went wide as saucers. "You're not having sex on this stage!" "Dude!" Jensen shouted again, this time edging all the way toward appalled. "I was talking about singing!" Then it was Sandy's turn for her eyes to go wide. "Seriously? I mean…seriously?" Jensen was suddenly very nervous. The last time she'd looked that happy had been when she'd dropped this assignment in his lap. "I, uh…well, I don't have my guitar," Jensen hesitantly backpedaled. "I'm on it," she announced, practically running backwards out of the door. "You two keep up the good work. I'll take care of it. By the way," she added with a motion towards Jensen's tie, "pink looks good on you." *** Jared had Jensen working for a few more hours after that. Jared kept correcting him, adjusting his clothes or posture, and all the touching wasn't exactly improving Jensen's already sour mood. By the time they'd moved on to the practice interviews, Jensen was so frustrated that if he got one more whiff of Jared's shampoo he was either going to throttle the guy or jump him, and he honestly didn't know which idea sounded more appealing at the moment. Even Jared's usual annoyingly upbeat personality seemed to be wearing down. Jared was slouched in a chair on the opposite side of the stage, long legs splayed wide, flipping through some official-looking notecards with sharp movements colored by his mild irritation. And okay, maybe Jensen hadn't exactly been the most cooperative student, but it was after midnight. Jared apparently had no problem coasting by on pixie stix and Red Bull, but Jensen needed his sleep. Jared paused in his flipping and raised an eyebrow at Jensen. "Maybe your talent should be looking perpetually constipated." "Excuse me?" "Just saying you should smile more, Jensen. I like the way it makes your eyes crinkle." Jensen was a little floored by the random comment, so he scowled deeper. Jared rolled his eyes dramatically. "For god's sake, it's just a few simple questions, not an interrogation." "I think I'd feel more comfortable in an interrogation," Jensen muttered. Jared just huffed a little, blowing the hair out of his face. Jensen thought it made him look like a petulant little kid, and he slid a little closer to the "jump him" option before swinging back towards "throttle him." No one should be allowed to look that adorable, especially when that person insisted on holding Jensen hostage late into the night and refusing to let him anywhere near the coffee machine. "Can we just get this over with?" Jared continued fiddling with his note cards, considering his choices, but eventually he seemed to decide on one and read, "Why do you want to be Mr. United States?" Jensen pasted on a sardonic smile. "Because it's always been my secret dream to be king of the metrosexuals." "Would you at least try to take this seriously?" Jared replied, his frustration showing through. "Why should I?" Jensen shot back. "This is pointless, Jared. I don't want to win this thing! What do I care what a bunch of stuck up snobs think about my looks? It doesn't affect how I do my job. I'm an FBI agent, not a trained monkey in a suit." "You're also a person, Jensen, and you have a life that's passing you by," Jared replied, rising to his feet. "Don't you care about having friends? Relationships?" "I have friends!" Jensen replied defensively, and it sounded lame even to him. "Really?" Jared crossed his arms over his chest and raised a skeptical eyebrow. "When's the last time you even went on a date?" Jensen opened his mouth to reply, but Jared raised a finger to stop him. "And I'm not talking about somebody that Sandy set you up with," he added. Jensen snapped his mouth shut and thought about it. He didn't like the answer. Feeling embarrassment and anger rise in his chest, he said, "Hey, not all of us are like you, Jared! We can't just snap our fingers and call up a harem. I have my job, and I'm good at it." "That's all you have," Jared replied, his voice rising. "You spend all your time chasing down criminals and no time going after the things that you want." Jensen felt his face burn in resentment at the thought that Jared would presume to know so much about his life. "Oh that's rich, coming from you," he spat, voice low. "You've probably never had to ask for anything in your charmed little life. You have everything you could possibly want. Celebrity friends, a successful business, a line of guys around the block just waiting for a chance to go on a date with the great Jared Padalecki. When have you ever had to take a risk?" Jensen watched Jared's face pale as his words hit their mark. "So why don't you just lay off, alright? You have no idea why I am the way that I am!" Jared's hands were clenching the note cards tightly, crushing them against his giant palms. "Well as long as we're practicing interviews, why are you the way that you are?" he replied, an angry edge creeping into his voice. And that right there was the final straw. It was asking too much, and Jensen was already holding on to the last vestiges of his temper by a fine thread. "It's none of your damn business," he growled, then practically leapt up and brushed past Jared on his way out. But Jensen wasn't fast enough, and Jared managed to grab his shoulder as he passed. "Hey, where are you going? We have more to do here!" Before Jensen had even realized he'd moved, he had Jared slammed up against a wall, his hand fisted in Jared's t-shirt. "No. We're done." His voice was level, but his eyes were furiously locked with Jared's. Jared's gaze didn't waver, but the fight had gone out of his eyes. "Yeah, okay man. We're done." Jared's tone was calm and soothing, like Jensen was a spooked horse. He placed one hand over Jensen's, and Jensen watched as his hand instinctively relaxed under Jared's to splay his palm flat over Jared's chest. He was instantly aware of how warm Jared's skin was underneath the fabric of his shirt, and he could feel the flutter of Jared's heartbeat against his fingers. Jensen sucked in a breath and pushed away in a rush. He didn't even look at Jared as he left, all too aware of the flash in his belly that he couldn't quite brush off as adrenaline from the fight. Finding Jared attractive was one thing—a blind man would've found Jared attractive—but being attracted to Jared…Well, that was one giant can of worms that Jensen didn't want to investigate too closely. Down that road lay madness and heartache, and wasn't that just what Jensen needed to complete this farce? Jensen's life may not have been perfect, but ever since taking this assignment, he'd felt completely off balance, like an outsider in his own life. Being the only openly gay agent in the hetero-heavy boys' club meant Jensen knew something about being just outside the inner circle, but this was different. Jensen had always been able to console himself with the fact that he was good at his job, but now he felt like he didn't even have that anymore. He could investigate crimes, he could catch criminals, but this…this wasn't anything he could handle. With a final nod to himself, Jensen headed back to the hotel and straight to Sandy's room. After all, this whole thing was her fault, anyway. *** Jensen pounded on Sandy's door for several long minutes. When it finally swung open, Sandy still seemed half asleep, her droopy eyelids and bed head making her look kind of adorable. It was almost enough for Jensen to forget he was pissed at her. "Jensen? What are you doing here? It's after one." "I know," Jensen snapped dully. "I just came by to let you know I'm quitting. Have a nice life." Jensen turned to go, but was abruptly yanked back into Sandy's room by the back of his collar. Slamming the door, then slamming Jensen into the door, she looked up at him with a fierce gaze originating from about the middle of his chest and said, "Excuse me? What the hell did you just say?" It was surprisingly intimidating, coming from such a tiny girl, but Jensen just jutted out his chin and repeated, "I quit. I'm through. I don't feel like an agent anymore, Sandy! I feel like a joke! What were you even thinking when you volunteered me for this assignment? I can't do this anymore, and I won't." Sandy backed down a little, and her expression morphed from outrage to suspicion. "Does this have anything to do with Jared?" "Ugh. Can you just forget about Jared for one second, please?" Jensen growled, tamping down the urge to scrub a hand through his hair and start pulling. "I tell you I'm quitting, and all you can talk about is Jared Fucking Padalecki!" "Okay," Sandy said slowly, putting her hands on her hips and still staring at Jensen with fire in her eyes. "So, are you going to tell me what happened between the two of you, or do I have to wait while you freak out and yell at me some more?" "That's not—Why are you—You wouldn't believe some of the things he said to me in there! They were so—so—" Jensen huffed a little and slumped against the door, the wind abruptly taken from his sales. "So true." There was a long pause while Jensen just looked at the floor, and then Sandy gently placed her hands on his shoulders, forcing him to look at her. "Hey," she said softly. "You want to know why I volunteered you for this assignment?" "Lost a bet?" "Because you are the most stubborn son of a bitch that I know, and you never would have accepted a makeover if it wasn't forced on you by bureaucrats and documented in triplicate." While Jensen boggled a little at her answer, she continued, "Seriously, Jensen. You're a great person, underneath the attitude and the tacky suits, and you need to stop hiding it because of some misplaced fear of rejection. You need to come out of your shell, because if you gave people a chance to see the real you, then they couldn't help but love you." For a long time, Jensen was quiet, just mulling over her words. Finally, his lips curled into a hesitant smile. "Sometimes I forget you were a psych major in college." Sandy smirked back. "With a headcase like you for a partner, I like to consider it a survival skill." *** Part 2

Entry tags: fandom: cw rps, fic: miss(ter) congeniality, genre: au, genre: crack, genre: humor, genre: prompt/challenge response, genre: romance, pairing: jared/jensen, rating: nc-17 By the time Jensen made it backstage, everyone was in the final stages of preparation for the talent competition. People were running around in a chaotic mess, gathering props, putting on costumes, and rehearsing, but Jensen was in a state of panic. He didn't know how to apply all the stage make up Jared usually made him wear, so he hadn't bothered trying. His stomach was in knots at the thought of having to perform for the packed auditorium. His fingers felt numb and sluggish on the guitar strings, and he couldn't even get the damn thing in tune. To top it all off, Jensen just couldn't seem to focus. It was hard enough trying to concentrate with all the activity backstage, but instead of notes and lyrics, Jensen's thoughts kept coming back to potential suspect lists and the look on Jared's face right before he'd left. "Hey, Jensen, have you seen my lighter?" Tom appeared out of nowhere just as Jensen struck another bad chord. Jensen eyed Tom in his black outfit with sequined flames running down the sides, then just shook his head silently in answer. Tom frowned before heading off to continue the search, leaving Jensen to question his own wardrobe choice. Jensen had chosen comfort over fashion, since he was nervous and fidgety enough without adding an itchy shirt to the mix. He was wearing his favorite jeans and a simple, faded blue tee that had been worn soft in the wash. The jeans had a small rip at the knee, but he'd had them for so long that they'd molded to fit his body like a glove. It wasn't exactly the elaborate costumes everyone else was wearing, but Jensen knew he'd feel even more ridiculous in some flashy outfit made of rainbow sequins. He wondered if Jared would have made him wear something like that, smiling that big goofy smile and laughing at Jensen behind his eyes. A guy walked by in a Shakespearian costume, quoting Hamlet to himself, and Jensen struck another chord that sounded like a howling cat. Cursing, he hung his head and ran a sweaty palm through his hair. He couldn't do this. He would go out there and it would be just like last time. His heart would pound, he would break out in a cold sweat, and he'd freeze up, only this time it would be on national television. Even as he thought about it, Jensen could feel the wave of panic start to rise in his chest, and his breathing started to pick up. There was too much activity, too many people, and Jensen needed to get some space before he hyperventilated and passed out. Practically ripping the guitar off his shoulder, Jensen made a beeline for the nearest restroom and banged the door open with his fist. The room was about the size of a large closet, with a toilet and a sink and paint peeling in one corner by the door. He splashed ice cold water on his face and leaned over the sink, trying to get his breathing back under control. When he thought he could feel his heartbeat begin to slow, he hazarded a glance in the mirror. What he saw there made his heart start to pound all over again. Jared stood behind him, an uncertain smile on his face as he stared at Jensen's reflection. He looked like he'd come straight from the airport. He was wearing a wrinkled white button down, shirt tails hanging out over an old pair of jeans, and ratty flip flops. Jensen thought he'd never looked better. "You okay?" Jared asked. "For a minute there I thought I'd have to break out the smelling salts," he said, motioning to the bag hanging at his side. For a long second, Jensen couldn't do anything but stare. When he finally found his voice, he said, "Is there anything you don't have in that bag?" One corner of Jared's mouth inched a fraction higher. "Not really. I've got pretty much everything you might ever need in here." As if to prove it, he reached into the bag and pulled out a bottle of makeup. "We'd better get started," he said hesitantly. He opened the bottle and took a small step forward, not meeting Jensen's eyes. But when he reached up towards Jensen's face, Jensen grabbed his wrist. Jared's eyes found Jensen's curiously, but all Jensen could think to say was a quiet, "You'll miss your flight." Jared shrugged with one shoulder, but his eyes never left Jensen's. "I already did," he replied just as quietly. They continued to stare at each other for several long moments, until finally Jensen felt a slow smile creep over his face. "Thanks," he said, then watched an answering grin deepen the dimples on Jared's face. Jensen had to bite his lip to hold in the ridiculous giggle he could feel bubbling up in his chest. Their eyes never left each other's as Jared applied Jensen's stage makeup. Jensen settled into the soothing, now familiar feeling of Jared's fingers on his face, his neck, in his hair. He had to bite back a whine of protest when he could tell Jared was nearing the end of the routine. He hated the thought that after today, he'd never feel Jared touch him like this again. Jared seemed just as reluctant as Jensen was to finish, letting his fingers stay curled around the nape of Jensen's neck as he looked thoughtfully over Jensen's face. When he once more reached for his bag, Jensen was surprised to see the small dark pencil Jared withdrew. "Final touch," he explained to Jensen's furrowed brow. "Look up," he instructed. Jensen flicked his eyes to the ceiling, and Jared dragged the tip of the eyeliner over the rim of Jensen's bottom lids. One of Jared's big, warm hands was cupping Jensen's jaw, holding him steady, and it took all of Jensen's willpower not to curl into the touch like a cat. Jared was so close, hovering inches away from where Jensen was pressed back against the edge of the sink. All Jensen had to do was shift a little closer and their hips would be perfectly aligned. "Close your eyes." Jensen did as instructed, and Jared repeated the process on his upper lids. In the sudden blackness, everything seemed sharper. Jensen could smell Jared's skin, like sweat and recycled air from the airplane, and the lingering hint of his shampoo. He could feel Jared's breath on his face in warm, gentle puffs, and he knew if he just tipped his head up a little more he could capture Jared's mouth with his. In that moment, Jensen made a decision. Jared and Sandy had been right before; Jensen never went after the things he wanted. He'd spent most of his life with his head buried in the sand, too scared to take a chance on himself or the people around him. But he knew if he didn't at least try, if he didn't take a chance with Jared, he'd always regret it. Jared smudged the kohl over Jensen's lids with the pads of his thumbs, then said, "Okay, open your eyes." The instant Jensen locked eyes with Jared he laid everything bare, let heat filter into his gaze, and tried to let Jared see everything he'd kept hidden from the rest of the world. He didn't even realize his hand had settled onto Jared's hip until he felt it fist in Jared's shirt with the force of his want. At first, Jared didn't react. Jensen tensed and held his breath, afraid of the moment when Jared might turn away, a polite rejection on his lips. A second later, something in Jared's gaze shifted, and Jensen felt like he was burning up inside just from the hunger in Jared's eyes. Jared let out a noise somewhere between a moan and a growl and instantly pulled Jensen into a scorching kiss. Jared's mouth was soft and warm, and Jensen was momentarily blindsided by how right it felt. He sucked Jared's bottom lip into his mouth. It tasted sweet, like cherry flavored chapstick. His hands tangled in Jared's hair, threading through the silky brown locks the way he'd been wanting since the first day they met. Jared's arms wrapped around Jensen with surprising strength, bringing their bodies flush. The edge of the sink was digging into Jensen's ass, but their hips slotted together perfectly, and Jensen got hard so fast it gave him a headrush. He clutched at Jared's shoulders for balance, seeing spots dance behind his eyelids. Jared kissed him like a drowning man gasping for air. Jensen kissed back with just as much desperation, opening his mouth to let Jared slide in. A moan rumbled deep in Jensen's chest, and Jared slipped long fingers under the edge of Jensen's shirt. It felt like Jensen had been waiting forever for Jared to put his hands on Jensen's skin. When one broad palm skimmed up the length of his spine, rucking his shirt up in its wake, Jensen felt the cool air on his hot skin and shivered. Jared's mouth descended on Jensen's neck, trailing from his jaw to his collarbone, and Jensen's head fell backwards in a quiet gasp. Jensen's head swam as Jared kissed and sucked the sensitive line of his throat. He couldn't seem to get close enough to Jared. He brought one hand up to cradle the back of Jared's neck, holding him tight against Jensen's pulse point. His legs parted a little further in almost unconscious invitation. Jared rumbled a half-formed curse into Jensen's neck as he pressed in further with a small rock of his hips, letting Jensen feel the hard length practically throbbing with heat alongside Jensen's. Jensen sucked in a harsh breath and seriously considered the pros and cons of just coming in his pants. It wasn't until he considered the possibility of going out on stage with a giant wet spot on his jeans that he came crashing back to reality. "Jay, wait." It was the last thing he wanted to do, but Jensen gently extricated himself from Jared's embrace, holding Jared's face between his hands and meeting glassy, confused eyes. "We can't—I have to go perform soon. I have enough trouble onstage as it is, I can't go out there if I'm all…" He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of his crotch. "…tense," he finished. Jared blinked, but then a wicked smirk slowly lit up his face and his eyes took on a devious glint. Leaning close, his breath ghosted over the shell of Jensen's ear as he whispered, "I think I have the perfect idea to help you relax." Then he slid down the length of Jensen's body, going to his knees. His fingers slipped under the waistband of Jensen's jeans, and the sight of Jared looking up at him, cheeks flushed and lips wet, killed any further protest Jensen might have made. "Oh, fuck," Jensen breathed, but it sounded more like, Yes. Please. One corner of Jared's mouth lifted in victory. Fingertips skirted along the edge of Jensen's jeans, pushing the hem of his shirt up, and then Jared leaned in to nip lightly at the skin just below Jensen's navel. Jensen let out an embarrassing whimper as Jared licked soothingly at the patch of skin, then tugged at the button of Jensen's fly. Jared reached one giant hand into Jensen's pants and pulled out his aching cock, wrapping long fingers around the shaft and thumbing the moisture at the tip. Jensen screwed his eyes shut and gripped the edge of the sink with white knuckles. But as amazing as it felt, it was nothing compared to when Jared wrapped the hot, wet, furnace of his mouth over the head of Jensen's cock and started sucking. Jensen's breath exploded from his chest in a harsh sigh. Jensen always got quiet during really good sex, becoming so incoherent he was lucky if he even remembered to breathe. But Jared seemed to be just the opposite. He hummed as he swirled his tongue around the head, moaning loud and long as he took Jensen's length into his mouth. Jensen stroked his fingers through Jared's hair, tugging lightly at the base of his skull. He tried to say Jared's name, but all that came out was an unintelligible whisper of a sound. Jensen felt like all the air had been stolen from his lungs. His thighs quivered under Jared's palms as Jared hollowed out his cheeks, working his tongue along the underside of Jensen's cock with each stroke. Jensen's panting breaths were drowned out by the continual needy, happy little moans Jared made, and it was too much, it had been too long, and this was Jared, and oh god. Jared wrapped one strong arm around Jensen's hips and pulled him all the way into Jared's throat, scratching blunt nails across the base of Jensen's spine, and that was it. He was gone, coming so hard it was blinding, Jared swallowing him down and sucking lightly through the aftershocks. Jared stood quickly, pulling Jensen into a fierce kiss and parting his lips so Jensen could taste himself on Jared's tongue. Jared's arms were like iron bands around Jensen's chest as Jared mumbled disjointed, half-formed phrases against Jensen's lips. "God, Jen. I wanna—in you—" Jensen's only answer was to pull Jared into another desperate, come-flavored kiss. The next thing Jensen knew he was practically being lifted and spun around to slam into the opposite wall, Jared's wide palm cushioning the back of his head. Jared kissed him once more before turning Jensen around and lifting his hands by the wrists, planting his palms firmly against the wall. Jensen had always guessed Jared was strong, but being so easily manhandled into position sent an unnerving flare of heat through Jensen's body. Jared once again slid to the floor, this time pulling Jensen's jeans and boxers down around his thighs. Jared's hands skimmed up to palm Jensen's ass, thumbs dipping into the crease and grazing over his hole, making his cock twitch. Jensen was busy trying to bring his brain back to earth when he unexpectedly felt Jared spread him open and push his warm, wet tongue inside. "Fuck!" The word was torn from Jensen's throat as a choked-off whisper. Jared, the bastard, just hummed his agreement and stroked his tongue deeper. It took all of Jensen's concentration not to just slide down the wall in a boneless heap. The barest hint of stubble brushed the insides of his thighs as Jared curled his tongue around Jensen's opening. It made Jensen's entire body break out in gooseflesh, and he curled his fingers into the wall. Then suddenly Jared moved away, and Jensen nearly keened at the loss, feeling Jared's saliva rapidly cool on his skin. "Jay?" He heard rustling, and then Jared was right there, pressed up against the length of his back, one hand wrapped tightly around his hip. "I'm right here," he said into Jensen's ear. "Just had to grab something from my bag." And then Jared pushed one long, slick finger into his opening, bringing a sound to Jensen's throat like a broken sob. Belatedly, he realized Jared must have dug a bottle of lube from his bag. Jared half chuckled, half groaned into the back of Jensen's neck. "See? I told you, I really do keep everything in there." Jensen would have uttered a come back, but then one finger became two, and all Jensen could do was gasp and push his hips back recklessly into Jared's hand. Jared uttered a soft curse and guided Jensen's hips away from the wall. Jensen's arms were locked straight in front of him, palms spread wide, his body wound tight as a rubber band ready to snap. The way Jared was touching him, the feeling of body heat bleeding through their clothes, the scent of Jared's skin, it all combined to make Jensen feel like the world had tilted beneath his feet. He didn't know how it was possible, but he'd gotten hard again. Jared's fingers scissored and twisted inside him, brushing his prostate, and Jensen's back arched into a sharp bow. "God, Jen, you look—fuck. You don't even know. Goddamn." Jared cut off his awestruck rambling with a noise like a growl, and then Jared's hand was gone and Jensen could hear the frantic, fumbling sounds of a belt buckle being undone with slick fingers. With one final, muffled curse, Jared bracketed Jensen's hips with hands large enough to nearly encircle his waist and Jensen felt the blunt pressure of Jared's cock at his opening. His breath caught in both anticipation and relief as Jared pushed slowly inside. He was huge, and Jensen could feel the stretch all the way down to his toes. Jared's chest was flush to Jensen's back, his breath hot against the nape of Jensen's neck. One of Jared's hands came up to caress the length of Jensen's outstretched arm, trailing a soothing touch from shoulder to wrist, twining his fingers between Jensen's when he finally bottomed out inside Jensen's body. "Breathe, Jen," Jared whispered into the back of his neck. The strained edge to his voice made him sound less smug than he had probably intended, and the thought made Jensen smile as he forced his lungs to expand. When Jared started to move, slowly at first, it made Jensen's head spin. Jared filled him up until he could practically feel each thrust in his throat. One hand stayed clamped tight to Jensen's hip, holding him steady as Jared picked up the pace. His other hand brought their twined fingers to rest on Jensen's chest, embracing him tightly and pressing his face to the crook of Jensen's neck. He grunted softly with each rock of his hips, like it was a surprise each time he got to push into Jensen's tight heat. The tautness in Jensen's body began to ebb away. His muscles turned to water, and his bones to Jello. Then Jared's angle changed, hitting the perfect spot inside with each thrust, and Jensen nearly collapsed in Jared's arms. He let his head fall back against Jared's shoulder with a quiet cry. Jared responded by latching his mouth to the side of Jensen's neck and crashing his hips hard into Jensen's ass. Jensen forgot to breathe, forgot to think, and just let Jared take him. Jared's hand slipped from his waist to wrap around his aching cock, stroking roughly in time with his thrusts. Jensen was almost completely gone, rocking between Jared's hips and his hand, so close he could almost taste his orgasm on the back of his tongue. Jared's strained, husky voice pleaded in Jensen's ear, "Please, Jen, c'mon," and that was all Jensen needed to push him over the edge. He screwed his eyes shut and dropped his jaw in a wordless shout, and when he came it felt like every nerve ending in his body had fired at once, like they had all been melted and fused together. He was only dimly aware of Jared's teeth in his shoulder as his own orgasm hit, spilling into Jensen's body. When Jensen came back to himself, Jared was still wrapped around him like a giant, bony octopus, and Jensen was resting his forehead against the coolness of the wall. He was pretty sure it was the only thing holding the both of them upright. They were both panting like a couple of racehorses, and Jensen concentrated on getting his harsh breathing under control. He could feel drops of sweat running down the back of his neck, and Jared's tongue flicked out to lick them away. A knock at the door made them both start, then freeze. A girl's voice called out, "Hey, Mr. Texas? Are you in there?" Once Jensen's mind had recovered from it's panicked litany of Fuck fuck fuckity fuck he cleared his throat. "Yeah, I'm here," he said, and tried very hard not to think about the fact that Jared's cock was still inside him. Despite his distress, his voice was thick from his post orgasmic haze and his Texas drawl slipped into his speech. "Oh, thank god!" The girl's voice sounded relieved. "We've been looking for you forever! You're on in five minutes!" "Fuck," Jensen cursed under his breath, and then louder, "I'll be right out!" Despite his words, neither of them immediately moved to pull away. Squeezing Jensen a little tighter, Jared spoke quietly into the nape of Jensen's neck. "As soon as this is over, we're doing that again. Like, a thousand more times. But in a bed." The Texas accent had taken over Jared's voice as well, dripping over the words like molasses. "And give up this romantic setting?" Jensen asked lazily, glancing at the peeling paint and chipped sink. "Can we at least come back here for special occasions and anniversaries?" Jared pinched his ass with uncoordinated fingers. "Shut up, or I won't let you top tonight." They got cleaned up and dressed quickly, but judging by the glance Jensen caught of himself in the mirror—swollen lips, wildly mussed hair and black rimmed, glassy eyes—he didn't think any amount of smoothing down hair or adjusting clothing could wipe the 'I just had really amazing sex' look from their faces. His suspicions were confirmed when they opened the door and the tiny, blonde PA gave them a quick once over before turning a rather becoming shade of scarlet. It probably didn't help that Jared had two fingers hooked into the back pocket of Jensen's jeans. The girl cleared her throat and held up Jensen's guitar. "They're, um—They're ready for you onstage. You'd better hurry." And just like that, Jared was practically dragging him towards the stage, giving him a quick leer and a muttered, "Damn, you look good all fucked out. Here's hoping we cured your stagefright," before practically flinging Jensen onto the stage. Jensen squinted into the bright lights and fidgeted with his guitar strap. In the center of the stage there was a small stool and a microphone stand. Jensen stepped forward, the heels of his cowboy boots clicking hard against the stage and echoing loudly in the eerily silent auditorium. For the first time, Jensen was thankful for his bowlegged walk, because it did something to hide the fact he'd just been fucked six ways to Sunday only minutes before setting foot onstage. As Jensen took his place on the stool, the stage went completely black, except for the bright white spotlight shining directly in Jensen's face. And Jensen waited for the freak out—because he was onstage, and he knew he looked about as post-coital as he felt, and he was about to sing—but then, it didn't. He wasn't sure he had the energy left for a freak out. Every single part of Jensen's body felt loose, languid, and well…relaxed. Apparently, having two spectacular orgasms with the man of his dreams really was the cure for Jensen's stagefright. He still didn't like being onstage, but he felt a little bit less like he wanted to run away and hide under the biggest rock he could find. Jensen glanced to the side to see Jared watching him anxiously, a tense set to his shoulders. Jared tried to offer an encouraging smile, and Jensen figured he was trying to calm what he thought to be Jensen's frazzled nerves. Jensen felt his own face light up in an answering half grin. He could do this. And not because of some new hairstyle, or expensive clothes, or being able to pose for the judges. He could do this because while Jared had been working on Jensen's outward appearance, he'd also somehow seen something beneath the surface. For the first time, Jensen felt like he was the person he was always meant to become, the person he'd kept hidden inside that Jared had found and brought out for the world to see. And now, watching Jared's hesitant smile turn into something brighter, Jensen couldn't stop an idea from forming in his head. Jensen cleared his throat awkwardly, then leaned forward and spoke into the microphone. "Hi," Jensen said, adjusting a few strings on his guitar. "I, um…I know the program says I'm supposed to sing the Texas state song for y'all—" Jensen had to pause as that got a roar from the primarily Texan crowd, either from the mention of their beloved state or the way the relaxed, down home drawl had slipped back into Jensen's speech. "But I'd like to sing something a little different." Jensen took another few seconds to pluck at the strings, making sure they were in tune. Then, laughing a little at himself for releasing his inner teenage girl, he launched into the song he had wanted to sing that night at the karaoke bar, You Found Me by Kelly Clarkson. The acoustic guitar cut out a lot of the flashiness of the pop song, leaving it feeling more raw, matching the rough tone of his voice. Jensen let the first few chords wash over him before he began to sing in his usual quiet baritone, his voice growing louder as he began to loose himself in the lyrics of the song. Is this a dream? If it is Please don't wake me from this high I've become comfortably numb Until you opened up my eyes To what it's like When everything's right I can't believe You found me When no one else was lookin' How did you know just where I would be? Yeah, you broke through All of my confusion The ups and the downs And you still didn't leave I guess that you saw what nobody could see You found me You found me So, here we are That's pretty far When you think of where we've been No going back I'm fading out All that has faded me within You're by my side Now everything's fine I can't believe You found me When no one else was lookin' How did you know just where I would be? Yeah, you broke through All of my confusion The ups and the downs And you still didn't leave I guess that you saw what nobody could see You found me You found me And I was hiding 'Til you came along And showed me where I belong You found me When no one else was lookin' How did you know? How did you know? You found me When no one else was lookin' How did you know just where I would be? Yeah, you broke through All of my confusion The ups and the downs And you still didn't leave I guess that you saw what nobody could see The good and the bad And the things in between You found me You found me As the notes of the last chord faded into the roar of the crowd, Jensen didn't hear any of it. He walked off stage in a daze, focused solely on Jared's form standing perfectly still, half hidden in the shadow of the backstage curtain. Something in Jared's expression made him pause a few feet away, and he watched as Jared's throat worked silently. He waited for Jared to break the sudden tension. Jared took a few small steps forward, until he was hovering over Jensen, but not touching him. There was a look in Jared's eyes that Jensen couldn't decipher, but whatever he saw there made Jensen's breath catch in his chest. When Jared spoke, it sounded raspy and thick. "Sandy was right. You have one hell of a voice." Jensen ducked his head to hide his blush, and when he looked up, whatever he had seen in Jared's eyes had been replaced by a teasing glint. "Still, that song was pretty damn cheesy." Jensen didn't bother to hold back his answering chuckle. "Says Britney Spears' number one fan. You know you love it. Admit it," he mocked back. Suddenly, that look was back in Jared's eyes, this time accompanied by Jared's hands on his face so he couldn't look away. "Yeah, I kinda do," he said, voice a low murmur that settled like hot coals in Jensen's belly. Then he pulled Jensen into a soft kiss, and Jensen almost missed the stagehand's call for everyone to head back onstage. In the end, one of the PAs had to pry him away and drag him along with the rest of the crowd. Fifteen minutes later, Jensen was still reeling as he stood with the other contestants onstage. He didn't even hear it as Fabio announced the names of the top five, and Tom had to nudge him hard in the ribs to get his attention. "Jensen, that's you," he hissed, pointing to the expectant faces of the host and judges. Jensen stumbled his way toward the front of the stage, dazedly taking his place on the empty fourth star. He was only vaguely aware of Tom coming to stand on the fifth star, wearing a smile fit to rival Jensen's. But Jensen's smile had nothing to do with the competition, and everything to do with the tall brunette giving him an enthusiastic thumbs up from the side of the stage. *** By the time the final interviews began, Jensen's giddy mood had dissolved into panic. This was the last competition before the winners were announced, and Jensen was no closer to figuring out who was behind the potential threat. Jensen still didn't even have reason to believe it was somebody besides Shannon, aside from that persistent feeling in the back of his mind. Jensen couldn't help fidgeting as he sat onstage in his tux, the pink silk handkerchief Jared had given him peeking out of his jacket pocket. Tom finished his answer as the crowd applauded, and then it was Jensen's turn. Fabio raised the note cards and said in heavily accented English, "Why do you want to be Mr. United States?" Jensen almost snorted into his microphone at the question. Remembering the way Jared has asked him that same question, he glanced offstage surreptitiously, easily spotting Jared standing a head above the crowd. But Jared wasn't looking back. He was on his cell phone, eyes wide and a little panicked, and Jensen felt his heartbeat speed up in response. Before he could catch Jared's eye, Fabio cleared his throat and said, "Texas?" Jensen's head whipped around as if startled. The judges and crowd were waiting for his answer, but he didn't have any more of an idea how to answer it now than he did when Jared had first asked the question. Jensen's mind replayed it now, Jared's easy drawl filling his head. Why do you want to be Mr. United States? Heaving a sigh, Jensen decided he was too distracted to come up with a convincing speech to satisfy the judges, and that left him with only one option: tell the truth. After all, opening up had worked for him so far, hadn't it? "Honestly, I don't." The audience lit up with a shocked murmur of whispers, but Jensen continued. "The truth is, I wasn't thrilled with the idea of entering this pageant. But then I came here, and I met all these great guys..." Jensen trailed off, feeling an almost unconscious smile spread across his face at the thought of Jared. "Well, one guy in particular. He showed me how to open up, to let people see me, and now I feel like for the first time in my life I'm right where I belong. So no, I don't want to be Mr. United States, because I feel like I've already accomplished so much. All I want now is for these guys to be happy." He clapped Tom heartily on the back and the crowd started to applaud, but Jensen wasn't finished. Seeing his opportunity to issue a warning, just in case the culprit was still out there, Jensen lowered his voice to a commanding rumble and added, "And if anything—anything—happened to these guys, I would make sure the person responsible had a world of hurt coming for them. I would make them suffer so much, they'd wish they were never born. And if they ran, I would hunt them down and make them pay." The crowd was completely silent, and it took several moments for Fabio to recover enough from his shock to offer up an unsteady smile and a shaky, "Erm, thank you, Texas." The audience applauded hesitantly, and Jensen glanced to the side of the stage to check on Jared. He found himself gripping the sides of his chair to keep from rushing offstage in a panic, because when he looked up, Jared had vanished. *** Jensen remained onstage while the judges tallied their scores. Even though Jensen knew only a few minutes had passed, it felt like hours. Jared was gone, and Jensen had no idea what had happened to him. There was still the possibility of a crazy person on the loose with plans to hurt anyone involved with the pageant, and if something big started going down then Jensen wouldn't know how to find Jared and get him to safety. Of course, that was assuming Jared wasn't already in danger. Jensen balled his hands into fists and concentrated all of his energy on not running off the stage in search of Jared. "Ladies and gentleman, we have the results," Fabio announced, taking the stage. "Would the contestants please step forward?" Jensen took his place on the stage along with the other contestants, but his mind was a million miles away. He felt like he was missing something. He was sure of it. While Fabio announced the runners up, Jensen frantically wracked his brain for any and all possible suspects. If something was going to happen, he was running out of time, and Jared was missing, and he couldn't focus, dammit! Before he knew it, Fabio had already announced the fifth, fourth, and third runners up. With a detached kind of shock, Jensen realized he and Tom were the only two left. The next name announced would be the winner, and Jensen was no closer to figuring out who might spring an attack at any moment. He fidgeted with his tie, smoothed out his jacket, and finally put his hands in his pockets to keep them still. His fingers brushed against something cool and metallic, and he realized it was the lighter Jared had found in Shannon's dressing room. It must have somehow ended up in his pocket after Jensen snatched it away from him at the scene. Something essential clicked into place in Jensen's mind. He pulled the silver zippo from his pocket, noticing for the first time that there was something engraved on it. It was two letters, possibly initials. He held it up and read the letters more closely. "T.W." Jensen felt his heart drop to his stomach. Tom Welling. Jensen's gaze fixed on Tom like a laser point, but Tom continued to smile into the crowd, oblivious. Fabio was about to announce the winner of the pageant, and Jensen had already taken a half step towards Tom when the impossible happened: Jared ran out onstage. He stopped about ten feet from Jensen, his eyes wide, like he didn't even know what he'd planned to do next. Meanwhile, the crowd erupted in shocked applause, doing its best to shout the plaster down from the ceiling. Jared fidgeted restlessly as he looked at Jensen, then Tom, then Fabio. Biting his lip in a look that Jensen recognized as deep thought, Jared's confusion seemed to abruptly clear and he made his way towards the host. He plastered on an easy smile that Jensen noticed did nothing to cover up the sheer panic in his eyes. Grabbing the microphone and envelope from Fabio's stunned hands, Jared turned to address the audience. "Howdy, y'all," he said, and the crowd responded with a cheer that Jensen was sure made the walls shake. Once they'd calmed to a dull roar that almost drowned out the ringing in Jensen's ears, Jared continued, "Hope y'all don't mind, but I thought maybe you'd let a hometown boy do the honors." He held up the envelope and the audience cheered again. Jensen was tempted to check if his ears were bleeding. He was pretty sure a woman in the front row had passed out. Jensen would have found the whole spectacle irritatingly humorous if he wasn't so terrified. Jared slanted him a sideways look, then did the same to Tom, and something in his expression turned Jensen's stomach into ten pounds of cold lead. Yep, Jensen was definitely terrified. Jared turned his attention back to the envelope and pulled out the card. "And the first ever Mr. United States is…" He paused dramatically, reading the card once silently. He paused, shot Jensen an indecipherable glance, then said clearly into the mic, "Mr. Kansas, Tom Welling." For a second, Tom was so utterly shocked he stood rooted to the spot. Then the stage attendants came to drape the "Mr. United States" sash over Tom's shoulder and hand him the gold statue, and Tom was faltering his way to the front of the stage. The band began playing the pageant theme song, and confetti rained down from the ceiling. Jensen's first instinct was to rush the front of the stage and tackled Tom to the ground, but then Jared's voice was right in his ear, agitated and loud even in the noisy cheers of the crowd. "Jensen, it's Tom." "I know." "Yeah, he—wait, how did you know?" "It was his lighter we found at the scene," Jensen said, not taking his eyes off of Tom, who was busy receiving his congratulations. "And I'm guessing he slept with Shannon so he could somehow sneak into her dressing room and plant the evidence." With a start, he turned surprised eyes on Jared. "Wait, how did you know?" "Sandy called. She said after she went back to Dallas, she did a background check on all the contestants. Tom's a member of some radical men's rights group. He was investigated a couple of years ago when somebody tried to burn down the building where Playgirl is published, but they could never prove anything, so he wasn't charged." "Dammit! I should have known that guy's a pyro. Seriously, flaming batons!" "That's not even the worst part, Jensen. I went and looked, and there's some sort of homemade bomb or something under the stage." Jensen's stomach dropped. Bombs were never good, but they were especially bad when there was no bomb squad handy to defuse them. Looking at Jensen with wide eyes, Jared asked, "What do we do?" Almost as one, they turned to look at Tom. A half-second later, Tom pulled something out of his pocket: a small remote with one red, flashing button. Jared and Jensen exchanged panicked looks, and then simultaneously rushed the stage. Tom never saw them coming. They both slammed into Tom at the same time, tackling him to the ground in a many-limbed heap and sending the detonator skittering across the stage floor. Tom rolled away, and Jensen made a mad grab for his shirt collar. They rolled across the floor, grabbing at clothing and scratching at faces. All around them was chaos. Confetti was flying, the music was still playing, and the audience was shouting. Jensen was pretty sure he heard Fabio yell, "Catfight!" He lost sight of Jared in the confusion. Tom twisted and got the upper hand, jabbing an elbow into Jensen's face. He recoiled and Tom sprang away. Jensen recovered in time to see Jared scrambling across the stage towards the detonator, Tom close on his heels. Tom raised his trophy high above his head, drawing closer behind Jared. Jensen's heart jumped in his chest. He didn't think he'd ever moved so fast in his life. He dove through the air and grabbed Tom around the waist, sending them both flying. Jared was clipped by the flying tackle, sending him sprawling in the other direction, and right on top of the detonator. That's when the stage blew up. *** "We'll have him shipped to county lock up until we can get him in a federal prison," A.D. Morgan said, shaking Jensen's hand. "Nice work, Ackles. Remind me to trust your gut more in the future." "Yes, sir," Jensen said, trying to appear professional. If he looked anything like Jared, he was pretty sure his face was smudged with ash and there was sparkly confetti in his hair. Plus, he could feel a black eye developing from when he'd been hit with Tom's elbow. Sandy walked by, escorting a handcuffed Tom to the waiting squad car. Tom appeared to be in the middle of a very heated rant. "Don't you realize what you've done? You're contributing to the oppression of men everywhere! This is just one more step in the exploitation of—" "Yeah, yeah," Sandy replied blandly. "You can burn your jockstrap in protest when you get to jail," she said, opening the door and shoving Tom inside, slamming the door on his continued tirade. "Guy's got a serious shot at the insanity plea," she said, coming to stand with the small group. Morgan smiled, then cast a meaningful look between Jensen and Jared. "Y'know, I think I'll head back to Dallas and get started on the paperwork. Why don't you and McCoy take a few days off? I think you've earned it." Sandy and Jensen both chorused their surprised thank yous. "And that goes for you too, Padalecki. Feel free to stick around for a while. I'll make sure the FBI covers your expenses. Consider it our way of saying thanks." Jared smiled and exchanged a sidelong look with Jensen. He tried not to make it obvious to his boss how thrilled he was the thought of spending the next few days lounging around with Jared, but it was hard to hide his blush with Jared looking at him like that. Judging by Morgan's knowing grin, it was a lost cause, anyway. Once Morgan had gotten into the squad car to escort Tom to lock up, it was just the three of them and the zoo of excited contestants and press. "Dammit," Sandy said, watching the police car roll away. "Why are the hot ones all either gay, taken, or crazy?" Jensen tried not to smile at her adorable, pouting face, and Jared leaned over to whisper. "I'm pretty sure Mr. California is straight. And single." Sandy's eyes lit up and glanced in the direction Jared was pointing. Jensen looked as well, spotting a tall blonde guy he vaguely thought might be named Justin. "Oh. I'll just be…verifying his statement," she said, already walking away. "Don't wait up," she called over her shoulder. Jensen scowled at the guy, suddenly feeling protective. Jared let him glare for a minute before jabbing him in the side with one long, bony finger. "Relax, Jensen. She'll be fine." He smirked, pulling their bodies close. "If it makes you feel any better, you can run a background check on the guy later. Right now, you have more important things to do." Jensen blinked up at him in confusion. The pageant was over, the bad guy had been caught, what else was left to do? "Like what?" Jensen prompted. Jared leaned down to press an almost chaste kiss against Jensen's lips that left him a bit light headed. "I seem to recall promising to let you top," he whispered, backing away with a wicked grin. With a wink, he added, "Bring your handcuffs." Jared was already several yards away when Jensen's legs finally decided to respond, and he ran to catch up, calculating the time it would take to get back to the hotel. He wondered if it would be abuse of authority to request a police escort. *** Jensen awoke the next morning to the feeling of strong arms around his waist and light kisses peppering the back of his neck and shoulders. Groaning into his pillow, Jensen mumbled, "If you're one of those stupidly upbeat morning people who insists on getting up before six on our day off, I will shoot you." Jared settled his chin in the crook of Jensen's neck. "I made you coffee." Jensen opened one eye to squint at the cup of steaming hotel coffee setting next to the clock that read 6:02. "I take it back. This relationship is definitely going to work." Jared chuckled softly into the skin behind Jensen's ear, then shifted groggily as Jensen moved to sit up against the headboard. He eventually settled his face somewhere in the vicinity of Jensen's hip. Jensen reached one hand out to thread his fingers through Jared's sleep mussed hair, and the other hand reached for the cup of coffee. He had it all the way to his lips before he realized there was a piece of folded paper stuck to the bottom, and he reluctantly removed his hand from Jared's hair to investigate. The top fold had a fancy, embossed seal that Jensen recognized as the logo for the Mr. United States Pageant. When he flipped the paper open, he saw his own name written in elaborate calligraphy. Frowning as his undercaffeinated brain attempted to put the pieces together, he glanced down at Jared. "What's this?" "Huh?" Jared looked up from where he seemed to be studiously considering the ramifications of pulling down the sheet wrapped around Jensen's waist. "Oh, that. It's the announcement that says you won. I saved it for you." Jensen blinked. He looked at the card, then back at Jared. "But, I was there. You said Tom won." Jared laughed and sat up until he was nose to nose with Jensen. "I had to distract him so I could talk to you. I figured as long as he was busy getting his congratulations, it would buy us some time." Jensen was still struggling to catch up. "So, wait, you're saying I…I won?" Jared smiled and took Jensen's face in his hands. "Fair and square, all on your own." Jensen still couldn't believe it, but when he felt Jared's lips press warm and soft against his own, all other thoughts fell away. He lost himself in the kiss until Jared pulled back, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he said, "So, I know you won't wear pink, but how do you feel about a tiara?" Jensen groaned and pulled Jared's laughing face back down into another fierce kiss. Jared was annoying, outrageous, and had made it his personal crusade to get Jensen to wear sparkly pink rhinestones, but he also made Jensen happier than he'd ever felt. Jared loved him, inside and out, and that was all he'd ever wanted. Well, besides world peace. ~End~ ~~~~~~~~~~ Additional author's notes: Wow, folks. This fic kinda got away from me as far as word count goes. The only other completed J2 I've ever done is just under 2000 words. This is over 23,000. Yikes. Major thanks to melagan for audiencing this monster and putting up with my panicked whining over both this and the grad school applications I was frantically trying to finish at the same time. You are an awesome enabler, hon, and you deserve fifteen pounds of virtual chocolate and lots of porn. My porn-fu is kinda broken, but I tried! *g* I apologize for any mistakes I may have made, but I didn't have time to get this beta'd. If you find any mistakes, please let me know! FYI, I'm also signed up for spn_j2_bigbang, and I would really love a good beta for that story. It's a J2 AU, 20,000 words or more, and I'm willing to send the story to you in parts or all at once, depending on your preference. I can guarantee at least a month of beta time before the deadline. If anyone is interested, please email me at ras.elased_star at yahoo dot com. Thanks! ♥ Miss(ter) Congeniality, (3/3)

Entry tags: fandom: cw rps, fic: miss(ter) congeniality, genre: au, genre: crack, genre: humor, genre: prompt/challenge response, genre: romance, pairing: jared/jensen, rating: nc-17 When Jared finally managed to track Jensen down, he found him in the hotel gym. The place was deserted this late in the night—or early in the morning—and Jensen enjoyed the solitude. He was able to focus on his breathing, on the steady beat of his footfalls, until all his other frustrations faded into the background. It was a good place for Jensen to think, and he had a lot on his mind. He had been running on the treadmill for quite some time. Sweat was dripping from his flushed face and hair, and his shirt was soaked and clinging to his chest and back. Jensen heard the soft click of the door as Jared entered the gym, but he gave no indication of it, just kept pounding away at the treadmill. Jared stood there for a while, and Jensen watched him from the corner of his eye. Jared looked nervous, his hands tucked in his pockets and his eyes glued to the side of Jensen's head. When he finally spoke, it wasn't quite what Jensen had been expecting. "I'm broke." Jensen didn't bother to check the quizzical look he shot Jared's way. Jared's mouth worked itself into an uncomfortable-looking grimace, then he answered Jensen's silent question. "I lost my company. My partner sold it behind my back. He just—I guess there was some clause in my contract or something. I didn't get any of the money. If I hadn't taken this job—" he trailed off abruptly when he realized Jensen had stopped the treadmill and was just watching him. "Look, I'm…I'm not normally like this, but I just didn't want to screw this up. It seems like that's all I can do lately. So, I'm sorry I screwed this up, too." Jensen waited, and when it didn't seem like Jared had anything more to say, Jensen grabbed a towel and scrubbed the sweat from his face. It would be a lot easier to stay mad, to brush off Jared's apology and call it quits. But Jensen had a job to do, and after what Jensen had said about Jared not taking risks, he knew it had to have taken guts to seek Jensen out and open up like this. Plus, Jensen liked to think he was a big enough person to admit when he made mistakes, too. "Naw, Jared. You didn't screw this up," he said, wiping down the back of his neck. "You were right. I just…I guess I'm not really good with the whole…" he waved his hand in a vague motion that could have meant anything from 'the whole male beauty pageant thing' to the Macarena. "Apparently, I need to come out of my shell." He concluded, offering Jared a self deprecating smile. The corners of Jared's mouth quirked up in response, and Jensen could actually see the tension leave his body. "Yeah?" At Jensen's nod, Jared's smile grew and he took a few steps forward. "Good. Because I gotta tell you man, I don't think you should try so hard to cover this up." He accompanied the statement with a small sweeping motion over Jensen, head to toe, and Jensen felt a faint blush stain his cheeks. "Look, I know I've been pushing you these last couple of days, but it's because I believe in you. I think you can do this." "Uh, did you miss the memo?" Jensen half smiled. "I'm already in the top five. There's not much reason for me to push myself in the competition." "Maybe," Jared agreed. "But while you're here, don't you think you owe it to yourself to at least try?" Jensen twisted the gym towel in his hands. The truth was, he'd been wondering if he had it in him to really pull this off. It would be the ultimate one up on all the guys who'd ever given him the brush off. Still, there was that lingering doubt in the back of his head that he'd just wind up making a fool of himself. As if sensing his thoughts, Jared said, "Don't think of it as being judged on your looks, okay? I mean, you're hot enough to blow all those other guys out of the water, but that's not what this is about." Jensen bent his head to hide his blush, and damn, he really hated that Jared could get to him like that with such a casually offered compliment. Covering his embarrassment, he offered up a sarcastic, "Are you sure? Because last time I checked, this was actually a beauty pageant." "I'm not gonna lie, Jensen, looks are a huge part of this, but there's other stuff too. Why do you think they have you jump through all those hoops in the first place? They want to make sure that you're more than just some pretty face." He took a step closer and put his hands on Jensen's arms, and it felt oddly reassuring. "This is the kind of stuff you do everyday, man. The interview is all about intelligence and keeping cool under pressure. Talent is about being well rounded, and the black tie is about style and sophistication, which you have now thanks to me," he finished brightly. Jensen raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Oh yeah? And what's the swimsuit competition supposed to be?" Jared grinned, then maneuvered Jensen in front of the full length mirror. He stood behind Jensen, hands on his shoulders, framing Jensen's body with his. Jensen looked at himself, then he met Jared's eyes in the mirror. Gaze practically drilling into Jensen, Jared leaned over and whispered against the shell of Jensen's ear, "Confidence. It's about confidence, Jen." Jared's breath ghosting over his skin and the easy use of his nickname made Jensen's pulse quicken. "And if you ask me, you don't have anything to worry about." With that, Jared slipped out the way he came, leaving Jensen standing in front of the mirror, trying to see what Jared saw. Jensen let his gaze travel over his own body, taking in the way his skin still glowed with sweat and the way his t-shirt clung to his chest, defining his athletic build. He might have even flexed a muscle or two, but then quickly looked around to make sure no one was watching. By the time he headed back to his room for a shower and some sleep, he was feeling better, almost calm. Yeah, he could definitely do this. *** "Oh my god, I can't do this!" Jensen clenched the towel tight around his waist. "I feel like a Chippendale's dancer! All I need is the little bow tie and breakaway spandex pants!" Jared just shoved another handful of gummy bears—Jensen's gummy bears—in his mouth. Jensen scowled at Jared's reflection in the mirror, trying in vain to light Jared's perfectly coifed hair on fire with just the heat of his gaze. "You look fine, Jensen," Jared said for the fifteenth time. "Whatever happened to coming out of your shell?" "Yeah, well, there's a reason some things have shells in the first place," Jensen grumbled. "So they can cover up!" A guy walked by wearing a pair of green swim trunks, and Jensen pointed at him with the hand not frantically clutching his towel. "See! Why does Georgia get to wear trunks and I have to wear this?" "Because you're sexier than Georgia," Jared said around a mouthful of colorful candy. That made Jensen pause in his tirade. "Really?" When Jared just shrugged and nodded, Jensen opened his towel just enough to look at himself in the mirror. The suit Jared had picked out was a black, box cut speedo that left very little to the imagination. Jensen frowned. "I feel like a reject from a fifties beach party movie." "You look like Cary Grant," Jared said, then unceremoniously whisked away Jensen's towel. "Now quit your bitching or I'll make you wear the red thong I have stashed away in my bag of tricks." Jensen saw his own eyes get as wide as saucers in the mirror. "You're bluffing." Jared just smiled and munched on Jensen's gummy bears. "It's from my personal collection," he said, smile growing to evil proportions. "Red was the closest I could find to pink." While Jensen's mind stuttered to a halt over that particular mental picture, Jared stepped up behind him and looked critically at Jensen's reflection. "Hmm, it needs something…" After a moment's consideration, Jared rolled up the now almost empty bag of gummy bears, then reached around and shoved it down the front of Jensen's suit. Jensen felt his rather high pitched yelp was completely justified. "Don't take it personal," Jared said, already leading Jensen to the stage. "Your equipment seems fine, more than fine, but with the dark suit and the stage lights, I figured you could use a little extra definition." "Yeah, well, warn me the next time you feel like shoving your hand down my pants!" Jared smirked. "Where's the fun in that?" Jensen opened his mouth to reply, but by now they'd reached the stage and Jensen took an instinctive step back, suddenly finding his shoulders coming up against Jared's chest like a wall. "Now remember, you're coming out of your shell. Think of, um…think of oysters, and snails, and hermit crabs." Jensen automatically struggled against the insistent hand pushing him towards the stage. "Wouldn't thinking of something like butterflies be more appropriate?" Jared snorted. "Sure, Jen. Go be a pretty butterfly." Then he shoved Jensen bodily onto the stage. Jensen flailed a little as he stumbled onstage, but he quickly collected himself and tried very hard not to fidget or think about the fact that he was pretty much naked in public. He watched the guy in front of him hit his mark and pause while the announcer called out, "Georgia!" to raucous applause. As Georgia exited the stage, Jensen started his approach, dreading the crowd's reaction. He held his shoulders back and tried not to look as terrified as he felt, muttering under his breath, "Hermit crabs, oysters, butterflies." The bright stage lights were in his eyes as he walked towards his spot on the stage, feeling panic bubble up in his chest. He just had to get through this. It would all be over soon and Jensen could just chalk it up as one of the most mortifying experiences of his life and move on. He fought back the urge to flee as he stepped into the light and the announcer's voice boomed, "Texas!" over the speakers. The immediate wolf whistles and catcalls made Jensen gasp a little in surprise. He noticed a woman down front holding up a handmade sign that said, "Don't mess with Texas, because he's all mine!" As the reality of the situation hit him, Jensen felt a tomato red blush bloom over his entire body, and he immediately felt ridiculous, but also a little pleased. He ducked his head to hide his smile and rubbed the back of his neck self consciously. Somehow that just made the crowd go wilder. Jensen exited the stage to find Jared waiting for him, a funny little half smirk on his face. "What?" Jensen demanded, no real heat behind it. Jared shrugged. "Nothing. Just thinking either you really are a pretty, pretty butterfly, or you make one hell of a showy hermit crab." "Fuck you," Jensen said, unable to mask his grin. "Just for that, I'm keeping the gummy bears." *** The next day, Jensen was still thinking about butterflies, but these were the kind that fluttered around in his gut and really just made him want to throw up. He groaned and clutched at his stomach. Jared and Sandy hovered close by. "If you're gonna puke, make sure you do it before you go onstage," Jared advised helpfully. Jensen decided if he felt the bile rising, he was aiming for Jared's fancy new shoes. Jensen took another look at the stage and grimaced. Tom was out there, finishing up his fire-eating baton routine. This wasn't the official talent competition, since that would be held the night of the final competition. This was just a preliminary showcase for a little added publicity, and, Jensen imagined, a chance for the judges to get an idea for who the real contenders would be. Sandy petted Jensen's shoulder lightly. "You'll be fine, Jensen. I've heard you sing before. You've got nothing to worry about!" Jensen fought down another wave of nausea and gaped at her. "You have? When?" Sandy bit her lip guiltily. "Uh, remember that night we finally cracked the Donahue case? And Chris took the team out to celebrate?" Jensen groaned. He didn't remember that night, actually. At least not much past the ninth or tenth drink Chris shoved at him. When he'd asked Chris about it the next morning, the man had just given him a cryptic smile that made Jensen certain he didn't actually want to know what had happened that night. Ever. "Well, you sort of got up on a table with Chris and sang REO Speedwagon," Sandy continued. "And then you puked on Chad," she added, smiling at the memory. "Oh, god." Jensen buried his face in his hands as his stomach gave a particularly violent twist. Sandy squeezed his elbow in reassurance, but the effect was fleeting since the next thing Jensen knew, she was slinging a guitar over his shoulder. Jensen felt a wave of panic solidify in his throat and he weakly attempted to bat her away, but she ignored him. Sometimes, dealing with Sandy left Jensen feeling like he'd just been run over by a really perky bus. "C'mon, you went out onstage in that sexy little speedo, and you did great! You can do this. Tell him, Jared!" Giant hands come up to grip Jensen's shoulders, kneading at the rock hard knots of tension at the base of Jensen's neck. "Hey, it's gonna be okay, Jen. Just remember to breathe." At Jared's reminder, Jensen let out the breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding. He suddenly felt like he was gasping for air, hyperventilating while Jared continued to try to soothe him with his hands and voice. "Remember what we talked about? I believe in you. I know you can do this, alright?" Onstage, Shannon and Fabio were announcing Jensen's act. Any second now, Jensen would be expected to take the stage and sing the Texas state song in front of hundreds of people. "You'll be great, Jensen. Now go out there and show them what you're made of." Taking one final deep breath, Jensen stepped out onto the stage, and froze. *** Afterwards, Jensen sat on the backstage steps, the splintered remains of his guitar cradled in his lap, and contemplated his career possibilities after AD Morgan fired his ass for being the biggest screw up in the history of the department. Although, in his defense, Jensen was already a little on edge—okay, he'd been freaking out—and security was supposed to check the audience for anything that might be a concealed weapon. Jensen was a well trained agent on high alert, so when he saw a guy in the audience reach inside his jacket pocket and withdraw what looked like a gun, he'd thought fast, and acted on behalf of the contestants he had sworn to protect. At the time, he'd felt completely justified in bringing his guitar crashing down on top of the guy's white Stetson. Then it turned out the 'gun' was actually a lighter, and well, that was just embarrassing. Sandy was off talking to the press, doing PR and damage control. Jared was…somewhere. And Jensen was huddled on the steps, head between his hands, seriously considering the idea of running off to Canada and becoming a yak herder. Did they even have yaks in Canada? A blur of movement caught Jensen's eye, and he looked up to find Shannon stomping towards him, wide eyed and furious. Great, Jensen thought, because clearly, my day hasn't sucked enough. "What the hell were you thinking?" Shannon hissed as soon as she got within spitting distance. Jensen was immediately on the defensive. "He had a gun!" Okay, technically it was a gun-shaped lighter, but that should still count. "This is Texas!" Shannon countered, using a tone that implied she thought Jensen had been the one who'd had a guitar busted over his head. "Everyone has a gun! My florist has a gun!" "Why the hell do you have a florist?" Jensen asked, only half-faking the shocked confusion in his voice. Clearly not amused, Shannon leaned close into Jensen's space, dropping her voice to a threatening sneer that Jensen found secretly unsettling. "Listen, you moronic little prettyboy, this is my last chance for a comeback that doesn't involve Dancing With the Stars." Poking Jensen hard in the chest to drive home that she was deathly serious, she continued, "And if you screw this up for me, I will kill you. Do you understand me?" Jensen swallowed thickly and nodded, keeping his eyes locked on Shannon's. When she made no motion to back off, it left Jensen feeling vaguely like a deer staring into the headlights of an oncoming semi. Then someone else apparently took pity on Jensen and said from just a few feet away, "Shannon." "What?" She whirled on the intruder, then abruptly lost the acid in her tone. "Oh, it's…um, yes?" Tom smirked. "Can you give us a minute?" She looked at Tom, then at Jensen, then back at Tom. "What, with him?" When Tom just raised an impatient eyebrow, she cleared her throat. "Uh, sure." With one final glare in Jensen's direction, she stomped off to terrorize her next victim. Tom was already sinking down onto the step next to Jensen like he belonged there. Jensen just stared at him, then at Shannon's retreating back. "Dude, how did you do that?" Tom smiled in a way that made Jensen a little nervous. "Let's just say I took one for the team." Jensen blinked a few times while he tried to decipher that, then felt his eyes go wide. "Oh my god. You didn't seriously have sex with her?" "Scariest night of my life, man. But she's been freakishly nice to me ever since, so I consider it mission accomplished." Jensen just continued to stare. "I don't know whether to be revolted or impressed." Tom grinned at Jensen's horrified tone. "If it makes you feel any better, I only use my superpowers for good, not evil. I may be from Kansas, but I promise not to drop a house on the witch. Even if I really want to." That brought a small smile to the corner of Jensen's mouth, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. Noticing his mood, Tom turned serious. "So, I'm guessing whiskey isn't gonna cut it this time." He took out a pack of cigarettes and a silver zippo, lighting one up before he held the pack out to Jensen. "I know, they cause cancer. But at this point you look like you'd prefer death." Jensen hesitated a split second. He hadn't smoked in years, but Tom was right. Jensen would gladly crawl into a dark, scary hole if it meant he wouldn't have to deal with A.D. Morgan's inevitable call tomorrow. Jensen plucked a cigarette from the pack and put it to his lips. Tom expertly flicked open his silver lighter and brought the flame to the tip of Jensen's cigarette, making him feel a little like the chick in some corny old movie. Jensen took a deep breath, inhaling the smoke into his lungs. It felt good, for a split second, before Jensen's lungs suddenly seized and he launched into a coughing fit. Tom patted him on the back while Jensen worked through it. Jensen wiped at his stinging eyes, noticing that Tom's hand lingered a little on his shoulder. "So, you gonna tell me what that was all about?" Tom asked. "It's, uh, been a while since I smoked," Jensen wheezed. Tom laughed good naturedly. "No, not that. I meant what happened onstage earlier." "Oh." Jensen felt a minor blush creep up the back of his neck at the memory of how his guitar had cracked over that guy's head. "I, uh…I really hate guns," he answered, cringing at his own lameness. Jensen expected to get an eyeroll and a comment about the strangeness of a pro-gun-control Texan, but instead Tom just smiled and blew out a smoky breath. "That's cool. You fight for what you believe in. I can respect that." Tom took another drag of his cigarette, apparently deep in thought. He idly flicked his lighter open several times, what Jensen assumed to be a nervous habit. When Tom spoke again, it was in a concerned tone. "Why are you even here?" Jensen frowned, confused. "I mean, it just seems like you could be doing something better." Jensen stared at the glowing tip of his cigarette. Even after his monstrous screw up, Jensen still felt like he was where he was supposed to be. It was his job to protect these guys, but he couldn't say that to Tom, so he changed the subject. "How about you? Why are you here?" Tom shrugged. "The whole thing's a scholarship program, right? Gotta earn the money somehow. Even if this is all just a superficial dog and pony show." Jensen quirked a surprised half smile in Tom's direction. Tom broke just about every preconceived notion Jensen had about the kind of guy who would willingly participate in a male beauty pageant. He smoked, he snuck booze into orientation, and he wasn't acting like becoming Mr. United States was his lifelong dream. In fact, most of the guys Jensen had met over the week had taken him by surprise. Jensen had been expecting an army of Ken dolls with empty heads and cookie-cutter smiles, but almost every guy Jensen had met backstage seemed like down to earth, normal guys Jensen might meet back home. Even Jared had amazed him. He hated the thought of anything happening to any of them. He needed to find out who was writing those letters. Another coughing fit took Jensen by surprise, and this time Tom did roll his eyes. He patted Jensen on the back just like before, and Jensen glared at the glowing cigarette like it had betrayed him. He dropped it and ground it under his heel, muttering, "Now I remember why I gave those up in the first place." Tom smirked. "Yeah, but sometimes it's okay to indulge a little," he said, voice low, and this time his hand stayed where it was on Jensen's back. If Jensen didn't know any better, he'd think Tom was making a subtle pass at him, but things like that just didn't happen to Jensen. At least, they'd never happened to him before his miraculous make over… "Jensen," a sharp voice cut into Jensen's thoughts, and when he looked up he was caught off guard by the wave of comfort that washed over him just from the sight of Jared standing there, arms crossed over his chest. "Aren't you going to introduce me?" Jared asked, and Jensen wondered why Jared's voice sounded a little strained. "Huh? Oh, yeah, sure," Jensen said, standing. "Jared, this is Tom. Tom, this is—" "Jared Padalecki," Tom finished, holding out his hand. "I'm a big fan." Jared eyed Tom's hand for a split second before shaking it brusquely. Jensen noticed Tom wince, then shake his fingers out a little when Jared released him. "Always a pleasure to meet a fan," Jared said with a tight smile that quickly vanished. "But I'm afraid I have steal Jensen away now." As soon as the words left Jared's mouth, he had one giant hand wrapped around Jensen's wrist, pulling him along. "Nice meeting you," Jared called, not bothering to look back over his shoulder. When they were safely out of earshot, Jensen turned to Jared and whispered, "Everything alright?" "Sure," Jared replied casually, not meeting Jensen's eyes. "Why wouldn't it be?" Jensen blinked. "Oh, I dunno, maybe because you were acting like a freak back there?" he bit out. "Seriously, Jay, what's going on?" At that, Jared smiled, flashing his bright white teeth and those dimples that made Jensen a little weak in the knees. "I have a surprise for you." *** Jensen took in the funky colored lights, the stage, and the badly out of tune melody that was currently assaulting his ears. He stared at Jared with wide eyes. "You brought me to a karaoke bar." Jared grinned broadly. "Yep." Jensen took another look at the stage to find a drag queen singing some ABBA song, a brightly lit disco ball rotating above her/his head. "You brought me to a gay karaoke bar." Jared looked like he was about to explode with barely restrained laughter. "Yep." "I so want to hurt you right now." Jared finally threw his head back and burst out laughing, slapping his arm over Jensen's shoulders and holding on for balance. "I knew you'd love it," he announced victoriously. "You go grab us a table. First round's on me." And with that he headed straight for the bar, leaving Jensen to fend for himself. Jensen found a table in a darker corner and sat down. He eyed the songbook on the table dubiously for several minutes before curiosity got the better of him. The first song on the list was "Barbie Girl" by Aqua. Jensen slammed the binder closed and shoved it to the opposite side of the table. "You picked out a song yet?" Jared asked when he reappeared, holding two shots in each hand. They were a sickly greenish yellow color, and as Jared set them on the table Jensen eyed them with the exact same look he'd given the songbook. "Dude, what the hell is that?" "Liquid courage," Jared said, picking up a shot and offering it to Jensen. "We're gonna cure you of your stage fright one way or another, Jen. Now drink up." Jensen took the shot from Jared's hand, trying to ignore the spark he felt when their fingers touched. Jared smirked and threw the shot back in one smooth motion, exposing the long line of his throat. He licked his lips clean, then raised one eyebrow when he caught Jensen staring, frozen. "Anytime you're ready, Jennybean." Jensen narrowed his eyes in a look that clearly said, I hate you. So much. Then he threw his own shot back, barely tasting it except for the tangy, sweet aftertaste it left on his tongue. He licked his lips, trying to catch more of the taste. "Huh. That's actually pretty good. What's in this?" Jared's eyes belatedly flicked up from Jensen's mouth. "Raspberry vodka and Gatorade," he said, then smiled in a way that was completely evil. "It's called a Gummy Bear Shot." There was no way Jensen could hold back his answering grin. "You're shittin' me," he said, laughing. "I shit you not," Jared replied and grabbed the songbook. "Now let's get you drunk and onstage. What do you want to sing first?" He flipped open the binder and his face lit up in childlike glee. "Oh, look! They have Aqua!" Jensen groaned, but he downed his second shot with a smile. *** Two hours and many, many shots later, Jared was steadily working through every bubblegum pop song ever recorded, and Jensen had yet to take the stage. Still, it was hard to feel guilty when he was busy watching Jared shake his gangly, drunken ass to "Oops, I Did It Again." The guy didn't even have to look at the teleprompter once. Jared exited the stage to a roar of applause Jensen attributed more to Jared's enthusiasm than his talent, then watched as Jared weaved his way back to the table. At least, Jensen thought he was weaving. Jensen was pretty drunk, so Jared could have been walking in a straight line and it was the room that was wobbling. When he reached the table, Jared waved down the bartender and yelled, "More shots!" before plopping himself down right next to Jensen, a sloppy smile on his face. Jensen couldn't have stopped his answering smile if he'd tried. "Dude, I am seriously disturbed by the number of Britney Spears songs you know by heart." "Britney is a greatly misunderstood individual," Jared slurred. It came out sounding like, "mish'nstood invijyual." It was possible Jared was even more drunk than Jensen. "She's nutty as a fruitcake," Jensen slurred right back. "That too," Jared agreed brightly. "So, you got a song picked out yet? I'm thinking you should sing 'I'm Too Sexy.' Or 'Bringin' Sexy Back.' Or 'Sexbomb.'" "I'm thinking you're even crazier than Britney," Jensen replied, blushing a little at the trend of Jared's suggestions. Jensen had flipped through the book a little, and there was one song that had caught his eye, but it would take a hell of a lot more liquid courage before he could get up and sing it. "And now I'm thinking you're obviously not drunk enough," Jared said, pushing another shot towards Jensen. "C'mon, Jen, we're here for you! And we're not leaving until you get up on that stage." "Or until one of us passes out," Jensen added, downing the shot. When he looked back at Jared, he was giving Jensen a hangdog, pleading expression that made Jensen squirm in his seat. "Look, I'll get up and sing later," he lied, and Jared's puppy eyes took on a note of skepticism. "I will! I promise." Jared didn't need to know that Jensen was hoping one of them would be passed out under the table before he had to make good on his promise. "Why don't you find another song and keep the crowd warmed up for me, okay Britney?" Jensen suggested, pushing the book at Jared and hoping it wasn't too obviously an attempt at distraction. Jared continued to look skeptical and suspicious, but then he glanced down at the page of old pop songs that Jensen had marked, and Jensen muttered a secret prayer of thanks for Jared's short attention span and bad eighties pop. Jared was clearly taking his decision between "Like a Virgin" and "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" very seriously. He was deep in thought, the tip of his tongue peeking out between his teeth, and Jensen just had to stop and stare. Jared was gorgeous, but it was more than that. It was something about the way he carried himself with such open honesty, always offering up a genuine smile, as if he was totally at ease in his own skin. He approached life like a kid in a candy store, trusting and maybe a little naïve, even after all that had happened to him. It should have grated on Jensen's own skeptical, slightly jaded personality—and at first it had—but now Jensen found himself drawn to it. Jensen wondered how anyone could have taken advantage of that, like that asshole "partner" Jared had mentioned. If Jensen was ever lucky enough to have someone like Jared…God, Jensen didn't dare complete that thought. Thoughts like that were too dangerous. Jared looked up, tongue still caught between his teeth, and Jensen knew he'd been caught staring. "What?" Jared asked, nothing but innocent curiosity in his expression. "Do I have something on my face?" He wiped a hand over his mouth, nearly jabbing a finger up his nose in his drunken state, and Jensen was so focused on not finding it adorable that the question escaped his mouth with a complete bypass of Jensen's brain. "Did you love him?" Jensen decided the confused frown Jared wore at the question couldn't entirely be blamed on the alcohol. "Huh? Who?" And here was Jensen's chance to brush it aside, to dismiss the question with a simple "Nevermind" and go on about their business. But Jensen's brain was too busy sloshing around in a pool of vodka to get with the program, so once again his mouth took over. "I mean that guy, your partner. The one who screwed you over." Ouch, Jensen thought. Okay, brain, anytime you want to join the party is okay by me. "I just…I meant…Did you love him?" Jared was quiet for so long, Jensen almost decided to move on and pretend he'd never asked. Except, well, now that he had asked, he was curious. Jared twirled an empty shot glass on the table with his fingers. "I used to think so, sometimes," he said, badly faking casual. "But now…I'm not sure. I mean, he thought I was just some pretty face, y'know? He never bothered to look deeper." Jared quirked a rueful smile at Jensen, finally meeting his eyes. "It's hard to love someone when they never really see you in the first place." Apparently, Jensen's brain had descended into unconsciousness without bothering to inform his body, because the next words out of his mouth were, "I think you're more than just a pretty face." Jared blinked at Jensen's earnest tone. Jensen swallowed hard, suddenly very aware of how close they were sitting. They were pressed up against each other, shoulder to hip to thigh, and Jensen was able to smell the lingering sweetness on Jared's breath as he whispered, "Yeah?" Not trusting his mouth this time, Jensen clamped down on his bottom lip and slowly nodded. Jared's eyes flicked down to Jensen's lip trapped between his teeth. Something dark and almost hungry flashed in Jared's eyes, and it made Jensen's breath catch in his chest. Slowly, Jared began to lean closer. Jensen's lips parted slightly, half in shock and half in anticipation. It was at that very moment that Jensen's brain chose to come back online, though not in the way Jensen had hoped. "Shannon," he whispered, his revelation coming out as a puff of breath against Jared's lips. Jared froze, then slowly pulled back to give Jensen a baffled look. "Wow. Way to kill the moment," he muttered. "No, it's—It's Shannon! It has to be!" Jensen said, so caught up in his own excitement of discovery that he leapt to his feet…and then nearly came crashing back down when the room spun in one magnificently dizzying swirl. Oh, god, he was so drunk. Jared steadied Jensen as best he could while the world took its own sweet time righting itself. "Okay, you're not making any sense." "The person writing the letters!" Jensen explained in a rush. "It's Shannon!" Jared frowned. "I dunno, Jen. I mean, I know she's kind of a bitch and all—" "Just think about it, Jay," Jensen interrupted restlessly. "The pageant never would have gotten picked up by a major network without all the publicity from the threats, and now this show is almost single-handedly paving the way for Shannon's big comeback. It has to be her! She even threatened me when I almost screwed it up for her!" Instantly, the steadying hands on Jensen's shoulders where holding him in a vice-like grip. "She what?" "Yeah, she threatened to kill me right after I made an idiot of myself at the talent competition," Jensen explained, wondering why Jared suddenly looked like he wanted to punch something. Jensen was half tempted to take a few steps out of arms' reach, just in case he started swinging. "Look, I'll explain on the way," Jensen said, practically dragging a very confused and pissed off Jared in his wake. "Wait, on the way to where? Jensen, where are we going? Jensen!" *** "Jen, is this even legal?" Jensen fumbled with the lock on Shannon's dressing room door, cursing when he slipped up again. Damn gummy bear shots were making it impossible for Jensen to pick the lock. "Not exactly," he answered Jared's question. "Shit, Jensen! Then why are we even here?" "Look, we just gotta make sure we don't touch anything. If we find something, then we just cover our tracks and call in an anonymous tip. No big deal." The lock finally turned, and Jensen had to resist the urge to shout his victory into the empty dark. Jensen stepped inside the room, Jared close behind. "Okay, let's get to work." Jensen immediately went to the small desk in the corner and started rummaging through the drawers. "Do you even know what you're looking for?" Jared whispered, his drunken voice coming out much louder than he obviously intended. "Something suspicious." "Very descriptive, thank you," Jared drawled. "I'll know it when I see it, okay? It'll be something out of place, or hidden, or—" Jensen abruptly stopped when he spied the trashcan. Reaching in, he pulled out a half-burned sheaf of papers resting on top. "Something like this," he announced triumphantly. Jensen squinted at the papers, trying to read the writing, but he couldn't see much in the dark. "I can't make it out." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jared grab a silver lighter off the desk. "Here," he said, flicking on the lighter and holding it close to the papers. Jensen grabbed the lighter out of Jared's hands and cursed. "Dammit, Jay! What did I say about not touching anything?" "You were already touching everything! What difference does it make if I—" But Jared didn't get a chance to finish, because at that moment the cold tip of a gun pressed to the back of Jensen's neck and a woman's voice said, "Don't move." Jensen froze. That voice didn't belong to Shannon, but it was definitely…familiar. His alcohol addled brain struggled to put the pieces together. "Sandy?" Jensen ventured. There was a heavy pause, and then, "Jensen?" The light flicked on, and both Jared and Jensen blinked harshly at the sudden brightness. Sandy whirled Jensen to face her, and he nearly fell in his inebriated clumsiness. "What the hell are you doing here?" "Uh." Quick thinking had never really been his forte, and Sandy had this annoying habit of seeing right through him, anyway. "What are you doing here?" "We got an anonymous tip, so I was coming to check it out. Are you drunk?" Sandy asked, wrinkling her cute little button nose when she got a whiff of his breath. "Yes?" Jensen cringed, swaying a little. "But I found something. I think Shannon might be our man…Woman. Suspect." Sandy took the papers and scanned them quickly, her face lighting up. "Jensen, do you what these are? They're rough drafts of the threatening letters the pageant company received! She must have been trying to destroy them when somebody caught her and called in the tip!" Glancing between the two of them, she said, "Look, you guys go back to the hotel and sleep this off. Morgan's gonna be here early tomorrow." "Right," Jensen deadpanned. "Because I would hate to be hungover when I get fired. That would really ruin it." Sandy shooed them away, promising to take care of everything. Jensen didn't remember much else, aside from the fact that Jared somehow managed to get them back to the hotel in one piece. He had a vague recollection of being dropped onto the bed and his shoes awkwardly tugged from his feet. There may have been a hand in his hair, but Jensen passed out pretty quickly, so he couldn't be sure he wasn't already dreaming. *** A.D. Morgan clapped Jensen on the back hard enough to make the younger man wince. "I gotta tell ya, Ackles, I'm surprised. I was giving serious thought to pulling you off the case, and then as soon as I arrived Sandy told me you'd managed to arrest the suspect!" Shannon had been escorted out of the building in handcuffs early that morning, bitching loudly at the cops who manhandled her into the waiting squad car. Jensen had watched the whole spectacle from red-rimmed eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses, drinking coffee strong enough to peel paint, and willing the pounding in his head to subside. It was entirely possible he was still a little hungover. "Thank you, sir," Jensen replied. "But really it was Sandy who—" "It was all Jensen's idea, sir. He was the one who found the letters in Ms. Doherty's dressing room," Sandy interrupted. "Look, I don't care who broke the case, so long as it's done. I just received another case in Houston, so I want you both there by seven tonight. You'll be briefed en route." "Wait, tonight?" Jensen asked. "We can't be there by tonight. It's the final competition." Morgan gave him a bemused glance. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you just arrest the suspect? The case is closed. You don't need to stick around." "With all do respect, sir, we don't know with any certainty that Shannon was acting alone, or even if she really is the person responsible for the letters. What if we leave and something happens?" Morgan's confusion intensified, and now Sandy was looking baffled as well. "Are you listening to yourself? A week ago I had to threaten to tie your ass to a desk in order to get you to take this assignment. Now the suspect's been arrested, at your recommendation, and you still don't want to leave. What's going on with you, Ackles?" "I just…I have this feeling. Like the job's not finished, yet." Or maybe I'm just not ready for it to be finished, Jensen added silently. Morgan gave him a long, piercing look, then said quietly, "Ackles, can I speak to you alone for a minute?" Once everyone had filed out, he laid a heavy palm on Jensen's shoulder. "Listen, Jensen, you know how some of the boys back in the department are gonna take this. Now I try to stay out of this kind of thing, let you fight your own damn battles. But you staying out here, off duty, to compete in a male beauty pageant? Well…there'll be talk." Jensen tilted his chin up defiantly. "So? I'll have to deal with a little extra ribbing when I get back. I've dealt with it before, I can do it again. I think it's more important that someone stays here, just in case." Morgan held his gaze a beat, then nodded. "Okay, it's your choice. But I have to warn you, the case is officially closed, so I can't give you mission approval. You stay out here, you do it as a civilian. You'll need to turn over your badge and gun." Jensen had known it was coming, but it didn't make it any easier. Reluctantly, he withdrew his handgun and his leather badge, then handed them over to Morgan. The loss of their comforting weight made him feel strangely bereft. Morgan flashed a small, understanding smile. "I'll hold them for you until you get back to Dallas," he said. *** "Jay!" Jensen shouted, bursting into Jared's hotel room and buzzing past him straight to the bathroom mirror. "Jay, I need help. The competition is in two hours and I look like hungover roadkill. I need you to work your magic, man!" Glancing back to where Jared still stood frozen by the door, Jensen waved an impatient hand. "Hey, I'm serious, Jared. Get your bag of tricks, get over here and make me look awesome. C'mon, why are you still standing there?" Jared grimaced like he'd just swallowed a very large, very unsavory bug. "My plane leaves in an hour." For the first time since entering the room, Jensen noticed the luggage stacked neatly by the door. It all matched, navy blue with pink ribbons tied to the zippers. "I don't understand." Jared shot him a pained look, his lips pressed together in a thin line. "I'm heading back to LA tonight. It wasn't my idea. I have to go, or I don't get paid." "Wait, you're…you're leaving?" Jensen took a few steps closer, gaping at Jared like he'd lost his mind. "You can't leave. The competition isn't fixed anymore. I have to do this on my own. I don't—" Jensen stopped abruptly, swallowing back the rush of words running through his head. "Jared, I need you," he said, his voice sounding too small in the suddenly too large room. Something broke a little in Jared's expression, and he closed the distance between them. Jared swallowed thickly, making his Adam's apple bob in the slender column of his throat. Looking down at Jensen, he asked, "Did I ever tell you that San Antonio is my hometown?" He continued, a hint of regret in his tone, "I was kinda hoping after this was all over, if you had some time off, I could've shown you around, given you the grand tour." Jensen felt like someone was slowly chipping away at his heart. "That would've been nice," he said, his voice a quiet rasp. They shared a heavy pause, and then Jensen nearly whispered, "I don't think I can do this without you here." The muscles in Jared's jaw twitched for a half second as he grit his teeth. Then, as if suddenly remembering, he reached into his shoulder bag and pulled out a flat, square box. "I…I got you something. I was saving it for tonight, but…" Jensen unclenched the fists he'd unconsciously formed and took the box gingerly from Jared's palm. He opened the lid to find a pink silk handkerchief inside. Embroidered on one corner, Jensen could just make out his initials, JRA. He ran the tips of his fingers over the raised letters. When he looked back up at Jared, he could hardly speak past the lump in his throat. "Jay…" A knock at the open door interrupted them. The bellhop stuck her head in the room and glanced at the bags leaning against the wall. "Mr. Padalecki? Would you like me to take your luggage, sir?" Jared glanced over his shoulder and gave the girl a small nod. When he looked back, his eyes looked a little glassy. "I need to go." Jensen thought, No, you need to stay. He said, "Yeah. Okay." Jared didn't move for several more seconds, but eventually he managed to force himself to go. He paused in the open doorway, and his expression was like a shot right to Jensen's heart. Jared opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, but then he belatedly thought better of it and turned to leave, shutting the door with a quiet but final-sounding click. Jensen hesitated before crossing to the door. He pressed his palm flat to the cool wood, then closed his eyes and leaned against it with his forehead. There were no sounds on the other side, but Jensen somehow knew that Jared hadn't left yet, that he was still standing outside the door. Jensen willed him to come back, kept waiting for the knob to turn, but after a while, Jensen heard soft footfalls moving down the hallway and out of his life forever. Part 3 Miss(ter) Congeniality, (2/3)